THE BLACK STAR

A SCHOOL STORY FOR BOYS

By ANDREW H. WALPOLE

AUSTRALIA
CORNSTALK PUBLISHING COMPANY

ARNOLD PLACE, SYDNEY

1925

Wholly set up and printed in Australia by
Eagle Press, Ltd., Allen Street, Waterloo 1925

Registered by the Postmaster-General for
transmission through the post as a book.

Obtainable in Great Britain at the British Australian Bookstore,
51 High Holborn, London, W.C.1, the Bookstall in the
Central Hall of Australia House, Strand, W.C., and from
all other Booksellers: and (wholesale only) from the Australian
Book Company, 16 Farringdon Avenue. London. E.C.4.

First Edition, September, 1925
Second Edition, November, 1925

"I wasn't trying to get out!"

CONTENTS

THE BLACK STAR

[CHAPTER I]

FARADAY'S BAG

Jack Symonds' regret at the holidays' ending had now definitely passed, and, strolling along the wide departure platform, he looked forward with considerable excitement to the reunion with his pals. The train was already crowded with his schoolfellows, who shouted at him many noisy greetings.

"Hullo, Jack!"

"Hullo, yourself! Where did you get that colour?"

"Surfing, old boy. Coming in here? No?"

"Waiting for Billy Faraday," said Jack, and continued his stroll. The Melbourne train had not yet arrived, and Billy consequently had not put in his appearance.

Jack Symonds stood with his back to one of the great station pillars, gazing upon the animated scene with interest. There were scores of the Deepwater College boys, in their blue-and-gold caps, drawn to the city from far and near, to catch the school train.

New juniors, unnaturally silent, were hustled into carriages under the care of Mr. Kemp, the mathematics master; old friends, all smiles and laughter, greeted one another boisterously. Porters bustled to and fro with immense stacks of luggage.

Jack's eye fell idly upon a tall, rather sinister-looking man standing with folded arms, pulling occasionally at a heavy cherrywood pipe. The man's eyes were very deep-set and dark; the mouth was thin-lipped. In all, hardly an attractive, although certainly a striking, personality.

As Jack's glance held the fellow casually for an instant, he was surprised to see him start and pale perceptibly.

"Funny," mused the boy, and turned his head to see what had caused the change in the other's demeanour.

It was another man—and a man, in his own way, quite as remarkable as the first. He was short and very broad, with an immense neck; his nose was twisted permanently to the right, as if he had been struck at some time, a terrific blow in the face.

Jack smiled to himself. "Retired pug," he thought, noting that the man also carried a cauliflower ear—the left, and that his eyes were the narrow, quick eyes of the boxer.

"By Jove," exclaimed the tall man, as the two came together, with mutual expressions of surprise, "what brings you here, Tiger? Thought you were in America."

"Business," said the bent-nosed man, shortly. "Business, my dear old Doctor Daw—do they still call you that?"

"Hush," said the tall man, abruptly; "... that name...."

The rest was lost to Jack, for Doctor Daw spoke in a low whisper. The man he had called Tiger laughed in a short, sharp manner.

"Anyhow, whither away?" he asked.

"Deepwater—down the coast. You getting this train?"

The other nodded, and they both strolled in the direction of the smoking carriages. Jack gazed after them curiously. It was peculiar that the tall man should have said that he was going to Deepwater, for the only sign of civilization at Deepwater Bay was the College—and he could hardly be going there.

"Anyhow," said Jack out loud, "here's Billy, old Bill Faraday himself, and looking about as cheerful as an exhausted codfish."

He slapped the newcomer on the back; but Billy did not brighten appreciably. He was a tall, rather thin youth, with dark eyes and hair that emphasized the present pallor of his face.

"How are things, Jack?"

"Top-hole, old bean—but, I say, what's the matter?"

"Do I look bad? Fact is, old chap, I've been having a pretty rough passage these hols. The pater died, and I'm feeling—"

"I say! I'm awfully sorry. That band on your arm—I didn't notice."

He gripped his pal's arm in silent sympathy. Billy understood. There were never many words between the two, but their understanding was perfect.

Billy's father had been an eminent naturalist. Beyond that, the boy knew very little of him. That he had made explorations into Central Australia, and had attained to considerable fame in scientific circles, Jack was also aware. Billy, however, was a quiet, reserved sort of chap, and no one ever found out much about him or his people. To most of the fellows at the school, indeed, he was a bit of a mystery.

"Don't let us get in with the crowd," said Billy, nodding to an uproariously-cheerful throng at the train windows. "Try this smoker."

Jack followed his chum into the smoking compartment, and they had barely stowed their bags in the rack when Symonds observed, that sitting opposite were the two men he knew as "Doctor Daw" and "Tiger."

There was nothing remarkable in that, but Jack noted with intense surprise that Tiger was staring at Billy with an air of recognition. Jack wondered. Did Billy, by any chance, happen to know him? It did not seem likely, and yet—

At that moment Billy turned from the rack and sat down beside his pal. Tiger instantly averted his gaze and looked out of the window. He did not look at Billy again, although Jack watched him closely; and, what was more surprising, he did not seem to know the tall man at his side—Doctor Daw, as he had called him. Jack was puzzled more and more by this singularity as the train left Sydney and passed down the coast, for it seemed as if the two men knew nothing whatever of each other, and were even deliberately ignoring each other. This, despite the fact that Jack had overheard their recognition on the station, and had seen them enter the train in company.

Mystified as he was, the boy had for the present, other things to think of. Soon he was engrossed in conversation with Billy, and the train had halted at a little station some miles north of Deepwater, before anything occurred to disturb the even run of their journey.

The train had commenced to steam out of the station, when all at once the man Tiger, as if he had suddenly remembered something, leapt from his seat, grabbed a handbag from the rack, opened the door, and sprang out.

Jack, though taken aback by the suddenness of the move, was alert enough, mentally, to recall that the man had not had a bag at Sydney. The bag, therefore, was not his own; it was—

"Billy!" he yelled, "he's got your bag!"

Never was there a more magical transformation. Billy Faraday had been half dozing, moodily leaning back at the window, answering his chum mechanically. At Jack's words, he jumped as if a red-hot coal had been dropped down his collar, kicked open the door, and in a single bound gained the platform.

Jack was utterly amazed. Billy's action had been so quick, so marvellously prompt, that it had left him barely time to gasp. But then, Billy was always a fellow of impulse. Jack felt bound to follow his pal; Billy would be sure to get into some trouble or other.

And so Jack Symonds, prefect at Deepwater College, brilliant three-quarter and athlete, laughed his reckless laugh and followed suit.

He landed lightly, with perfect control of himself, despite the fact that the train had gathered speed, and was now moving quickly. He wheeled round, caught sight of the hurrying figure of Billy Faraday, and followed at a run.

The township into which Fate had thus strangely deposited the chums was very much a one-horse affair, and a few scattered houses and rutted country roads represented the sketchiest outlines of civilization.

The little man had made a quick exit from the station, but obviously he had not counted on the rapid pursuit of Jack and Billy. His coup had been planned to allow the train to get well under way before the loss was discovered, and the chase began. He ran swiftly along the road, and for some minutes made very good going of it. But the bag was a heavy handicap. In pursuit were two lithe, springy youngsters, practised athletes and runners, and they were gaining upon him.

Just then Fate played another card. Around the corner came the sound of a car, and then the motor shot into view, with a professional-looking man, clad in white dust-coat, at the wheel. He was evidently the local doctor, but he was probably a most astonished man in the next few seconds.

For Tiger jumped upon the running-board and flung the handbag into the tonneau. At the same time he presented a wicked-looking little pistol at the doctor's head.

"Turn her," he commanded, peremptorily. "Quickly—or I'll fire."

The doctor was a sensible man, and the cold contact of the steel at his temple quenched any rash attempts at resistance that might have suggested themselves. Obediently he turned the car about.

"Full speed—hit her up," added the man on the running-board, curtly, and the doctor's unsteady hand reached for his levers.

Jack Symonds uttered a groan of despair and chagrin.

"Done us, Billy!" he panted, as the car, responsive to her driver, shot forward at increased speed. "It's no good—we're beaten."

And he slackened his run. But just when it seemed that the bag was finally lost, Billy Faraday sprang another surprise—a surprise even for Jack, who imagined he knew his chum so well. It was the most amazing, most preposterous thing, and Jack was almost convinced that he was dreaming. Faraday plunged his hand into his hip-pocket, and produced an automatic revolver of the latest pattern!

Standing boldly in the middle of the road, he commenced firing at the doctor's back tyres. At the third shot there was an audible effect, and the car slowed up. Tiger turned about, furious and desperate, and for a moment Jack feared that the pistol would be directed upon them. But no; Tiger was not anxious to run the risk of murder, and seeing that there was no chance of his escaping with the handbag, there was nothing left now but to make good his own departure.

While the boys were yet some distance off, he leapt from the car and disappeared into the scrub at the roadside.

"Suffering cats!" exclaimed Jack, as he and Billy hurried up to the car. "Pinch me, someone—I'm dreaming. Or am I acting in a Wild West movie drama? Please tell me, Billy! And, dear old chap, what on earth are you doing with that gun?"

"Let you know afterwards," said Faraday coolly, replacing the amazing weapon in his hip-pocket.

[CHAPTER II]

DOCTOR DAW AGAIN

Unsatisfactory as was this postponement, Jack was destined to meet with a further disappointment. The doctor had been pacified and given an explanation of the affair, and Billy Faraday had declared that he did not want to be worried further with the man Tiger. He had recovered the bag, and he was willing to let the matter rest there. But when they got into a later train, Jack's curiosity prompted more questioning.

"By Jingo, Billy," he said, "that was a great sprint you made for the bag. Anyone would have thought you had a purse of sovereigns in it, or something."

Billy sniffed. "Well, perhaps hardly a purse of sovereigns, but something—"

"Well?" prompted Jack.

"I don't know whether I ought to tell you," said Billy, enigmatically. He ran his fingers through his thick, black hair, and stared out of the window.

"Hang it all," protested Jack, "you're starting this term in a jolly mysterious way! What's the giddy joke? What have you got up your sleeve—or in your bag?"

Billy shot a look of sharp inquiry at his friend.

"You're cute, Jack," was all he said. "You've dropped to it that there's something."

"Also that our friend Tiger is interested in your bag. Perhaps he knows what's in it."

"Knows—or guesses," said Billy, with a queer smile.

"But this is a bit too thick. And there's that revolver, too, just to make a real, nice, soupy mystery of it. I tell you, Billy, when you came out with the canister I—"

He opened his mouth, spread his hands, and indicated immense surprise.

"Perhaps I was a bit of a fool to bring it," Billy admitted. "But—it came in jolly handy!"

"Still, that doesn't account for it all. What is it, Billy? Can't you tell me?"

Billy shook his head slowly, uncertainly. "No, Jack—not yet. I promised I'd tell you, but—I won't. I don't want to alarm you without need, see? I may be wrong about this—all this business. The bag, the revolver, all our little adventure may be quite meaningless, and I don't want to be dragging you after any mares' nests—not yet awhile. But if anything happens—"

"Don't mind me," said Jack, weakly. "The Sphinx is a sort of uncle of mine. I'm good at riddles! No more explanations, Billy. I'm in a knot with them already. Don't overload my young mind any further." And he laughed, quite falling in with his pal's present reluctance to divulge, and dismissed the subject.

All the same, he realized that there was indeed something behind Billy's reticence. The two were good friends; anything in the ordinary way they shared as a matter of course. But this—this was something important, something serious. Strangely enough, he had an odd feeling that this term was going to be a remarkable one—and certainly it was opening well. Billy had hinted at further events. What was he to expect? Truly there might be adventures in the near future.

Or yet, on the other hand, perhaps the whole affair was nothing at all—a mere mare's nest, as Billy had said. Either way, there was nothing to be gained by thinking any more about it.

When, finally, they reached the College, there were lots of things to be done, and they spent the afternoon in the study that they shared with two other fellows. Last term the two study-mates had left the College, and consequently there would be two new boys this term.

"Nobody here," said Billy Faraday, opening the door and glancing round the room. "Place looks bare, doesn't it, with all their things gone?"

"Wonder who's going to step into their shoes?" queried Jack thoughtfully.

"No idea." Billy was absorbed in unlocking his cupboard, and Jack, glancing over his shoulder, saw the light fall on the blue barrel of that mysterious revolver.

"Leaving it there, Billy?"

Billy nodded. "For the present. I'm not one of those asses that'd go round swanking with a thing like this. Don't think I brought it for that, old chap."

"I don't, Billy!"

Billy looked at his friend, and seemed on the verge of giving away at last the real reason why he had brought the revolver. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Billy quickly thrust a small black cash-box into the far corner of the cupboard, and shut it hurriedly.

"Come in," said Jack, sitting on the table swinging his legs; and there promptly entered a most amazing apparition.

A tall, very thin youth, with horn-rimmed spectacles, stood at the door. He carried stacks of luggage, baskets, odd bundles in paper, a portmanteau or two, which, with an air of great relief, he proceeded to distribute impartially over the floor of the study.

"What—what—?" gasped Billy.

"Ah, comrade!" demanded the new arrival, "how are you?" He fingered a red tie of extraordinary brilliance of design. "I trust you have spent your holidays in quiet enjoyment, and have returned flowing over with vigour to—" At this stage a cushion struck him in the face, and he fell gracefully backwards over a suit-case.

He arose with the expression of a resigned martyr, and dusted his trousers. "Comrades both," he declared, "that was unkind of you—really it was. However, perhaps I was unduly long in coming to the point. I should have announced," he beamed broadly, "that hence-forward I am to be your study-mate."

"Our what?" demanded Jack, incredulously.

"Why, your study-mate, comrade. Come, come, where are your tongues? What, no congratulations? Aren't you overjoyed to have me? Think how well we are sure to get on together—think of the evenings of happy and profitable study, self-help, also co-operation, everything pleasant—No, I implore you, no more cushions."

"Well, cut out the oratory," warned Jack, lowering the missile. "Do you think we are a bally political meeting? Aren't you Patch, though—weren't you in Cooper's House last term?"

"That is my poor name." The newcomer executed a profound bow. "Septimus Patch, socialist, inventor, friend of the downtrodden and oppressed—"

"Cheese it," said Billy. "Why on earth did they move you to this house?"

"Ah, why?" said Patch blandly, gazing at the ceiling.

"And why, on top of that, did they pick upon this study?"

"Who knows?" The inventor gazed dreamily out of the window. "Fate, perhaps."

"And, anyway," Symonds took up the tale, "what have you got in all these traps?"

"My chemicals—my models of invention—my books—my goods generally," said Septimus Patch gloomily.

Horror deepened upon the faces of the two chums.

"Do you mean to say—?" said Billy.

"—Rotten chemicals?" finished Jack.

"In this study?" Billy could scarcely believe it.

"Why not?" asked Patch, with his conciliatory smile, polishing his enormous spectacles. "Is it not comforting to be companioned by a man of science—I will not say genius? When time drags, you may find infinite enjoyment in mixing up things for me, and solace in wandering through the dark forest of science under my guidance."

"Oh, help!" moaned Jack.

"Moses!" gasped Billy.

"'Dark forest of science,'" quoted Jack, throwing himself weakly into Billy's easy chair. "This place is going to be a little paradise, isn't it just?"

"More like a ward in a lunatic asylum," corrected Billy with bitterness.

"You are unduly severe on yourselves," Patch assured them blandly. He was unpacking an enormous number of things, and distributing them pell-mell over the floor. Jack and Billy could only sit and stare, goggle-eyed, at the spreading disorder on their one and only carpet.

"Pictures, too, comrades," said Septimus enthusiastically, bringing to light a huge bundle of frames wrapped in brown paper. He exhibited the top one proudly.

"Good grief! What on earth's that?" demanded Jack in astonishment. "Side elevation of a poached egg, or—"

"That," said the owner, indignantly, dusting it with his handkerchief, "is a diagram of the anatomy of the common flea. Much magnified, of course. Rather good, don't you think? Where shall I put it?"

"In the fireplace," suggested Billy, cruelly. "Do you think we want to be gazing all day at that horror? And what's this?"

"Butterflies."

"Not so bad. Put them up there over that shelf."

Septimus hoisted the huge frame into place, and got down, beaming broadly.

"Comrade," he said, "we are getting on quite well. Only one or two more; here's a portrait of Sir Isaac Newton."

"It's a good frame," commented Jack. "I've a photo of Trumper that'd just fit in. I'll dig it out. Here, we'll put it up high for the present." So saying he balanced a big dictionary on a chair, and climbed up with Sir Isaac Newton in his hands.

"Hope I can reach," he said, while Septimus Patch and Billy Faraday watched him anxiously. It did not seem as if he could reach. He raised himself cautiously on tiptoe, but the frame was heavy and the risk great. The dictionary tottered.

"Look out, Jack—you'll be over," said Billy. "Whoa!" He made a frantic grab at his pal, but missed by about a foot.

Jack came down with a tremendous crash, scattering a pile of Patch's bottles right and left. There was a tinkle of broken glass and the sound of a mild explosion; through the ensuing cloud of smoke Septimus could be seen seated on the floor, vainly endeavouring to release his head from the photograph frame that Jack had let fall.

It was fortunate that Sir Isaac had had no glass in front of him, or the results might have been serious. As it was, he was hopelessly punctured now; the frame hung about Patch's neck like a grotesque collar.

"Ha, ha, ha!" The sight was so absurd that Billy could not check a laugh at the comicality of it all, but his laugh ended abruptly. At that moment the door opened, and a stern voice spoke.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Billy looked up in surprise. The voice was a strange one, but it carried a ring of authority.

"Just a slight accident, comrade," replied Patch. "We were hanging this picture, and regrettably it fell. Ah, off it comes at last! But I am afraid Sir Isaac is disfigured," he added sadly. "Yes, he does look rather cut up."

"I am your new history master," said the other, interrupting him. His rasping voice made Jack swing round with a gasp of surprise. "Daw is my name."

"Doctor Daw!" murmured Jack. The words were literally jerked out of him by surprise. He regretted them instantly, but it was too late. The amazing fact was that the man now standing in the doorway was actually the man who had travelled with them in the train—the fellow who had been so familiar with the bag-snatching Tiger on the station, and who had completely ignored him afterwards. Jack recalled now that the man had said that he was going to Deepwater. It was a somewhat startling coincidence, and it was no wonder that he had been impelled to whisper the name that Tiger had given the new history master.

Slight as that whisper had been, it had not escaped the ears of Doctor Daw, who gave a violent start and took a step forward. His mouth opened, as if he were about to say something, but no words followed. His eyes met Jack's in a troubled, questioning stare. He seemed to say, "How much do you know? What have you got hold of?" And then, on the verge of an outburst, he recovered himself.

"I have a new study-mate for you," said he quietly, although his eyes still glittered angrily. "A new boy to the college, and from New Zealand, who will be in your form. Fane is his name—but no doubt he will introduce himself."

With that he ushered in the boy Fane, and let himself out. Only, before he closed the door, he eyed Jack narrowly—and his glance seemed to convey a threat, a warning. There was no mistaking the malignant nature of the look. Jack felt chilled, he knew not why. Then, the door closed, and Mr. Daw was gone.

"Cheerful-looking chap," commented Billy. "How are you, Fane?"

"Well, thanks," said Fane, who was a short and rather nervous-looking boy. He came forward and shook hands all round. "Hope we get on well together."

"My sentiments exactly, comrade," said Septimus Patch. "I'm new myself, but I'll sort of father you. What are your interests? Know anything about Science? Or Socialism?"

Fane smiled nervously. "Neither, I'm afraid. Where can I put my things?"

"Here you are," said Billy. "What shall we call you?"

"My first name's Swinnerton," he admitted. "Silly name, of course—call me Swin, if you like."

And while Billy and Patch were attempting to make the newcomer feel at home, Jack was looking idly out of the window. He did not know the connection between Doctor Daw and Tiger, but he felt vaguely that he had made an enemy.

[CHAPTER III]

THE BULLY-KILLER

Salmon's House, to which division of Deepwater College Jack Symonds and his study-mates belonged, was famous for its exclusive set of youngsters—a band who had clubbed together for their own advancement, and the confusion of everybody else, and had named themselves the Crees. It amounted in the long run to a sort of secret society; it had its president, but no one outside its numbers knew who he was. It was never known for certain who the members were, either; and that gave a delightful uncertainty to everything connected with it.

It so happened that both Jack and his friend Billy Faraday were members. With the others, they were notified that on a certain afternoon a special meeting would be held. They knew well enough the object of the meeting. Dick Richard, the founder of the Crees, and the society's first president, had left at the end of the previous term, and there would be some hot contention for his position.

"Do you mean to go for the job, Jack?" asked Billy, as they strolled across the fields to the appointed spot—a secluded position in the rear of a waste of scrub-land.

"Why not? It'd give me a bit of a pull, and there's no end of fun to be got out of it," returned Jack, in his practical manner. "I don't see anyone to give me much of a run for it."

"Except Cummles."

"Except Cummy, of course. And he can't do anything but bluster and kick up a dickens of a row. What sort of a time would we have under him?"

"No sort of a time at all. The man's got no initiative."

"No—but any amount of push and brute strength!" Jack laughed.

When they arrived at Three Skull Hollow—an entirely fanciful name bestowed upon it by the Crees—they discovered that most of the Crees were already assembled, and the loud voice of Les Cummles was dominating the assembly.

"Of course," he was saying, "there's absolutely no question—I'm putting in for the job, and if anyone else thinks he'd like it, let him say so." He stared round with a somewhat truculent expression. "Here's Symonds and Faraday—they'll bear me out in this, I know."

It was a direct challenge.

"Bear you out in what?" asked Symonds quietly.

"Why, my filling Dick's place as president—you're agreeable, aren't you?"

"I don't know so much about that, I was thinking of taking it over myself."

"Hear, hear!" said an invisible Cree, behind Cummy's back. He wheeled round and frowned upon the party.

"Now, what are the laws of electing the president?" he asked.

"Nominations first, and then a show of hands—that's all we've got to do. It's quite simple." He took a seat and addressed the assembled Crees. "I'm in the chair—any nominations for Chief Cree?"

"I propose Les Cummles," said one of the bully's toadies, with clockwork readiness.

"Good—seconded? Thank you. Now, anybody else?"

He looked round fiercely, as if defying anybody else to speak. But, finally, it was shown that he could not carry off the bluff. Billy Faraday spoke in his quiet voice.

"Jack Symonds—my nomination," he said.

"I second that," another Cree spoke quickly, and there was a murmur of approval.

"Anybody else?" Cummles's tone was distinctly nasty by now, and he glared at Bill savagely. "No—well, we'll have a show of hands."

This time he frowned round on the Crees with real anger. He was not a bad general, and he thought that by this show of force he would intimidate any wavering members, and make them feel that it was perhaps better to vote for him and feel safe.

The upraised hands for Cummles were counted slowly; there were twenty-one. And then the Symonds vote was counted.

"Twenty-one also," said the Cree deputed to tell the votes.

"Dead heat!"

"Wait a moment," said Cummles. "As chairman, I have right to a casting vote, and I—"

"Rot—it's a swindle!"

"All right, Moore—I'll settle with you afterwards," said Cummles wickedly. "I've every right to settle—"

"You're a big bluff!"

Feeling was certainly running very high. Lots of the fellows who had timidly voted for Cummles now regretted their action. Moore was an excitable little fellow, and Cummles's threats had roused him to defiance.

"Enough said. I—"

"Yah! Who do we want?"

"Symonds!" There was no mistaking the volume of the shout.

"Casting vote—" roared Cummles.

"Bluffer! Another counting! Another counting!"

"—chairman's right—"

"It's a swindle!"

"—therefore declare that—"

"Symonds, Chief Cree!"

"—I am elected to the position—"

A tremendous hullaboloo arose from the Cree meeting, and about a dozen free fights between heated partisans were taking place. Upright on a raised spot Cummles was endeavouring to state that, giving his casting vote to himself, he was elected Chief Cree. Jack and Billy were more like amused spectators, than anything else. The furious Crees were not anxious to be ruled by the heavy hand of Cummles, but many sought favour in his eyes by endeavouring to quell the insurgents.

There is no saying what might not have followed, but for the fact that a strange diversion had been preparing itself, and now burst upon the meeting of the Crees with no sort of warning. There was not even any preliminary noise; but even if there had been, the uproar in the meeting would have sufficed to drown it. Something darkened the sky with startling abruptness; then, there was an immense crackling and crashing in the scrub near by.

"Look out—coming over!" yelled a voice.

Only one or two heard the cry; Cummles, who was raging like a bull, certainly did not. So that, when some weighty object smashed into his back and hurled him to the ground with violence, he was taken completely by surprise. He was precipitated into the waistcoats of a couple of fellow-Crees who were seated upon the ground.

"Here—help!" shouted the assaulted ones, taking his action for one of personal violence. "What have we—"

"Ouch!" bellowed Cummles, struggling in vain to free himself from the tangle of arms and legs into which he had been so rudely thrown.

"Ha, ha, ha!" When the amazed Crees had collected their wits sufficiently to be able to take in what was happening, the humour of the situation was apparent. The object that had collided with Cummles tugged and clung on to a rope—and at the other end of the rope was an immense kite-like affair that flapped and ducked in the air twenty feet above them. The plight of the astounded Cummles and the dangling and racing legs was farcical in the extreme.

"Help!" came the cry of the aviator. "Grab the rope—she's getting away. Catch hold, quickly!"

Several of the Crees flung themselves on the rope, and, hauling manfully, brought the big kite to the ground. It was tugging with the strength of several bulls, and it required all their strength to bring it to earth. It was quite a big affair, of weird construction, something along the lines of a box-kite, and Septimus Patch himself was seated in a light saddle in the centre of it.

"Patch!" exclaimed Jack Symonds in astonishment.

"That same, comrade! I fear I startled you somewhat—eh? But the machine would not behave."

His assistant, the boy who had been swinging on the rope in an endeavour to hold the kite down was discovered to be Fane, the shy New Zealander. Evidently he and Patch had struck up a friendship.

"Yes," he said, mopping his forehead, "I had my work cut out to keep her down—I've been dragged over a mile and a half of scrub. The blessed thing rises quicker than the price of eggs. Old Septimus nearly had a wetting—didn't you, Patchie, old boy?"

"It looked like it for quite a while," admitted the inventor modestly. "I must allow that I'd forgotten to provide for coming down again, once I'd got up. In the future, I'll have to have about twenty juniors hanging on to the rope. Or I might remedy that before the next ascent."

The Crees had gathered around the big kite, examining it with evident curiosity.

"I say," said one of them, "she must be pretty strong to lift you up like that."

"Well, she's not badly designed, comrade," said Patch, with lordly condescension. "This is Flying Fox III. Numbers I and II, I regret to state, would not fly. They absolutely refused. Why, I don't know. But they—"

He found himself gripped hard by the shoulder, and turned to front the crimson face of Cummles, who, angered as he had been by the opposition to his presidency, had been doubly enraged by his ignominious fall. His dignity had been injured, and as he had a certain prestige among his fellows, he wanted redress.

"Look here," he said, shaking Patch's shoulder till the inventor's horn-rimmed spectacles shivered on his nose. "Look here, what the dickens do you mean by it?"

"Mean by what?"

"Why, barging into my back like that, and sending me flying? It was your wretched kite thingummy, and like your cheek!"

"My dear fellow," said Patch.

"Dear fellow, nothing! It's an apology I want, you glass-eyed goat! Down on your knees, too, and repeat what I say."

"I'm sure it wouldn't be worth repeating," said Patch coldly. "Anyway, there was no need to flare up like that over a simple accident. Reflect, comrade, on the injustice you are doing to yourself, and—"

"If you don't apologize the way I say," said Cummles inflexibly, "then you're going to be put through it."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you'll get bashed," said Cummles, who was obviously in a dangerous mood. His dignity had been injured, and he meant to show the Crees just how he could impose his will on others. It should make an impression, he thought. "If you think you can play your silly fool tricks on me, then you're making the mistake of your young life! See? Now, what about that apology?"

"No," murmured Patch, with a worried air. He had gone very white, for the idea of a physical encounter hardly appealed to him. "You mean you're going to fight me?"

"I don't fight fools like you," said Cummles trenchantly, still bent on showing the Crees what he was made of. "I don't fight them—I just whip them. Apologize?"

For answer, Patch gave one look round on the circle of still, watching faces, and then sighed. Then, with a deliberate movement, he began to take off his coat. A gasp went up, for Cummles was a big, bull-necked sort of fellow, and a regular terror in a fight. Poor Patch, it seemed, was in for a very torrid time; but the spectators were forced to admire his courage. What sort of a chance would he have, though, with a smashing hitter like Cummles?

It was quite unfair, and Jack Symonds for one was dead against it. Cummles would have to learn to control his temper; it was too bad that Patch should get whipped for a pure accident. Just as Jack was on the point of protesting—just as, indeed, he had stepped forward to check the fight preparations, a new voice cut in before he could utter a word.

"Wait a moment." It was Fane, the quiet New Zealander, and he looked shyer than ever as he introduced himself, blushing, into the circle.

"Well?" Cummles demanded, with the truculence of a dog interrupted in worrying a bone.

"Patch mustn't fight—can't fight," said Fane, still in that uneasy, self-conscious manner. "You see—it wasn't his fault, really. I was the one that actually barged into you, and so—"

"Are you ready to take his place then?" demanded Cummles, with brutal directness.

"If necessary."

The Crees were even more disturbed at this, for if Patch was a hopeless opponent for the bully, Fane was even more so. He was half a head shorter than the big fellow, and his appearance was altogether quiet and inoffensive. He removed his coat and, with the air of a veteran, rolled up his sleeves.

"I'll see if I can't justify my title of bully-killer," he said, without any appearance of boasting. "Will one of you give me a knee?"

"But look here—" said Jack.

"Where?"

"It's all absurd. You don't know what you're up against. Cummles here is a fighter—"

"You wouldn't have me back down, would you?"

"No; but—"

"The fight will go on," said Fane simply. "I know how to take care of myself. Cummles was anxious to pick a quarrel, and as Patch can't fight for sour apples—"

Patch was standing by, with a little criss-cross mark of puzzlement showing between his eyes.

"I ought really—" he began.

The sardonic voice of the bully interrupted him. "When you fellows have finished gassing to save time," he said, "I'll be ready to thrash you. Both, if you like—it doesn't matter to me a bit. One after the other—who's first? But hurry up."

He had not troubled to remove his coat, anticipating an easy time with Patch; but now he did so, and rolled up his sleeves, moved by something in the bearing of the quiet boy before him.

Without any further argument, without any courtesies of combat, he and Fane flew at each other, and there was the sound of a collision and heavy blows. For a moment the spectators looked on with dismay, fearing that Fane would pay dearly for his temerity and get hopelessly smashed about. But in a minute or two their apprehension changed to excitement, and they set up a volley of cheering.

Fane was a dark horse—everybody recognized that at a glance. He quite obviously knew more than a little about boxing—and fighting, too. He had a good stance, and hit long and straight, and with both hands, like a professional.

Cummles was vastly shocked when, at the end of the first furious rush, he ran fairly upon a stiff left jab that split his lip instantly. Again and again he strove to get past that propped-out fist, but try as he would he could not get his head out of the way, and every time it was as if he had jammed his face against a beam of wood.

Then, too, Fane's right hand, with heavy body-swing behind it, followed up the left like a piston and thudded upon every portion of Cummles's anatomy in solid drives, until he began to feel acutely miserable, and, stung to desperation like a tormented bear, he commenced to hit with all his force, in wild swings that Fane dodged in good style. It was a magnificent exhibition of pluck and skill of the first water, opposed to brute force and doggedness. Fane seemed to be able to land hits at will. A trickle of blood from the bully's split lip coursed down that fellow's chin, and added nothing to his appearance.

"Go on, the bully-killer!"

The name had caught on, and the Crees yelled it in pure enjoyment, for they had all suffered more or less at Cummles's hands, and they appreciated to the full this repayment of his own medicine.

"Look at him—he's blowing like a grampus!"

Cummles was not in the best of training at this early stage of the term, and he was feeling the disadvantages of his condition. He was puffing badly and perspiring profusely. His movements slowed down and he seemed tired. Fane could not hit hard enough to knock the bigger boy over; but there was no doubt that he was cutting him about badly.

"Hand it out," yelled the bully's enemies, eager for the downfall of their tyrant. "You know, Fane!"

The Crees went simply wild with delight, for Cummles was getting the worst trouncing of his life. They cheered the New Zealander on with loud cries of encouragement, although it would have been impossible to have added to the sting and venom of his attack.

"Go on, Fane!"

"Give it to him—he's been looking for this for a long time!"

The bully-killer, as he had called himself, propped off another of Cummles's blind rushes, with stinging hits.

"Had enough?" he gasped, lowering his hands momentarily.

"No!" wheezed Cummles, lurching forward; and with a tremendous swing he clouted his opponent on the side of the head, sending him flying head over heels to the ground, where he lay outstretched.

[CHAPTER IV]

THE BROKEN BOOTLACE

Cummles stood back from his antagonist, a twisted grin of triumph on his face, and, in the tense silence that followed, the loud and fast sound of his breathing could be distinctly heard.

And then, all the horror of the Crees found voice, and they exclaimed together:

"Foul—it's a foul!"

"Scrag the dirty fouler!"

The ring pressed round about Cummles with angry cries, for the bully had offended all rules of fair play by his action in striking Fane when that youngster had lowered his hands. For a moment Cummles thought that he was to be mobbed, and he drew back on the defensive; then Fane slowly rose from the ground.

"Stand back," said Fane, "this is my job—let me finish it!"

With the words he again attacked the bully furiously. His blows were hard and fast, but he did not lose his head. Grimly Cummles strove to turn the tide, to repeat that one tremendous blow; but always Fane was just a little too quick for him.

Finally Cummles came to the end of his resources, and bitterly bitter though the admission was to him, he had to grant that he was beaten. Thoroughly exhausted, and much damaged by Fane's blows, he dropped his hands.

"Good enough," he mumbled through swollen lips. "I'm done—hold off."

Then for the first time Fane smiled; and like a cloak, his old nervous manner fell about him once more.

"You'll shake hands?" he asked. "Yes?"

Cummles shook the proffered hand grumpily, for he could not easily forgive the fellow who had lowered his colours so decisively in the presence of his fellow-Crees. Then, pulling on his coat, he left the circle without another word, followed by two or three of his intimate cronies, who even now would not desert him.

"Well done, Fane," said Jack Symonds, patting the New Zealander on the shoulder. "That's just what Cummles has been looking for for months. Now, you fellows," he went on, turning to the Crees, who stood round murmuring congratulations, "I propose that Fane here and his friend Patch be made members of the society. For one thing, Fane is a jolly useful member, and—"

"Hear, hear!" they interrupted him.

"And what about Symonds for Chief Cree?" demanded another of them in a loud voice.

The reply was a burst of cheering, and Jack was duly elected. Amid much excitement, he was presented with the Eagle feather, the emblem of office that the founder of the Crees had left behind him when he had left Deepwater College. Jack put it in his pocket, and then turned to the business of getting the two new Crees elected to the band.

They were unanimously elected, and the four occupants of Study 9 that evening were fast friends. Even Patch was allowed to hang one or two more of his scientific diagrams on the walls, and to place his bottles and apparatus along the top of his cupboard.

In the middle of the night Fane awoke with a slight groan, and felt his face with tender touch. His right cheek-bone, where Cummles had landed a hit during their fight, was painful; the skin had been taken off, and now the wound was a hot, throbbing graze that worried him.

He turned over and over again, but found sleep impossible. The wound was worrying him too much.

"I've got some ointment," he murmured, "and that might cool it off a bit. But the stuff's down in the study, worse luck."

He bore the pain in silence for a few minutes longer, and then determined to go down to the study for the ointment. Silently he got out of bed, and left the sleeping dormitory behind him. The great corridors were cold and deserted, but, hurrying downstairs in his bare feet, he quickly arrived at Study 9. Then he threw open the door.

"Jiminy!" he gasped, involuntarily.

The study was in darkness but for a flood of light that streamed in a definite band from the end of what was evidently an electric torch. And the cupboards were open, and their contents partly emptied on the floor.

"What—who are you?" he demanded, as the glow of the torch fell upon a big figure in a pulled-down cap and a scarf that hid the lower part of the face. The bright eyes above the scarf challenged his, and for a moment they stood face to face, both held immovable in surprise. Fane realized at once that the man he had surprised was a burglar.

He flung himself without the slightest warning upon the intruder. No fellow at Deepwater College ever had more lion-like courage than Fane. The man bulked much bigger than himself, but the bully-killer sprang forward with all the vim of an attacking bulldog.

Swift and unexpected as was his move, the burglar was a fraction swifter. The torch went out silently, and it was as if a velvet curtain had fallen before Fane's eyes. The man must have twisted aside with lightning celerity, for Fane could not touch him. For a moment there was silence, each listening for the other. Then a large black shape blotted out the pale square of the window, and the boy realized that the burglar was escaping.

He ran forward, but fell over some invisible object on the floor. When he had picked himself up, he heard the thud of the intruder's feet alighting on the garden-beds outside, and the quick following sound of rapid footsteps. The man had got away!

Fane knew that pursuit was out of the question. He had no hope of following with success; and he wondered now whether the next step would be to inform the masters of what had occurred. On second thoughts he determined to consult with his pals, and returning to the dormitory he awoke Jack and Patch, and together they went to the bed where Billy Faraday lay asleep.

"Billy!" said Jack, shaking his chum by the shoulder.

"Look out—the Black Star!" said Billy. "The Black Star—take care of it!"

"What on earth?" said Jack. "The beggar's talking in his sleep. Black star? What does he mean?" He shook the sleeping Billy again. "Here, you old sleeping beauty, arise! Come up!"

"Hullo!" There was surprise and alarm in Billy's tone. "What—? Oh, I remember—I've been dreaming. I thought you were—"

He stopped and rubbed his eyes. "What's the matter, anyway?"

"Come out here, old chap."

When they got out in the corridor, Jack Symonds explained. "Fane here was going down for a rub of ointment for his eye, and when he got in the study there was a burglar. Here, where are you going?"

Billy Faraday did not answer. He had gasped with alarm at Jack's words, and set off at a rapid pace down the corridor. The others followed him at a run, and when they entered the study found him on his knees in front of his cupboard examining a small black cash-box, which he clicked open, peered inside, and then, with a sigh of relief, closed it again.

"Nothing gone?" demanded Jack. "Not even the Black Star?"

"Black star!" Billy whispered, looking at Jack as if he had seen a ghost. "What—what do you know about—"

"It's all right, Billy—only a joke of mine."

"But—a joke?"

"Yes. When we went to wake you up just now you were having a nightmare, or something, and you were jabbering about a black star. Something about taking care of it."

Billy was silent. Then he turned to his study-mates earnestly. "See here, you fellows," he said quietly, "we're all pals now, and I think we can keep a secret together. You heard me talking in my sleep about the Black Star, and perhaps you thought that it was only a nightmare, or something I'd read in a book. It isn't. It's something real—there is a Black Star, and here it is."

He opened the cash-box, and held out a small bundle wrapped in tissue-paper. Jack removed the wrappings, and held the object so revealed in the palm of his hand. There were exclamations of surprise from all three.

"By Jove!" said Patch in admiration.

In Jack's hand lay a black stone as big as the top of a tea-cup. It was beautifully smooth, polished to the last degree, and had a sort of opalescent fire that made it wonderfully beautiful in the lamp-light. It was shaped as a six-cornered star, and as the light played on it it seemed veritably alive, almost appearing to wriggle in Jack's palm.

"That's the Black Star," said Billy Faraday.

"And that," said Septimus Patch thoughtfully, "is, I suppose, what the burglar was after. Am I right?"

"Perfectly right. Only that Fane here arrived in time to interrupt his search, the fellow must have collared the Black Star."

"But the Black Star—what is it?" asked Fane. "Something very valuable? Why should the fellow be so anxious to get it?"

"And that's another thing," put in Jack Symonds excitedly. "When that man on the train tried to collar your bag, was he after the Black Star?"

Billy frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know that," he replied. "Perhaps he knew what was in my bag—or perhaps he was just a casual thief. Anyway, I made sure of getting the thing back, didn't I?"

"You did! You couldn't have run faster from a man-eating lion. Still, old chap, what is the giddy mystery about this Black Star? There's more in it than meets the eye."

"I was just coming to that. It's rather a long story, but I'll cut it as short as I can. You know, my father, who just died, was a great naturalist, and he was deeply interested in Central Australia. He had made a special study of the natural history of those parts, and was considered the expert on all matters belonging to them.

"On one of his trips into the interior he discovered a little-known tribe of blacks. It seems that these niggers were of quite a superior brand, and they had a sort of civilization of their own, quite different from the low-down natives that travellers run across. They keep much to themselves, and it was only by the purest accident that the pater ran into them.

"He stayed with them for a long time. There were plenty of things to be inquired into, and with their assistance he added to his scientific knowledge. For their part, they got to like him very much; in fact, they wanted him to stay with them and be their chief. They even went so far as giving him the sacred emblem of the tribe, which is, of course, this Black Star. The possessor of this Star is all-powerful among the natives of the Boonadilla tribe. He can have his slightest wishes obeyed, and they handed my father a very great compliment when they gave him this. Of course, he accepted it, and brought it back to Melbourne with him, but he had no intention of going back and lording it over the tribe. All that he intended doing was to show it round among his scientific friends, partly as proof that the Boonadilla tribe existed. That was all that was in his head at the time; and he meant to send it back, or take it back himself on his next trip into the interior.

"But, as you know, there was to be no 'next trip.' The pater died, but before he went he told me certain things about the Black Star. It seems that one of his men on the trip got to know about it, and, being a cunning sort of fellow, got the idea of taking the Star and getting back to the Boonadilla people with it. The reason was, of course, that he was going to get something out of it; and my pater told me that the tribe had lots of alluvial gold that they'd collected around the spot where they lived. They'd no idea of the value of the gold, and a clever man would be able to influence them with the Black Star, so that it would not be difficult to get away with the metal.

"This man Lazare—some sort of a foreigner, I believe—had been at the pater for a loan of the Black Star; but the pater knew too much of him for that. He knew that if he lent it to Lazare, the probability was that he would not see the thing again. So he refused. He told me that I was to be careful not to let Lazare get hold of it, for he handed it over to my keeping just before he—died. His instructions were that I should take it to his old friend Mason, the geologist, who lives in Sydney.

"Before I left Melbourne to come back to school I wrote to Mason, but I got an answer back to say that he was away on a trip, and would not be back for four or five months. What was I to do? The only thing was to take it back to school with me. This I decided to do; and I also brought back a revolver of the pater's, which came in very handy, as Jack can tell you. You don't want to let a word of this out, for there'd be no end of a row if I was found out. Before I left, Lazare himself came to see me, and asked me directly for the Black Star. He said that there had been an understanding between the pater and himself that he should take it back to the tribe. He was plausible, too, I can tell you. Only that I'd been warned against the fellow, I'd have fallen for his game like a shot. As it was, he didn't get it, and I believe that he's been watching me like a cat watching a mouse ever since I refused. Mind, he didn't threaten anything—he's too clever for that. He was very polite, and said that it was a pity that I was so obstinate, and that he would not worry any more about it. He remarked that he had been merely carrying out the pater's orders, and that, since I opposed him, he considered himself free of any obligation. He said good-bye, and went away—implying that I was a silly young fool, of course. Now, I'm pretty certain that this was Lazare here this evening. He must have watched me closely, and possibly that was one of his men who snatched my bag on the train."

"By Jingo!" said Jack Symonds, "but we're going to have a lively term this time or I'm a Dutchman! What?"

"Comrade," said Patch, in his grand manner, extending his hand, "I appreciate your confidence in me—believe me, I shall do all that I can to help. You have heard, no doubt, that I am by way of being an amateur detective? No? You surprise me. I want everything left here just as it is. I may be able to find out something of the identity of the burglar. This is no joke. Wait until the morning and then I'll get to work."

"Well," said Fane practically, "we can't do anything by waiting here—besides, there's a chance that we'll be caught out of our dormy. Are you going to report the affair to the Head?"

"I think not. I don't want to have to explain everything, and, besides, no harm's been done. I'll take the Star up with me—I'll put it under my pillow for to-night. I had no idea that the attempt would be made so soon—else I wouldn't have left it in the cupboard. You never know your luck."

As they went back to the dormitory Fane and Septimus Patch could be heard planning to get down to the study early in the morning—before call-bell—and to make an investigation. Jack smiled, for he thought that the amateur detective was a bit of a joke.

"It's a biscuit to a fiver that you'll both be fast asleep when call-bell goes," he observed, with a yawn. "I'm feeling that way myself."

However, when morning came and Jack Symonds and Billy Faraday awoke, they found that the two beds occupied by Fane and Patch were empty.

"Here, Billy," said Jack, "we've time to run down before call-over and see what that beggar Patch's found out."

"Right!" The two of them hurried downstairs, and discovered Patch and Fane busily examining the turf outside the window of Study 9. Patch, with excited eyes, was pointing out various things on the ground; as the two pals came along he glanced smilingly up.

"Hullo!" said Billy. "Looking for the early worm?"

"Found it," said Patch confidently.

"What do you mean?"

"I've found that the burglar is really somebody belonging to the school!"

"Get out! How do you know that?"

"Deduction," said Patch. "The clue of the broken bootlace."

"Broken bootlace," repeated Billy Faraday in bewilderment. "What on earth do you mean by that?"

"I refer to a clue, comrade—and a valuable one at that. It means just this. You see these two footprints here, just where the burglar landed out of the window? And those further along, which are also his, for a certainty?"

"Yes—go on."

"Well, I—hang it, there goes the second bell, and we'll have to scoot. I'll explain it all after morning-school."

And with that promise the mystified pals had to be content. Had Patch actually found out something worth while, or was the whole thing merely a false alarm?

[CHAPTER V]

UNRAVELLING A CLUE

Mr. Salmon, who was the house-master over that section of Deepwater College in which the chums led a more or less care-free existence, was the best of good sorts, but hopeless as a disciplinarian. To begin with, he was partly deaf, and disrespectful juniors took advantage of the weakness in season and out of season. His own form, the sixth, to which all four of the Study 9 boys belonged, also contrived to have an easy time of it while he was in charge. So that if he observed a certain uneasiness on the part of the sharers of the Black Star secret, he might have ascribed it to post-holiday skittishness—at any rate, he said nothing about it, and the four of them hastened into conference immediately studies were over, and lent ear to the wise sayings of the eccentric genius, Septimus Patch.

"To begin with," said Patch, in his best Dear-Watson manner, "there's precious little beyond these footprints, in the shape of clues, but to a trained eye like mine those slight, almost meaningless marks have a story to tell. They are to me as an open book, and—"

"Cut out the cackle," said Jack Symonds brusquely, "and return to the washing. Get on with it."

"Examine this footprint closely," invited Patch, "and tell me what you see."

"A footprint, of course," said Jack. "In other words, a depression in the earth, caused by the yielding of the soil under a boot, which causes it to assume the shape—"

"Ass!" said Septimus cuttingly. "I mean, do you observe anything peculiar about it?"

"No. Why?"

"You see that snake-like mark across the place where the sole has rested?"

"We're not blind, professor. What of it?"

"Well, that's where the bootlace was stamped into the earth under the foot. You see that! Now, that means that the fellow had his boot unlaced."

"Marvellous!" exclaimed Jack. "How do you do it?" he added, peering anxiously at Patch. "Are you quite sure that you have come to no harm? The severe mental effort—"

"Cut the joking a moment. The man's boots were unlaced. What was the reason for that? Is it likely that a man who was planning a burglary would come in with unlaced boots? The thing is absurd. There are no houses within miles of this place, and if the fellow had been hiding in the bush, he would scarcely have had his boots unlaced. No; the deduction from that lace is that the chap belonged to the school."

"Yes, that sounds pretty right. You mean, he put on his boots to give the impression that he'd come from outside, but as he'd just slipped them on, he didn't lace them up, meaning to take them off again shortly afterwards."

"That's just it, comrade. Also, he was probably carrying them in his hand and getting around the corridors in stockinged feet. I think we've just about narrowed the search down to the school."

"Yes;" broke in Billy Faraday, who had been listening to the discussion with deep interest, "that's all right, but it's absurd to imagine that anyone from the Coll. had a hand in this affair. Fane says that the chap was a big fellow—"

"There wasn't much light," said Fane, "and I didn't see him for more than half a minute. All the same, he looked big. There was a scarf over the bottom of his face, of course, so I couldn't tell him that way."

"We've got no chance of finding out who he is, then," said Billy. "Even if it was one of the chaps, which is hard to believe. I had an idea that it was the bag-snatcher in the train, but he was quite short."

"Wait just a minute," interrupted Patch. "You want to hear all the detective's got to say, and then you can back-chat each other all day if you want to. I say we can find out who that chap was, and merely by this footprint again."

"Spit it out," invited Jack.

"Well, you can see the mark of the metal tag of that lace, can't you? And you will observe that it's broken in half. The jagged edge has left an unmistakable impression—see it? Just a minute."

He bent down, took a knife from his pocket, and detached a tiny square of the mud with the impression of the broken tag in it. This he held in the palm of his hand, and continued. "All we've got to do now is to find who owns the pair of boots that'd make an impression like this. There can't be any mistake, and it shouldn't take us long to run through all the boots in the school."

"When?"

"To-night, when they're downstairs for cleaning. They are brought back by the boy about half-past five—if we get down to-night we'd be able to examine them safely."

"Good on you," said Jack, slapping Septimus on the back with heartiness. "I didn't think you could do it, but it's a good notion all the same. By George, we ought to be able to find out who it is!"

"But—who could it be?" asked Billy, a furrow of puzzlement showing itself on his forehead. "That's what gets me! I can't imagine—"

"The bootlace will show—don't worry," said Septimus. "We can't do anything until we find that."

The four of them were wondering, as they sat in class that afternoon, who the intruder could be, and they looked at their class-mates with suspicious eyes. Big Martin, on account of his size, came in for furtive glances, but it was manifestly absurd that he could have been the culprit.

At this early stage of the term, nobody felt much like work, particularly Septimus Patch, who always contrived to be doing as much of his own private business as possible, and never paid much attention to the lesson in hand. Just at this moment he had arranged a big barrier of books all along the front of his desk, and, concealed behind the screen, he was tinkering with a weir-looking model of many springs, screws, and cogwheels.

Consequently he did not notice that the boy in front of him had been surreptitiously unlacing his boots. His first intimation that something was amiss was when he felt a sharp tug at his feet, and both his boots came off. He gasped with horror, and, peering over his barricade, observed that his two boots were travelling the round of the class, in different directions. His loud socks, of purplish and yellow colour-scheme, brought a snigger from the class. He wriggled, protesting.

"Patch!" It was the voice of Mr. Salmon, who was all unconscious of the diversion, but who saw Patch's movement. "Are you paying attention?"

"Yes, sir," mumbled Patch, reddening, and glaring, through his great horn-rimmed glasses, at his companions. "Back here with the giddy old boots, you asses!" he whispered, in a furious aside.

"Well, then," said Mr. Salmon, arranging his spectacles so that he could get a good view of the boy, "we were talking about Charles XII. Patch, tell me why he was unsuccessful against Peter in this campaign."

"You said, sir?" replied Patch.

"Why was he unsuccessful?"

"Ah, why?" said Patch, innocently.

"I don't believe you've been paying any attention whatever." The master ran round the class with a rapid cross-fire of questions, but the answers were unsatisfactory. He frowned, and coughed. "Here, Patch, you come out and read the account aloud," he commanded.

"Here, back with those boots," said Patch, frantically. But the boots had arrived at the other end of the room, and seemed likely to remain there.

"Do you hear me, boy?" demanded Mr. Salmon. "Come out at once. I never saw such indolence!"

With a groan Patch got up, and, amid the chuckles of the class, stepped forward to the dais where Mr. Salmon stood. But he had barely set foot on the stage, when he began a series of extraordinary antics.

"Ouch!" he howled, leaping four feet in the air, and bouncing with a thud. He danced about the dais on one foot, upsetting globes and maps, and tipping over one of the front desks upon its unfortunate occupant. "Take it out—take it out!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" roared the class, both at the wild leaps of Patch and the astounded horror of Mr. Salmon.

"Boy, boy!" cried the latter, "have you gone mad? Stop this at once—stop it, I say! Really I—!"

"Yow! It's sticking into me—quick! My foot—it's sharp!"

"His foot's sharp?" queried Mr. Salmon. "Patch—calm yourself, my poor fellow," he went on, imagining that, if Patch had really gone off his head, it would be safer to keep him calm.

"You are quite all right—you really are. Just keep calm, and the effects will—"

"Ha, ha, ha!" The class was convulsed, and rocked with merriment as Septimus Patch was seen to sit down on the floor and painfully extract a drawing-tack from his stockinged foot. The tack had been lying harmlessly on the dais, and Patch had planted his foot fairly upon it. Mr. Salmon adjusted his spectacles, and took in the amazing sight. The vivid colours of Patch's hose met his eye, and he gasped.

"Boy! What do you mean by this? Where are your boots?"

"Ah, where?" said Patch dreamily.

Mr. Salmon coloured deeply. "You are insolent—you will be punished," he affirmed. "Explain at once. Where have you put your boots?"

Squinting over the tops of his goggles, Patch descried his boots in place underneath his desk, standing demurely side by side as if nothing had ever been amiss with them.

"You will forgive me, comrade," he said, in his most buttery tones, "but I had to take them off. My feet got very hot."

"Your feet got hot?"

"Yes—just a physical weakness of mine. Whenever it occurs I simply have to take my boots off. I can't bear them."

"So you are hot-footed as well as hot-headed!" said Mr. Salmon.

The class simply roared. They kicked their feet, and rattled rulers on the desk. They always made a stupendous row whenever Mr. Salmon cracked one of his very mild jokes, and the genial house-master was so very deaf that the din came to his ears in the form of a loud titter, which had always pleased him greatly. The noise they made now could be heard a couple of corridors away, but Mr. Salmon nodded and smiled, satisfied with the reception of his sally.

"Go back to your seat, boy," he said, restored to good humour once more. "If your feet feel warm, it is doubtless because you wear such very hot socks."

At this remark there was a repetition of the hideous row; and Patch strolled back to his seat and his model-making without the slightest concern.

After "lights-out" that night the four pals got out of their dormitory, and in slippers made their way down to the boot-room, where they tumbled around among boots and blacking and brushes, before Patch applied a light to a fragment of candle that shed a flickering illumination over the rows of neatly cleaned boots.

"Now for it," said Billy Faraday, and without any more ado they set to work to examine the great stack of boots. It was fully half an hour before they had run through the pile, and then they had drawn a blank.

"It's no go," said Jack Symonds. "How now, professor?"

"The other House," said Patch calmly.

"What—Cooper's?"

"Of course," said Septimus. "Forward, comrades all!"

They crossed the quadrangle and the playing-fields to the other house of Deepwater College—Cooper's House.

"You were here last term, of course," said Jack Symonds to Patch. "You know your way about?"

"Rather, comrade; like the palm of my hand. Give us a leg up through this window."

Jack obliged him with a shove that nearly sent the investigator on to his head in the passageway beyond. In a little while the four had gained the boot-room, and there a much more cautious examination took place—more cautious because, if Cooper's masters or boys discovered them by any chance, then things would go hard with the intruders.

Inside of an hour the detectives had satisfied themselves that the boots had not been worn by any of the boys of Deepwater College.

"You've drawn another blank, Patchy," said Billy Faraday. "How do you account for this?"

"Account for it?" asked Patch, in wonderment. "What do you mean? This only brings us closer to our solution, as the great Holmes said—"

"Which Holmes? Oliver Wendell?" inquired Jack, with an air of acute interest.

"Sherlock Holmes, of course," returned Patch, with scorn. "I forgot that you are unfamiliar with the classics. Well, he laid it down as an axiom, once, that when you have disproved all but one of a number of solutions, that solution must be the correct one, no matter how absurd it seems."

"I get you. But how does it apply?"

"Why, if it wasn't one of the boys here, it must have been one of the masters that made the footprint."

"But what master would come at that game?" asked Billy incredulously. "Think it was old Salmon?"

"By the Great Moa!" exclaimed Jack in a loud tone, which called rebukes from his companions.

"Cut the shindy," advised Patch tersely, "or you'll have the whole House down on us. What's stung you?"

"Doctor Daw!" whispered Jack. "What about him?"

"Is he in his right mind?" asked Patch anxiously. "And who may Doctor Daw be? I've heard of his daughter, Marjory, but that was in my nursery-rhyme days. Expound."

In low tones, and as briefly as possible, Jack explained the strange connection which he suspected between Doctor Daw, the new master, and Tiger, the man who had run off with Billy's bag.

"What could be more likely," he said, "but that the two are in league with one another, and associates of old Lazare what's-his-name? Why didn't I think of it before?"

"This is important," said Patch, seriously. "Daw is a big man, and it might well have been him. Now, the only thing to do is to compare his bootlaces with that impression we've got. And how are we to do that?"

"Sneak up into his room and take a look at them," said Jack.

"Who's going, though? Four of us can't do it."

"Draw lots, then. Here, wait a minute till I collect some pieces of grass."

Outside, in the shadow of the school buildings, they drew for the honour of investigating the room of Mr. Daw, and the shortest straw fell to the lot of Jack.

"You can go up now," said Fane, suddenly. "I remember that Daw went out this evening, and he hasn't come back yet, for he'd have to pass the boot-room to do so. If you're slippy you can get up there, examine the boots and get away again in about a minute."

"I'll do it," said Jack, as they came through once more to the corridors of Salmon's House. He rubbed his chin with his forefinger. "Let me see," he asked, "isn't there an electric torch of yours in the study?"

"Of mine?" said Billy doubtfully. "We'll see." They proceeded to the study, and there Billy unearthed an old, but still serviceable, torch. Armed with this, Jack went upstairs to the upper floor, where the masters' rooms were.

"Tit for tat," he murmured, turning the handle of Daw's door and opening it quietly. He let himself inside, and closed the door noiselessly. For half a minute he stood still, to assure himself that Doctor Daw had not returned, and then, flashing his torch, made a hurried search for the master's boots. He found a few pairs, all showing signs of recent use, but none with the distinctive tag.

"Ten to one he's wearing them," murmured Jack. At that moment his heart beat furiously. Steps were coming along the corridor, and they stopped outside the door. For a second he was paralysed; then he acted swiftly. He had barely time to roll under the bed before Doctor Daw himself entered the room—and with him his strange friend Tiger!

[CHAPTER VI]

JACK IS ENLIGHTENED

Jack Symonds had barely time to make certain that his hurried dive under the bed had not been observed, when Doctor Daw and Tiger were well within the room.

"A bit late for a call," said Daw grimly, "but there's no one to notice, luckily. Different last night, though."

"How so?" said Tiger. There came the sound of a match being struck, and Jack could presently smell the distinctive odour of tobacco. "How do you make that out?"

"Why, I had a cut for the Star," said Daw quickly. "And do you know what happened? I'd searched through about half the cupboards down there in the study where he's pretty sure to have it thus early. All at once, the door opened, and in walks one of the kids—"

"Not young Faraday?"

"No; a new chap from New Zealand; and instead of being scared, he jumped at me like a terrier on a rat. I got away, but only just. I tell you, Tiger, I—"

"See here," interrupted the other, "don't call me that name. It—well, you never know who might hear it, and—anyway, my name's Humbolt. Well, how did you get on with this kid? Scared you some, I'll bet!"

"I won't say he didn't," confessed Daw. "The lucky thing was, I had a scarf over my face, and he can't say who did it. Probably thinks it was some outsider. But the Star won't be in that study now, you can gamble on that. I've one of the kids a bit under my thumb, through knowing him down in Victoria, and he's keeping a fairly close watch on what this Faraday does, and where he goes, and all that sort of thing."

Jack, beneath the bed, opened his eyes wide at this piece of news, and wondered who the boy could be. Nobody, he decided, in his immediate circle; but the fact that the youngster came from Victoria was a clue that would perhaps come in handy.

"I'll put Patch on to that," he thought, and gave himself over to listening to what the two plotters were saying.

"Ah, well," Humbolt was heard to murmur, with a sigh of relief, "I'm real glad you didn't give away the box of tricks last night. We'd have been pretty well diddled if they suspected that you—you know."

"That's safe enough," said Doctor Daw confidently; and Jack felt like chuckling at the thought that Daw was quite mistaken.

"You didn't reckon on Patch being a 'tec," he murmured, smiling to himself.

"I guess it's lucky that I met you," said Daw suddenly. "Do you know, I never liked playing a lone hand, and with you close by I feel a lot safer. And Lazare's the man to pay well, believe me, if only we can collar that Star. Hang me, it ought to be simple enough! Don't forget those instructions for Friday night, will you?"

"Trust me, Doc. And now, what about those goods—and the money?"

"They're in my leather handbag, somewhere." Doctor Daw stifled an immense yawn. "I'm feeling like sleep—you wouldn't credit how it knocks you up trying to teach these blockheads here."

"Of course, you always were a good teacher," sneered Humbolt.

"I used to be, once," returned Doctor Daw.

"Until you carelessly stole that money and left clues that a blind man could follow, and, of course, got what you were looking for. Twelve months, wasn't it—or was it two years? I've forgotten."

"You'd better forget the whole lot," answered Daw, with a threatening note in his voice. "You leave my past history alone, and I won't rake up yours. That stands, doesn't it? After this business I'm going straight."

"Straight?" Humbolt laughed. "Never in your life, Doctor. You got in here on forged references, and do you mean to say—"

"That I'm going to stay here? Certainly. Supposing we get the Star—no suspicion attaches to me. I'll just stay on; there'll be no question as to my honesty."

"Oh, won't there?" thought Jack. "Just you wait and see, that's all. There'll be quite a lot of question, if I know anything!"

"Well, don't let me keep you up any longer," said Humbolt in his usual cynical tone. "Where's this handbag?"

"Somewhere about. Have a look, will you? Probably under the bed, or somewhere. Never can remember where I put my things!"

Jack felt his blood run cold at the words. Under the bed! He glanced about him, and saw that the handbag was certainly not there. All the same, if they were to look, the fat would be in the fire with a vengeance! What the two would do to one who had obviously overheard their very compromising conversation, Jack did not dare to imagine. He wriggled back against the wall, praying that he would not be seen; but he realized that the chances of escaping notice were very slender indeed. For what seemed an age he heard the two of them walking about, and heard the noise of furniture moved; and still they did not come near the bed.

What if they knew, and were merely making a mockery of his suspense and dread? The thought was a disconcerting one. Jack felt like scrambling from under the bed, and facing them, consequences or no consequences. He felt certain that they had seen him, had heard him—knew in some way, and were just tormenting him. Just at the moment when the strain seemed too great to be borne, a leg appeared at the side of the bed, and the counterpane was lifted. In another second the person would stoop and peer under the bed. With bulging eyes, Jack Symonds awaited his exposure.

"It's all right—I've got it." It was Doctor Daw's voice, from across the room, and Humbolt let fall the counterpane once more. Jack almost fainted with relief.

Shortly afterwards, to his joy, both left the room, Daw intimating that he would see his companion safely off the premises; and Jack crawled out of his hiding-place, feeling stiff and cramped, but glad indeed that he had been permitted to take a glance at the plot that was preparing itself against his chum.

He hurried through the dark corridors, and slipped into the dormitory without being noticed by the monitor in charge. His pals were all eagerness to be told what had happened to him; but he was in no mood for explanations.

"I'll tell you in the morning," he said. "I'm jolly sleepy."

And that was all that they could get out of him. The next morning, however, he had a lot to say, and especially to Billy Faraday.

"Look here, Billy," he said, "you really must take care of that Star, because Lazare and these others have some scheme going for Friday night. What it was, or what was proposed, I've got no idea; but Daw told the other chap to be ready, or words to that effect. Can't we hide the thing somewhere?"

"Yes, but where?"

"And there's another thing, too. Daw mentioned a kid—one of the fellows here—that's under his thumb, and who's going to keep an eye on what we do."

"Jingo!" said Billy. "The dickens he is! Wonder who it is?"

"Here's Patch, and perhaps he can find out for us. How are you, my giddy old sleuth-hound? I may as well tell you that you scored a bull with that bootlace clue."

"Comrades, I'm delighted. You compared the laces?"

"No. You see, Daw had the boots on. But I heard all about it, and I don't doubt that your clue would have worked out to the last bend in the tag on the lace. There's something else, though—" And Jack told him the strange conversation that he had overheard, particularly with reference to the spy that Daw controlled among the ranks of the college boys.

"Interesting, comrade, deeply interesting," said the schoolboy detective, rubbing his chin in the approved Sherlock Holmes manner. "It seems to me that the field is not too large, either. I mean, the boy must be in this house to keep any sort of watch over Faraday here, and as he comes from Victoria, that narrows the field still further. You twig? There are only a limited number of chaps in Salmon's House hailing from Victoria. And we can whittle them down one by one. I'll get a list of them, and we'll eliminate those above suspicion. That will leave under a dozen, I should say, to be watched."

"Patch, you old genius!" Jack Symonds smote him heartily between the shoulders, and the old genius was projected into the fireplace, whence he recovered himself with injured dignity.

"It's only attention to detail, that's all," murmured Septimus deprecatingly. "I picked that up from Dupin—"

"From whom?" demanded Jack.

"Dupin—that's Edgar Allan Poe's detective, and a real snorting detective at that. Ever read any of it?"

"Dunno. Didn't old Edgar write somethin' about the Bells—Bells—Bells, yells, shells, or some rot like that? My giddy sister recites some yards of rubbish to that effect."

"That's the fellow. Any rate, he wrote 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.'"

"Gur-r-r!" said Jack, frowning heavily. "Sort of sequel to 'The Bloodstained Putty-knife, or the Bricklayer's Revenge.'"

Septimus smiled as one who indulges the caprices of a child. "Comrade, you will never make a detective," he said. "I've got the book here, with the yarns in it, if you'd care to read them. Meanwhile—"

"Look here," interrupted Billy Faraday, a shade impatiently. "There's not much time before morning-school, and I'd like to hide the Star before we go any further. Of course, I might stick it in the pouch of my belt and carry it about with me, but don't you think that's just the scheme that'd strike Lazare and his crowd as being most natural. I might be knocked down and searched; anything might happen."

"One of the boards in this floor is loose," said Jack thoughtfully. "How would it be to prise it up and drop the Star down there? We could replace the carpet, and nobody would be any the wiser."

But Septimus Patch had what he considered a better idea. "We were just now talking," he observed, "of Dupin, the first scientific detective in fiction. There is a story about him, called 'The Purloined Letter.' The strength of it is that a fellow is known to have a letter which he has stolen, but it baffles the detectives to find it. They go all over his room, rip up the boards, sound the cabinets for secret drawers, take accurate measurements of the tables, probe everything, but the merry old letter is still missing, although they know for a fact that it's somewhere about the fellow's house. They call old Dupin in, and he finds it right away."

"How?"

"By using his brains, comrade; by simple reasoning. Here, hand me that book of Poe's, and I'll read some of his reasoning."

A day or two before, Jack and Billy would have laughed at Patch's request, and refused his help; but they had to admit that he had used his brains in regard to the footprint clue, and they were willing to give him a chance to safeguard the Black Star on the strength of that first triumph.

"Here you are," said Billy a little sceptically, throwing over the desired volume. "Show us what you can do."

Patch whipped over the pages with accustomed fingers, and began to read. "Says Dupin, 'There is a game of puzzles which is played upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a given word—the name of a town, river, State, or empire—any word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. These escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious."

"That's all right," agreed Jack. "I've noticed that myself. But what happened?"

"That's the whole point of the yarn," returned Patch. "Dupin came to the conclusion that the thief had not concealed the letter at all. He pratted along to the chap's house, and saw that he had several cards in a letter-rack, and a solitary letter. The appearance of the letter was quite different to the missing one. But Dupin says, 'In scrutinizing the edges of the paper I observed them to be more chafed than necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside out, re-directed and re-sealed.' Well, after that," pursued Patch, shutting the book, "he came next day with another letter done up in the same way. He got a fellow to fire off a pistol and raise a shindy in the street below, and while the thief was looking to see what was up he got the stolen letter and put his own in its place. In the letter he'd put a stinging quotation to the effect that there was no copyright on that particular trick."

"I'll bet the thief got a surprise when he came to open it up," chuckled Jack, who had been following the story with interest. "But I see what you are driving at—you don't want to conceal the Star at all?"

"Not as open as all that," said Patch. "But let us get hold of some place that's so obvious that nobody would ever dream of looking there."

"Billy can wear it as a tie-pin," suggested Jack, with a laugh. "Or we could put it up over the mantelpiece."

"No, comrade; a little subtlety is necessary. What about that old jacket of yours, Billy? That one hanging up in the corner? We could sew the Star up in the lining, and leave the jacket there. We'd notice in a moment if the jacket were gone. But nobody would think of that as a hiding-place, and that's why it is the safest place in the world. Savvy?"

"Sure thing. Do you think it's the best place?"

"Of course I do, comrade. Now, I've got a needle and cotton somewhere, I think, and if you like I'll do the job now."

Somewhat reluctantly Billy passed over the Black Star, and with deft hands Patch ripped up the lining under the shoulder-padding of the coat. Then, while Jack looked to see that they were not overheard at the door, and while Billy kept watch at the window, Septimus embedded the Star in the padding, and closed the seam again as neatly as a tailor.

"There," he commented, hanging the coat up again in its accustomed position. "The fellow who finds that we've left the Star in such an easy position will be cuter than most people. Now we'll have to cut—it's nearly form-time."

And with their preparation in the most hazy and uncertain state, the three occupants of Study No. 9 hurried down to class. That afternoon the Star was still in place, and Billy breathed freely. "I suppose it's as safe there as anywhere," he thought. "I say, Jack, what's that hideous din?"

[CHAPTER VII]

THE CALAMITOUS CRIPPLES

Jack looked out of the window. Then he gurgled.

"By the Brass-eyed bull!" he exclaimed. "Look here, just cast your optic in this direction, old fellow. That's all, old man—just a look!"

From the quadrangle below them came the blare of bugles, and the gaps were filled up by a miscellaneous din emanating from tins, whistles, combs and paper. Billy hurried over, and the two chums leaned from their window in astonishment.

"A giddy procession," murmured Billy.

It was; but a procession of the kind rarely seen outside of a circus. There were about forty boys in the show; and every one of them was attired as a cripple of the most dilapidated kind. They all looked as if they had been rolled upon by a steam-roller, and then passed through a chaff-cutter. Bandages enwrapped their heads, and their arms and legs appeared to be broken in numerous places. Many carried crutches, and an odd effect was given by one humorist who elected to appear on stilts, which were liberally bandaged. Two buglers headed the procession; and most of the others had instruments of some sort or other. At arranged intervals they gave vent to sepulchral groans. In the van was a tattered banner, bearing the words, "The Calamitous Cripples. Break your leg and join."

"What is it?" asked the mystified Jack. "What's the giddy wheeze?"

Billy Faraday was far too absorbed in watching the amazing spectacle to answer him, and Jack's question lapsed. The procession drew nearer and nearer, and the noise was ear-splitting. The Cripples drew themselves up before the window of Study 9, and Jack was moved to call out, "Lovely! Is it the National Anthem or Alexander's Ragtime Band? I never could tell the difference."

His shaft of wit, however, went almost unnoticed in the general uproar, and Billy Faraday grasped a more cutting form of witticism; he got a handful of pennies and half-pennies, and threw them one at a time to the serenading party below.

Cummles, hammering at a tin drum with zest, received one of the coins full on the bridge of the nose, and it broke short his performance. He held up his hand, and with a final crash of sound the Cripples completed their selection.

"Know," roared Cummles at the top of his voice, "that a new Society has been formed, called the Calamitous Cripples! We let everybody join—the more the merrier! And our object is—" He turned to his supporters for the rest.

"—death to the Crees!" roared the crowd, in disconcerting chorus.

So this was the strength of the new society—it was a rival show to the Crees! Jack realized that Cummles was getting his own back for his rejection and disgrace at the last Cree meeting, and he whistled softly. But Cummles was speaking again.

"We therefore begin on the Chief Cree!" he yelled, and as at a given signal all the Cripples raised their hands, and sent a volley of hard, tightly-rolled paper balls at Jack and Billy as they stood open-mouthed at the window.

The fusillade took the two Crees by surprise, and Jack for the moment did not know what to do; but he soon settled that question, and with Billy jumped out of the window, and rushed the banner of the Calamitous Cripples. It was flagrantly against rules to jump out of the window at all, and soon a free fight was taking place around the banner of the Cripples.

"To it, Crees!" yelled Jack, wrestling furiously with one of the banner supporters. Someone had grasped his leg, and he could not keep upright much longer; sooner or later he would have to go down.

"Ouch!" Down he went, and down went half a dozen others in a panting, scrambling, tossing mass.

There was wild disorder for lively minutes, but force of numbers gave victory to the Cripples, who rescued their tattered banner and scampered away with it. Jack stood looking after them with fire in his eye.

"Jingo," he observed to Billy Faraday, "but I can see some immense japes this term, with the Crees and the Cripples. What do you think?"

"We've got to score on them," said Billy emphatically, "and score right away. Watch us notch ahead."

Jack nodded meaningly; then, as someone touched him on the arm, he wheeled round. It was Septimus Patch, and the schoolboy detective's eyes were shining. He was plainly full of some scheme or other.

"Comrades!" he said. "Don't waste your time here—I've got the best idea out for the discovery of the fellow that's giving Daw a hand."

"What are you going to do—advertise?"

Patch smiled tolerantly. "Daw—Doctor Daw, as you call him—said that this chap, whoever he is, is keeping an eye on Billy here?"

"That's so."

"Well, why shouldn't we—" he looked around to make certain that they were not overheard, "—why shouldn't we lead the fellow out on a false scent?"

"Meaning?"

"Sort of red herring business, you know. The three of us could sneak out before call-over and make it appear as if we were going to hide the Star somewhere out in the bush. If there is anyone on the watch, it's the Commonwealth Bank to a peanut that he'll slink out after us."

"Good word—slink," said Jack approvingly. "Yes, Patchie, the idea's not so dusty. We've got time. We could lie in ambush for the beggar and catch him red-handed."

"Better leave him alone—just make certain who he is," warned Septimus, polishing his great horn-rimmed glasses. "You see, if we just lie low and say nuffin, like Brer Rabbit, the spy won't know that we're fly to his little game."

"Good for you, Picklock Holmes," said Jack. "You mean, he'll think that he's working quite safely, unknown to anyone, and all the time we know, and are pulling his leg so much that he'll need a boat-hook to take his boots off."

"Prezactly, comrade," returned Septimus, chaffingly. "Your brain is bucking up lately, isn't it? We never know what we can do till we try, do we? However, to the bright, brisk business! You"—turning to Billy Faraday—"you slip up into the study and pretend to bring something out with you—we'll watch here."

"We're the giddy conspirators, old boy," said Jack. "Get a move on—we haven't any too much time."

In a few minutes the three boys had set out from the school, striking into the thick belt of scrub-lands that lay towards the north. They pressed forward for a good ten minutes, and at the end of that time Billy strode on alone, making as much noise as he could, while Jack and the amateur detective crouched behind the undergrowth, to watch closely for any follower.

Billy's footsteps died away, and there came only the faint sound of his passage through the scrub; then that in turn faded till it was almost inaudible.

"'Fraid we've drawn blank, old boy," said Jack in a low whisper. "Can't hear anything, can you?"

"Wait," was all that Patch had for answer; he had his head cocked to one side in a listening attitude, and all at once he raised a finger for silence.

During a tense ten seconds he listened, Jack scarcely taking breath, and then the detective nodded as one who had satisfied himself.

"Get down," he whispered; "somebody coming."

Sure enough, almost at once came the sound of footsteps; and Jack, peering through the interstices of a wall of greenery, could barely restrain a gasp as he saw a tall, pasty-faced, weedy youth strolling negligently along the faint path that Billy Faraday had followed, and, although he wore the college cap of blue and gold, he was smoking an expensive brand of cigarette.

In dead silence the two watched him pass their field of vision, and then he, too, was swallowed up in the bush.

Jack turned to Patch with a criss-cross mark of puzzlement creasing his eyebrows. "Now, what do you make of that?" he asked softly. "That's Redisham, and the dirty slacker's smoking at that. But is he following Billy or not?"

"Or is it only coincidence that he comes from Victoria?" asked Septimus in the same discreet voice. "Very funny, isn't it?"

"Now, you know what sort of a fellow Redisham is," went on Jack. "He's just the sort that'd have gambling debts, and all that, although his father's got piles of cash, they say. Question is, is he clever enough to be used as a tool?"

"Comrade, I don't know," admitted Septimus, slowly shaking his head. "It's often these foolish-looking fellows that turn out pretty cunning in the long run. All the same, Redisham—the man's an ass, a weak-minded ass with an eye for 'loud' dress, and—"

"—and no eye for catching a cricket ball, or any sort of sport, except betting—if you can call that sport," Jack snorted. "Little Montague Redisham isn't the sneak in this case, I fancy."

"Well, then, what's he doing?" countered the amateur detective, with index finger marking his point. "It looks jolly fishy, doesn't it?"

"Might have come out to smoke that rotten cigarette of his."

"I thought of that, but the coincidence of the time, and the direction of his outing, is hard to get over. Anyhow, we'll find out, we'll find out—don't worry."

They got out of their cramping positions behind the undergrowth and stepped out into the little glade. Barely had they done so when there came a loud cry from some distance ahead—and Jack knew the voice as well as his own.

It was Billy's voice.

"Help—help!"

Jack jumped about a foot in the air, and shot a sharp glance at Septimus Patch. "Jiminy!" he said, quickly, "that's old Billy—wonder what's up? Here—after him."

Symonds and Patch put their heads down and ran. Heedless of the undergrowth that set traps for their feet and that tore at them in the shape of thorn-bushes, they charged madly forward, and all at once Jack stopped and picked something up from the ground.

"Here—look at this!" It was Billy's cap, with the Deepwater College badge in the front of it; and Patch pulled up and glanced keenly at the ground with sharp eyes.

"A struggle—see?" he panted, pointing to the way the bracken had been tossed about and the turf trampled by heavy heels. "A struggle, and then—then—what happened?"

"Don't say he's been knocked on the head and dragged off," groaned Jack, looking about him helplessly. "Here, Patchie, have a look at these marks—what are they?"

"Good—good," observed Patch, scanning them closely. "See, Billy got away and ran for it—the other chap after him. See how the big, heavy print is stamped over that other? They were running, the both of them—and—"

"Come on," said Jack curtly; and the two of them tore off once more, stopping to pick up the trail every now and then until they were startled by a loud, frenzied crashing through the brushes.

"Hullo!" exclaimed Patch, stopping; and into their arms, almost, Billy Faraday staggered, hatless and dishevelled. He was panting heavily, and seemed almost done; a sharp twig had scratched his cheek badly, for it was bleeding.

"Billy—you're all right?" demanded his chum, seizing him by the arm.

Before Billy could pant out an answer, another fellow came up at a run, and halted, half-hidden in the scrub, at the sight of the two who now reinforced the fugitive. His cap, pulled down over his eyes, hid his face pretty well; but Jack knew at once that it was Tiger Humbolt who stood staring at them.

It was Septimus Patch who decided the next move.

"After him—I've got a gun!" he yelled at the top of his voice; and Humbolt started and then, wheeling about, vanished into the thick bush at a run. He knew that Billy had fired a revolver at him during his attempted escape with the handbag, and he was disposed to take Patch's cry at its face value. As Patch had intended, of course; for he did not attempt to give chase. Instead, he glanced at his watch.

"Ten minutes to call-over," he said; "we'd better get back."

On the way back to the college Billy explained that he had been standing in a thicket when Humbolt had jumped on him from behind and carried him to the ground. After a struggle he had broken free and run for his life.

"I doubled on my tracks," he concluded, "and came back again, when I ran into you. That's all—lucky it wasn't worse."

"And did you see Monty Redisham?" asked Patch.

"Redisham—that rich blighter in the Sixth? The prefect?"

"The slacker," said Jack trenchantly. He went on to explain how Redisham had come into the mystery, and Billy said that the plot was now thicker than ever.

"I can't make it out," he said, thoughtfully, dabbing his scratched cheek with his handkerchief. "No, I didn't see the brute at all. He was following me, you say?"

"Looked like it, comrade," said Patch, "but then we can't say for certain. I'll have to give the matter some thought," he went on, with a resumption of his light-hearted manner.

"Another thing requiring some thought," put in Jack, "is, how are we going to score off those Cripple lunatics? We want to shake them up pretty suddenly, you know. I think we'll call a special meeting of the Crees in our study to-night, and we'll think up something really smart."

When the Crees had assembled, managing in some inexplicable manner to cram themselves into Study 9, Jack was delighted to learn that one of the fellows was ready with a plan.

"Chief Black Feather," he said, in the approved style of address, "may I suggest a scheme for the downfall of those scoundrel palefaces—I mean Cripples?"

"Of course," said Jack at once. "In fact, I was going to ask you fellows to come to light with some such idea. Spring the giddy wheeze, mon brave French," he explained grandly, "very hard."

"Well," said the Cree, "the bright idea is this. I happen to have heard that the Cripples are holding a meeting to-morrow afternoon—they've got one of the classrooms on the north wing for the purpose. Now, I happen to know that up in the ceiling over that wing there are several bags of sawdust—been stored there for ages, and I think the Head's forgotten all about them. Now, it's a shame to waste them, and there's a nice big man-hole in the classroom, and—"

"I think we see the rest!" said Jack with a laugh. "Which classroom are they in?"

"The end one—the drawing-room, next to the extra French set."

"Good—nominations for four fellows to carry out the scheme? I'll make one myself."

Three others were accordingly chosen to deluge the Cripples' meeting with sawdust, and on the following afternoon the conspirators gained access to the space between the ceiling and roof. A busy meeting of the Cripples, with closed doors and windows, was in progress; and there was going to be no mistake whatever about the disorder and surprise that would follow the avalanche of sawdust.

"The jape of the century!" averred Jack Symonds in a low whisper. "What about the cover for the man-hole? Have you got it?"

"Yes, she lifts pretty easily, but I won't pull her right out, or they'll be ready for us. Now, how are we going to open fire?"

"Wait a second." Jack took a swift look round at his assistants, flashing the electric torch that he had brought with him. "I've got it. We'll each take a bag, and as soon as Martin whips the cover off the trap, I'll let fly—then you, and you next, and Martin last. See? That'll give him time to grab his bag after taking the cover off. All ready?"

"Let her go, Gallagher," murmured the Crees, lifting the big, open-mouthed bags; and at a word from Jack, Big Martin whisked the cover off the man-hole. A square of light opened in the dark floor beneath them, and there came the murmur of voices from the aperture.

That was all that the Crees had time to take in, for the next moment Jack had tipped the great bag forward, and the sawdust gushed out in a stream. The two other bags followed, and Martin finished the good work with his contribution, to the dismay obtaining in the room below.

Jack leaned forward, convulsed with laughter, and cast a glance down into the room; then his face lost its smile, and his jaw dropped.

"Hokey!" he said. "Now we've done it!"

"Why? What?" asked the others, pressing forward.

"We lifted the wrong trap," murmured Jack in a voice of horror. "That's Monsieur Anastasie and the extra French set!"

[CHAPTER VIII]

FANE'S FATAL MISTAKE

Strange as it may seem, the coolest person who looked on the appalling scene in the classroom presided over by the French master was Jack Symonds himself. Recovering from his surprise, he could gaze down and enjoy the havoc even as he knew that, unless something intervened to save them, he and his companions were booked for a severe spasm of trouble—and trouble of the direst order.

But the classroom scene was irresistibly funny—too funny for words. Monsieur Anastasie stood like a sawdust statue, his comical moustache powdered with sawdust, too amazed, too dumbfounded, to utter a word of protest or surprise. Before him the sawdust was spread in an irregular layer, almost knee-deep, and it was piled on tables and chairs, and the boys of the extra French set in generous fashion.

All at once, the French master found his voice—with a vengeance. "What is ze meaning of zis?" he cried, dusting at his coat, and sending the sawdust flying in clouds. "Pah! I am smother—I am choke! Abominable!"

He raved and danced on the platform, scooping the sawdust in handfuls from his person, and then shaking indignant fists at the open man-hole.

"Peste! I will not have ze tomfool antic! Ah, but you shall answer for him before quickly," he choked. "Sacrebleu! It is an outrage—it is vat you call indignation! Ze ear of ze headmaster shall be apprised of zis!"

The extra French set, half-guessing what had happened, commenced to roar with laughter at those who had received the contents of the bags upon their heads, and the furious Anastasie became more wild and incoherent than ever.

"Ah, you laugh?" he cried. "You identify me comical? But you shall not entertain ze ribald laughter for longer! Remember ze proverb—he laughs loudest who gathers no moss!"

There was a perfect yell at this brilliant effort on the part of Monsieur Anastasie, who was always tangling his proverbs in the most ludicrous manner.

But the laughter was cut short when Jack Symonds began to appear in instalments through the open man-hole. His feet showed first; then his legs dangled; in a moment he was hanging by his hands. Then, he let go, and came to the floor as lightly as a feather.

"I must explain—" he commenced.

But Monsieur Anastasie literally overwhelmed him with a torrent of French and English phrases, and he could not get a word in on any account.

"Ah, you are ze misdemeanour!" said the excitable Frenchman bitingly. "You play at Père Santa Claus, hein? Explain yourself without ze hesitate! You shall disport yourself before ze headmaster, quoi!"

"I'm really sorry for what's happened," said Jack, seeking to cool the master's wrath by appearing calm himself. "It was all an accident—"

"Ah, an accident!"

"Yes, that's so—"

"Ze sawdust has tipped himself over?"

"I don't mean that. You see, sir, we were going to play a joke on those cads—I mean those fellows next door. We did not mean to harm you in any way. Only thing was, though, we mistook the giddy—that is, the man-hole up there. The two of them are close together, and in the dark we opened the wrong one."

He stood awaiting the verdict of Monsieur Anastasie, who took the frank confession in silence. Then he dusted a little sawdust off his sleeve.

"I rejoice myself you have owned up, Symonds. Ze business was very foolish, and you are too big to intermeddle yourself with ze foolish tricks of little boys. I was going to inform ze headmaster of your prank, entendez-vous? But no—you are not a bad boy. You must disperse ze sawdust."

And the hot-tempered little French master actually smiled. It was his way. He flew into a furious rage in a second or two; but it never lasted long. And in this case Jack's open confession had somehow subtly pleased him. He turned to his class.

"It is wise, is it not," he observed, "to be certain always? Think what our friend would have saved had he ze forethought to look into ze room. Remember ze proverb: a look before you leap saves nine!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" The class chuckled its appreciation of this portmanteaued proverb, while Jack and others of the Crees who had nothing to do, hastily collected the sawdust and shamefacedly put it into the sacks that they had emptied with such gusto. Monsieur Anastasie, deep in the mysteries of French grammar, permitted himself an occasional broad smile, quite restored to his native good-humour.

Just as Jack was about to leave the room, however, the French master walked over to him and spoke quietly.

"Two hundred lines," he said, "will repair ze mistake. From Corneille—Le Cid. And put in all ze accents."

He smiled and nodded as if he had just handed Jack a five-pound note, and Jack got out into the corridor, feeling that he had made a fool of himself.

"Jingo, though!" he exclaimed, "I was jolly lucky not to be carpeted before the Head. What a dickens of a mess I would have landed myself into! Hullo, Patchie!"

"How fares it, comrade?" asked Patch, in his usual grand manner, saluting Jack with an elaborate salaam. "What is this rumour that comes to my ears that you have met with a set-back in the course of that jape intended for the Cripples? Untrue, of course?"

"No such luck. We made an awful bloomer, and we'll have it in for those Cripple blighters worse than ever now. Instead of letting the Cripples have the sawdust, we made a slight miscalculation, and tipped it all over old 'Annie' and his class."

"'Annie,' I take it, is Monsieur Anastasie? I suppose he was sore?"

"Oh, he cut up a bit at first, but he soon cooled down. In fact, he was rather decent about it. Handed me two hundred lines, that's all."

"Bad luck, comrade. But it might have been worse, mightn't it?"

"Oh, easily! I might have dropped on Annie's head, and killed him, or perhaps the sawdust might have choked one of those grinning beggars in the extra French set. Or there might have been a tribe of death-adders hidden in the sawdust. Oh, yes; I came off pretty well considering." He laughed his usual happy, careless laugh. "Why, I've gone and forgotten that trial swim for this afternoon—down at the baths. Coming along?"

"Er—no thanks. In fact, comrade, I may confide that I—well, I can't swim."

"Oh, get out—you must. On a hot afternoon like this, too. Come along, I'll give you a few pointers about the game. What on earth would you do if you were left on a sinking ship with no lifebelts and unable to swim?"

Patch seemed to ponder the situation. "I expect I should sink," he announced brightly.

"Come, I'll tell you what I'll do," said Jack. "I'll defy an indignant world, and teach you the noble art of supporting yourself in the aqueous elephant—I mean element. That is, after the trial swim."

"What is this trial swim, comrade? For that matter, any sort of a swim would be a trial—for me."

"Joke?" asked Jack, carelessly. "Fact is, old fellow, this is a preliminary canter, so to speak, for a hundred-yards championship of the Coll. Friend Billy is in for the event and he's a hot favourite too. You'll see. It's a pound to a peanut that the Cup goes to Salmon's House this year. I'm just going to give Billy a bit of a sprint over the length."

"I'm sure it will be most exciting, comrade. I never did like baths, though. The sight of all that water—ugh! Tell you what, I've just remembered that I'd made an appointment. Beastly forgetful of me, but—"

"No, you don't," laughed Jack, grabbing the Socialist's arm and dragging him towards the entrance to the baths. "You must learn swimming some time—why not now. Hop into a costume—wait till my swim's over."

In a few minutes Patch stood shivering upon the edge in a costume several sizes too large for him, while Jack took a ten seconds' start on Billy in a hundred-yards sprint. Septimus looked on with an eye of cold disfavour as the two chums swept the length of the baths in a cloud of foam and bubbles. Billy had perfected a very neat trudgeon-crawl, and he beat Jack, who was no mean hand at the game, by a matter of three seconds, despite the start that the latter had had.

Later on when Billy ran off to change, Jack caught sight of the miserable Septimus Patch and recalled his intention of giving the inventor a few lessons.

"Here," said Jack, "come along to the shallow end—look slippy."

Septimus paced gingerly after him along the wet boards, and all at once he executed a most astounding manœuvre. His feet went from under him, and he landed head-first in the water.

"Good gracious. What's the beggar up to?" asked Jack, who had imagined that Patch had dived into the deeper part of the bath. "I say," he went on, as Patch's head appeared, "you can swim—after all?"

"Swim—glug!" said Patch, as a wavelet curved into his conveniently-opened mouth. "No—help! I'm drowning—glug!"

He paddled his way frantically to a ladder near by, and hauled himself out.

"You asked me to look slippy, and I slipped!" he said. "Believe me, it's no joke. How far did the water fall when I swallowed that little lot—ugh! I had a young Niagara trickling down my throat! Comrade, does it all taste like that?"

Jack choked with laughter. "Mind your step," he warned. "Here, this is the shallow end. Hop in—it's only up to your waist."

He prepared to demonstrate the art of kicking while holding to a step on the level of the water, and Septimus appeared to manage that part of the business well enough. Jack then showed his study-mate a few simple arm movements, and invited Septimus to try while being supported in the water by his middle.

After a few minutes of this sport, Patch wriggled out of his mentor's grasp and spluttered indignantly.

"Do you want to drown me?" he asked. "I'll buy a gun and let you shoot me—it'd be quicker."

"Why, what's up?"

"Up, do you say? Down more fits it—at least that's where my head was, under water, while you were watching my feet! I don't want to die a lingering death, thanks. I've had enough for the first lesson—and I'd like to take the others by post."

As he clambered out of the bath, his loose costume hanging about him in ridiculous folds, a roar of laughter went up from the fellows bathing there.

When they got back to the study they met Billy Faraday. He was grinning broadly. "I hear you've been teaching the inventor how to swim!" he laughed. "I believe he found the water quite wet?"

"Yes, comrade," answered Patch genially, "and so would you if only you were more familiar with that unknown quantity."

"Well, you ought—" began Billy; but he broke off with a sharp, "I say!"

"What's the matter?"

"The coat—it's gone! And the Star's in it, too!"

Jack and Septimus looked up in surprise, and were startled to observe that it was even as Billy had said—the coat was gone. They jumped up and made a hurried search.

"Jingo, this is serious!" murmured Jack. "It's gone, right enough. Wonder whether that beast Redisham—?"

"It's got misplaced, perhaps," said Patch, who had put down his book and joined in the hunt. "Mislaid somewhere or other—"

"But I never wear it!" said Billy. "How could it?"

"Fane—Fane's the solution, I think," jerked out the amateur detective, rubbing his chin hard. "We didn't tell him, I remember, that we'd hidden the Star, and perhaps he's—but here he is."

"Yes, here I am," said Fane, closing the door. "You fellows look excited—what's up?"

"Look here—did you move a coat of Billy's? It was hanging up in this corner."

"Billy's coat!" exclaimed Fane, turning a trifle pale. "What's the matter with Billy's coat?"

"Matter enough, comrade," said Patch grimly. "We didn't tell you—we forgot, as a matter of fact—we didn't tell you that we'd sewn the Black Star up in one of the seams of that coat, to hide it. And now the coat's gone."

"My only aunt!" gasped Fane, falling into a chair. "Is that right? Was the Star in that coat?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Why?" echoed Fane. "I sold that coat for five bob to an Indian hawker yesterday afternoon! And I expect he's miles off by this time!"

[CHAPTER IX]

ALIAS BILLY FARADAY

For almost a minute the three chums stared in hypnotized fashion at the bent head of Fane, as the bully-killer sat dispiritedly in his chair.

"You mean you—" gurgled Billy at length.

"I'm awfully sorry, old pal, but there it is," said Fane, with the stolid calmness of despair. "I'd give anything to be able to say I'm mistaken, but it's no go. I see my mistake now. The coat's just the dead ringer of one I've got myself, and like an ass, I mistook them. Only just now, when you mentioned Billy's coat being missing, I remembered that my own coat hasn't been unpacked."

The four boys were silent for several seconds. The sharp, sudden blow, the renewed assurance from Fane that the coat had actually gone, left the three pals dumbfounded.

"Well," said Jack gloomily, "it's gone, right enough. We've lost it."

"Billy, Billy!" cried Fane, "it was my fault absolutely. I don't know what made me so terribly careless. I'm no end cut up about it—isn't there anything I can do?"

"Nothing suggests itself at the moment," said Patch, with a recovery of his calm manner. "The thing would be, of course, to get hold of the hawker and buy the coat back. But—" He shook his head, with pursed lips. Then, all at once, he smacked Jack heavily upon the back—so heavily that Jack indignantly jumped a foot in the air.

"Great Caesar!" he gasped, "What did you do that for, you giddy lunatic? You've dislocated my neck!"

"Bother your neck!" cried Septimus. "I've got the plan to get back the spiffing old Star—we're in luck! It's brother Egbert!"

"Brother Egbert?" echoed Jack, staring at the inventor open-mouthed. "Has he gone off his rocker?" he inquired anxiously of the other two. "Poor fellow—brains all addled. Or perhaps poached. I knew he would do it. My advice is, Patchie, wear an ice-pack on your fevered brow."

"It's all right, comrade," Septimus assured him. "Here's another occasion to thank your uncle Patch! Brother Egbert, I may explain, is my brother, and he'll be down here to-night. He's making a trip down the coast on his motor-bike, and he intended to call in at the school on the 14th, which is to-day."

"Well, what about it?"

"My good baboon," said Patch pityingly, "don't you see? Egbert will be only too pleased to take Billy, or myself, in pursuit of the jacket and—the Black Star. I think I should go, because it was really my fault that the coat went. Edgar A. Poe didn't mention anything about stray accidents that might happen in any good, well-regulated family, or their bearing on his no-concealment wheeze. I confess I begin to lose my respect for Edgar. The next hiding-place for the Star will be a most abstruse one, when we get the thing back—"

"If we do," supplemented Billy. "Look here, Patch, that was a very defective plan of yours, I agree, but I think I'll make the trip with brother Egbert, all the same."

There came a rapping at the door, and Jack invited the rapper to come in. A singular-looking young man entered, took a comprehensive glance over its occupants, and then spoke in a drawling, bored voice.

"Permit me to introduce myself," he said. "I am Egbert, fifth Baron Patch. Sounds good, doesn't it, that phrase, 'barren patch'? Rumour hath it that one Septimus, a juvenile relative of mine, is to be found in the precincts of this study. Ah, I see I am right—how are you, brother?"

"Bursting with robust health and goodwill," declared Septimus modestly. "See here, though, you've just arrived at the right moment. A rather interesting business has been going on here, and—can I tell him everything, Billy?"

Billy Faraday nodded, and Septimus explained the whole matter of the Star and its disappearance to his attentive brother, who resembled a collection of walking-sticks as he half-lay, half-sat in one of the chairs, his big head resting in his open palm.

"Quite a decent little mystery," he commented, when his brother's account had finished. "I twig what you want me to do—give chase, and all that sort of rot, what? Well, if any of you would care for a rough, bumpy, perilous journey on the back of a big 7-9, then I shall be happy to oblige. As I said to the Duke last week, when he asked me for a fiver, 'Dee-lighted, old bean!'"

"That's that, then," said Septimus. "The only question is, who's going? Billy wants to go, and I'm not anxious to stand in his way, see? But though we can arrange that Billy shall not be missed to-night, it might prove dashed awkward to-morrow, when he does not show up in class."

"Who's taking us in the morning?" thoughtfully asked Billy. "Old Salmon, isn't it? How on earth—"

"Don't worry, comrade!" interrupted Patch suddenly. "I've got the most ripping suggestion, and you'd better be off right now. Your absence will never be noticed—I'll fix that much for you. But try and be back by to-morrow night—I'll not guarantee to have the beaks hoodwinked much after that time. Now, Fane said that the hawker was going south—"

"That's right," said Fane eagerly, anxious to be of assistance to redeem something of his error. "He was just outside the gate, and lots of the fellows gave him old clothes, and I heard Big Martin ask him where he was bound for—he said Moruya. He only had a covered cart and a scraggy-looking old mare, and you ought to be able to catch up—"

"Just what the Marquis said, when I lost my hat out of his car, and ran back for it." It was Egbert Patch who had spoken. "We've got a lot to do, and I think we'll vamoose. Good-bye for the present, and sweet dreams!"

With these words, the eccentric-looking young fellow, suddenly animated, jumped to his feet and, grabbing Faraday by the arm, left the room. Inside a few minutes the chattering roar of his motor-bike was heard, and he had left the College, racing southward with Billy Faraday clinging perilously behind him.

"Doesn't believe in losing time," murmured Jack. "But, I say, aren't we going to have a bit of trouble in accounting for Billy's being away, to-morrow?"

"My dear old Angora," returned Patch, "aren't you aware that Salmon is as near blind and deaf as makes no difference? What's to prevent us from making a dummy of Billy, and putting him in Billy's seat? You know he sits right at the back of the class."

"Good grief!" said Jack. "Is that the bright and brainy idea? Patchie, old boy, the sooner you go to sea the better for you—and all of us. Who ever heard of a dummy—and in school at that? Why, Salmon's sure to smell a rat, and once he asks Billy a question, the game's bust."

"Not so, comrade! Among my other accomplishments, I am no mean hand at ventriloquism, and—"

"Well, you've got a pretty tall nerve, Patchie! I'll confess that I'd never have thought of such a dodge."

"Its boldness," averred Septimus, "is its strength. To-morrow I shall prove that. Meanwhile, there is a most irritating chunk of Sallust to be prepared for the morn. Leave me to it."

And, opening his books, the extraordinary fellow calmly set to work. After a moment or two of silence, Jack picked up the volume from which Patch had been taking swimming instruction, and began to turn its leaves idly....

On the following morning, Mr. Salmon entered the classroom with his usual salutation, and the whole form eyed him apprehensively. Would he surprise them in their deception? Was an awful row impending?

For, in the back row of the class, reclining gracefully on Billy Faraday's seat, was a dummy figure. Attired in an old suit of Billy's, it looked very lifelike, its arms supporting a book on the desk before it, and its head apparently none the less attentive for being stuffed with straw.

As the lesson proceeded, and as the master still failed to smell a rat, the class's fears subsided, and they began to enjoy the joke. Subdued chuckles sounded at intervals, the presence of the dummy schoolboy striking his companions as distinctly grotesque; but, as Patch had said, Mr. Salmon was almost deaf and very dim of sight, and unless anything out of the ordinary occurred, Billy's absence would pass unnoticed.

"Bathgate," said Mr. Salmon suddenly, "commence the translation. Line 25."

Bathgate, a big, sleepy youth at the back corner of the class, awoke suddenly from his dreams of better things, and began translating the Latin in a loud, clear, albeit, a trifle hesitant, voice.

"Speak up," commanded Mr. Salmon.

"Ought to yell in your ear," observed Bathgate, with a humorous glance at his mates.

"What did you say?" asked the master.

"I—thought—you—could—hear," said the shameless Bathgate. "Shall I proceed?"

"Proceed—yes! No, one moment. You've done pretty well. Go on, next boy."

There was a dead, stunned silence. The next boy was no boy at all, but the effigy of Bill Faraday, and the effigy simply sat still and stared at the master with the most guileless stare in the world.

"Faraday—you heard me?"

"Yes—sir," squeaked Patch, diving down under his desk, and attempting to throw his voice in the direction of the quiescent Billy. But the attempt met with poor success. The squeak did not come to the ears of the master at all, and he repeated his reminder, with a trace of irritation at the delay.

"Faraday—I believe you've gone to sleep."

The ingenious Patch was now brought up against a poser, but his resourcefulness met the obstacle. He got down on the floor and attempted to cross over to a position behind Billy's seat, which would enable him to deputize for the thick-headed effigy.

Unfortunately he was observed, and Mr. Salmon demanded at once to know what he was doing.

"Dropped my pen, sir," he explained loudly, and then frantically whispered to Jack, "Get behind Bill's chair and speak up."

To cover Jack's move across the aisle between the desks, Patch stood up, and showed his pen to Mr. Salmon, as ocular evidence of the truth of his explanation.

"I've got it now, sir," he observed brightly. "It had rolled right under my seat."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Salmon testily. "Sit down."

But Septimus was sparring for time until Jack was ready to take up Billy's translation. So he added, in his most foolish manner, "It's curious, sir, where these things get to, isn't it! Once I lost a pencil, and found it in the bottom of my trousers. Philosophers call it—"

"Sit down, sir!"

"—call it the perversity of inanimate—"

"Will you sit down?"

"—objects, like a collar-stud, or—"

"Patch!"

"Very well, sir," said Patch, sitting down with the aggrieved air of one who has been casting his pearls before swine. He glanced sharply towards Billy's chair, and sighed with relief.

"Perhaps we can get on with our work now," said Mr. Salmon sarcastically. "Faraday, are you properly awake?"

"Yes, sir!" yelled the supposed Faraday in such a loud voice that it came to Mr. Salmon's ears in the form of a smart answer. The master nodded. "Go on, then," he said.

Jack went on as fast as he was able, and for five minutes the class held its breath. At the end of that time the possibility that Billy's deception would be discovered seemed to have passed. The master went on through the class, and the boys were presently deep in their work; so deep, in fact, that Bathgate felt impelled to relieve the tedium by a little horse-play.

Propping his book up before him, he proceeded to annoy his neighbour in front, one MacAlister, in sundry well-thought-out ways that ended in Mac's turning round and firing a book at Bathgate's head.

Bathgate, who had, of course, been expecting retaliation, ducked smartly, and the book hit the wall with a bang. Mr. Salmon looked up, for the book happened to have been a dictionary, and the sound of its arrival rather loud.

"Bathgate," said the master, "don't tap."

The class chuckled afresh, and Bathgate inserted a pin in the toe of his boot, winking across at Jack Symonds in unmistakable "you-watch-me" manner. Then, sitting back innocently, he let the pin sink into MacAlister's calf.

"Ow!" gasped MacAlister, jumping up in a rage and aiming another book at his tormentor's grinning face. "Take that!"

Bathgate, however, had no intention of taking it, and he slid sidewise on his chair to avoid the missile. His move was too sudden for his equilibrium. The chair went over, and he went over with it, pitching head-first into the stomach of the bogus Billy Faraday. The effigy did not protest, but slid gracefully to the floor, where it lay in the attitude of a gentleman looking under the sofa for his collar-stud.

"Jimjams!" gasped Septimus Patch, "That's done it!"

Done it, it had. Mr. Salmon demanded to know why Bathgate and Faraday were crawling around on the floor, and Bathgate, looking sheepish, said something about falling off his chair.

"My chair overbalanced, sir," he said. "I knocked Faraday over."

The class was on tenterhooks. Would Mr. Salmon come up and investigate for himself? Faraday, at any rate, lay there absolutely still.

"Faraday," said the master, grimly, "evidently desires to emulate Doré, the artist, who drew his pictures while lying down on his stomach. Or is he just asleep?"

"I think he's hurt," said the indomitable Patch, getting up again. He meant to pull the fat out of the fire if it were humanly possible. He grabbed the effigy and savagely hauled it into place, keeping between it and the master all the time. He got back to his seat, but barely had he reached it when the dummy boy doubled up at the waist like a jack-knife, and banged its head on the floor. To Patch's horror, the head, which was loosely attached, came off and rolled a full yard down the passage.

Jumping up once more, Patch grabbed the head, and, amid the laughter of his companions, restored it to its position. The effigy of Faraday grinned impudently at the master, its head on one side, as Patch got back to his seat.

"There is too much disorder," said Mr. Salmon petulantly. "Far too much of it. Patch, and you too, Faraday, and Bathgate, take one hundred lines."

Just at that moment came the bell announcing the end of the period, and Mr. Salmon, gathering his gown about him, stalked out indignantly.

"Phew!" breathed Patch. "I don't want to have a strain like that again for a few years. Talk about nerves! You'd want nerves of phosphor-bronze, or something, with an obstreperous dummy like this on your hands."

He landed a kick into the effigy's waistcoat, and it fell on to the floor. The class simply roared.

"Anyhow," went on Patch, "you've got to do a hundred lines, you grinning idiot. Thank goodness I haven't got to look after you this afternoon."

[CHAPTER X]

THE CHASE FOR THE STAR

Meanwhile, how had it been faring with Billy Faraday and Egbert Patch. It will be remembered that they left by bike on the afternoon following the departure of the hawker, so that that person had a twenty-four hours' start on them. Not that that mattered very much. The big machine could cut down that discrepancy with ease. The only problem left unsettled was the question of whether or not they would be able to find the purchaser of the precious coat.

Through the night they sped for two or three hours, and at length came storming into Rimvale, a small town of some importance in the coastal district.

Here they put up for the night; and, early next morning searched for news of the hawker. Fortunately, they had not far to seek. An old man, who had purchased some articles from the itinerant vendor, informed them that the person they sought had left the town on the previous night.

"This is alarmingly easy!" grinned Patch, leaping into the saddle as the big machine moved off. Billy followed suit, landing on the carrier; and they were off once more.

Through the long, dusty miles Egbert set his machine positively roaring, and the distances were eaten up in fine style. To such good effect did they travel that inside three hours they came up with the hawker's covered cart, and asked him to pull up.

"What the matter?" he asked, leaning down on them from his perch like a strange bird.

"You must excuse us, Mucilage," said Egbert Patch. "That is your name, isn't it? But the fact is, old coffee-bean, you bought a coat back at Deepwater College in error, and we want it back."

"What do you mean? I paid for it."

"Quite so, my dear Tupentine; quite so. You see, a chap sold you a coat belonging to this fellow here, in mistake for one of his own, and we want to buy it back. See!" And as a token of good faith, he showed a hand filled with silver.

The Indian wrinkled up his brows in a puzzled fashion, and then began to rummage in his goods without another word. At length he turned to the expectant pair and eyed them keenly.

"You mean a brown jacket?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," said Billy, impatiently. "You've got it there, have you? Bring it out, and I'll give you ten bob for it."

The Indian shook his head gravely, and calmly repacked his bundles.

"I can't do anything, sir," he said at length. "The coat is sold."

"Sold!"

The other nodded, and went on to explain in his slow, but intelligible English. It appeared that a man had bought the coat in Rimvale for six shillings. The Indian made a small song about the fact that he had been unable to get six-and-six for it. At all events, he did not know who the man was. That he was young, and that he was evidently a native of Rimvale, he was able to state. Beyond that, he knew nothing.

"Thanks," said Billy in a low voice, turning away. It seemed that he was pursued by the worst of bad luck. How on earth were they to discover the owner of the coat, now? It might be that the Indian was not telling the truth. Billy was ready to imagine that he had observed a gleam of avarice in the fellow's eye. Of course he had not been deceived; he knew that there must be something unusual about the coat. And perhaps he had lied....

Billy groaned. "Rimvale's the only place," he said, and, mounting behind Egbert Patch, he sped off back along the path to the little fishing town.

Arrived there, they stowed their machine in the local garage, and set out on a feverish errand of investigation. But they knew that it was pretty hopeless.

"How on earth can we be successful?" Billy repeated to himself again and again, and as the morning wore away his hopes sank lower and lower.

All at once he gave a great cry, caught Patch by the arm, and pointed.

"Look there!" he said hoarsely. "That fellow's wearing the jacket!"

"The Dickens he is!" replied Patch, staring at a tall, rather bullying youngster who looked as if he might be a butcher's boy. In another moment the inventor's brother had started forward and called out to the wearer of the missing coat.

"Wait a moment! Hi!" he said.

The red-faced youngster turned and eyed them with obvious disfavour. "What do you want?" he demanded. "Who are you?"

"I'm the man who put the salt in the sea," said Patch gravely, "and my friend here's the man who's going to take it out. Twig? Look here, old man, that's a nice coat you're wearing."

"Oh, go and play!" grunted the other, turning away sullenly. "What's the game, anyhow?"

"I've taken a fancy to that coat, that's all. It used to belong to my mate here, the man who rode the bull through Wagga. But another chappie mistook it for one of his, and sold it to a nigger named Mucilage, who in turn sold it to you—for six bob."

"I see—and you want it back, hey? Well, it happens I've got to like this coat, and I don't want to part with it, see?"

Billy not only did see this particular point, but saw also that he was up against a pretty shrewd bargainer, who was ready to turn their own eagerness for the jacket into ready cash. He was too anxious, however, to bluff.

"Look here," he broke in, "I'll give you ten bob for the coat, and fix everything up. No fuss—give me the coat, and this half-note will be yours."

The red-faced boy's little eyes gleamed. "Ten bob—ten bob for a coat I've taken a fancy to," he murmured. "Look here, mate, I can't part with the coat—not under a quid. It's a good coat."

"It's certainly a good coat, but—" Patch was dubious.

"Well, then," said Billy desperately, "I'll make it a quid, just to please you. There you are—a pound note—and now, the coat."

"Hold hard, hold hard." The country boy's interest had been roused by this reckless bidding for the old jacket, which was scarcely worth a third of the money Billy Faraday now flashed before his eyes. What was wrong with the coat, he asked himself; or, rather, what was right with it? "No, I don't think I'll sell," went on the yokel shrewdly, "until I've had a good look over it."

"Until you've what?" asked the horrified Billy.

The other noted his emotion and slowly winked one eye. "Until I've looked over it," he repeated cunningly. "You never know. What if there's a five-pound note sewn up in the lining?"

"A five-pound note?" gasped Billy weakly.

"I'm going to have a look," said the rustic, taking off the jacket and fumbling it between his fingers. "Why," he yelled, suddenly, "what's this here?"

Billy's heart sank into his boots as the red-faced country youth, with a grin of the most horrible triumph, rubbed between his fingers the slight lump under the coat-cloth that indicated where the Black Star had been so carefully hidden.

"There's something here, right enough," he said, cheerfully, "and we'll have it out in a jiffey. When I've seen what it is, then you can buy the coat—perhaps."

And he began to open a very efficient-looking clasp-knife. But at that, all Billy had gone through to recover the coat came up in his mind, and a wave of fury swept over him that he should be thus baulked at the last moment.

Uttering an inarticulate cry, he dashed forward, snatched the jacket out of the other's hands, and took to his heels, with Egbert merely a pace or two in his rear. The yokel stood dumbfounded for an instant, and then roared out at the top pitch of his voice, "Stop thief! Stop thief!"

The quiet, respectable little town of Rimvale witnessed the most astounding of chases along its sleepy main street. First came Billy and Patch, running their hardest for the garage and the big cycle, and after them tore the outraged country lad, yelling in a voice that would have roused the envy of any Indian chief of the prairies.

The country boy continued to yell, "Thi—eeves!" lustily as he rushed after the two boys.

The solitary policeman that the town boasted, aroused by the uproar, left the veranda of the country hotel, and stepped into the glare of the noonday sun.

"Hey! What's the trouble?" he asked, in the voice of one bent on smoothing troubled waters.

"Sto-oo-op thi-eef!" came the stentorian shout of that amazing vocalist, the robbed boy. "Stop them two thieves!"

Billy Faraday took a swift survey of the situation. It would not do, he decided, to run into the arms of the policeman, who did not look formidable, but who might cause a deal of bother.

"This way!" he yelled, breaking off at right angles, and darting down a narrow laneway, between two paling fences. But Billy had made, for once, an error of judgment. The fences abutted on a brick wall of some height, and the lane was, consequently, a blind alley.

"We're diddled—dished," gasped Egbert Patch.

"Not a bit," said Billy, pausing for six precious seconds, while, with his knife, he ripped the Star from its place of concealment, and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. "Not a bit," he repeated, throwing the coat towards the pursuers, who were already at the mouth of the alley. "Come on!"

With an agile spring he vaulted over the paling fence and landed in the garden beyond. Patch followed, and the cries of the pursuers changed abruptly from triumph to chagrin. Billy found himself confronting an enormous man in a blue shirt, who seemed annoyed that the boy had landed full in the centre of a bed of prize cauliflowers.

"'Ere!" this worthy bellowed. "Oo are you?"

"The King of Sweden!" answered Patch grandly. "My card!" He made a move as if to hand the astonished fellow something, and before that person could realize what was happening, he had received a hard dig in what boxers call the "mark." He gasped, and sat down with the giant collapse of a pricked balloon.

Laughing, the two fugitives fled on, for the red-faced youth was leading the pursuit over the fence, and it was risky to linger. Over two more fences they hurried, and then found themselves confronted with an impasse.

This was a stone wall over which it was impossible to scramble. They therefore cut away towards the right again, making back towards the street. They were in the yard of a baker, as it happened, and they went full speed for the street that meant liberty. Rounding the corner, with pursuit perilously close, Patch had a sudden inspiration. He pulled open a wide door, had a swift glimpse of a bakery and a couple of white-clad forms, and then slammed it as hard as he could.

He and Billy remained outside, of course, and ducked into the friendly shelter of a pile of timber, just as the robbed boy, doubly red-faced now with his exertions, and the policeman, and a couple of others dashed up with the impetus of a fleet of fire-engines.

"In here—heard them slam the door!" gasped the rustic triumphantly.

"We've got 'em," said the constable, breathing hard. He flung open the door, and an angry white figure darted out fairly into his arms. It was the baker himself, who had been hurrying to catch the "impudent rascal" who had slammed the door; and, as it happened, his exit had coincided with the constable's entrance.

For a moment they struggled blindly, the baker dabbling his floury hands over the other's tunic with a fine eye for effect.

"Leggo!" panted the angry constable. "No use strug—whup!"

"Scoundrel!" roared the baker, who was enormously fat and red, and who was no mean hand at wrestling. "Whaddeyer mean by this—ur."

They fell over on the ground, rolling, gasping, and wheezing, like two great porpoises entangled with seaweed. Billy and Patch were helpless with suppressed laughter, as the two big men ramped and roared on the ground ludicrously. But in time their excitement cooled sufficiently to permit of recognition, and they fell back, seated on the ground, staring at one another amazedly.

"Why, it's old Jim!" said the baker.

"Course it is, you fathead! What the dickens do you mean?"

"Mean?" repeated the baker. "I like that! It's you that ought to say what you mean! Are you drunk?"

"Drunk? Me? Why?"

"Why, coming and playing fool tricks on my door—"

"Who's doing that? All I was after was two fellows funning—no, two fellows rulling!" The constable's tongue had become a trifle twisted, and he sought to make amends by shouting at the top of his voice.

"I mean," he roared, "you've got two hokes bliding—no, no!—they cinched a poat, I mean! Dash it, they dot in this gore—!"

"You are drunk," said the baker, judicially. "Very drunk," he added, as an afterthought.

"Never dinn before drinker—I mean, dink before drinner—no!" yelled the constable at the loudest tone he could raise, becoming more and more excited and inarticulate as he went on. "No, I don't mean that! What I mean is, two geeves thot away—they—hurry up!—colted with a boat!"

"A boat?" the baker asked. "Are you mad, Jim, or only—"

"Quick!" yelled the constable, threshing the air with his arms, and dancing first on one foot and then on the other. "Two fung yellows—!" This was as far as he could get, and he remained speechless, his eyes protruding from his head, his tongue tied in a furious knot.

"Oh, my only grandfather!" murmured Billy weakly, almost helpless from his restrained laughter.

There is no saying what might not have happened but for the intervention of the red-faced boy, who blurted out his story, and demanded the opening of the door.

"Oh!" said the baker, comprehension dawning on him at last. "But they didn't come in here, mate—they just slammed the door, and then bolted. That's why I thought it was Bill, here, playing jokes on me, and—"

But the red-faced youngster had turned and gazed about him, and the concealment afforded by the wood-pile proved inadequate, for he uttered a yell and his sharp little eyes gleamed. "Here!" he roared. "I see 'em. Come on!"

Billy and Patch had profited by their rest, and were away with the speed of the wind. The others gave instant chase, even the baker joining in. The fugitives realized that it would be a bad move to rush out into the open street, and they doubled on their tracks again, and darted into a grocery store, where they were met at the door by the grocer, in grimy white apron, who had not been favourably impressed by the manner of their entry.

"Ha!" he said. "What do you want?"

"A pound of hoo-jah!" said Patch promptly.

"What?" demanded the grocer in astonishment.

"Some gubbins," added Patch.

"Some—some—"

"Don't you sell it? A pound of doo-hickey."

"Here—" began the grocer.

"What I really want," said Patch calmly, "is an egg. Have you one? I'd like one called Percival, please, about fourteen hands high, and not too frisky. Ah, the very thing!"

He selected a couple of eggs from an open box on the counter, while the grocer looked on open-mouthed. He was quite convinced that he was being visited by a couple of lunatics, and he was doubly sure when he saw Patch turn to the doorway and let the red-faced youth have an egg fairly in the eye.

The pursuit had been somewhat tardy in discovering where the escapees had gone, and it was now arrested by the bombardment that Patch opened with the eggs. The baker, panting with open mouth, received a missile directly upon the teeth. The egg burst, and he found himself swallowing a mass of yolk and shattered shell. The constable had to wipe away a sticky mess before he could see; and the red-faced boy, blinded by the first egg, had collided with a pile of jam-tins, which descended joyfully upon his head as he lay sprawling.

"Thanks for the eggs," murmured Patch, pressing two florins into the grocer's palm. "Is there a back exit? Lead on, Macduffer."

And he bolted for the rear of the shop, closely followed by Billy. They had been working their way towards the garage, and it was only a stone's throw to the bicycle.

Hastily throwing his levers into position, Patch trundled the big Indian a few yards; and, as the engine began to fire, leapt on board, followed in a moment by the ever-ready Billy. They stormed out of the little village of Rimvale, leaving a trail of blue exhaust-smoke and more than one angry person.

"Quick work, quick work!" said Patch. "That's the life, isn't it? As I said, when I gave up the job of carrying the red flag in front of a steam roller, 'The excitement's killing me.' But we got the merry old Star, and that's the main thing!"

"Jingo, but I'm obliged to you," said Billy gratefully. "I don't know what I should have done without you and the old bike! And that's a fact."

"Don't apologize," returned Patch cheerily. "We'll be back about five—that is, if the idiot policeman doesn't take it into his head to ring up and send a posse of constabulary on our track. I wonder how your mates have been doing back at Deepwater? Trust that brainy young brother of mine to concoct something ingenious to account for your absence! Wonder how he did it?"

That question was soon to be answered, when they arrived back at the College, and Billy was able to question the others as to what had transpired during his absence. He was vastly amused at the account of how he had been impersonated in the classroom.

He roared with laughter over the events narrated, and appeared a different fellow altogether now that the Black Star was once again in his keeping.

"What about hiding the Star this time?" said Jack.

"No Edgar Allan What's-this stunts," said Billy, grimly. "I'm going to put it under that loose flooring-board in the study. When the carpet's back in place no one could ever find it."

And that evening the Star was duly interred in its new hiding-place, the three study-mates standing round Billy Faraday as he replaced the board and the carpet, and left everything intact. "Let's hope it's safe this time," he breathed.

As the three boys returned from lunch next day, Jack opened the study door and fell back with an exclamation.

"Redisham!" he said.

"Yes, Redisham," said the owner of the name, in an obviously forced attempt to appear at ease. "What about it?"

The intruder was standing in the middle of the study, and it was evident that their entry had surprised him. But there was nothing to show that he had been up to any shady games. Jack closed the door. He had remembered that they had their suspicions of Monty Redisham, already—and it was not usual, at Deepwater, for visits to be paid to studies during the occupants' absence.

"What about it?" repeated Redisham, with a shade of defiance that showed that he knew he was suspected.

"Oh, nothing," said Jack carelessly. "What are you after?"

Redisham met his gaze squarely, and then glanced at Billy Faraday and Patch, who also were staring at him meaningly. He shifted from one foot to the other.

"I just came in to borrow a dicker," he explained.

"And that, I suppose," said Jack, "is why you shut the door?"

Redisham's lip curled. "I don't know what you are getting at, Symonds," he said. "It's true that the door blew to, in a gust of wind just now, but—"

The three pals looked at him queerly, and he resolved on a bold stroke. "Why, hang it," he said, taking the bull by the horns, "you look as if you thought—thought I was trying to pinch some of your mouldy traps!"

It was well done of Redisham. He met the charge before it was thrown at him. He experienced a distinct ascendancy.

"Oh, not at all," said Jack politely. "It looked queer for a moment that was all—the door shut, and all that. Of course," he went on, with elaborate irony, "if it had been somebody else, then—!"

Redisham flushed under the sarcasm, and sat down with an affectation of carelessness, showing his violent green socks as he pulled up his immaculate trouser-legs.

"I'm glad to hear it," he observed, his little eyes flashing. "How did the race go this afternoon?"

For a moment Jack did not reply, but eyed their visitor narrowly. He would have given a good deal to be in a position to search the pockets of the greasy, smiling senior. But there was nothing to go on—nothing at all. Politeness had to be preserved. He too, sat down. Billy and Septimus Patch did not move from the door.

"And how's your friend, Mr. Daw, progressing?" asked Jack casually.

Either Redisham was a good actor, or he was genuinely surprised by the question. "My aunt!" he exclaimed. "Who told you that he was a friend of mine?"

"I thought it was general knowledge," replied Jack. "We all heard that you considered him a little tin god, or something like that. I confess I could never have much respect for him—unless perhaps I was in his debt, or something—"

He paused, and shot a glance at Redisham to watch the effect of this loaded remark. But the senior took it very well indeed.

"General knowledge is wrong, then," he said blandly. "Daw may be all right—to those who know him, but I'm not one, or even likely to be. You don't mind if I go now?"

"Wouldn't you like to try a cup of brew?"

"Not this time, thanks. I'll bring this dicker back directly I've used it. Ta-ta." And he closed the door behind him. Billy spoke impulsively.

"Well, that's fishy if you like! Wonder whether the brute found anything? Perhaps it's better to have a look."

He rolled back the carpet, and lifted the loose board. For a moment he lay face down with his arm fumbling in the cavity. Then he rolled over and sat up, his face gone suddenly white.

"Jiminy!" he gasped. "The thing's not there!"

[CHAPTER XI]

THE STAR MISSING

Jack Symonds uttered a cry of amazement, and even Septimus was stirred out of his usual calm.

"Not there!" repeated Jack. "Old fellow, are you certain? Surely it's not gone already!"

Billy rose to his feet with a gesture of deep despair. "Look for yourself, then," he said. "It's no go, Jack—I made certain before I spoke. She's gone this time—and I expect gone for good."

"Don't say that, comrade!" urged Septimus, striking him on the shoulder. "We got it back once, so why not again? Look here, there's—"

"Wait!" Jack interrupted him. "Ten to one it's that oily brute Redisham! He had the thing in his pocket all the time we were speaking to him. Oh, he's cool and all that, but I'm going along to ask him right out what he's done with it! There!"

Septimus Patch pulled him back from the door. "No, no, Jack!" he pleaded. "We've got no evidence that he's taken it, and if you went along that way he'd just laugh in your face, that's what he'd do. It looks to me as if he did pinch the Star, but—well, we can't do anything to him; he's got the whip hand over us. We'll find another way, never fear."

"But what way is there?" objected Jack.

Patch did not reply, but stared out of the window in deep thought. His eyes were narrowed to mere slits behind his great tortoise-shell glasses. He rubbed his hands together nervously.

"Give me time—give me time," he asked. "There must be a better way—let me think."

"And we're giving the beggar more time to hide it," said Billy Faraday.

"If he took it," said Septimus.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, just this. He must have been tremendously slick to have found the hiding-place, secured the Star, and replaced everything as before! How long could he have been in the room? Not long. Yet he had the nerve to do all that, knowing that we might be back any minute. Besides, why hadn't he gone when we arrived?"

"Why?"

"Seems to me he was just spying round. You remember he was standing in front of our lockers. Supposing that he had found the Star where we hid it. Would he be likely to hang round until we came? You can bet your life he'd be off in a moment! Again, why replace the carpet and the board? It only took longer, and delay was most dangerous for Redisham. Put yourself in his place. If you'd found the Star, wouldn't you have bolted right away? There'd be no sense in fixing up the carpet—your big idea would be to make yourself scarce, see?"

"So you think the Star went before Redisham came here?"

"I think so, comrade. Perhaps it went last night, and, if so, we know who took it!"

"Doctor Daw," murmured Jack.

"Of course, Monty Redisham is up to some dirty game or other. Quite likely he's in Daw's debt, and Daw is using him as a tool. But if we go to Redisham, and let him know we've suspected him to that extent, and that we've been robbed, then he'll tell Daw everything."

"But what are we going to do about it?"

"Lie low. Redisham can wait—I've got a scheme for fixing him later, getting him into a trap. But Daw's got to be watched—and watched closely."

"Well?"

The schoolboy detective looked thoughtful. Then he spoke with assurance. "Look here, comrades—Hullo, here's Fane!"

"What's the matter?" asked Fane immediately.

Patch explained, and then went on: "I was just going to suggest a scheme. Jack heard Daw say that he wanted to stay on here at Deepwater. Therefore, he's not likely to bolt with the Star, if he's got it. We'll watch him, see where he goes, and while he's out one of us can ransack his room. Probably, though, he has the Star on his person, and he'll be anxious to get it across to Lazare or Humbolt. As soon as he does that, we can have either of them arrested quietly, before they have time to get far!"

"Otherwise?" queried Jack.

"Otherwise," said Patch quietly, "we'll have to go to the Head, tell all we know, and trust to luck that we'll be able to outwit the brutes! But you know how clumsy that notion is—the Head would almost want written confessions and affidavits before he'd venture to arrest a master! And Daw would swear black, blue and all colours that he'd never seen the Star, and didn't want to. You see how hard it would be for us to do anything?"

Accordingly a close watch was kept by one of the four pals on Doctor Daw; but they had to admit that the man was a wonderfully good actor, for he showed no signs of confusion or excitement, and remained indoors for the greater part of the time. For two nights he did not go out.

One of these nights, however uneventful for Doctor Daw, was certainly crammed with incident for Redisham. Patch had promised that he would catch the greasy senior in a trap, and he held good his word. The society of the Crees proved to be the instrument of his downfall.

During preparation one evening, Redisham was surprised by a knock on his study door. Hastily extinguishing his cigarette, which, in flagrant defiance of all rules, he was smoking, he called out, "Come in!"

A very small and innocent junior entered.

"Please, Redisham," he said, "Mr. Daw said he wants to see you outside the Chemistry classroom door at once."

"What's that? Doctor—I mean Mr. Daw wants to see me now. Isn't he taking prep. in Big School?"

"Well, he is, but he stepped outside for a few minutes, and sent me up to find you. I think he only wants you for a moment."

"Confound him!" muttered Redisham, putting on his cap. "All right, youngster—cut away."

The senior lumbered down the stairs, a big, awkward figure that moved clumsily. It was nearly dark outside, but he distinguished the form of Mr. Daw outside the chemistry-room.

As he approached, the master slipped into the porch, and beckoned Redisham to follow.

"Come in here," he whispered. Inside, it was darker than ever. "Well," the master pursued, "and did you find it?"

Redisham shook his head. "No luck," he grumbled.

"Did you look?" said Daw cuttingly.

"Yes, I did! Honestly, I didn't have much time, but I looked hard enough. The young blighters came back and found me in the room at that!"

"All right. But see me behind the gymnasium after lights-out, to-night. I've found something—I want you."

Redisham uttered a grumbling protest. "I say, it's confoundedly risky to be strolling round after lights-out. You've always got me doing it now, and I'll be getting into trouble."

The master uttered a short laugh. "You'll be there, anyhow! And now I've got to get back to preparation."

They parted; but Redisham would have been considerably startled to have watched the master, who did not go back to Big School, but who joined Symonds and Patch at the side of the chemistry-room, and shook with laughter. Also, as all the juniors of Salmon's house could have informed Redisham, Mr. Daw had undoubtedly been in Big School all the evening, in charge of preparation. Two facts that might have caused him some perturbation, had he been aware of them.

As it was, he walked into the trap laid for him as guilelessly as a snared chicken. He strolled round after lights-out to the side of the gymnasium, as directed by the bogus Doctor Daw, and waited, kicking his heels for a good five minutes.

"The man's a thundering nuisance!" groaned the unfortunate senior, looking round him. "Gee! What's that?"

His ejaculation had been drawn forth by the sight of a couple of men who, dimly visible in the half-light, had appeared round the end of the gymnasium.

Redisham wheeled round with a dismayed gasp, and prepared for flight. But he remained where he was, rooted to the ground with horror. About five similar dark forms had appeared quite silently behind him, and now confronted him evilly. With a shock of dismay he perceived that they wore black masks, and had their collars turned up about their ears.

"What—what d-do you w-want?" he said in a remarkably husky voice that somehow would not obey him. Redisham was a bit of a diplomat at times, but he had no physical courage. All his strength seemed to have left his legs, and he shook like a leaf in a gale.

"Shurrup!" came the low retort in ruffianly tones, from the foremost of the ugly-looking band. "Stow the lingo, or we'll throttle you! You one of the school kids, hey?"

"Y-yes."

The miserable Redisham heard footsteps behind him, and knew that the other two were close. He wished with all his heart that Daw would arrive. He would have been a good deal less hopeful had he known that Daw was, at that moment, asleep in bed. Suddenly he was bowled over by his cowardly assailants, and gagged.

In approved bandit style he was trussed hand and foot, and a bandage was finally tied over his eyes, completely excluding everything from his sight. He groaned. What on earth had happened? He was being carried by two of the men over rough country, and presently he lost count of their steps. They went miles and miles, as it seemed; his heart descended into his boots. He could already see himself tied up in a sack and thrown into a lonely part of the river.

Suddenly the journey ended. As a matter of fact, he had been carried five times round the playing-fields, with suitable changes of ground, and the Crees had taken it in turns to lug him about, for he was of no mean weight. They now entered Salmon's and on tiptoe brought their prisoner into the boot-room.

Flat on the floor Redisham was laid, and the bandage was removed from his eyes. An oil lamp guttered above his head, throwing a faint, uncertain light that wavered to and fro, making everything indistinct. Before him sat the most fearsome figure of the lot—a short, thick man in a sweater and wearing a beard, who held a revolver in his hand—a wicked-looking thing that sent a frightened shiver down the senior's back. In point of fact, this was Billy's weapon, which he had brought out of its concealment for the purpose; undeniably it gave a touch of colour to the scene.

It was, as a matter of cold fact, unloaded; but Redisham in the depths of his funk could not know that. He lay and stared up at it goggle-eyed.

"Now," said the leader of the gang of roughs, "you're miles away from anyone here, so it's no use yelling. Get me? Take his mufflers off, Snyder."

The man addressed as Snyder elevated himself out of the gloom and came slowly forward. He undid the bandages that held Redisham in durance, and the fear-stricken senior sat up, chafing his legs.

"See here, younker!" It was the awesome chief speaking again. "Are your people worth much?"

"I—what do you mean?" spluttered Redisham.

"I means what I says!" said the fellow, in a low voice of concentrated fury. "Answer up, an' look slippy, or perhaps my finger'll slip on this 'ere trigger, and—"

"Please d-don't shoot!" quavered Redisham. "Do you mean have my people got much money?"

"Yes—have they?"

"Not very much—really."

"Crab apples!" cried the ferocious leader, angrily. "How much would they hand out to get you back, you miserable worm?"

"To g-get me back?"

"To buy you back! Shiver my timbers, but you've got more talk than a Madras monkey. How much ransom, hey? Five hundred?"

"I don't think so. Why, are you g-going—"

"Yes, my hearty, we're going to hold you to ransom!" came the disconcerting answer. "Is the figure five hundred?"

"But that's to-too much," shivered Redisham, squirming on the floor beneath the menace of the revolver, which the chief held in almost playful fashion four inches from his left eye.

"Too much! I should say it was too much!" rejoined the other, with promptness. "Five hundred for a bit of a puppy like you! Why, I'd not give five hundred pence! I'd throw the main deck overboard before I'd think of it! Wouldn't I?" he asked.

"I'm sure you would," said Redisham hurriedly.

"I expect your parents'll be downright glad to get rid of you, hey?"

"I—I suppose so."

"Well, belay my scuppers, if they don't part up with the boodle you'll be shipped to South America, that's all!"

"S—south America?"

"South America I said! They buy men for ten pounds apiece, to work 'em in the copper-mines. Think of it, hey! Workin' there year in, year out, and never see this place any more! Lovely prospect, ain't it? Like the idea?"

"N—no," said Redisham, to whom the idea did not appeal in the remotest way.

"Gr-r-rr! Of course you don't! But if your old man don't pay up, well—we'll have to get our tenner from you. Won't we, Snyder?"

"Sure," said Snyder. "But we'd only get eight for this goat—he's all flabby, no muscle, no chest, no nothink! Jest skin an' bone, that's all he is! Feel him!"

He did so, with his boot.

"That's so," agreed the chief. "He's just the spit of that bloke we shipped last summer—the bloke that pegged out on the voyage. Remember?"

"You bet," answered Snyder tersely. "They had to sling him overboard, and the sharks got the captain's tenner-worth! Just as well we got the money first, hey, mates?"

The mates all responded with a low, sinister laugh that made Redisham's blood run cold.

"See here," he pleaded. "Let me g-go!"

"Gr-r-rr!" snarled the chief. "Let you go! Likely, ain't it? Now, you stay here while we go upstairs and write a little note to your old man. You can add something that'll make them hurry up with the tin!"

"Or it's the South American mines for you!" grated Snyder, approaching his face closely to Redisham's.

"And no funny business," added the chief warningly, taking the lamp and looking back as he closed the door. "You stay here like a good kid, an' remember it's no use singing out. Mind you're here when we come back or—"

He touched the butt of his revolver significantly, and closed the door. Dense darkness shut down on the miserable Redisham.

When he had waited twenty minutes in the same position, he was under the impression that he had waited several hours. He had never experienced anything like the dead, changeless silence that now reigned. For what seemed an age there was no sound—not even the smallest sound. And then, feeling that he would scream out if he did not do something, he commenced to explore his surroundings. He collided with an immense table, on which were piled boots—in incredible quantities. He could make nothing of this mystery. At every stage it became more and more weird. Boots! What could that mean? He was still wondering when he barged into something solid, and it went over with an ear-splitting crash. For some seconds there was silence. Then came footsteps; the door opened.

"I wasn't trying to get out!" he protested feebly; and then his jaw fell. The figure before him was Mr. Glenister, of Salmon's, and the young master was carrying a candle!

[CHAPTER XII]

BILLY WALKS IN HIS SLEEP

Redisham did not pause a moment. He flung himself forward, grasped the amazed master round the waist, and held on with all his strength.

"Oh, save me!" he gasped. "Hurry up, sir! Take me away—before they come back!"

"What—what?" muttered the master, fully convinced that Redisham had gone off his head. "What do you mean?"

"The bandits, the bandits!" babbled Redisham. "They said they'd come back—"

"Come back?" queried the dazed master. "The bandits? Let me go! I don't understand—"

"Oh, hurry up, hurry up," murmured Monty, in an agony of apprehension. "They've got pistols, and everything, and they'll get ten pounds for you if they catch you. It's awful! Come back to the school, sir—hurry!"

"Back to the school? Redisham, wake up! You must be dreaming—we're at the school now, and I want to know what you're doing in the boot-room at this time of night."

"You—what?" asked Monty Redisham, putting his hand to his head and staring round wildly. "Are we at the College?"

"Of course we are! Where else did you think you were?"

"But I thought—I thought," gasped Redisham, still failing to understand. "Then they didn't kidnap me?"

"No, no; of course they didn't."