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Title: The Hero of Garside School


Author: J. Harwood Panting



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Language: English

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THE HERO OF GARSIDE SCHOOL

by

J. HARWOOD PANTING

Author of "Clive of Clair College," "The Two Runaways," etc.

With Original Illustrations







London
Frederick Warne & Co., Ltd.
and New York
(All rights reserved)

Printed In Great Britain




[Illustration: FALCON WAS DEAD.... TO MAKE GOOD HIS ESCAPE, NO TIME MUST
BE LOST.]



CONTENTS

         I THE MOTHER'S PRAYER

        II THE MESSAGE

       III THE CRY OF THE PSALMIST

        IV SHADOWS OF THE EVENING

         V THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK

        VI HARRY MONCRIEF ARRIVES AT GARSIDE

       VII A BAD COMMENCEMENT FOR THE TERM

      VIII FOR THE SAKE OF A CHUM

        IX GOOD ADVICE

         X TORN FROM THE BLACK BOOK

        XI FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FORM

       XII THE FORUM

      XIII A CHALLENGE FROM ST. BEDE'S

       XIV THE CHAMPION OF HIS FORM

        XV WHAT HAPPENED AT THE SAND-PIT

       XVI "HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN A LEPER"

      XVII THE "GARGOYLE RECORD"

     XVIII PAUL WRITES A LETTER

       XIX THE SCHOOL OF ADVERSITY

        XX WYNDHAM AGAIN TO THE RESCUE

       XXI THE CHASM WIDENS

      XXII HATCHING A PLOT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT

     XXIII THE LAST BOND OF FRIENDSHIP

      XXIV THE RAFT ON THE RIVER

       XXV ON A VOYAGE OF ADVENTURE

      XXVI WHAT HAPPENED ON THE RAFT

     XXVII THE OLD FLAG

    XXVIII HIBBERT ASKS STRANGE QUESTIONS

      XXIX AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR ARRIVES AT GARSIDE

       XXX HIBBERT FINISHES HIS STORY

      XXXI A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

     XXXII HOW THE OLD FLAG WAS TAKEN FROM GARSIDE

    XXXIII FRIEND AND FOE

     XXXIV THE MYSTIC ORDER OF BEETLES

      XXXV A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY

     XXXVI THE "FOX-HOLE"

    XXXVII THE LETTERS AT THE TUCK-SHOP

   XXXVIII "FORGIVE, AND YE SHALL BE FORGIVEN"

     XXXIX THE MISSING FLAG

        XL HOW THE FLAG FOUND ITS WAY BACK TO THE TURRET

       XLI FRIENDS IN COUNCIL

      XLII UNEXPECTED TIDINGS

     XLIII THE STORM BREAKS

      XLIV IN THE GARDEN

       XLV HOW THE VOTE WAS CARRIED

      XLVI WATERMAN DOES A STRANGE THING

     XLVII IN THE FOX'S HOLE

    XLVIII THE BURNING SHIP

      XLIX THE PETITION--WHAT BEFELL IT

         L FOUND OUT




ILLUSTRATIONS


FALCON WAS DEAD.... TO MAKE GOOD HIS ESCAPE, NO TIME MUST BE LOST.

"'I AM MR. MONCRIEF,' SAID THAT GENTLEMAN, STEPPING FORWARD."

"AS ILL-LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, HIBBERT RAN FULL TILT AGAINST MR. WEEVIL,
JUST AS HE REACHED THE OUTER DOOR."

"SLIGHTLY RAISING HIMSELF FROM HIS POSITION ON THE ROOF, CRICK LIFTED
THE FLAGSTAFF FROM ITS SOCKET, AND DREW IT QUICKLY BENEATH THE
TRAP-DOOR."

"THE BOY WAS KNEELING BESIDE HIM,--IT WAS MONCRIEF MINOR.... 'ARE YOU
ALL RIGHT?' CAME IN A WHISPER FROM THE BOY."




THE HERO OF GARSIDE SCHOOL




CHAPTER I

THE MOTHER'S PRAYER


"God grant that it may never happen, Paul; God grant that England may
never be invaded, that her foes may never land upon our shores."

And the lips of Mrs. Percival moved in silent prayer. Paul regarded the
loved face of his mother for a minute or two thoughtfully, as though he
were longing to put to her many questions, but dared not. At length he
said, breaking the silence:

"Did father ever speak of it?"

It was one of the greatest griefs of Paul's life that he had never known
his father. He had been a captain in the Navy, but was unfortunately cut
off in the prime of his career by a brave attempt to save the life of a
man who had flung himself overboard. The man was saved, but Captain
Percival was drowned, leaving a widow and son to lament his loss. Paul
at that time was only a year old, so that it was not till the years went
on he understood the greatness of his loss. Often and often his thoughts
turned to the father who had been snatched from him by a sudden and
untimely death, especially when he saw the boys of his school who were
fortunate enough to possess both parents; but often as his thoughts went
to his father, he rarely spoke of him to his mother. He could see that
the pain and sorrow of his death were still with her--that the awful
moment when the news came of that sudden, swift catastrophe had written
itself upon her heart and memory in writing which would never be
effaced.

Paul did not find out all that he had become to his mother till some
time after his father's death--not, in fact, till his first term at
school had ended. He had never been away from home so long before, and
he never forgot how she pressed him to her, and with what tender
earnestness she said, "Ah, dear, you do not know how I have missed you."

That same night, when she had thought him fast asleep, she entered his
room, looked long and earnestly in his face by the light of a candle,
and then stole gently out. And that Sunday, when he went to the old
church with her, he felt her hand steal into his as the vicar read the
Litany; and the pressure of her hand waxed closer as the vicar's voice
sounded through the church: "From lightning and tempest; from plague,
pestilence, and famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death."
Then rose the fervent response from the congregation, "Good Lord,
deliver us." And none prayed it more fervently than the widow as she
knelt by the side of her son.

It was not only that Mrs. Percival had lost her husband at sea, but she
had lost a brother, a promising young lieutenant in the Navy, while on
active service in China; and Paul's grandfather had lost his life many
years back while fighting under Nelson at Copenhagen. It is little to be
wondered at, therefore, that Mrs. Percival rarely spoke about the sea to
Paul. She feared its fascination; she was anxious to keep his thoughts
from it. He was all that was now left to her, and she had no wish that
he should go into the service in which the lives of three near and dear
relatives had been sacrificed.

"Yes, your father sometimes spoke of it," Mrs. Percival answered. "His
father--that is to say, your grandfather--lived in the time when there
was such a great scare about wicked Napoleon invading England; but that
is long ago, and it was all ended by Nelson's last great victory at
Trafalgar. Ah, Paul, these scares and wars are terrible. I sometimes
think that it must be monsters ruling the world rather than men. If the
prayers of mothers and wives and orphans could only be heard, I am sure
that war, and the danger of war, would soon be over. But why are you
worrying about an invasion?"

"Well, Great Britain has a good many enemies, you know, mother, and
people are talking about a possible invasion. Besides, I've got to write
something about it next term, and it won't do for the son of a captain
to make a mess of it altogether."

"Write something?" questioned Mrs. Percival, turning pale. Ah, the
terrible fascination of the sea! Was it going to claim her son as it had
claimed her husband? "How is that?"

"A prize has been offered for the best paper on 'The Invasion of Great
Britain.' I may as well have a cut in."

"By all means, Paul; but for my sake--for my sake"--placing her hand
upon his shoulder--"don't think too much about the sea."

She leant forward and kissed him; then went hurriedly from the room.
Paul knew that it was his duty to do as his mother told him, but he
found it very hard. He was a stalwart lad of fifteen, with the blood of
two generations of seamen in his veins, so that it seemed as though his
very blood were part of the brine of the ocean.

He stood by the window, looking from the old Manor House in which he
lived to the road. Presently he saw Job Brice, who did odd jobs about
the house and garden, walking across the grounds to the paddock. Job had
been a seaman in the Navy at the same time as his father, and for that
reason had been given employment, to add to his pension, at the Manor
House; but he rarely spoke about his seafaring life to our hero. Paul
suspected that this, in a large measure, was due to his mother, for
whenever Job did speak, he always dwelt on the most unattractive side of
a sailor's life.

So soon as Paul caught sight of Job, he seized his cap, and went after
him. He came up with him just as he had entered the paddock.

"I say, Brice, I've just been talking to mother about father. I don't
like to question her too much, for I can see it gives her pain."

"Quite right, Master Paul; it does give her pain," said Job, turning his
scarred, weather-beaten face to the boy; "and it's very good of you to
think of her. It ain't all boys who're so thoughtful of their mother."

"Oh, don't butter me, Brice, for I'm long chalks from deserving it. But
perhaps you wouldn't mind answering me a question I could never quite
make out. I've heard that father died in saving another man. And that is
all I do know, for mother never speaks of it, and I can't keep boring
her with questions. How did it happen?"

"Well, no one knows exactly. So far as could be made out, some
pirate--some furrin sneak--got into his cabin while we were in port, and
got at his private despatches. He was imprisoned in the hold by the
captain's orders. The next day we were to make for Gibraltar, where the
spy was to be tried by court-martial. The next night was a dirty one--no
rain to speak of, but dark and blustery. While it was at its height, the
prisoner in the hold managed to escape, and jumped overboard. Your
father was one of the first to see him, and leapt after him. He reached
the poor wretch and held him till the boat put out; then a fiercer gust
of wind came, and they were separated. The spy was swept in the
direction of the boat. Your father was swept away from it. The spy was
caught up and dragged into it. Your father was never seen again. He'd
saved the spy's life at the expense of his own. There wasn't a man on
board the ship but esteemed--yes, loved your father. He was one of the
best skippers that ever walked a deck. What we felt afterwards, Master
Paul, can't be described. We felt just sick that he'd gone, and that
that sneaking, shivering furrin rascal had been saved. Some of the boys
would ha' lynched him, I think, only that he looked purty sick at that
time hisself, and they knew a court-martial was awaitin' him at
Gibraltar. Well, he were taken to Gib."

"And what happened?" asked the lad, as the old salt paused.

"What happened? Why, he got clean off!" cried the old salt indignantly.
"There was little or no evidence agen him. The one who knew all about
him, and what he'd been up to, was your father, and--and----"

Job Brice came to a dead stop as the back of his big, rough hand went
across his eyes.

"My father had gone to the bottom! Yes, yes, I understand it all!" said
Paul in a choking voice. "So they were obliged to release the man, and
he got off scot-free?"

"You've just guessed it, Master Paul! It makes me blood boil when I
think of it!"

Then he ended up, as he always did: "Ah, it's a dog's life, is the sea!
Don't you ever think of the sea, Master Paul!"

Paul knew from what quarter the final moral, with which Job invariably
favoured him, came. Usually he smiled; but there was no smile on his
face now. He could understand his mother's feelings as he had never
understood them before. He could understand why she so rarely spoke of
that time--why she never referred to his father's death.

"You can't remember the man's name, I suppose?"

"No, I can't remember that," answered Job, rubbing his head
thoughtfully, "'cept that it was a foreign one--Zuker, I think it was,
or some such name as that. Don't think no more about it. Thinking about
it don't do no good."

"Poor, poor father!" said Paul, as he turned once more towards the
house. "He must have been a brave man. Oh, that I could have seen him,
and known him, so that I might be able to remember him as he was in
life, instead of carrying about a dead image in my heart!"

Still, it was a comfort to know that his father had been loved by those
under him--that he had died a brave death. Better, far better, to die a
brave death than to live on in shame and infamy, as the man had probably
lived whom his father had saved.

And yet this mean, despicable spy might have turned over a new leaf from
the day his father had sacrificed his life to save him. He might have
begun a new and nobler life. If so, the sacrifice had not been in vain.




CHAPTER II

THE MESSAGE


The long autumn holiday was drawing to a close. In a couple of days'
time Paul would be back again at the old school--back again at Garside
House. He had had a pretty good time during the "vac.," but, none the
less, he should not be sorry to meet again the fellows of his Form.
School wasn't such a bad place, after all.

"Fact, if it wasn't for that wretched science master, Weevil--why wasn't
he christened Weazel?--one might put up with a lot of it. Don't know how
it is, but he always puts my back up."

Paul was returning home across the fields, and had just alighted over a
five-barred gate into a lane which wound round the side of the Manor
House into the main road, when he was arrested by a cry of distress.

"Hallo! What's that? Some one down? My--down it is!"

A horseman had come a cropper a little distance down the lane. Paul
immediately ran to his assistance.

"What's wrong, sir? A tumble?"

"Yes; Falcon slipped, and before I quite knew where I was I was out of
the saddle. But I don't think I'm hurt very much."

Paul extended a hand to the fallen rider. He grasped it, and tried to
rise; a spasm of pain crossed his face.

"I'm afraid that you are hurt, sir."

"A little more than I thought," said the gentleman, as he leaned against
the saddle. "Poor old Falcon," patting the horse, "don't look so
grieved. It wasn't so much your fault as my carelessness."

Then the caressing movement of the hand ceased, and he stood listening
as one who fears pursuit. He tried to mount to the saddle, but failed.

"Heaven help me!" he murmured. And then, as though Heaven had inspired
him, he turned to Paul suddenly with a hopeful light in his eye: "Can
you ride, my lad?"

"Rather! I learnt to ride almost as soon as I could walk," smiled Paul.

It was no empty boast. Paul had been taught riding at a very early age,
and was as much at home in the saddle as on his feet.

"I seem to have sprained my leg, and it is getting more painful every
moment. I've got a message of the utmost importance that must reach
Redmead to-night. You know Redmead?"

"Well."

"Will you take a message for me? I ask it as a great favour, my lad."

He spoke with great earnestness, and waited eagerly for Paul's answer.
Paul did not at once respond. Redmead was seven miles distant; it was
getting dusk; the journey to Redmead and back would take him close upon
two hours; his mother would wonder at his absence.

"You won't refuse me, lad. You don't know what it means to me, and
others."

Paul liked the stranger's face. He was a man of about thirty-seven or
thirty-eight, with clear, honest eyes, and an open, gentlemanly bearing.
It was plain that the business on which he wished Paul to go was
important. The boy's sympathies were with him, but still he hesitated.

"Whereabouts in Redmead?"

"To Oakville, the house of Mr. Moncrief."

"Moncrief!" cried Paul. "I've a chum at school named Moncrief--Stanley
Moncrief."

"He's my son. The gentleman living at Redmead is Stanley's uncle. What
is your name?"

"Paul Percival."

"I've often heard my boy speak of you. Glad to make your acquaintance,
though I wish our introduction had taken place under happier
circumstances."

His chum's father! Paul was all aglow. He hesitated no longer.

"Give me your message, sir. I shall only be too pleased to do anything
for Stan's father."

Mr. Moncrief wrote rapidly on a sheet from his pocket-book:

"Enclosed fragments have come to hand. It is a letter from Zuker, the
German Jew, who is in England. Take care. Be on guard!"

When he had finished this brief note, Mr. Moncrief took from his
pocket-book several fragments of torn paper, bearing on them, as it
appeared to Paul, mysterious hieroglyphics. He put these inside an
envelope together with the note he had written. Then he sealed it down
and handed it to Paul.

"You are my boy's chum, I feel that I can trust you. Give this to my
brother, Mr. Walter Moncrief--in no one else's hands. I cannot tell you
how much may depend upon those pieces of paper reaching him. You will
not part with them whatever happens?"

"God helping me," said Paul, impressed with the earnestness of Mr.
Moncrief's words and manner. "There is my house, sir"--pointing to the
Manor House. "You will find rest there, and perhaps you wouldn't mind
telling my mother where I've gone."

Paul mounted to the saddle. Falcon, as though anxious to resume its
journey, sped along the lane into the open road. Though it was getting
dusk, it mattered little to Paul, for he was well acquainted with every
inch of the country for miles around. He could not help thinking of the
strangeness of the adventure.

"Stan's father--only fancy! I'm glad that I was able to help him and
take his message. Shan't I have something to tell old Stan when I get
back to school!"

Then he began to wonder what the torn fragments of paper, with the
hieroglyphics on them, could mean, and what could be the message of
which he was the bearer. Had he seen it, his wonder would assuredly have
grown.

The cool breeze of evening fell upon his face. The shadows began to
lengthen. The leaves rustled beneath Falcon's feet. It was a noble,
intelligent horse, and seemed as conscious of the importance of the
message upon which it was going as Paul himself.

"Good horse--good Falcon!" cried Paul, stroking its neck. "I wouldn't
mind a horse like you. I wonder how many times Stan has ridden you."

By this time they had reached an open common. It had been a perilous
place to ride over in years gone by, when robbers abounded, but those
days had gone, and no thought of danger occurred to Paul as he reached
it. There were two ways of going to his destination--one was by taking
the road by the side of the common and skirting it, the other, by the
more solitary but nearer road across it. Paul selected the latter,
urging his horse to a gallop as he did so. Falcon immediately responded
to the call of its young rider, and soon they were speeding across the
common.

When they reached the other side the road leading to Redmead stretched
before them. It had grown suddenly darker. The road was bounded on
either side by hedges, and the branches of trees interlaced each other
in an arch-way overhead. Whether from the sudden darkness or that he had
scented some hidden danger, Falcon slackened speed.

"What's wrong, Falcon?" cried Paul. "Get on--the sooner our journey's
ended, the sooner you'll have your supper. Now, then, old boy."

The horse was about to speed forward again, but scarcely were the words
from Paul's lips than a man sprang from the hedge and seized the bridle.

"Stop!" came a sharp, decisive voice, with a foreign accent, "Stop!"

Paul just caught a glimpse of the man's face in the half light. The
cheekbones were somewhat high, but narrowed down sharply at the chin. He
wore eyeglasses on the eyes, which seemed to Paul, in that swift glance
he caught of them, of a steely blue. He had a thick, military moustache,
drawn out to fierce points; but his chin was clean-shaven. Directly he
stopped the horse, a second man sprang to the other side of it. Paul
immediately concluded they were robbers.

"What do you want? I've got no money--at least, only a few coppers.
You're welcome to those, if you'll only let me ride on."

"We're not robbers," said the first man, who seemed to be the master of
the two, "and, therefore, we don't want your coppers. We've got one or
two questions to put to you. If you'll only answer them civilly, we'll
let you go your way. If you don't answer them----"

He broke off with a shrug of the shoulders to indicate the terrible fate
which might await the boy in the event of his declining to answer the
questions put to him.

"You're riding Mr. Moncrief's horse, Falcon?"

Paul wondered who the man was, and how he had come by his information.

"Yes, that's right. What of it?"

"How is it you are riding Falcon instead of Mr. Moncrief?"

Paul did not at once answer. He wondered whether by answering he would
be doing wrong. Yet what wrong could he do by speaking the truth. Paul
was an honest boy--as honest as the day--and detested falsehood of any
kind.

"Mr. Moncrief met with an accident--that's why," he answered doggedly.

"An accident"--the stranger exchanged glances with the other man.
"That's the reason he's been left behind, is it? You've come in his
stead--eh?"

Paul nodded. He felt somehow that he was giving Mr. Moncrief away, but
he could not help himself.

"Thought so. You're going to Mr. Walter Moncrief, his brother--eh?"

Paul remained silent. He felt that he had said too much already.

"Tongue-tied--eh? Well, I won't trouble you to answer, for I know well
enough my information's right. All you need do is just to hand over to
me the packet you're taking to Mr. Walter Moncrief. I'll take care of
it."

The stranger's information was only too accurate; Paul marvelled at its
accuracy; but nevertheless Mr. Moncrief's words, "I feel that I can
trust you. You will not part with the letter, whatever happens," came to
him, and he determined not to give up the packet without a struggle.

"You're not deaf as well as tongue-tied--eh? Quick! quick! hand over
the packet," came the imperious voice of the stranger.

Paul saw that he was in a desperate situation--one from which it would
only be possible to extricate himself by strategy. He put his hand to
the inner pocket where the packet lay, and drew it a little way from his
pocket. This movement disarmed the man who held the bridle. He slackened
his hold. As he did so Paul brought down his riding-whip--or, rather,
Mr. Moncrief's riding-whip--sharply on the other man's face.

With a cry of mingled rage and pain the man dropped the bridle.

"Good Falcon--good. Now!" cried Paul, urging the horse forward.

The second man made a lunge at the horse. Falcon, as though fully alive
to the need of getting away, bounded forward like a dart along the road.
It went forward at a breakneck speed, quivering in every limb, as though
feverishly anxious to place as great a distance as possible between Paul
and his pursuers.

"Thank God, thank God!" Paul murmured, overjoyed at their escape. "What
a noble horse it is. That man is a foreigner, I'm sure of it--one who
would stop at nothing to gain his ends. Who is he, I wonder?"

If Paul had only known! But all was dark to him, as dark as the road
along which he was speeding. Only one thing was clear--that these men
were the enemies of Mr. Moncrief; that they were anxious to get from him
the packet of which he was the bearer. More and more Paul wondered what
could be the meaning of it all--what could be the meaning of the curious
hieroglyphics in his pocket.

But suddenly, just as he was congratulating himself on the distance he
had placed between himself and his pursuers, Falcon slackened speed, and
began to breathe hard. What was the meaning of it? Had an accident
befallen him, or had he grown weary? Paul knew enough of the animal to
know that it would not readily slacken speed through weariness. Falcon
was one of those sterling animals who would take every inch from himself
before he would give in through weariness.

If he could only get it a little farther on the road, it might be
possible to keep the advantage he had gained on his pursuers. Once more
he encouraged the horse to go forward; and once more it made a desperate
effort to obey him.

Then it reeled again. Paul had just time to extricate his feet from the
stirrups when Falcon fell with a crash by the roadside.

Paul hurt one of his legs by the fall, but he had no thought for himself
as he bent over the horse.

"Heaven help us!" was his fervent prayer, for in that one brief glance
he could tell that poor Falcon was dying, and he knew that not long
would elapse before his pursuers reached him.

"What is it, old fellow? Good Falcon--good!"

Once more Falcon responded to the call; it made desperate efforts to
rise; but almost immediately slackened. Paul's hand went to its neck. It
was bathed in perspiration and foam. What had happened to it? In the
uncertain light it was impossible to tell. Had it injured a foot or leg?
All at once Paul recalled the way in which the man had lunged at the
horse at the moment of their escape. He must have injured it in some
way.




CHAPTER III

THE CRY OF THE PSALMIST


Yes; poor Falcon was dying. A crimson stream was running from a wound in
its flank, and Paul knew that the horse had not many minutes to live.

"The scoundrel!" he said to himself between his clenched teeth, as he
thought of the man who had wrought this cruel deed. Paul was one of
those brave lads who would never wittingly have done an act of cruelty,
least of all to one of God's dumb creatures. It touched him to the quick
to see the poor horse dying. He knelt by its side, and his hand went
caressingly over it. Falcon turned to him with such a look of pathos in
its eyes that a big lump rose in the boy's throat, as though he were
choking.

"I can do nothing for you, old fellow. I wish I could!"

There was no help near, and it was clear to see that if there had been
it would have been useless. Falcon was breathing hard, in its last stern
fight with death. Paul could not bear to see its pain. His hand moved up
to its head. It soothed the horse. For a minute it lay perfectly still,
and then, as though in that brief interval of rest it had been
collecting its strength for a last great effort, it tried to rise to its
feet again. It rose a little way, then fell. Again it turned its head to
Paul, and looked at him with glazed eyes. A shiver went over every limb;
then the noble horse lay quite still, and Paul knew that it was dead.

Tears came to his eyes. It was as though he had been standing by the
death-bed of a human being. And, now that he was in the presence of
death, he scarcely knew how to act. Suddenly the sound of distant voices
roused him from the stupor into which he had fallen. For the moment, in
his grief at Falcon's death, he had forgotten that he was being
pursued--forgotten the message of which he was the bearer.

The sound of voices recalled him to his duty. If he remained there, his
pursuers would soon discover him, and wrest from him the letter with
which he had been entrusted. Falcon was dead. He could do no good by
remaining. To make good his escape, no time must be lost. By God's good
help, he might yet succeed in eluding his pursuers.

So he pulled himself together, resolved to go forward at all hazards.

"It is for Stan's father," he said to himself, as he tried to run. But
he soon found that another misfortune had befallen him. The injury to
his leg prevented him from running. It was only with an effort he could
walk at any speed, and at every step he took he felt that his pursuers
were gaining ground.

Redmead was close upon three miles away. How could he hope to reach it
without being overtaken by the men who were so keenly pursuing him?
Instinctively came to his memory the words he had so often heard in the
village church--"The wicked oppress me--compass me about. They now
compass me in my footsteps." And the cry of the Psalmist rose to his
lips:

"Hold up my goings in Thy paths, that my footsteps slip not. Show Thy
marvellous loving kindness, O Thou that savest by Thy right hand them
which put their trust in Thee. Hide me under the shadow of Thy wings
from the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me
about. Arise, O Lord, disappoint him, cast him down."

With renewed strength he pressed on; but he had not gone far before he
was compelled to slacken his pace. He realized that it was hopeless for
him to evade his pursuers unless he could find some hiding-place. He
looked around. There was no house near. But just a little ahead of him,
to the right of the road, were the ruins of an old house which had been
burned almost to the ground, and never been re-built.

As a drowning man clutches at a straw, Paul made his way to the ruins.
But he had not gone more than a few paces through what had once been the
garden of the house, when a voice cried:

"Hallo! Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Paul was somewhat startled, for he thought the place deserted. He found
himself mistaken, however, for a boy came from the ruins and faced him.
He was slightly taller than Paul, and of slimmer build; but he was none
the less well proportioned, and his limbs moved with the easy movement
of a young athlete. In spite of the dusk, Paul recognized him. He was
one of the senior boys of St. Bede's--the scholars of which were the
deadly rivals of Paul's school. There had been a perpetual feud between
St. Bede's and Garside for many years. Sometimes it would be patched up
for a week or two; then it would break out with greater violence than
ever. Just before the vacation, the feud had burst out stronger than
ever. There is no telling to what length it might have been carried,
but, fortunately, the vacation came on, and hostilities were suspended.
The boy before him was Wyndham, one of the ringleaders on the other
side. The recognition was simultaneous.

"You're one of the bounders of Garside, aren't you?"

"Yes," Paul candidly admitted; "and you--you're one of the Bede's,
aren't you? I haven't time to talk. There's some one after me. Can you
put me up to a place to hide in?--quick, there's a good fellow!"

"Running away--eh?" said the other contemptuously, without moving.
"That's like you Garside fellows!"

"I wish I had only the time to teach you better," retorted Paul
indignantly. Then, remembering all that was at stake, he suppressed his
indignation, and in quick, earnest tones: "I'm not sneaking--on my word
of honour. I'm the bearer of an important paper, belonging to a chum's
father. Two men are following me up to try to get it from me. If I can't
steer clear of them they will take it from me. You know this place. Hide
me somewhere!"

The earnest tones of Paul appealed to Wyndham.

"I don't know of any hiding-place, except----"

"Except what?" cried Paul eagerly, as he again caught the sound of
voices from the roadway.

"The old well."

"The old well! How is it possible to hide there?"

"Well, I can let you down in the bucket, if you care to run the risk.
I've been down it myself--but I'm not a Garside fellow."

It was as much as to say that "a Garside fellow" was not capable of
doing what a "St. Bede fellow" could do.

"I'd run any risk--quick! I can near them coming! Where's the well?"

It was only a few paces from where they were standing. Wyndham led the
way.

"I'll let you down a little way; then draw you up again directly the men
have gone--that is to say, if they should come this way."

"They are coming this way. I feel sure of it, and there's no time to
lose."

"Here you are, then. Keep steady, and don't make a sound. They won't
think of you stowed away down there."

Paul got into the bucket. The chain was somewhat rusty, but though it
was the worse for disuse, and creaked as it was lowered, it held firm.
When Wyndham had lowered Paul a short distance, he made firm the chain;
so that he was suspended half-way between the water and the top. It
wasn't a very pleasant situation. A dank smell came from below, and it
seemed the abode of darkness as the boy above shut out the last remnant
of light by placing the cover a little way over the well.

Not a moment too soon, for he had only just finished when a man darted
up to him and seized him by the collar.

"Ha! Got you at last, have I? A nice chase you've led us."

"What's the matter? That's my collar when you've done with it. Drop it,
please!"

"Hand over that paper."

"What paper?"

"The paper you're taking to Redmead. Quick--out with it!"

Wyndham, though he did not appreciate the man's grip on his collar, was
enjoying the joke. He could see what had happened. The man had mistaken
him for "that Garside fellow" down the well.

"I would like to oblige you, but I really don't know what you're talking
about. I haven't any paper."

By this time the second man had arrived on the scene. His sharp, ferrety
eyes, which--like the eyes of a cat--seemed capable of seeing in the
darkness, immediately went to Wyndham's face.

"Hi, Brockman! Hi! What are you doing? You have got hold of the wrong
boy!"

"The wrong boy!" exclaimed the man addressed as Brockman. "Are you
sure?"

"Certain! Where are your eyes?"

"They're not quite so sharp as yours, Mr. Zuker, I know; but I made sure
I'd tracked the youngster here."

Paul could hear distinctly every word that passed from his uncomfortable
position down the well. As the name Zuker fell upon his ears he trembled
so that he nearly over-balanced himself and fell into the water below.
It was not with fear. Zuker! That name was one he was never likely to
forget so long as memory lasted. It was the name of the man for whom his
poor father had sacrificed his life!

Could it be the same? It was not a common name, and though the man spoke
English readily, it was with a German accent. Instinctively Paul felt
that it was the same, instinctively he felt that the man who had been in
pursuit of him was the man whom his father had tried to save from the
sea so long ago. As a recompense for what the father had done he was
hunting down the son!

"Thank you; it's very kind of you," said Wyndham, as Brockman released
his hold. "Seems to me you're a little too hasty with your hands! The
next time you take any one by the collar you'd better make sure first
that you're going for the right one!"

Brockman turned away without deigning to reply. Zuker was about to
follow his example, but, suddenly checking himself, he asked:

"Have you seen any one pass this way--a boy about your size--no, not
quite so tall," as the sharp eyes took note of Wyndham's height.

"About my own size--not quite so tall? Let me see." Wyndham paused as
though trying to remember.

"Make haste!" cried Zuker impatiently. "We haven't any time to lose.
Surely you can remember."

"I'm trying to. You see, there are a good number of boys pass along this
road during the day."

"I'm not speaking about the daytime--within the last quarter of an
hour!"

"A quarter of an hour. Let me think."

"You'll get nothing from that blockhead, sir!" cried Brockman. "We're
losing valuable time!"

Zuker had drawn near the well. His hand rested upon the handle. Wyndham
was a cool boy, whom it took a great deal to disturb, but it must be
confessed that he required all his coolness and self-possession at that
moment. He was fearful lest Zuker might catch a glimpse of Paul down the
well. But, fortunately, he was too intent on questioning Wyndham. So,
after asking him one or two more questions, he said cuttingly:

"You're a sharp youth. You will set the Thames on fire some day--ugh!"

He looked for the moment as though he would spurn Wyndham with his foot;
but instead of doing so he gave a vicious twist to the well-handle--to
the no small alarm of Wyndham--and hastened after his tool and servant,
Brockman.

Wyndham leapt to the windlass. The twist given by the German had set the
bucket in motion. Paul was rapidly descending in the bucket to the
bottom! He seized the handle in his hand and held on to it with all his
strength. It vibrated as though it were a live thing. He feared that the
sudden strain upon the chain might snap it in twain, but it held firm.

"Hi, hi!" he cried below. "Are you all right?"

A moment of intense silence--a moment which seemed interminable to the
boy clinging to the handle of the windlass; then, to his great relief,
the voice of Paul came faintly up the well:

"All right! But--but it's been a near thing!"

"Hold tight. I'm going to haul you up!"

Slowly he hauled Paul to the top of the well; and, with an
inexpressible feeling of thankfulness, Paul stepped from the bucket.

"Have they gone?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes. A near thing, you said; what happened?"

"You just stopped me within about a foot of the water, and the sudden
jerk nearly pitched me out of the bucket. The scoundrels have gone, you
say?"

"Yes," smiled Wyndham; "they've gone in hot pursuit of you. They little
dreamt you were down that well! You couldn't have had a better
hiding-place."

"Better! Well, perhaps you're right; but it was a bit musty and
uncomfortable! I'm much obliged to you, all the same. You seem a decent
fellow, though you are a Beetle!"

Beetle was the nickname given by the Garside boys to the boys of St.
Bede's.

Wyndham laughed. Paul glanced round the melancholy, deserted ruin. He
could see no sign of human habitation.

"And you seem a decent fellow, though you are a Gargoyle." (Gargoyle was
the nickname given by the St. Bede boys to the boys of Garside School.)
"What's your name?"

"Paul Percival. I have often seen you amongst the other Beetles; but you
don't live about here, do you?"

"Not now." And there was a deep note of melancholy in Wyndham's voice.
"You can see, it's a ruin; but before it was a ruin I lived here with my
mother and youngest brother, Archie. He's gone--now."

"Gone?"

Wyndham nodded, and Paul understood too well what "gone" meant.
Wyndham's brother was dead; but he wondered what his death could have to
do with the ruined house. There was a painful silence between them for
some moments.

"I think you said you were going to Redmead?"

"Yes; Oakville, that's the house I want."

"I know it. Mr. Moncrief lives there. He's a big man at Chatham
Dockyard, and has a lot to do with the defences of the Medway and the
Thames, so I've heard. He designs things, too, for the Admiralty. I'm
going partly that way if you don't mind walking with a Beetle."

Paul laughed, and remarked that he could put up for once with a Beetle
if the Beetle could put up with a Gargoyle.

So they started together, and Wyndham told Paul by the way the reason of
the ruined house.

His father and mother had taken the house soon after they were married.
He, Gilbert, was born there; so was his younger brother Archie. Three
years after the birth of Archie, God visited upon them a great
misfortune by calling to Himself Mr. Wyndham. Gilbert had by this time
started on his school career, for he was several years older than his
brother. The second misfortune occurred while he was away at school,
three years after the death of his father.

Little Archie was the idol of his mother, and a great pet with old
Martha, the housekeeper, who had been in the household ever since the
marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham. Early one morning Mrs. Wyndham awoke
with a feeling of suffocation. On looking, half dazed, around the
bedroom, she found it full of smoke. Her first thought was of Archie.
She made her way to his bed. It was empty! She went to the landing; that
was full of smoke also. She called for her boy. No answer came. The
bewildered mother imagined that he must have escaped from the burning
house while she slept.

By God's providence she got out. She found that the two servants had
managed to escape from the burning house; but there were no signs of
little Archie! The distracted mother would have entered the burning
house again to search for him, but she was held back. It was a merciful
thing that she became unconscious, and did not see the end of the
homestead where she had spent so many happy, peaceful hours. It was
burnt almost to the ground, and amongst the ruins in the kitchen were
found the charred remains of Archie.

The little fellow was fond of watching old Martha when she lit the
fires. It was believed, therefore, that he had stolen out of bed that
fatal morning and tried to light the fire in the kitchen on his own
account. The lighted match set fire to his bedgown, the bedgown to some
curtains, and so the fire had spread. Archie joined his father in
heaven.

"I was away at school at the time," said Wyndham, when he had finished
his painful story. "You can judge what a homecoming that was for me!"

"It must indeed have been sad," said Paul feelingly.

"My mother was ill for a long time, but at length she got well again. I
was the only one left to her. After that we lived in a house about a
mile from here. The ruins of the old house still remain, as you have
seen. Some day my mother may build again, but she hasn't the heart for
it at present."

The story of little Archie Wyndham is perfectly true. It is not fiction.
It happened precisely in the way I have described. I know the terrible
fascination that fire has for children. Unfortunately they do not
understand its danger. When, therefore, my dear boy or girl, you are
tempted to play with fire, will you remember the sad fate of little
Archie Wyndham? That will enable you, by God's help, to put the
temptation from you.

All at once Paul came to a dead stop. His hand went to his coat-pocket.
Absorbed in Wyndham's story, he had forgotten all about the letter he
was to take to Mr. Walter Moncrief.

"What's the matter?" asked Wyndham.

Paul's face had turned to an ashen hue. His hand was still searching his
pocket.

"The letter!" he exclaimed.

"The letter--well, what about it?"

"It's gone!"

"Gone!" echoed Wyndham scarce able to believe his ears.




CHAPTER IV

SHADOWS OF THE EVENING


But too true--the letter had gone. No wonder Paul was bewildered,
stupefied. He had risked so much to get that letter to its
destination--had braved more than one peril, and come safely
through--that it seemed heart-breaking to find the letter gone.

"Have you searched all your pockets?" asked Wyndham.

"All," answered Paul. "It was in this one--here"--he placed his hand
upon his breast-pocket. "I put it here when it was given me, and I
haven't shifted it."

"Where, then, can it have gone?"

Where? Paul knew well enough that it was in his possession when he left
poor Falcon by the roadside, for he had felt in his pocket, and found it
there. He must, therefore, have lost it since; but where--where? That
was the question he kept repeating to himself without finding an answer.
Of a sudden it came to him. It must have been jerked from his pocket at
the moment Wyndham caught the handle of the windlass, nearly
precipitating him from the bucket to the water.

"I believe it's in the well."

"What?" cried Wyndham. "In the well? How can that be?"

Paul explained.

"You must be right," said Wyndham thoughtfully, when the explanation was
ended. "Well, there's one consolation--it's better for the letter to be
in the well than you. It's a pity, but it can't be helped. What will you
do?"

Paul had been thinking. He could go forward to Mr. Moncrief at Redmead,
and explain to him that he had lost the letter, or he could go back, and
explain to the other Mr. Moncrief that he had failed in his embassy.
Neither alternative was very palatable to him. Duty was before him as a
pole-star. A still small voice was ever whispering to him, "Paul, thy
duty. Do that in spite of anything that may happen to you. Place that
first and foremost, even before self." What, then, was his duty? To
confess to failure and defeat? No, never! That was the coward's part. He
would not rest satisfied until he had made an effort to recover the
letter he had lost, and he told Wyndham so.

"I like your pluck; 'pon my word I do. Didn't think a Gargoyle had so
much--really I didn't," said Wyndham; "but it's no use being foolhardy.
If the letter's at the bottom of the well, how, in the name of wonder,
are you going to get it up again?"

"I don't believe it's at the bottom. The water was pretty thick, I'm
certain, by the odour. There would be vegetable stuff, and that sort of
thing floating on the top of it. Well, if that's so, the letter wouldn't
sink. The gravity of the water would be greater than the weight of the
letter."

"Oh, the Gargoyles do go in a bit for physics--eh?" smiled Wyndham.
"Fire away. I believe you're right. What's the next step?"

"The next step is to go down the well again, and prove whether I'm right
or wrong. Is it asking too much of you to go back with me?"

"You mean going down the well again?"

"If you'll oblige me by again turning the handle."

Wyndham was by this time thoroughly interested in Paul and his mission,
and he couldn't help admiring still further his pluck and determination.
He never imagined that a despised "Gargoyle" had so much of those
qualities. He willingly fell in with Paul's suggestion, and soon they
were back again at the well.

"I've forgotten one thing," said Paul. "I haven't a light."

"Luckily I can lend you one. Wait here for a moment."

Paul waited while Wyndham disappeared among the ruins. Presently he
returned with a lantern, which he lighted and handed to Paul. Thus
equipped, he once more took his position in the bucket.

"Pay out slowly, and I'll tell you when to stop."

The bucket slowly descended till Paul was within a foot or two of the
water.

"Stop!" he shouted.

The bucket stopped, then Paul leaned over the side, and flashed the
light of the lantern on the water. There, to his great joy, was the
missing letter, floating on the weeds. He cautiously leaned forward, and
grasping the letter, returned it once more in safety to his pocket.

"Haul away!" he cried.

And Wyndham hauled away, so that a minute later Paul was again at the
brink of the well.

"Found it?" asked Wyndham eagerly.

For answer Paul produced the letter. It was slightly damp, but little
the worse otherwise for its immersion.

"Well, you deserve it. I'm jolly glad you've found it."

"I should never have got it hadn't it been for you. It was very good of
you to turn back with me, and I hope if at any time I can do you a
service, you'll let me know."

The two boys tramped on once more to their destination. Wyndham wished
Paul good-night at the entrance to Redmead, his home lying in another
direction. It was not long before Paul came in sight of Oakville. It was
a fine old country house. A light was shining from its gabled front. By
its light Paul could see that there was a man hovering about the house.
He could not get a clear glimpse of him, but he was certain, from the
man's figure and gait, that it was Brockman, the confederate of Zuker,
the German spy. Knowing that Paul must come to the house, he had
evidently been on the watch for him.

Now that he had come so far, Paul did not intend being foiled at the
last moment. He saw that it was useless trying to enter by the front of
the house, so he crept round to the back.

A light was coming from one of the windows. Paul made for this window,
and looked through. He was scarcely prepared for what he saw. It was
evidently a play-room. There was a large rocking-horse in one corner. A
trapeze was slung up in the centre. There were single-sticks and foils
on the wall, dumb-bells, Indian-clubs, a parallel-bar, and a
vaulting-horse stowed away in another part of the room. But it was not
so much these things which attracted the attention of Paul as the
occupants of the room. A middle-aged gentleman was kneeling. He was
praying aloud. Near him was a lady. On either side of her was a girl and
boy--the boy about twelve, the girl a couple of years older. In line
with them were a couple of maidservants and a governess. Paul could see
that they were at family prayers. He guessed that the gentleman who was
praying was Mr. Walter Moncrief, the gentleman he had come in search of
by his likeness to his brother.

When they had finished prayers, the lady went to the piano, and the
little group joined heartily in a hymn Paul had often heard at school:

    "Now the day is over,
      Night is drawing nigh,
    Shadows of the ev'ning
      Steal across the sky."

Paul listened reverently, with bowed head. How appropriate the words
seemed to be. In very truth had the shadows been stealing across the sky
that evening, and they had not yet dispersed. Brockman, the man without,
was still hovering darkly, like a cloud, over that house. Again the
singers within raised their voices:

    "Through the long night-watches,
      May Thine angels spread
    Their white wings above us,
      Watching round each bed."

Paul echoed those words very earnestly in his heart as his hand clasped
tightly the letter for which he had risked so much. The room was an
addition to the house, and led by a separate door into the garden. When
the singing had ended, Paul stepped softly to the door and knocked
gently on it with his knuckles. It was opened by one of the servants.
The light of the lamp fell upon Paul as the door opened, and the eyes of
all in the room turned to him as he stood there, with the letter in his
hand.

"Can I see Mr. Moncrief?"

"I am Mr. Moncrief. What is it you want with me, my lad?" said that
gentleman stepping forward.

[Illustration: "'I AM MR. MONCRIEF,' SAID THAT GENTLEMAN, STEPPING
FORWARD."]

"I've brought a letter from your brother, Mr. Henry Moncrief. He
couldn't bring it himself, because of an accident----"

"An accident?"

"Nothing very serious, sir. A sprain, I think. He asked me to take the
letter for him, and as he's the father of a school chum of mine, Stan
Moncrief; I brought it along, and here it is," Paul explained rapidly,
as he handed Mr. Moncrief the letter.

Paul had by this time entered the room. Directly Mr. Moncrief glanced at
the letter his face became very grave. He went from the room, and his
wife followed him, evidently as anxious as himself to know the contents.
The servants retired, and Paul was thus left alone with the boy and
girl.

There was not the least shyness about the former, for directly his
parents left the room, he came forward and introduced himself.

"I'm Harry Moncrief--named after the uncle you brought that letter from.
He was my godfather, you know. This is my sister, Connie." Connie, who
was a pretty, fair girl, looked embarrassed at her brother's blunt
method of introduction, but he rattled on. "Rather good for a girl. Not
so slow as most of them. Can take a turn with the bells or clubs"--by
bells and clubs was meant dumb-bells and Indian-clubs--"and she can
scout at cricket. Didn't I hear you say you were a chum of cousin
Stanley's?"

"Yes; we're in the same Form."

"What--at Garside School?" asked the boy eagerly.

Paul nodded.

"Hurrah!--hurrah!" cried Harry. "I'm going to Garside next term. I've
left Gaffer Quelch's, thank goodness!"--Gaffer Quelch's was a college
for juvenile scholars in the neighbourhood--"and I'm going to see life
at Garside."

Paul could not help smiling at the boy's idea of "seeing life," and the
high and exalted notion he seemed to have of Garside.

"Do you know young Plunger? He used to be my chum at Quelch's, but he
left there a term ago, and went to Garside. That's another reason I'm
going there. Things are awfully slow at Quelch's since Plunger left He's
a big pot at Garside, isn't he?"

"Very," answered Paul drily.

Paul knew young Plunger well enough. He was in one of the junior Forms.
Though he had been at Garside only a term, he had almost succeeded in
creating a record for the number of scrapes into which he had got during
that short period.

"Cousin Stan being so high up in the school, I don't want to let him
down, you know, by making any mistakes when I get to Garside," Harry
rattled on. "I want to do things in correct form, you see; for if I let
myself down, I let Stan down. So I asked Plunger the right thing to do
on going to Garside. Plunger's an awfully good sort of fellow, so he
took the trouble to write down for me what ought to be done; but I
wasn't to show it to any one here, for some of the things are school
secrets, he tells me."

Connie had discreetly withdrawn from the room, leaving Paul and her
brother together. The latter, however, glanced round to make sure they
were quite alone before he drew from his pocket the mysterious document
which Plunger had written for his instruction on entering Garside
School.

"1. Trousers to be turned up at bottom three inches.

"2. Spats on boots (patents).

"3. White waistcoat. Eton jacket.

"4. Introduce yourself to Bax, the porter, by giving him two slaps on
the back and a dig with right-hand forefinger in ribs. Give him
following particulars: Age and weight. Whether vaccinated--show marks.
Give also measurement of biceps and chest.

"5. On seeing Mrs. Trounce (matron) go down on right knee, and present
her with your portrait (for school album). Write on bottom of card, in
clear handwriting, 'With love and kind regards.'

"6. Two shillings to be left at Billiter's for 'footing,' etc."

Paul could scarcely refrain from smiling at the code of rules which the
audacious Plunger had drawn up for his chum's instruction, the more so
as Harry, who had never been to a public school, seemed to take them in
all seriousness.

"You've been through it all, of course?" said Harry, as Paul handed the
rules back to him. "Kind of Plunger to take so much trouble, isn't it?"

Paul was on the point of answering as Mr. Moncrief entered the room.

Harry hastily thrust the paper out of sight.




CHAPTER V

THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK


"What is your name, my lad?" Mr. Moncrief asked as he entered the room.

"Paul Percival," answered our hero.

"And he goes to the same school as Cousin Stan. Isn't that stunning,
pa?" exclaimed Harry Moncrief.

"Many thanks for the great service you have done, Paul," said Mr.
Moncrief earnestly. "You have not only done a great service for me and
my brother, but for your country. A duty like that brings its own
reward. But how was it you came by the back way?"

Paul then explained all that had happened since he had left Mr.
Moncrief's brother. The stoppage on the way by the two men who had tried
to wrest from him the letter, the death of poor Falcon, the loss of the
letter and its recovery, his arrival at Oakville, and his discovery that
Brockman was lying in wait for him at the house.

"The scoundrels!" cried Mr. Moncrief, with flashing eyes, as he paced
rapidly to and fro the room. Then, pausing again, he clasped Paul by the
hand.

"I gave you credit for a great deal, but I haven't given you half credit
enough. So long as you do your duty as you have done it to-night, you
have nothing to fear for the future. May God bless you, and have you
always in His keeping, as He has had to-night. I will return with you
home, and see that no harm befalls you by the way."

Mr. Moncrief had already given orders that his trap should be in
readiness as quickly as possible, and shortly after the servant entered
and announced that the coachman was awaiting his master.

"Good-bye, Paul! You'll look out for me at Garside, won't you?" cried
Harry, as he went out.

"Oh, yes, I'll look out for you!" said Paul, as he thought with a smile
of the instructions Plunger had given Harry on his introduction to
Garside School.

Mrs. Moncrief kissed Paul as she wished him good-night, just as his
mother did, and he could not help blushing. He wondered whether Connie
Moncrief would do the same, and was much relieved on finding that she
made no attempt to follow her mother's example.

Nothing was to be seen of the man Brockman when they got outside.

"He has smelt a rat, and when he found the horse was being harnessed,
got away as quickly as possible," said Mr. Moncrief. "We shan't be
troubled with him again to-night."

Mr. Moncrief's surmise turned out to be correct. No further adventure
befel them on the homeward journey. Paul learned, by the way, that the
man Zuker was a German Jew of great ability and cunning. He was
suspected to be a spy in the service of a foreign Government--which
Government Mr. Moncrief did not mention, but Paul guessed which was
meant.

The spy's purpose in coming to England was to ascertain all he could as
to the defences of the Thames and the Medway.

"Can't you have the man arrested?" Paul asked, deeply interested in all
he heard, and feeling more and more convinced that this man Zuker was
the spy whom his father had saved from the sea at the risk of his own
life.

"He's too adroit. He's one of the craftiest spies the Admiralty has ever
had to deal with. We can get no direct evidence against him. Neither do
we know his exact whereabouts. He's like some nasty slug--you can only
tell where he's been by the slime he leaves behind. Of course, he has
one or two confederates to help him."

"I trust they aren't Englishmen, sir?" said Paul.

"I trust so, too. But I fear there are still Judases in the land--men
who would betray their country, as Judas betrayed his Lord and Master,
for money, though the price would be a great deal more than thirty
pieces of silver. Our enemies would give a great deal to get a draft of
some of the plans in the archives of the Admiralty, I can tell you,
Paul."

By this time they had reached Paul's home, to the great relief of Mrs.
Percival and Mr. Henry Moncrief, who had begun to fear that some mishap
had befallen Paul by the way. By the latter's request nothing was said
to his mother about the peril in which he had stood, for fear of
alarming her.

The two brothers had a short interview together. Then, as Mr. Henry
Moncrief's leg was still painful, it was decided that he should remain
at Rosemore--Paul's home--that night, and return to his own home the
next morning. His brother returned to Oakville that same night.

The next morning a carriage came for Mr. Henry Moncrief, to which he was
able to limp by the assistance of a manservant.

"I shan't regret the accident which has introduced me to you and your
son, madam," said he, as he wished Paul and his mother good-bye through
the carriage window. "I have to thank you for your hospitality, and him
for the great service he has done me. God bless him and you!"

It was almost an echo of words Paul had heard before, but they fell none
the less sweetly on his ears. That night he dreamed he was hard at work
on the prize essay, "The Invasion of Great Britain," and that just as he
had finished it, a shadow fell across the room. He turned round to see
whence the shadow came, and saw that it was--Zuker! Then he melted into
thin air. When Paul turned to his essay he found that that had
disappeared, too. In the shock of the discovery he awoke. Some one was
bending over him, but it was not Zuker. It was his mother.

"What is it, dear?" she asked anxiously. "You cried out so loudly that I
thought something dreadful had happened."

"Cried out! What?"

"Help! help!"

"Oh," said Paul, laughing, but shivering in spite of himself, "I was
dreaming--that is all! I'm sorry to have disturbed you, mother."

The day following, the vacation was at an end, and Paul returned to
Garside. It was an old, turreted building, dating a couple of centuries
back. Flying from the west turret was a flag, known as the "old flag at
Garside." It had a history which was dear to every boy in the school. It
had been taken by Captain Talbot in the Crimea. The captain had formerly
been a scholar at Garside. He died soon after of his wounds, and left
the flag as a legacy to the school.

"Keep the flag flying at the old school," he said, almost with his last
breath. And then God received his spirit.

The flag was very much stained, and had scarcely any of the original
pattern remaining; but, none the less, the boys were prouder of that
flag than any other decoration in the school.

Just as Paul came in sight of it flying from the turret, a timid voice
sounded in his ear:

"Is that Garside, please?"

Paul, looking down at the speaker, saw a weak-looking, wizen-faced boy,
with pale, thin cheeks, and one shoulder slightly higher than the other.
In a word, he was a hunchback. Paul could not help a slight start as he
looked at him. The boy was quick to notice it, and a slight wave of
colour came to the pallid cheek. Paul was annoyed at himself for having
betrayed astonishment, and answered kindly:

"Yes; that is Garside. Are you going there?"

The boy nodded.

"Very well; we'll go along together. Do you mind taking my arm? The
fellows are rather a rough lot till you get to know them. Your first
term, isn't it?"

The boy looked his gratitude as Paul took him by the arm.

"Yes; my first term," he said.

"Do you know anybody at the school?"

"Nobody. I'm quite a stranger."

He spoke with a foreign accent, and Paul wondered who he could be. At
the same time he could not help pitying the solitary boy. He would have
rather a sorry time of it amongst the other "Gargoyles."

"Well, youngster"--a junior was always "a youngster" in the eyes of his
senior--"if I can be of help to you at any time, don't be afraid to come
to me. What is your name?"

"Hibbert--Tim Hibbert. And--and if you don't mind, I'd like to know
yours?"

Paul told him his name, and they entered the grounds together. A number
of the boys had already arrived. Some stood in small groups, talking and
laughing about incidents that had happened during the vacation. Others
were playing at leapfrog, or chasing each other from pillar to post.

Those nearest to the gates paused in their games as Paul entered, and
stared at the hunchback. Newall, a senior, said something about
"Percival and his camel." The remark was as cruel as offensive. Paul did
not mind for himself, but he did for his companion. He glanced at
Hibbert, and again noticed the delicate colouring mount to the pale
cheek. He had evidently caught the sense of Newall's remark, too.

"They have rough speech as well as rough ways, haven't they?" the boy
remarked quietly.

"Some of them--yes; but you mustn't mind that. They're not such a bad
lot, take them altogether."

Newall was one of the most arrogant boys at Garside. He had a rough
tongue, and loved to domineer. You will always find your Newalls in
every public school, no matter where it be. They are terrors to the
nervous, sensitive boy; but they always succeed in attracting to
themselves followers, lads of like dispositions to themselves.

Paul knew well enough that Newall intended the remark for his benefit,
but he paid no heed to it. He looked round the ground in the hope of
finding Stanley Moncrief, but saw nothing of him.

"Perhaps he's gone to meet that young cousin of his," he
said to himself, as his mind went back to Oakville, and the
never-to-be-forgotten evening on which he had met Harry Moncrief.
Hibbert wished to be taken to Mr. Weevil the science master, as he was
to receive his introduction to the school through that gentleman.

Paul accordingly took him to Mr. Weevil's rooms. He was fortunate enough
to find the master in. He was a sallow-complexioned man, with thin,
clean-shaven lips. He had a restless, hungry-looking pair of eyes, which
went up quickly to Paul as he entered the room.

"What is it, Percival?"

"I've brought along a new boy, sir--Hibbert."

"Hibbert?" Mr. Weevil at once rose from his seat, and eyed the boy
keenly; then his hand went out to the lad: "Welcome to Garside. You can
leave us, Percival."

Thus summarily dismissed, Paul went out, leaving Hibbert and the science
master together. It seemed as though the master were favourably
impressed with the new boy--in spite of the fact that he was a
hunchback.

"Bravo, Weevil! That's a point in your favour, at any rate. I didn't
think that you had much pity for any one. Poor little chap!"

His heart went out in sympathy to the little hunchback. What a shadow
his deformity must cast upon his life?

"They say that hunchbacks are spiteful, and I don't wonder at it. But
Hibbert doesn't seem a spiteful sort of fellow. Where did he pick up
that foreign accent, I wonder?"

As he thought of him, he could not help thinking how thankful he ought
to be to God that he was healthy and straight of limb. It was not till
he came in contact with poor, deformed creatures like Tim Hibbert that
he understood God's goodness to himself.

    "Not more than others I deserve,
    Yet Thou hast given me more,"

he said softly to himself as he returned to the ground.

He had not gone far before he saw Stanley Moncrief coming towards him.
He was about Paul's age and height, with a like ruddy complexion, and
frank, open face. The two chums were delighted to meet again,
especially as so much had happened since their last meeting. Arm in arm
they walked about the ground talking eagerly, when their conversation
was suddenly interrupted by a shout of laughter from the other end of
the ground.

"I say, Paul, that looks very much like my young cousin coming towards
us," said Stanley, looking in the direction whence the laughter came.
"What on earth has the little ass been doing with himself?"




CHAPTER VI

HARRY MONCRIEF ARRIVES AT GARSIDE


Well might Stanley ask the question. His young cousin had attired
himself in the most extraordinary fashion. His trousers--plaid
ones--were turned up three or four inches at the bottom, as though for
the purpose of displaying to the utmost advantage the white spats on his
patent shoes, while surmounting the lower half of him was a gorgeous
white waistcoat, cutaway jacket, and tall hat. Paul could not help
smiling, for he at once saw the reason of this remarkable attire. Young
Moncrief had followed out precisely the instructions sent him by his
friend Plunger.

"He seems to have got himself up regardless of expense, Stan," smiled
Paul. "He means making an impression on the school. But you needn't
scowl so, old fellow. It's all done for your sake. He thinks it the
correct form, and doesn't want to let you down."

"Correct form--don't want to let me down!" repeated Stanley, bewildered.
"What on earth are you driving at?"

Thereupon Paul related to Stanley the conversation he had had with Harry
on the day he had visited Oakville, and the mysterious document he had
shown him from Plunger as to the correct way to dress, and what to do on
entering Garside.

"And the little soft has nibbled at Plunger's bait," laughed Stanley.
"It isn't a bad joke, and I suppose I mustn't spoil it."

So Stanley and Paul kept out of the way of the throng of boys who, with
Harry Moncrief in their midst, were making their way across the grounds
in the direction of the schoolhouse. Harry, with his arm linked in
Plunger's--a dark boy, with mischief-sparkling eyes--seemed quite
unconscious of the fact that the boys were laughing at him.

"Bax is busy with some of the other freshers," Plunger was saying; "so
you'd better get over your introduction to Mrs. Trounce, and we'll hunt
up old Bax after."

"All right, Freddy," answered Harry, quite elated at the thought that he
had at last entered a public school where there were boys bigger and
older than himself, and that he was being initiated into its mysteries
and ways. "After that I suppose I can find my cousin?"

"Oh, yes!"

"And there's a chum of his I met at home during the vac.--Paul Percival.
Do you know him?"

"Ra-ther. He's one of the seniors--in the same form as your cousin. I
didn't know that you knew him."

"I've only met him once, but I should like to meet him again. Pater
thinks no end of him."

"Oh, you'll see plenty of him at Garside--a good deal too much. Those
Upper Form fellows think no end of themselves, I can tell you. This way
to the divine Trounce. You haven't forgotten?"

"Of course not; I've got all the rules by heart. See, here's the photo."

He drew from his pocket a photograph of himself as he spoke, with some
writing on the bottom, which he handed to Plunger. The boys following
behind grew black in the face trying to choke down their laughter.

"Jolly good of you, Harry!" exclaimed Plunger, regarding the photograph
admiringly. "I didn't know you were such an awfully good-looking fellow.
Trounce will think a lot of it, I can tell you."

The matron's rooms were a modern addition to the school, at the end of
the building. Mrs. Trounce, who was at heart rather an amiable woman,
was busily engaged in her room sorting out an endless array of boys'
wearing apparel. Her motherly face, therefore, wore an unusually severe
and worried expression as the boys entered the room. The windows outside
were suddenly darkened with innumerable faces peering through the
window.

"I have the honour--the distinguished privilege," said Plunger, with an
elaborate bow to the matron, "of presenting to you Master Henry
Moncrief, of Oakville."

Upon this he gave Harry a nudge, and Harry promptly fell on his right
knee before the matron, and drawing from his pocket the photograph he
had just shown to Plunger, presented it to Mrs. Trounce with a bow, and
"Allow me, madam."

A titter came from the faces pressed against the windows outside. Mrs.
Trounce took the photograph. The severity of her face did not relax, nor
did it soften when, looking from the photograph, she saw the words
beneath it, "With love and kind regards."

She looked for the moment as though she were about to administer to
Harry a sound box on the ears, but, altering her mind, she bestowed it
instead on the ears of Master Plunger.

"With my love and kind regards, Master Plunger!" she exclaimed.

The titters outside grew louder.

"Oh, thanks--so much!" said Plunger, with his hand to his ear at this
totally unexpected reception, which he had anticipated to be the portion
of his chum. "Come along, Harry; we won't waste any more of Mrs.
Trounce's time. She's very busy. I'll show you your sleeping quarters,
and then we'll hunt up Bax."

He beat a hasty retreat from the room, half anticipating that if he
stayed longer the matron might seek to balance matters by boxing the
other ear.

"Why did she do that, Freddy?" asked Harry, when they had got safely
from the room.

"It was your photo that did it, Hal; that's quite certain. I noticed how
she changed colour when she looked at it. It must have reminded her of
some unhung scoundrel she's met with in the course of her career, and
she took it out of me. She knows I like to suffer for my friends. That's
my great weakness. I hope you'll make a better impression on Bax."

He led the way as he spoke through a winding passage and up the
staircase to the dormitories. He entered one on the door of which was
painted "E." It was a good-sized room, with six cubicles, side by side,
with their heads to the windows. Over each was a text of Scripture,
while on a larger card, at one end of the dormitory, in illuminated
letters, were the words, "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet." At the other
end was a corresponding card, on which was printed, "Motto for the year,
'Be ye stedfast, unmovable.--1 Cor. xv. 58.'"

"There's your cubicle--next to mine; so that'll be jolly," said Plunger,
pointing to a couple of beds at the end of the room. "The other fellows
in the dorm. are Baldry, Sedgefield, and Viner."

"But that only makes three. There are four beds."

"Oh, yes! The fourth bed was Mellor's, but his pater took him away for
some reason or other last term. He's gone over to the enemy."

"The enemy?"

"Don't you know who the enemy is? The Beetles--the bounders at St.
Bede's. Pretty saints they are, too! You'll know enough of them before
you've finished here, I warrant. They call us 'Gargoyles.' Cheeky
bounders, aren't they?"

Before Hal had finished there! Lightly the words were spoken. Neither
paid much heed to them. But how much was to happen before Hal Moncrief
had finished at Garside. Neither could see into the future--behind that
veil which young and old are ever trying to peer through, but which God
in His infinite love and mercy keeps ever close drawn. That lamp of
His--the lamp of which the card spoke at the end of the dormitory--is
for ever burning, however, and there is no fear of our footsteps
stumbling so long as we walk by its light. Then the dark veil which
hides the future need have no terror for us, boys and girls; for we know
that when it is at last lifted it will only reveal to us the still
greater light beyond.

"Baldry and Sedgefield are decent fellows. I don't care much for Viner.
He's rather deep, and does fagging now and then for Newall--a chap in
the same form as your cousin. By the by, don't mention Newall to your
cousin. It's like waving a red flag before a mad bull. They're this
way."

He crossed his two forefingers as he spoke, as an indication of Stanley
and Newall's attitude to each other.

Hal pondered over this information for a moment. His cousin, then, had
his enemies? By the brief glimpse which Plunger had given him of the
life at Garside, he could see that it was not all plain sailing. There
were deeper currents than any he had seen at Gaffer Quelch's school. The
waves beat with stronger force, and there were shoals and rocks.

"Who'll take the empty bed? Will it be left empty?"

"There's not much fear of that. I wish there would, but they're sure to
put some fresher in it. I hope he's a decent chap, that's all! If he
isn't, we must make it warm for him. But come along, let's get outside!"

They turned to the door, but as they did so it opened, and Mr. Weevil
entered, followed by Hibbert, the weak little hunchback, whom we have
already met with in the grounds. The deep-set eyes of the science master
went to Plunger, from Plunger to Hal, whom he had never seen before.

"Who are you? What are you doing here, sir?"

He spoke in a sharp, quick voice, and Harry knew at once that he was in
the presence of one of the masters, and the same instinct somehow told
him that the master was Mr. Weevil, of whom he had heard, but never
seen.

"I'm Harry Moncrief, cousin of Stanley Moncrief, sir."

"Oh!" The master half closed his eyes as he spoke. Hal thought that he
was going off to sleep as he stood there. Plunger knew better. He knew
that Mr. Weevil had the habit of seeing a good deal more through his
half-closed eyes than when they were wide open, and that he was taking
"full stock"--a mental inventory--of Harry. He kept them closed for so
long that Harry felt more and more certain that he was going to sleep.
When he thought he was right off, the master startled him by opening
them to their widest extent, as much as to say, "Thought me napping, did
you? But I'm not! I'm awake!--wide awake!--very much awake!"

"Glad to meet you!" he said in a softer voice. "Trust you will get on
well at Garside. Your father is a gentleman of some distinction. I hope
you will follow in his footsteps. This is Hibbert"--introducing the
hunchback. "He also is a new boy. I trust you will be friends--close
friends. He has no friends or relatives in England. His father is abroad
on foreign service. That appeals to your sympathy, as it has appealed to
mine--does it not?--and will draw you closer to Hibbert. He will occupy
this dormitory--the bed vacated by Mellor." Then, turning to Hibbert: "I
hope you will prove more loyal to Garside than your predecessor--Mellor,
I mean--and that you will endeavour, along with Moncrief here, to keep
up the best traditions of Garside. You see our motto for the year"--he
pointed to the motto as he spoke--"'Be ye stedfast, unmovable.'"

"Yes, sir."

"Keep to that, and you won't go far wrong."

When he had given this advice, the master left the dormitory with
Hibbert, who, occupied in observing his new quarters and companions, had
not spoken during the interview.

"A queer sort of chap, our new bedfellow, isn't it, Freddy?"

"And Weevil's a beastly fraud!" said Plunger, with a shrug of the
shoulders. "But, come, we must hurry up! You haven't yet been introduced
to good old Bax."

Soon they were in the grounds again. The same crowd of boys that had
followed them to the matron's was hanging about the door as they went
out, and began tittering again as Harry came in sight.

Harry did not notice them, nor did he notice the wink that Plunger gave
them as he glanced in their direction.

"Great Scott!" he suddenly exclaimed. "There's Bax! Hurry up, Hal!"

And, linking his arm in Harry's, he hurried him in the direction of a
short, somewhat corpulent man in buttons, who was just coming from the
lodge.

"Is it the porter?" asked Harry.

"Yes, the porter. You haven't forgotten the rules? Hurry up!"




CHAPTER VII

A BAD COMMENCEMENT FOR THE TERM


No need to tell Harry to hurry up. He was as anxious to introduce
himself to the porter as Plunger could have been. So, running forward,
he quickly gained the porter's side, and brought his hand down twice,
vigorously, upon that worthy's shoulder, and, before Bax had recovered
from his astonishment, dug the forefinger of his right hand sharply into
his side, exclaiming:

"How do you do, Mr. Bax? Age, twelve--just turned; weight, five stone
ten; biceps, eight inches; chest, twenty-eight; vaccinated, three
places!"

The little porter grew purple in the face. He gasped for breath. When he
had recovered, he returned the vigorous slaps he had received upon the
back by a still more vigorous slap upon the head of Harry.

"Vaccinated in three places, are you, young gent. That will vaccinate
you in four. Don't get practising any of your larks on Bax. He's not the
one to stand it, young gent."

And, so saying, the porter strutted indignantly off. Harry had reeled
under the vigorous blow of the porter; but just before he recovered, a
hand came down on his top-hat, and crushed it over his ears, while a
voice cried, amid roars of laughter, "Vaccinated in four places!"

As Harry with difficulty drew himself from under the crushed hat, he
found himself confronted by the boy who had crushed it. It was Robert
Newall--the boy who had taunted the hunchback. He was a big,
strong-looking fellow, with sandy hair, prominent nose, prominent teeth,
and bold, self-confident face.

"Vaccinated in four places!" repeated Newall, with a mocking laugh.
"What asylum have you escaped from, kiddie?"

"Who are you? What did you do that for?" gasped Harry indignantly,
smoothing out his hat, and looking round helplessly for his friend
Plunger. But now that one of the Senior Form had taken up the baiting,
Plunger had been compelled to give way to him. He was only a cipher in
the mob of laughing, jeering boys who had gathered round Harry.

"Chest, twenty-eight inches. What a Samson it is!" jeered Newall. "All
your own?" He tapped Harry smartly on the chest with his knuckles, as
though he were testing it. "Yes, genuine article. You're a wonder--a
perfect wonder! And what's the biceps! Eight inches! Why, it's a regular
Hercules! It isn't every day that a marvel like you comes to Garside; so
walk round and show your muscle, kid."

Harry now saw that they were poking fun at him. His face was scarlet; he
was quivering with indignation. He was choking. The tears seemed very
near the floodgates. It was only with a strong effort he kept them back.
He did not answer his tormentor, but stared at him blank-eyed.

"Did you hear what I said?" went on Newall. "Come, wake up--walk!"

With a flip of his hand he sent the hat which Harry had been trying to
smooth out whirling amongst the throng of boys. There was a shriek of
laughter as the hat was caught, and sent whirling in turn to another
part of the throng. This was the finishing stroke to Harry. He burst
into a flood of passionate tears. The public school boy holds in
contempt the boy who cries. He regards it as girlish, unmanly.

"Oh, the fresher's a soft!" came from one in the throng.

"A soft, a soft!" passed from lip to lip. Plunger alone was dumb. He had
not wished that the joke which he had begun at Harry's expense should go
so far; but now that it had been taken from his hands he was powerless
to stop it.

"Oh, it's a squealer--a dear little squealer! Has it brought its bib and
tuck and feeding-bottle?" went on Newall, amid the laughter of his
companions.

Harry tried to choke back the scalding tears, which were coursing down
his cheeks.

"You're--you're a cruel brute!" came bursting from his lips.

"Oh, the little squealer's got a tongue, and it can speak! Come, come,
walk!"

Harry did not stir. So Newall gave him a push which sent him over to one
side of the throng, where another push sent him quickly back again. The
sport was only at its commencement, when it was suddenly checked by
Stanley Moncrief forcing his way through the throng, closely followed by
Paul Percival.

They had been in the fives court while Plunger and Harry had been inside
the schoolhouse, and it was not till their return to the ground that
they caught sight of the throng of boys, of which Harry was the centre.
On making their way towards it, Paul soon saw what was happening.

"They're baiting a fresher!" he exclaimed.

"And it's my young cousin!" cried Stanley.

He had no objection to a little fun at Harry's expense. Indeed, it was
the ordeal which every new-comer to Garside had to go through in some
form or other. But this seemed more than fun--more than a joke.
Otherwise, his cousin would not be in tears. And it was not only the
sight of his cousin in tears--it was the sight of his tormentor--Newall,
whom he cordially disliked.

"Stop that!" he cried, with flashing eyes and clenched fists, as he
reached the centre of the throng. "He's my cousin!"

"Oh, your cousin, Moncrief!" answered Newall, resenting this intrusion
on Stanley's part. "Nice little girl, isn't she? Heard her squeal?"

At a gesture from him, Viner--one of the boys who belonged to the
dormitory in which Harry had been placed--stooped down at the back of
the unsuspecting lad. Newall gave him a sudden push, with the result, of
course, that he came to the ground over Viner's back. Unfortunately his
head struck on the gravel, and when he scrambled to his feet again
blood was flowing freely from a cut in his head.

Stanley Moncrief was a quick, hot-tempered lad, and his temper was now
thoroughly aroused. Before Paul could check him, he sprang at Newall,
when he saw what had happened to his cousin. The two wrestled for a
moment, then separated.

Paul stepped in to stop fighting, but before he could do so Stanley had
shot out his arm blindly. It passed over Paul's shoulder, caught Newall
on the mouth, and sent him reeling to the ground.

Angry passions thus roused, it is impossible to say how the quarrel
would have ended; but Mr. Weevil appeared on the scene, just as Newall
had leapt to his feet, eager to return the blow Stanley had given him.

"What does this mean?" he demanded sternly. "Fighting?"

Not a word fell from the boys. The tumult had ceased as by magic.

"Do you hear me? I will stand no trifling! A nice commencement of the
term. Taking advantage of the absence of Dr. Colville, eh?" came the
stern voice of the science master, as his eyes went round the group. Dr.
Colville, the Head of Garfield, had been taken ill during the vacation,
and had been ordered complete rest from his duties for another month or
so by his medical adviser. In his absence the reins of government had
fallen into the hands of Mr. Weevil, as second in command.

Still no answer from the boys. They were as silent as before. It seemed
as though they had been smitten with sudden dumbness.

"Lost your tongues, eh? They were going briskly enough a minute since!"
went on the master grimly. Then he paused, and fixed his eyes upon
Stanley. "Moncrief major! It was you who started this disturbance. You
struck Newall!"

"Yes, sir, I struck Newall," assented Stanley.

"Why?"

"Ask Newall, sir."

"I am asking you, sir!" came the sharp retort. "Why did you strike
Newall? Quick, your answer!"

Stanley waited for Newall to speak; but Newall's lips, bleeding and
swollen from the blow, were tightly compressed. He scarcely heard the
master's words. He could only think of the blow he had received. It was
rankling in his mind, and turning to bitter hate the ill-feeling that
already existed between him and Stanley. It was the first seed of hate
that in the time to come was to bring forth a bitter harvest of tares.
Ah, boys, beware of the first seeds of hate! Pluck them from you, as you
would your hand from the fire. Otherwise they will spring up so quickly
that they will wind themselves, like poisonous weeds, round every fibre
of your being, blighting and strangling all the better impulses of your
nature, killing, above all, the choicest blossom that comes to us from
the Divine garden--the blossom of love. Where hate flourishes, love
cannot be. There is no room for the two. Never since the world began
have they ever flourished side by side--never since the seeds of hate
were planted by the serpent in the first garden, the Garden of Eden.
Beware, then, of the seeds of hate!

From a fine sense of honour, Stanley remained silent. Now that he had
struck Newall he had no wish to implicate him. He began to feel some
pity for him as he saw the blood slowly trickling from his mouth.

"Am I to understand that you refuse to speak, Moncrief?" demanded Mr.
Weevil angrily. Stanley remained obstinately silent.

"Perhaps you will allow me to explain, sir!" began Paul.

Instantly Mr. Weevil swung round to him.

"Not a word, sir! Have the goodness to speak when you're spoken to. The
explanation must first come from Moncrief. If he has not yet learned the
lesson of obedience, he must begin to learn it. When he has given me his
explanation, I shall be quite willing to hear whatever else has to be
said. Now, Moncrief, I am waiting. It is your last chance."

He waited, but Stanley remained obstinately silent. Mr. Weevil's sallow
face darkened.

"Very well; I'm very sorry, but I must teach you that I'm not to be
defied simply because Dr. Colville is away. I must teach you that I
mean to be obeyed during his absence. Perhaps a few hours in Dormitory X
will bring you to your senses."

Dormitory X--a shortened form for "Extra Dormitory"--was a dormitory
apart from all the rest in which, on rare occasions, a pupil was
confined. It was not, as Mr. Weevil had said, a very good commencement
for the term; but Stanley saw that it was useless rebelling, so he
submitted to his fate as cheerfully as he could.

"You haven't acted very well over this matter," said Paul, crossing over
to where Newall was standing, as Stanley walked away a prisoner.

"Acted very well!" exclaimed Newall, all the passion that had been
rankling within him surging up. "How do you mean?"

"You ought to have spoken up. Moncrief was waiting for you to speak."

"Speak!" cried Newall contemptuously. "Why should I have spoken? I
didn't want to speak. All I wanted was to get that blow back that
Moncrief gave me; and I'll have it back yet, if--if I die for it!"

He turned on his heel and walked away. There was so much passion and
hatred in the words that even the lightest-hearted amongst the boys were
impressed by them.

"Newall's got his dander up," said Sedgefield, a rather good-looking,
fair boy, another of the occupants of Harry's dormitory. "And Weevil
looked as though he meant business. What a start for the term!"

They strayed away one by one. Paul, turning over in his mind what had
happened, thought he was alone. But presently he was conscious that some
one was standing by his side. It was Harry Moncrief.

"Have you forgotten me, Percival?" the boy asked timidly, for his
confidence in himself had been shaken by the events of the last
half-hour.

"Oh, no; I beg pardon for not speaking to you. I'm glad to see you at
Garside."

"And I--I'm beginning to be very sorry that I ever came here. I've made
an ass of myself, and got Stan into a mess in the bargain. What's to be
done?"

"Nothing--just yet. It won't hurt Stanley to be by himself a little
while. I'm as much to blame as anybody, perhaps, as I ought to have put
you on your guard against Plunger. But it's bad form here to spoil the
fun of any one, and that is why I was silent. We shall all survive it.
It doesn't hurt us to be laughed at sometimes. Most of us have had our
turn at it; so don't be down in the mouth."

He linked his arm in Harry's, and under the influence of Paul's cheerful
talk the younger boy threw off the depression that had begun to steal
over him, and was more cheerful. And all the time he was speaking a
strong resolve was silently forming in Paul's breast. Whatever happened
he would visit Stanley in Dormitory X that night!




CHAPTER VIII

FOR THE SAKE OF A CHUM


Nine--half-past! The clock in the tower had chimed the half-hour when
lights were out in Paul's dormitory. In the senior dormitories there
were only four beds--two less than in the junior. In that where Paul
slept there were, therefore, three other occupants beside
himself--Stanley Moncrief, Waterman, and Parfitt.

Parfitt was not on particularly good terms with most of the fellows. He
was one of Newall's cronies. Waterman was an easy-going fellow, who was
on friendly terms with everybody, so long as they did not disturb him
too much. He was one of those indolent boys, with plenty of talent, if
they only care to exercise it. The disposition to do so, however, only
came by fits and starts. In another respect, too, he was like a great
many other boys--ay, and girls, too--and that was--he would often go to
a great deal more pains to avoid a difficulty than it would have caused
him by boldly facing it. So true is the proverb that lazy people often
take most pains.

Ten o'clock! Paul looked from his bed. There was the bed in which
Stanley ought to have been sleeping--empty! Next to that, Waterman. He
had been asleep for some time. Beyond his bed was Parfitt's.

Was he sleeping? Paul was not quite certain, but he thought he was. It
would be better to wait a little longer, however. There was no hurry.

He could see in outline, on the wall beyond Parfitt's bed, the motto for
the year, "Be ye stedfast, unmovable." He liked that motto. It had
appealed to him when he had first seen it on the wall, and he had often
repeated it to himself since. He had repeated it frequently to himself
that night.

"Be ye stedfast"--stedfast to his friend.

The empty bed beside him made him sad. Stan ought to have been resting
there. By the stern decree of Mr. Weevil he had been turned from his
bed, and was at that moment a prisoner, in solitary confinement. For
what? Simply because he had refused to speak. Oh, it was bitterly
unjust. If any one ought to have been sent to Dormitory X it was Newall,
but he had escaped without even a word of blame.

Half-past ten! Paul listened again. He felt certain that Parfitt was at
last sleeping; so he slipped out of bed as he had slipped into it--with
his trousers and stockings on. He drew on his coat; opened the dormitory
door, and glanced along the corridor. As he did so, the figure in the
end bed moved, and glanced in the direction of Paul; then breathed hard,
as though it were sleeping.

Paul, unconscious that Parfitt had seen him, passed into the corridor.
Dormitory X was in the room next to that occupied by Mr. Weevil, on the
floor above. Paul crept up the stairs. They seemed to creak horribly,
but it was the silence of the building that magnified the sound to
Paul's ears. He glanced along the passage. A light was still burning in
Mr. Weevil's room. He could see it stealing faintly through a crack in
the door.

"Studying late. Trying some scientific experiment, I expect. The fellows
say that he burns the midnight oil a lot. That's what gives him such a
sleepy look sometimes, I suppose. No wonder he's such a dab at science."

Paul knew that it was useless to try to get to Stanley along the
passage. He might succeed in getting past the master's room, but what
then? The door would be locked, and he could not pass through a locked
door. Dormitory X had a window looking on to the parapet outside, and it
was by this window he hoped to gain Stanley's room. There was a small
lavatory at the end of the corridor, and this likewise had a window
leading to the roof.

"Be stedfast!" he whispered to himself, as he climbed through the window
to the parapet. It was a rash thing to do--a wrong thing. Though Paul
might have questioned the justice of what Mr. Weevil had done in putting
his chum in Dormitory X., he had no right, from a chivalrous feeling of
friendship, to run the risk of a foolhardy adventure at night. But Paul
thought that he was right, and that, by visiting Stanley, he was
interpreting in the best way he could the school motto, "Be stedfast."

There were but few stars in the heavens as he stepped on to the parapet.
The wind blew freshly, and the clouds were scurrying quickly across the
moon. It was a plain Gothic parapet, in keeping with the time-worn
building. It rose a couple of feet above the gutter, and the latter, in
turn, was nearly of the same width; so that there was not much
difficulty in walking along it to the dormers.

Glancing along the gutter, Paul saw that the light was still burning in
Mr. Weevil's room. The window beyond was in darkness. That was where
Stanley was? Would it be possible for him to reach it without being seen
by Mr. Weevil? He meant trying. Stealing cautiously along the gutter, he
stopped within a yard or so of the master's window.

What was that? The sound of voices, and it came from Mr. Weevil's room.

"Chewing over science with one of the other masters," thought Paul.
"It's jolly late to be talking that dry stuff. But hanged if I don't
think Weevil talks it in his sleep; he's so hot on it. He ought to be
amongst the fossils in the museum. I don't believe he's got any warm
blood in him. He was never meant for a human being. Steady--steady."

He knelt on the gutter, and stretched himself along till he was just
able to peer into the room. A lamp was burning on the table, on which
were strewn a number of papers and documents. Over these two men were
leaning, as though they were earnestly discussing their contents.

"Some musty old parchments from the Assyrians or the lost Ten Tribes, I
expect," Paul told himself. "But who's the other fossil? I don't seem to
know him. Not one of the masters here."

He could not see either of the faces very clearly as they bent over the
documents; but one he knew to be Mr. Weevil's. The other was a
stranger's.

"Why doesn't he look up?" Paul asked himself, growing curious.

The man was tracing something with his finger on the document before
him, and Mr. Weevil was following the direction of his finger with the
closest attention. Presently the man raised his head. In spite of
himself Paul cried out. The men heard the cry, and he had only just time
to draw back as they turned to the window.

Paul lay there breathing hard. Would he be found out? His heart beat
violently as he heard footsteps approach the window. It was opened, and
the head of the master thrust out. Paul thought that he must be found
out. There seemed no help for it. He gave himself up for lost.
Fortunately, the light of the moon was quite obscured at this moment,
and Paul seemed only a part of the shadows that were flitting over
parapet and roof.

"It sounded very much like the cry of a human being," said the master,
peering out, "but it couldn't have been. It must have been the wind, or
a night-bird."

Then, to Paul's inexpressible relief, he heard the window close. Some
seconds elapsed, however, before he ventured to look up. He feared, in
spite of the closed window, to find the eyes of the master fixed upon
him. Should he turn back? No; that would be acting the coward's part.
Besides, he must catch another glimpse of the face he had seen.

Presently he heard the murmur of voices within, and knew that the two
had resumed their interrupted interview. So, taking his courage in both
hands, Paul peeped once more into the room.

Yes, he was sure of it. The man with whom Mr. Weevil was talking was
Israel Zuker, the German Jew--the man who had tried to wrest from him
Mr. Moncrief's letter--the man for whom he believed his father had
sacrificed his life!

Why had Zuker come there? Paul would have given a good deal to know what
the two were talking about, but not a word of their conversation reached
his ears. They were bending low, and spoke in little more than whispers.
For one thing, that was an advantage. They were so earnestly engaged in
conversation, that they were the less likely to notice anything that
happened outside. Paul therefore determined not to put off any longer
the effort to reach Stanley.

He crept quickly to the other side of the window, then waited. He could
still hear the hum of voices, so he felt sure that he had not been seen.

"Now for old Stan. I'm sure he won't be asleep."

Paul crept close to the window, and tapped on it with his nail.

"Who's there?" said Stanley.

The window was cautiously opened, and Paul slipped into the room.

"Paul! You don't mean to say it's you!" exclaimed Stanley as their hands
met in the darkness. "What's brought you here?"

"To see you, of course."

"Well, you can't see much of me, I'm thinking, by this precious light;
so, if you won't mind me saying it, old chap, it was silly of you to
come."

"No it wasn't. I couldn't bear the thought of your moping here by
yourself, and it was a ghastly shame of Weevil to send you."

"Oh, come to think of it quietly, he was right enough! I dare say I
could have got out of the pickle by speaking, but I was obstinate.
Solitude isn't so bad," he added cheerfully. "It helps you to chew the
cud of reflection."

"And a bitter cud it is sometimes. That's why I've come. It's better for
two to try their teeth on it than one."

"It's very good of you, Paul, coming to me. Is Harry all right?"

"Oh, he's all right, though he was rather cut up at your having to come
here for him. It's Newall you'll have to look out for. He won't be
satisfied till he's paid back that blow you gave him. He told me as
much."

"What did he say? Tell me the exact words."

"After you had gone away with Mr. Weevil, I told Newall what I
thought--that he had acted meanly in not speaking up. 'Why should I have
spoken?' he burst out. 'I didn't want to speak. All I wanted was to get
that blow back that Moncrief gave me; and I'll have it back, if I die
for it!'"

A sound of footsteps could be heard in the next room. In his desire to
console Stanley in his solitude, Paul had said nothing about what he had
seen in the master's room, though it had been uppermost in his mind all
the time he had been speaking to Stanley.

"Hallo! What's that? Weevil's guest on the move. Who is he, I wonder?"

"Hush! Not so loud!" cautioned Paul, clutching Stanley by the arm. "You
would never guess. You remember what happened to me on the night I took
that packet to Oakville?"

Paul had confided to his chum all that happened on that night.

"Don't I? And I'm not likely to forget it in a hurry. I only wish that
I'd been with you then, just as you're with me now. What about it?"

"What about it? Why, the man in the next room is Israel Zuker."

"Paul!" cried Stanley, rising to his feet in amazement.

"Hush--don't I tell you!"--again clutching him by the arm, and pressing
him to his former position. "Israel Zuker! I'm sure of it."

"But what can he want with Mr. Weevil, and what can Weevil want with
him?"

"Ask me another. That's what floors me. Listen! Weevil is letting him
out."

They remained perfectly silent, as they listened to the footsteps in the
passage; at first they were quite close, then they died away. Presently
they heard Mr. Weevil returning alone. He paused as he was on the point
of entering his own door, as though struck with an idea.

"What's he up to now?" whispered Paul.

They could hear the master enter the next room; then come out again. He
stopped at Dormitory X.

In another moment the light of a candle could be seen through a crevice
in the door, and a key was put in the lock.

"He's coming here!" exclaimed Stanley.




CHAPTER IX

GOOD ADVICE


Instantly Paul crept under the bed, while Stanley as quickly crept in.
Not an instant too soon, for the next moment the door opened and Mr.
Weevil, candle in hand, entered. He held the light up, and glanced round
the room; then came softly to the bed, and glanced down at Stanley.

Stanley feigned sleep, but directly the light fell on his face he
started up as though suddenly wakened, and, staring at the master with
bewildered eyes, cried:

"Where--where am I? What--what's the matter? Oh, it's Mr. Weevil. I beg
your pardon, sir; but you so startled me. Is anything wrong?"

"No; nothing wrong." Then the master added with a grim smile: "I only
wanted to see if you were quite--comfortable."

"As comfortable as one can be in a place like this, sir."

"It was your own fault you came here, remember, and it is an easy matter
for you to come out. I hope you've decided to give me an explanation
to-morrow of that disgraceful scene I witnessed in the grounds."

Stanley did not answer; and Mr. Weevil went out, locking the door once
more behind him. It was not till he had gained his room that Paul crept
from under the bed.

"I put him off the scent, didn't I?" whispered Stanley. "If I hadn't
started up like I did, he would have looked under the bed. I'm certain
he would."

"Very likely. The fat would have been in the fire then, with a
vengeance. But how about the explanation he asks for? Why not? A few
words will do it."

"It's not coming from me, if I stick here the term through," came the
dogged answer. "Let Newall speak first; I'll follow."

Paul knew that it was extremely difficult to move Stanley from his
purpose, when once he had decided on it. So he did not press the matter
further just then, hoping that the morning would bring some change in
the situation. His mind went back to the scene in the next room, and
Stanley's went in the same direction, for the next moment he changed the
subject by asking:

"How did Weevil get to know that man Zuker, I wonder?"

"That's what puzzles me. The only explanation I can see is that Weevil
came across him in his travels, and is rubbing up his German by talking
with him. Or perhaps they're interested in the same branch of science."

"It's rather a late hour to patter German or science, isn't it?"

The same thing occurred to Paul, but he could think of no other
explanation of the mystery.

"I wonder if the light's out now?"

Paul climbed to the dormer, and, gently opening the window, looked along
to that of the next room. It was now in darkness.

"Well, now you had better get back to your own bed," said Stanley, when
Paul had communicated to him the news.

"I've come here for a night's lodging, and you're not going to be so
hard-hearted as to turn me out."

Stanley did not speak--in fact, he would have found it difficult at that
moment. The fidelity of his friend appealed to him as few things could
have done. It made him feel awfully soft, like a big girl or one of the
kids in the junior forms. A senior schoolboy has always a great aversion
to the display of emotion. He has a notion that it's unmanly and weak;
so that when Stanley did speak he assumed a gruffness he was far from
feeling.

"Well, you're a muff--that's all I've got to say. I kick in my sleep
sometimes--fearfully; so if you should find yourself on the floor in the
night time, don't say that I haven't warned you."

Paul smiled as he coiled himself up by the side of his chum; and soon
they were fast asleep. Paul woke up at daybreak, and having expressed a
hope that he would see Stanley back in his place that day, returned
without mishap to his dormitory. The light was only just stealing into
the room as he entered. His three companions seemed to be sleeping as
placidly as they had done when he left them.

"I wonder if I've been missed?" he asked himself, as he looked at the
sleepers. "I don't think so."

Had he seen the figure in the end bed--the same that had watched him the
night before--open his eyes cautiously, and watch him curiously when his
back was turned, he would have come to a different conclusion. However,
he was just as unconscious that Parfitt was watching him as he had been
the night before. He lay down for another hour, then rose before first
bell had sounded, washed, dressed, and went out into the grounds.

Early as it was he found Harry Moncrief there before him. He wore rather
a dejected appearance.

"I've had a beastly night, Paul," he said, coming forward to greet him.
"I couldn't sleep thinking of Stan. It's the longest night I've ever
had, and all the other fellows were snoring like steam-engines, except
that new chap, Hibbert. I rather fancy Plunger had been playing pranks
with his bed, but he didn't shout out or take on; so he was pluckier
than I was. Do you think the fellows here will look down on me for
snivelling?"

"I cannot say. I hope so. Is young Hibbert out?"

"He's somewhere about the ground, I think."

Paul searched about the ground, but could see nothing of him. He turned
into the field adjoining, and there he found him, sitting on the trunk
of a tree, quite apart from the other boys, with his face resting on his
hands.

"He's just as soft as young Moncrief, but he's too proud to show it.
He's been crying, I know."

If the boy had been, he brushed away all sign of it when he heard Paul's
footsteps, and started quickly to his feet. The frightened look in his
eyes disappeared when he saw who it was. They grew quite bright in an
instant.

"What are you doing here, youngster?" said Paul kindly, placing a hand
upon the boy's shoulder. "You're not going to be a moper, are you? That
will never do."

"A moper? No; but I'm different, I think, from most other boys. God has
made me different, you see"--with a feeble attempt at a smile, as he
glanced at his shoulder, "I don't care for the games most boys care for,
and--and I like quiet places like this, away from the crowd."

Paul could not help a feeling of pity as he followed the boy's glance to
his deformed shoulder. He was acutely sensitive to his deformity, and
that, perhaps, was the main reason why he shrank from the society of
other boys--why he preferred solitude.

"Have the youngsters in your dormitory been ill-treating you?" he asked,
regarding Hibbert closely as he put the question.

"Oh, no!" came the quick answer. "They've had their fun, of course,
which I enjoyed as much as any of them. I never mind a joke--indeed I
don't; so don't think they put upon me."

Paul did not inquire what the jokes were. It was not well to inquire too
curiously into the jokes of the juniors. He had been through that mill
himself. Besides, though he pitied Hibbert, he didn't want to encourage
him to tell tales out of school, especially as the boy seemed averse to
the practice.

"You're a plucky little chap and as good as you're plucky, I'll
warrant."

"Good--good? No, don't say that!" cried Hibbert, so earnestly that Paul
could not help regarding him in wonder.

He stood with his thin hands pressed tightly into each other, so that
the nails seemed piercing into his flesh; and the eyes that looked into
Paul's were quite wild and restless. In that moment it flashed into
Paul's mind that he had seen eyes like Hibbert's before, but where he
could not for the life of him make out.

"Well, I won't say it if you don't like it," he laughed; "but you're the
first one I've ever met with who objected to being thought good. I won't
ruffle your feathers again. Come, let's get back to the ground!"

On entering the ground one of the first they came across was Newall,
along with his crony, Parfitt. Remembering the cruel jibe Newall had
flung at Hibbert on the previous day, and what had afterwards happened
between him and Stanley, Paul tried to avoid him. He felt as though he
could hardly trust himself in his presence. But Newall would not be
avoided. He came straight to them, and great was Paul's surprise when he
said:

"I think the advice you gave me yesterday was right enough, Percival. I
ought to have spoken when the master asked for an explanation of the
shindy between Moncrief and me. It might have saved him a night in that
solitary hole--Dormitory X. But I mean speaking up this morning."

"I'm very glad to hear it. I'm sure it's the right thing. Moncrief will
be as pleased as I am."

"Do you think so? Well, I'm glad of that; and I'm glad you think it's
the right thing. I've slept on it, and that's what it's come to. Do you
know, Percival, I'm beginning to think you an authority on the right
thing to do? Parfitt is of the same mind. We were talking it over as you
came up, so your ears must have been burning."

Paul regarded him quickly. Was he in jest or earnest? His face was
perfectly grave; so was the face of Parfitt.

"Thanks for your flattering opinion. I shall know exactly how much to
take to myself after you've spoken to Mr. Weevil."

In spite of the apparent frankness of his manner and sincerity of tone,
Paul could not help thinking that Newall was quietly mocking him--that
he had no intention whatever of speaking to the master.

"That's the boy who called me a dromedary," said Hibbert, as they turned
away. "I shan't forget him. He has a cruel face."

Hibbert spoke with more bitterness than Paul had yet heard from him, and
there was a sparkle in his eyes, which sometimes had so much pain in
them, that Paul had never seen in them before.

"Now, look here, youngster, if you're going to remember every rough word
you hear at Garside, you'll have to have a very good memory. So take my
advice, forget all the things that aren't worth remembering, and
remember only those that are. The jibe that fell from Newall isn't worth
remembering. It's one of the things to forget. Promise me that you'll
forget it?"

"I'll try, as you ask me," said the boy sincerely, "though it'll be
jolly hard. Things worth remembering! Yes, I know of one--your kindness.
I shall always remember that."

And before Paul could answer him he was gone.

"A queer little beggar!" thought Paul. "He's got a good heart, though,
in spite of the queer outside of him. Poor little chap, how lonely he
seems!"

Paul was more anxious than he had been for a long time for school to
begin that day. It seemed for the sole purpose of thwarting him that it
commenced later instead of earlier. Instead of commencing at the usual
hour only one of the masters out of the six entered as the clock struck
nine. Ten minutes elapsed, and still no masters. The boys commenced
talking in whispers. What had happened? Something was wrong. An accident
must have happened. Or could it be that the illness of the Head had
taken a turn for the worse?

Paul feared that the absence of the masters must be in some way due to
Stanley. Perhaps they had discovered the visit he--Paul--had paid him in
the night. Perhaps they were discussing what was to be done with him.
These and a hundred other suspicions flashed through his mind as he
waited the entrance of the masters.

The hubbub in the school had grown louder. The boys no longer talked in
whispers; their tongues were wagging loudly. Mr. Travers, the master in
charge, made no effort to restrain them. He was himself talking to one
of the Sixth Form boys.

Suddenly, however, he broke off, and pressed the bell.

"Silence!" he cried.

In an instant the hubbub of voices ceased, as the door opened and the
masters, headed by Mr. Weevil, entered the room.




CHAPTER X

TORN FROM THE BLACK BOOK


Mr. Weevil came to his desk. The other masters took up their positions
at the head of the different forms. Mr. Weevil half closed his eyes for
an instant; then, opening them, fixed them fully upon the eager boys
before him as he said:

"I have a few words to say to you before work commences, boys, and I
regret to say they are not of a very pleasant character. A most
discreditable act--a criminal act--has been committed since we last met
in this hall. This desk"--he turned from the boys to the desk, and
brought his hand down upon it sharply--"has been forced open during the
night, and five pages torn from the Black Book. That is not all. Admiral
Talbot--one of the esteemed governors of this school--has offered a
valuable prize, as you are all aware, for the best essay on 'The
Invasion of Great Britain.' I have taken a great interest in the
subject, and had prepared a few notes, together with a rough plan of the
attempt made by the Dutch under Admiral Tromp to reach these shores.
Those notes have gone."

The boys glanced from one to the other as Mr. Weevil paused. Who was
guilty? They had no great love for the Black Book, for in the pages of
that black-bound ledger were entered the names of every culprit who had
been guilty of breaking the rules and had received punishment at the
hands of the masters. It could be brought forward at any time in
evidence against them. They would willingly have stood by and seen it
burnt, but forcing open the master's desk, stealing from it important
papers, and tearing leaves from the dreaded book was another matter. It
was theft--theft, too, under its worst guise, for the desk had been
opened at night-time, when the rest of the school were supposed to be
sleeping.

"The last entry I made in this book," went on Mr. Weevil, holding up the
Black Book, "was last evening, immediately after school was over. I had
entered in it the reason of my sending Moncrief to Dormitory X. Before
returning the book to its place, I glanced through my notes; then placed
the book on top of them, and locked the desk. I entered the room about
half-past eight this morning, and, on going to my desk, at once found
that it had been opened--for what despicable purpose I have explained to
you. In the absence of Dr. Colville, I consulted with my
colleagues--your masters. That is the reason why the school has not
commenced at the usual hour. We have looked at the matter in every way,
and can only come to the conclusion that some one amongst you has been
guilty of this petty felony. The culprit is pretty well sure to be found
out in the long run, so that it will be much better for him to speak up
now. The longer he keeps silent, the heavier will be his punishment.
Now, then, I am waiting."

Deep silence fell upon the school. Still, the boys glanced from one to
the other. Parfitt flashed a look along the form to where Paul was
sitting. Baldry quietly pinched Plunger, and Plunger returned the
compliment by kicking him under the form; but no word broke the silence.

Failing to get an answer to his appeal, Mr. Weevil tried another plan.

"Did any boy leave his dormitory after lights were out last night?"

A struggle went on in Paul's breast for a moment. Should he speak, or
should he remain silent? If he spoke he would bring upon himself the
terrible suspicion that he had broken open the master's desk, and had
torn out the leaves in which were recorded the punishment of Stanley
Moncrief. It was well known also that he was one of the competitors for
the essay prize.

And then if he confessed the real reason of his absence from his
dormitory, who would believe him? Certainly not Mr. Weevil. How could he
convince him that he was in Dormitory X that night, for had he not
crawled under the bed at the time he looked in? Should he speak--should
he speak? Again and again Paul asked himself the question. Why should
he? What had his absence from his dormitory to do with the theft from
the master's desk? He had been nowhere near the master's desk, so what
was the use of speaking? Looking up, he caught the glance of Parfitt.

"What the deuce is Parfitt glaring at me for?" he thought. "Is it
possible that he could have seen me leave the dormitory?"

As he put to himself the question, the voice of Mr. Weevil once more
broke the silence:

"Does any boy know whether any of his companions was absent from his
dormitory last night? Don't let him keep silent under any false notion
of honour. It is for the honour of the school that he should speak. If
he speaks, I will take care that no punishment falls upon him."

Paul sat rigid as stone. If Parfitt saw him leave the dormitory, now was
his time to speak; but no voice broke the silence.

"Very well; I had hoped that the culprit would own up to his fault, or
that we should have had assistance from some of you to find him out. I
am disappointed in my expectation. As I have been unable to find the
culprit with your assistance, I must do so without it. And be sure I
will," added Mr. Weevil firmly.

Prayers were said and a hymn sung, and the boys were on the point of
filing out to the different class-rooms, when Newall stepped up to Mr.
Weevil's desk.

"I hope Moncrief isn't to be kept in Dormitory X any longer, sir," he
said.

"What's it to do with you--eh?"

"You forget, sir. I was in the row. I ought to have spoken at the time;
it was I really started the row--not Moncrief."

"You, was it? Let me hear how it all happened."

"Well, I was chaffing a new boy, and the new boy happened to be
Moncrief's cousin. It upset Moncrief, and I ought to have left off; but
I didn't. I kept it up, and that's how it was Moncrief came to strike
me."

"Well, it's very honourable of you to own up to it. If every boy in the
school was as honest as you, Newall, we should soon find out who was the
culprit who went to my desk. Moncrief was guilty of a Quixotic act of
disobedience, as it turns out, and I think, in the circumstances he has
been sufficiently punished. It is due to you that he is released."

Newall was quite the hero of the school that morning. He had done a
manly thing in speaking up for Moncrief. That was the general opinion.
Paul thought the same. He had scarcely expected Newall would act up to
the promise that he had given him, but he had carried it out to the
letter. He had, somehow, never liked him, but he couldn't be such a bad
sort of fellow, after all.

"I must try to get over my prejudice against him," he thought.

So Stanley came back to his form, looking none the worse for the night
he had spent in Dormitory X.

It was not, however, till he and Paul were in the grounds that they had
the chance of speaking together.

"I thought Weevil meant keeping me in that wretched dormitory another
day and night," Stanley said, as Paul cordially greeted him. "How did he
come to let me out, I wonder?"

"Guess."

"Have you been speaking up for me?"

"No; Mr. Weevil wouldn't listen to me yesterday, and he wouldn't have
listened this morning. Guess again."

"My young cousin, I suppose," answered Stanley, after a moment's
reflection. "Has he been crying to Weevil?"

"Wrong again."

"Oh, bother! I give it up, then! Who was it?"

"You would never guess. Newall!"

"What?" Stanley stared at Paul incredulously.

"Fact--Newall. And he did it very well, too. He owned up frankly before
the masters and all the school that it was he who commenced the
quarrel."

"Why, I thought he told you that he wouldn't speak?"

"So he did; but he has altered his mind, you see. He told me he was
going to speak, but I couldn't believe my ears till I actually heard
him. A night's reflection has done him good, though he hadn't the
benefit of a change of air in Dormitory X. It's really very decent of
him, and I rather fancy if I were in your place----"

He paused, as though reflecting on what he should do if he were in
Stanley's place.

"Well, if you were in my place--go on."

"I should go up to Newall and shake hands with him."

"Would you really?" said Stanley haltingly. "I--I--don't think I can do
that, Paul. There's so much bad blood between us."

"All the more reason you should shake hands. It's wonderful what a shake
of the hands does for bad blood. It's the finest leech in the
world--takes all the bad blood out."

"Oh, you're a better fellow than I am, and can do that sort of thing. I
can't!"

"Nonsense! It's like a plunge into cold water--quite nice when the
plunge is once made. Come along! I'll go with you."

He tucked his arm in Stanley's, and together they went in search of
Newall. They found him with Parfitt and another companion. Stanley
walked up to him.

"I hear that it's through you, Newall, I've got out of that den I was in
last night. You've done me a good turn, and, if--if--you don't mind, I'd
like to shake hands with you."

He held out his hand as he spoke, but Newall took no notice of it. He
looked straight at Stanley.

"I really didn't know that I'd done you a good turn. What was the good
turn?"

"Speaking up for me this morning to Mr. Weevil, and getting me out of
that wretched dormitory."

"Oh, that"--he broke into a mocking laugh--"that! You call that a good
turn?"

A wave of scarlet came to Stanley's face. The extended hand fell to his
side. He looked to Paul. Had his friend deceived him? Was this only a
ruse on his part to make him shake hands with Newall, or had Newall
taken leave of his senses? He could learn nothing from Paul's face,
except that it looked just as mystified as he was.

"Certainly it was a good turn. I thoroughly upset Weevil yesterday, and
goodness knows how much longer he would have kept me a prisoner if you
hadn't spoken up for me, as Percival here tells me you did."

"Of course he did," put in Paul cheerfully. "He spoke up to Weevil like
a brick. It's no use trying to hide your light under a bushel, Newall."

"Yes, it's true enough I spoke up to Weevil"--the mocking laughter had
died out of Newall's eyes, and there was now a cruel, vindictive light
in them, just as there had been when Paul had spoken to him the day
before--"and it's true enough I wanted to get you out of that hole in
the roof. But it wasn't to shake hands with you. Not at all. I got you
out of that den so that I might meet you squarely face to face."

Stanley began to understand. It was not from any kindly motive Newall
had spoken up for him that morning. The bitterness of his words now told
him that, and the vindictiveness in his eyes spoke even plainer than
speech. Paul had been deceived, and he had been deceived. Why had he
demeaned himself by asking a fellow like Newall to shake hands with him?
He ought to have known better from past experience.

"You understand?" went on Newall in the same bitter tone. "Oh, yes, I
see you do. You struck me a blow. The marks of it are still here, you
see"--pointing to his lip, which was discoloured and cut. "I'm glad of
it. It kept me awake last night, thinking of you. And when I looked at
myself in the glass this morning, I thought of you again. It's nice to
have a memento of your friends, don't you think so?"

Stanley did not answer. What answer was possible to these mocking jibes?
Paul was silent, too. All power of speech seemed taken from him.

"Well, I mean having that blow back--the cowardly blow you gave me over
Percival's shoulder. I could give it to you now"--his fist was clenched
as though he would have dearly liked to make good his words--"but that
would only mean that one or the other would be sent to the den from
which I've just rescued you. That would be idiotic and make matters
worse."

"You mean to say that you don't wish to end the quarrel between us. You
wish to fight it out to the bitter end?" demanded Stanley, at last
finding voice.

"You've got it!" came the slow, firm answer--"to the bitter end!"




CHAPTER XI

FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FORM


Paul was grieved at the turn things had taken. Just at the moment when
he thought the quarrel ended it had burst out again in a deadlier form.
Stanley was very pale. His hands were clenched, as were the hands of
Newall, and the passion that distorted the one face was reflected in a
lesser degree in the other. Hate never was, and never will be, a
beautifier of the face. Like some subtle acid, it makes ugly lines. You
will never see those lines in a beautiful or noble face, boys and girls.
So, if you want to keep from getting ugly, never hate.

Stanley was not only angry at the jibes of Newall, but angry at being
led into a false position.

"I really had no wish to shake hands with you. I'm just as keen on
fighting it out as you are," he began.

"One minute," interrupted Paul, stepping between them. "Let me have a
word."

"You get out of it, and speak when you're spoken to!" cried Newall
roughly. "It was through you coming between us that I got this
beauty-spot yesterday"--pointing to his swollen lip. "Hadn't you poked
your nose in where it wasn't wanted this wouldn't have happened, and I
would have given a good account of myself."

"Sorry, and yet, come to think of it, I'm rather glad," answered Paul
calmly, and not receding an inch from the position he had taken up.

"Glad! How do you mean?"

"Why, if it was through me you got that blow, your quarrel's with me,
and not Moncrief. What's the use of trying to pay back to him what you
owe to me?"

This was a novel way of looking at the dispute which had not occurred to
Newall. As he was not ready with an answer, Paul went on:

"Besides, it was you who got me to speak to Moncrief on--excuse me
saying so--false pretences. I thought you wanted to end the quarrel, to
shake hands with him, and have done with it. It wasn't shaking hands you
wanted, it seems, but clenched fists. I brought him here on a fool's
errand; so the quarrel's mine, not his."

Stanley wished to step in again, but Paul gently yet firmly held his
ground.

"I don't understand quite what you're driving at," said Newall. "It's a
bit of a riddle; but if you want a thrashing as well as your friend, I
dare say you can be obliged, but he comes first. Let him speak for
himself. You can speak for yourself after. Now, Moncrief, no more
shirking."

"It's my quarrel, I say," Paul answered in the same firm tone, and still
keeping Stanley back. "Of course, you think different, and Moncrief here
thinks different, so let's appeal to the Form."

"What's that?" cried Newall.

"Appeal to the Form. The fellows will see things clearer than we can."

The suggestion took Newall's breath away.

"You really mean it?"

"I really mean it."

Newall thought a moment. An appeal to the Form was altogether a new
thing, but as he had not the slightest doubt as to which way they would
decide, why should he not fall in with it?

"Does Moncrief agree to that?" Stanley nodded.

"Very well; let it be as you say, Percival--an appeal to the Form."

Paul, gratified that the quarrel had received a momentary check, was
turning away with Stanley, when Parfitt, who had scarcely spoken
throughout the scene, touched him on the shoulder.

"One minute. Just a little word with you."

He used in effect the same words as Paul had used when he stood between
Newall and Stanley.

"Didn't you find it rather cold in the corridor last night--eh?" he
asked, with a meaning smile.

Before Paul could answer, Parfitt followed in the footsteps of Newall.

Cold in the corridor last night? What did Parfitt mean? The instant Paul
put to himself the question the answer came to him--Parfitt must have
seen him leave the dormitory in the night. Was there anything else in
his question? Yes, he felt sure there was something behind it.

"What was it, Paul? What did he want with you?" asked Stanley, coming up
to him.

"He wanted to know whether I was in the corridor last night. I thought
all the fellows were asleep, but he must have been awake, playing the
spy."

"What of it? You're not the first fellow who's been in the corridor
after 'lights out' by long chalks."

"It was not that--it was not being in the corridor, and Parfitt knowing
it--troubles me. But there's something else--much worse--a beastly
insinuation. Phew!"

The air seemed to have suddenly grown oppressive to Paul. He was no
longer the calm, cool, self-reliant fellow who had stood between Stanley
and Newall.

"Beastly insinuation! What?"

"You do not know what has happened. While I was with you in Dormitory X
some one entered the big hall, broke open Weevil's desk, took out the
Black Book, and tore from it the last five pages. That wasn't all. The
culprit, whoever he was, took away some rough notes and plans Weevil had
made on the subject of the prize essay, 'The Invasion of Great Britain.'
Well, do you see now what Parfitt means to insinuate? He means to
insinuate that I am the culprit--that I was the one who broke open Mr.
Weevil's desk, tore the leaves from the Black Book, and stole the
master's notes."

"No, no; it can't be!" exclaimed Stanley, aghast.

"It can be, and is; I am sure of it. That is the reason why Parfitt
called me aside in such a mysterious manner."

"The mean cad! But supposing he does wish to insinuate such a dastardly
thing, you've an easy answer. Are you forgetting what you said just
now--you were with me last night in Dormitory X?"

"I'm not forgetting, Stan. It's you. Supposing I confessed what actually
happened--that I was with you, and did not go near the master's desk
last night; and supposing you said exactly the same thing--what then?
You forget what happened. Mr. Weevil looked in the dormitory, you
remember; looked round the dormitory, you remember, and spoke to you. He
saw nothing of me, because I was hiding. If I said that I was in
Dormitory X last night, therefore, the master himself would accuse me of
falsehood; and he would have the same answer for you if you backed me
up."

Stanley did not at once answer. He could now see clearly enough the
false position in which his friend had been placed in coming to share
with him in his punishment. But he could only see the chivalry of it. He
did not see that the step, chivalrous though it might be, had been a
wrong step, and was bringing in its train the consequences of
wrong-doing.

"Mr. Weevil questioned the school this morning before you returned,"
Paul went on. "'Had any one left his dormitory during the night?' he
asked. Perhaps I ought to have spoken then; but I let the chance go."

"And Parfitt did not speak?"

"No; but I can see plainly enough now that it wasn't out of any kindness
to me. He kept quiet so that he should hold the secret over me like a
whip. He gave me the first taste of the thong just now, and--and--it
cuts into a fellow."

Stanley could see the pain in Paul's face, as though he could feel the
thong descending upon his shoulders at that moment. He, too, could feel
something of the same pain. His head fell to his breast. He blamed
himself for having been the cause of all this misery. But suddenly he
looked up again, and his face brightened.

"The game's ours!" he cried.

"What do you mean?"

"You twitted me just now about forgetting things, but we've both
forgotten something--Weevil and Zuker. You've forgotten what you saw in
the master's room when you came to me last night."

"Supposing I had; how does that help?"

"Cannot you see?" went on Stanley, quite excited. "Let's put our heads
together for a moment and work it out. Supposing you go to Weevil and
tell him straight out that you weren't in your dorm last night, but with
me. He contradicts you point-blank. 'You could not have been with
Moncrief, because I looked in at his dormitory at midnight and saw that
no one else was there.' Then you bring forward your next piece, and cry,
'I think I can prove to you, sir, that I was in Dormitory X last night.'
'Your proof, quick!' 'My proof is that as I was passing by your room I
happened to glance in at the window, and saw you with another
gentleman--ahem!--looking over some papers.' Check! You have the master
on toast, Paul. The case for the defence will be clear. Do you follow
me?"

Paul did not answer. He saw that this was one solution of the problem;
but he was not certain that it was the best.

"Well, what are you thinking about, old chap? Your face is as long as a
fiddle."

"Your suggestion is a good one, Stan," answered Paul slowly, as though
he were still following his thoughts; "but I don't think that I'll act
upon it--just yet."

"Why not?"

"Let's work my reasons out as you worked yours--shall we? Reason number
one: We have cause to be suspicious of Mr. Weevil, the master in charge
of this school during the absence of the Head. Heaven grant that our
suspicions may be wrong, but we have reason to suppose that he is in
league with a traitor. Am I clear, Stan?"

"Quite."

"Reason number two: If I told Mr. Weevil what I saw through his window
on my way to you I might clear myself, but it would at once put him on
his guard, and we should never have another chance of proving whether
our suspicions are true or false. Is that clear, too?"

"Yes, yes."

"Well, thirdly and lastly: Don't you think it will be better to keep
what we know up our sleeves for the present, in view of what may come
after?"

"You're right, Paul, as you always are!" exclaimed Stanley
enthusiastically.

"No, old fellow, there is only One who is always right," answered Paul
earnestly. "We're always patting ourselves on the back and fancying
ourselves mighty clever; but we're not. We're asses--always slipping and
tumbling about, and when not doing that, running down the wrong road and
butting our stupid heads against posts or walls. Asses, all of us--some
big, some little."

"Where do you come in, Paul?" laughed Stanley.

"Amongst the mediums," Paul laughed back; but as he turned towards the
school his face grew grave again. He had tried to reason things out, but
the way before him did not seem so clear as he could have wished. There
were pitfalls before him, into one of which he might stumble at any
moment. And as he thought there came to him the lines of a hymn he had
often heard his mother sing:

    "Lord, bring me to resign
      My doubting heart to Thee;
    And, whether cheerful or distressed,
      Thine, Thine alone to be.
    My only aim be this--
      Thy purpose to fulfil,
    In Thee rejoice with all my strength,
      And do Thy Holy will."

Entering the school, he sought out Hasluck, head of the Fifth. He was a
quiet, studious boy, with glasses. He did not take a very prominent part
in the sports, but none the less he was keen on the honour of his form,
inside or outside the school.

"I want you to call a meeting of the Form, Hasluck--to-night."

"What about?"

"A little matter between Newall, Moncrief, and me. It touches the honour
of the Form."

And Hasluck at once consented.




CHAPTER XII

THE FORUM


"Meeting of the Fifth in the Forum."

The whisper had travelled from form to form, and, as invariably
happened, conjecture was busy as to what the meeting of the Fifth could
be for.

"It's a breach-of-promise case they've got on!" said Freddy Plunger
confidentially to half a dozen members of the Third who had been
discussing the event.

"Breach of promise?" repeated Baldry. "None of your gammon, Freddy!"

"Fact! Haven't you heard? One of the freshers has been making desperate
love to the matron--giving her his portrait, with his love, and that
sort of thing. You wouldn't wonder at it from an old stager like you,
Baldry, or Sedgeley; but from a fresher--well, it's awful, isn't it?
What's the school coming to--that's what I should like to know?"

Harry Moncrief blushed to the roots of his hair as the boys standing
round Plunger turned to him and tittered.

"What are the damages?"

"A broken topper, a pair of plaids, a white waistcoat, and spats over
patents."

More titters, and more glances in the direction of Harry. He knew well
enough that this reference on Plunger's part was meant for him to the
costume with which he had adorned himself on his coming to Garside.

"Plunger's been crowing it over me ever since I came here. I shall have
to take it out of him," he thought.

The outburst of laughter that followed did not mend matters. So he
hastened away, in no pleasant mood, without any regard to whither he
was going. He came to a stop when he reached the cricketing-shed, in the
playing-fields adjoining the school. It was this shed which was known as
"The Forum." Here it was that the meeting of the Fifth was to be held.

Harry stopped and regarded it with some interest.

"Stan will be at the meeting, I suppose, and Paul Percival. Wouldn't I
like to know what it's all about!"

He had an uncomfortable feeling that things weren't going quite smoothly
with his cousin and Paul Percival. Bit by bit the glamour with which he
had viewed the school was wearing off. He no longer regarded it through
rose-coloured glasses. Plunger had lorded it over him and made fun of
him; his cousin and Paul, whom he had expected to find on the same
footing as himself, might have been in a different world, so great was
the difference between the upper and lower forms.

The dormitory, to which he had looked forward with still greater
pleasure, had proved a delusion and a snare. Often, in the bitterness of
his experience in the dormitory, had he wished himself back in his warm
and comfortable bed at home. He did not see--did not understand that the
trials upon which he was entering were just those which were moulding
him for the future. They were to test and try him, as they had tested
and tried many others before him.

Some of you who read this may be going through the same experience as
Harry Moncrief. Remember, rough as the experience may be, it goes to
make the man in you, and it depends upon you whether you come from these
trials dross or pure gold.

By the side of the shed where Harry was standing there was a window,
thick with dust. Harry tried to look through the window, but, failing in
this, his forefinger went idly to work on the dust. Bit by bit he traced
out a face and head, almost without knowing it, for he had been thinking
of the meeting that was to take place in the shed rather than of his
sketch.

"My, it isn't at all bad!" he cried, standing back a pace and admiring
his handiwork when he had finished it. "If I'd really tried, I couldn't
have done it so well. Perhaps the nose doesn't stick up enough, but it's
got the right cut about it."

Harry was about to rub out the sketch, when he paused, as though
reluctant to rub out such a masterpiece.

"'Pon my word, it's rather good! I wonder if anybody would know who it's
meant for? I don't suppose anybody will. I've a jolly good mind to leave
it!"

He pronounced the last words with emphasis, turned on his heels, and
walked away.

Now it so happened that after Plunger and his companions had enjoyed
their laugh at the expense of Harry, their attention went back again to
the one absorbing topic of conversation--the meeting of the Fifth.

"Shouldn't I like to be there!" said Plunger, his curiosity growing as
the time for the meeting advanced. "I would like to know what's in the
wind! Is it about the Black Book, I wonder?"

"What's that to do with the Fifth any more than the rest of us?"
remarked Sedgeley.

"Oh, the Fifth always put a lot of side on, and like to cock it over
us!" retorted Plunger.

"You'll be just the same, Freddy, when you're sent up--if ever you are
sent up," remarked Baldry. "Sour grapes!"

"Shut up, Baldhead!" retorted Plunger hotly. "I never want to get
amongst the Fifth bounders. It's that keeps me back. I could have got up
in the Fourth at last exam., only I said to myself: 'No; it takes me one
form nearer the Fifth bounders.'" He paused for a moment, then added:
"All the same, I would like to know what they're going to gas about in
the Forum. P'r'aps it's about us--p'r'aps they mean sitting on us a lot
more than they do now."

"P'r'aps!" repeated Sedgeley and Baldry reflectively.

"I--I've a good mind to try. Why should the Fifth have it all to
themselves? If--if I could only steal a march on them!"

"If you only could, Freddy!" remarked Sedgeley encouragingly.

For the next few minutes there was some whispering together, and the end
of it was that Plunger and his companions strolled in the same direction
as that Harry Moncrief had strolled in a quarter of an hour or so
before.

On arriving at the shed, they reconnoitred around it, uncertain as to
whether or not anybody was within.

Sedgeley happened by chance to look through--or tried to look
through--the window on which Harry had left a specimen of his handiwork.

His attention was at once arrested. He regarded the face seriously for a
moment; then he broke into a shout of laughter.

"What are you playing the silly goat for?" demanded Plunger wrathfully
from somewhere in the rear of the shed.

"Come here, Baldry, Bember, Viner!" exclaimed Sedgeley, vainly
endeavouring to stifle his laughter.

The three came hurrying up, followed by Plunger, in a violent state of
agitation.

"You'll spoil all, you braying ass, you laughing hyena, you giddy----"

Then he paused, as Baldry, Bember, and Viner, after a glance at the
pane, burst into laughter also. "What is it, you laughing
lunatics--what----"

Plunger said no more. His jaw dropped, as, following their gaze, he
gazed in turn on the window-pane.

"Jolly good likeness, isn't it, Baldry?" Sedgeley at length managed to
remark.

"My!" cried Baldry, with his hand on his side, as though he'd got a
stitch in it. "Hold me up!"

"I--I don't see what there's to laugh at," Plunger at length remarked,
with a face as red as a turkey-cock's.

"What, don't you see it, Freddy?"

"See what?"

"The likeness--oh, my side! Don't you know that nose--that hair. I
should know 'em anywhere."

Now, Plunger had a very characteristic nose--it was a combative nose,
and a decided pug. So was the nose on the window-pane. Plunger's hair,
too, was peculiar to Plunger. It was wiry, stubborn hair, with a tuft in
front which resembled the comb of a turkey-cock. The same peculiarity
was seen in the head on the window. And Plunger's eyebrows had a way of
mounting to his head, as though they were anxious to get on terms of
friendship with the tuft above. The same eccentricity was noticeable in
the eyebrows on the window-pane.

"No. I don't know 'em--not a bit. Who do you say they're meant for?"
came in jerks from Plunger.

"Who--who? Oh, dear, oh, dear! Why, they're meant for you, Freddy! It's
awfully funny, isn't it? I didn't know that your face was so comical!"

Plunger shrugged his shoulders, and affected indifference. He wasn't a
bit like that caricature. It was only Sedgeley pretended to see the
likeness, and made the other fellows see it with his eyes. At the same
time he put out his hand to rub out the sketch. Sedgeley stopped him.

"If it isn't meant for you, Freddy, we may as well see who it is meant
for."

"Just as you like," answered Plunger, in his most indifferent tone.

Having assured themselves that there was no one inside, three of the
conspirators--Sedgeley, Baldry, and Plunger--entered the shed. A quarter
of an hour elapsed, then the door opened; but, instead of the three
figures that entered, only two came out--Sedgeley and Baldry. All was
silent within. Plunger had disappeared as completely as though he had
dropped through the earth.

"All serene?" queried Bember, as the two made their appearance.

"All serene!" came the answer.

       *       *       *       *       *

At seven o'clock the Fifth Form began to put in an appearance at the
shed. Arbery and Leveson were two of the first. They lit a candle, and
stuck it in a tin candle-stick. Then they rolled out one of the boxes
that were piled up at the back, placed it lengthwise, so as to form a
rostrum, and covered it with a baize cloth. On the top of this they
placed a wooden mallet, used for knocking in the stumps in the
cricketing season.

"Sounds all right," said Leveson, giving the mallet a flourish over his
head, and bringing it down sharply on top of the box. "Order--order for
the chair!"

Down it came a second time.

"Friends, Romans, and Countrymen----"

"Drop the cackle, Levy," shouted Arbery, "and give me a hand."

He was pulling out some of the boxes, and Leveson lent him a hand to
arrange them as seats. It so happened that in one of the most
dilapidated of these boxes, which had rested for weeks in the darkest
corner of the shed, Frederick Plunger, Esq. was reposing. It had been
selected as the most suitable hiding-place by the conspirators. It was
large and commodious, and there were so many cracks and crannies in the
worm-eaten, dilapidated lid that there was ample breathing space within.

In this safe hiding-place Plunger had flattered himself that he would be
able to know all that passed at the meeting of the Fifth. He had not
calculated on the box being shifted from its dusty, cob-webbed corner.
But more by chance than design Arbery laid profane hands on it, and
dragging it out with the rest, turned it over and over, something after
the style of a porter with the luggage at a railway terminus in the busy
season.

Bumpety--bumpety! It seemed to Plunger, so far as he had any sensation
at all, that he was performing the part of a human catherine-wheel.

"My!" he gasped. "What are the asses doing with the box? I shall be most
frightfully sick if they don't stop it."

Bumpety--bumpety--bumpety!

"Oh, oh! What an idiot I was to get inside this coffin; it'll be the
death of me!"

Arbery and Leveson gave another jerk to the box even as Plunger was
groaning within.

"It--it--it's worse than being on the Great Wheel, or on a pleasure boat
when there's a sea on. Oh, my--oh dear! When are the silly fellows going
to stop it?" he moaned.

At last they did stop it, almost beneath the identical window on which
Moncrief minor had traced Plunger's noble features.

"That's about the ticket, isn't it, Arbery? My, it's hot work! Didn't
think that old box was so heavy. You'd fancy it was stuffed with lead
instead of broken bats and rubbish of that sort. Phew!"

Leveson wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Yes; that's the thing. It'll give an extra seat or two, if they're
wanted."

"My word! They're going to sit on me," groaned Plunger. His groans were
cut short by a loud outburst of laughter from Arbery.

"What's the lunatic laughing at now?" thought Plunger.

"Hold me up, Levy!" Arbery in rising from the box had caught sight of
the caricature of Plunger on the window, and burst into a fit of
laughter. "Do you see it--do you see who it's meant for?"

Leveson, for answer, likewise broke into a peal of laughter.

"The other lunatic's going it now," Plunger muttered to himself. "Seems
to me I've hopped into an asylum instead of a box. There's a screw loose
in one of 'em. My! Aren't they going it. Wish I could get a peep out of
this beastly timber yard. I'd like to see what they're grinning at. Hark
at 'em. They're off again."

At last Leveson stopped.

"See it," he cried. "Who could help it? Jolly good, isn't it? Like the
young bounder to a T--the same nose, the same coarse wiry thatch, the
same eyebrows running away from the forehead into the middle of next
week."

The perspiration began to ooze from Plunger. He had an uneasy feeling as
to whom they were referring.

"Young bounder!" he repeated. "Coarse, wiry thatch, eyebrows running
away from the forehead. Leveson thinks that awfully smart, I s'pose?
Still it--it--must be a bit like."

Plunger had the additional pleasure of hearing more laughter at his
expense as other scholars of the Fifth entered, and added their
criticisms to Leveson's. Plunger's ears tingled as they had never
tingled before, for never before had he heard himself so freely
criticised. In addition to the not very flattering remarks "the bounders
of the Fifth" had to pass on his features, Plunger had to listen to
terse descriptions of himself as "that ass, Plunger," "a mixed pickle,"
"a queer egg," "conceited young biped," and so on.

Plunger made remarks of his own as these pleasant criticisms reached his
ears. They were scarcely less vigorous than those descriptive of
himself, and were fairly divided between "those bounders of the Fifth"
and "the fellow who had scratched things" on the window. But
unfortunately Plunger's eloquence was wasted, as neither the "bounders
of the Fifth" nor "the fellow who scratched things on the window" had
the advantage of hearing it. His attention was soon turned from himself,
however, to the proceedings that were taking place in the shed.

There were about twenty in the Fifth. Nineteen put in an appearance.
Hasluck, as head of the Form, took up his place at the rostrum, while
most of the others sat on the boxes which had been arranged for their
convenience by Arbery and Leveson, who were known as M.C.'s--masters of
ceremonies--of the Form.

"All here?" asked Hasluck, after bringing down his mallet on the box
before him.

"All--except Moncrief," answered Leveson.

The absence of Moncrief had been noticed with some surprise by the Form,
by none more than Newall.

"Is he coming, does any one know? If so, we'll wait a little longer."

"No; he isn't coming," answered Paul. "He wanted to; but I persuaded him
to stop away."

"You persuaded him to stop away," cried Newall. "Why, it's because of
him we've come here."

"Excuse me," answered Paul politely. "It's because of me. At any rate,
it's for the Form to decide."

"Percival called the Form together. It's for Percival to explain," said
Hasluck.

"I'll explain as well as I can," said Paul, taking a step forward, and
glancing round at the faces bent eagerly forward to hear him. "There was
a slight shindy, as you all know, on the first day of term, between
Newall and Stanley Moncrief."

"Shindy!" interrupted Newall with a scornful sniff. "Is that all you
call it?"

"Call it by what name you please; I don't mind," proceeded Paul calmly.
"Newall baited Moncrief's cousin unmercifully, and Moncrief did what any
other fellow in the Form worth his salt would have done--interfered. I
tried to get between him and Newall to stop the quarrel. You know what
happened--Newall was struck."

"Yes, Newall was struck," repeated Newall grimly.

"Yes; but after all Moncrief had a good deal the worst of it. He passed
the night in Dormitory X--ten times worse punishment than anything
Newall got; so he more than wiped out the blow he gave in anger to
Newall."

"Oh, stop this humbug," interrupted Newall angrily. "You can see what
Percival's up to. He's trying to white-wash Moncrief, who's too big a
funk to come here to defend himself."

There were murmurs of assent from some of those present, who resented
Moncrief's absence, and who were not favourably inclined to a tame
ending of the quarrel. The more thoughtful section remained silent.

"It would have been better, I think, for Moncrief to have been here,"
said Hasluck. And this view was received with applause.

"If there's any blame for that," said Paul quickly, "blame me. As I've
said, I persuaded him to stay away. With Moncrief here and Newall here,
it would have been like two barrels of gunpowder. Just a spark,
and--phwitt! bang--where should we all have been? There'd have been
nothing left of us."

This time Paul carried his audience with him. They were well aware that
Moncrief was hasty in temper, and that Newall was no less fiery. So they
smiled at Paul's description of what might probably have happened if the
two had been present.

"Besides, as I've already pointed out to Newall," continued Paul, "if
there's a quarrel at all, it lies between me and him."

"Stuff--gammon--more humbug!" interrupted Newall angrily.

"That's what you think," said Paul, confronting him steadily for a
moment. "After all, you only count as one. That's why I've called the
Form, who count a good deal more, so that they could give their opinion.
Whatever their opinion is, I'll stand to it."

"You will!" cried Newall. "That's all I want. I know well enough they
won't let Moncrief wriggle out of it."

"How do you make out that the quarrel has shifted from Moncrief to you,
Percival?" demanded Hasluck. "I can't quite see it."

More murmurs of assent.

"I think you will when I've finished," said Paul confidently. "Newall
doesn't see it, naturally, but I think you will. This is how things
stand. Newall made me believe that he was sorry for the quarrel that had
taken place between him and Moncrief. On that I tried to do the right
thing. I got Moncrief to go up to him and offer him his hand. I was
never more disgusted in my life. Newall pretended not to see it, and
said insulting things, which I need not repeat. What I say is, that when
he refused to take Moncrief's hand, he insulted me more than he insulted
Moncrief; for it was I who brought Moncrief to him, and it was through
me Moncrief offered him his hand. That is the first point I wish the
Form to decide."

Paul spoke so earnestly that he carried the Form with him. It appealed
to their sense of chivalry. Percival had tried to make peace between
Newall and Moncrief. Failing that, he had turned the quarrel from his
friend's shoulders to his own.

First one, then the other, supported Paul, and though there was a small
minority against him, there was no question as to the majority.

"We think Percival right," said Hasluck--an announcement which was
received with cheers.

"That only means that the quarrel is between me and Percival," said
Newall grimly. "I've no objection. I'm not going to kick against the
decision of the Form." Then, turning to Paul: "You've got to pay me back
the blow I had from Moncrief. P'raps the Form 'll decide when it's to
be."

"You mean fighting?"

"What else should I mean?"

"I don't. We don't want to waste our energies that way when there's a
much better way and better work to do."

"Trying to crawl out of it again," came in a sneering aside from
Parfitt. "Was there ever such a wriggler?"

"Let's hear the better way," said Hasluck; and there were many others in
the Form, in spite of the sneering remark of Parfitt, who were equally
anxious to hear what "the better way" could be.

"There's a shadow resting upon the school--resting upon every one of
us," said Paul solemnly.

"What shadow are you talking about?" asked Hasluck.

"The leaves from the Black Book--the stolen papers from Mr. Weevil's
desk," said Paul. "Until the thief is found out, suspicion rests upon
every boy in the Form--upon every boy in the school. What I suggest is,
that we leave off fighting till we've found out who the thief is. I
don't want to preach, but I think that will be a great deal more to our
honour and the honour of our school."

Paul paused. "If Parfitt has anything to accuse me of, now will be his
time," he thought.

He had not to wait long. Parfitt did speak, but scarcely in the way he
had anticipated.

"Honour of the school!" he cried. "Anybody would think that Percival's
the only one who cares for it. Let him take care of his own honour
first, and the honour of the school will take care of itself."

Parfitt's pointed remark was loudly applauded. Paul saw that he was
likely to be defeated unless he could make a stronger appeal to the
sympathies of the Form.

"I don't know that my honour's questioned," he answered promptly. "Who
questions it?"

"I do," retorted Parfitt.

"And I," added Newall.

Before Paul could answer, there was a knock on the door of the shed. It
so startled Devey--a heavy, thick-set boy--that he over-balanced himself,
and came with a crash on the box in which Plunger was hidden. Plunger
had been so interested in the proceedings of the Fifth that he had
lifted the lid in the slightest possible degree so that he might the
better hear what was going on. When Devey came crashing on the box,
Plunger thought for the moment that his head had gone from his
shoulders. And then as Devey, not quite recovered from his fall,
continued to sit upon the lid, he thought he would be suffocated.

Meanwhile Leveson went to the door, and demanded: "Who's there?"

"A Beetle," came the answer.

"A Beetle! What does he want?"

"He's got a challenge for the Fifth."

"A challenge for the Fifth! Oh, very kind of him!" Then, turning to
Hasluck, "Shall I let him in?"

"Rather. Let's hear what the sport is."

Thereupon Leveson opened the door. Three boys were standing without--two
of them belonging to the school, and the third, who stood between them,
one of the much-despised Beetles--in other words, a pupil of the rival
school at St. Bede's.




CHAPTER XIII

A CHALLENGE FROM ST. BEDE'S


The two boys who entered with the "Beetle" were Baldry and Sedgefield,
the companions of Plunger. The Beetle was a sturdy, but rather
heavy-featured, boy of fourteen. He wore the St. Bede's cap--dark cloth
with a white shield in front, on which were worked in old English
letters, "St. B.," while beneath these were three Roman capitals--"S. S.
V.," the initials of the school motto, "Suis stet viribus"--"He stands
on his merit."

"Why, it's Mellor," came the cry, so soon as the face of the boy from
St. Bede's could be clearly seen.

Yes, it was Mellor, till recently a pupil at Garside, and formerly an
occupant of the dormitory in which Harry Moncrief, Baldry and the others
slept. He had left Garside last term, and, much to the disgust of his
former associates, had entered as a pupil of St. Bede's. The fact was
that it was not so much Mellor's work as his father's. Mellor was good
at sport, but not quite as keen on learning, so that he had remained for
two years in the same form along with boys who were much younger than
himself. Mellor, of course, put it down to the school, and not to any
lack of diligence on his part. His father fell in with the view of his
son, believing him to be a "clever boy--unmistakably clever"--if the
cleverness were only brought out. In the hope that this cleverness would
be brought out, he had been taken from Garside and turned over to St.
Bede's.

Now the conversion of a "Gargoyle" into a "Beetle" was not an easy
process. He had to fit himself into new surroundings, new conditions,
new methods, with new companions. And while these new companions had
given him a cool reception, his old companions, thinking him fair game
for ridicule and sport now that he had "gone over to the enemy," had
determined on giving him a warm reception at the first opportunity.

It so happened that on the third day of Mellor's entrance at St. Bede's
he chanced to meet Parfitt and a couple of companions of his in the
Fifth. They had promptly seized on Mellor, and after congratulating him
with mock gravity on rising to the "dignity of a Beetle," had ended by
making him crawl on all fours "as a Beetle ought," and, using his back
as a desk, had finally written this note on a slip of paper--"Beetle,
otherwise cockroach--nocturnal insect, concealing itself in holes during
the day, and crawling off at the approach of light."

This flattering description they had pinned to Mellor's back, with an
intimation that he was to crawl back to his brother Beetles as quickly
as possible or he would be "squashed before he could get to his hole
again." Mellor, smarting under these indignities, had hastened back to
St. Bede's and placed the note in the hands of one of the boys belonging
to the corresponding form to that of his tormentors.

The Fifth had duly considered it, and a day later had despatched an
answer with Mellor. And this was the answer: "Gargoyle, otherwise
spout--receiving things that come from gutters. Meant to frighten people
by making ugly faces. Good for little else. If the Fifth Form has one
Gargoyle of any pluck amongst them, he will find a Fifth Form Beetle
ready to meet him at the sand-pit, Cranstead Common, to-morrow
afternoon, three sharp."

"It's a challenge," said Hasluck.

"Read it out," came in a chorus.

And Hasluck read it out.

"Don't you think you've got a lot of cheek to bring a note like that,
Mellor," remarked Arbery when Hasluck had finished.

"Not half as much as Parfitt had in writing the one he sent by me,"
retorted Mellor indignantly.

"What does it feel like, being a Beetle?" asked Leveson politely.
"Kitchen stuff's fattening, isn't it?"

"After going about on all fours, don't you find it a bit tricky to stand
on your hind legs again?" remarked Arbery. "Want a balancing-pole, don't
you?"

Before Mellor could reply, a mysterious gurgling sound came from the
direction in which Devey was standing.

"Hallo, Devey, what's wrong?" demanded Hasluck, as every eye turned in
his direction.

"Wrong? Nothing wrong! What do you mean?" retorted Devey, quite blushing
at thus suddenly becoming the object of general attention.

"Thought you were trying to laugh. Never heard such a screech. Like a
laughing hyena with the toothache. Don't do it again, there's a good
chap. It'll get on our nerves."

"I haven't done anything, I tell you," exclaimed the indignant Devey. "I
didn't laugh."

"It came from your corner. It must have been some of those youngsters of
the Third eavesdropping outside. Chase 'em away a bit, Arbery."

Arbery, accompanied by Leveson, darted out with the object of giving the
"youngsters of the Third" a bad time, but after searching around the
shed, could find no sign of their presence.

"They must have scooted before we could get to them," reported Arbery on
his return to the shed. "I can guess pretty well who it was--Plunger and
his set."

Again that sound from Devey's corner which Hasluck had described as "a
laughing hyena with the toothache"; and again all eyes went to Devey.

"Well, what the dickens are you staring at?" Devey indignantly demanded,
when he thought that he had borne this scrutiny with enough patience.

"Beetles are bad enough, Devey, without paroquets," remarked Hasluck
reproachfully. "If you feel bad, you'd better go out. We'll excuse you."

"It's not me, I tell you. I didn't laugh. It came from outside, or the
roof, or--or somewhere," protested Devey.

Arbery and Leveson darted out again, with the same result as before. But
they saw shadows in the distance which they believed to be some of their
tormentors, and it was decided that they should take up a position
close to the door, and at once dart out if the sound were repeated.

Devey was, of course, perfectly truthful when he had denied making the
curious sound which had so startled his companions. Nor had it come from
the "youngsters of the Third" outside. It came, as the reader has
guessed, from the box in which Mr. Freddy Plunger was reposing. At
first, when the heavy weight of Devey had rested on the box, he thought
that he would have been suffocated. But when, in the excitement caused
by the unexpected entrance of Mellor with his challenge from St. Bede's,
Devey had risen with the other fellows, and remained standing, Plunger
breathed more freely, and began to feel quite light-hearted again.

He felt just as excited as any of those outside at what was happening
and entered just as thoroughly into the scene, so that when Leveson and
Arbery began to question Mellor about the peculiarities of "a Beetle,"
he felt that he must laugh or choke. The result was the curious noise
which had been put down first to Devey, then to the boys outside. No one
guessed for a moment that it came from the box before which Devey was
standing. When the stir caused by this incident had subsided, attention
was once more turned to Mellor.

"Well, Mellor, you haven't answered our questions yet," said Parfitt,
taking up the fire. "What does it feel like to be a Beetle?"

Mellor flamed up the instant Parfitt spoke. It was Parfitt who had set
upon him and badgered him, and written the note which had stirred up so
much feeling at St. Bede's against Garside.

"You're a cad and a coward!" he cried hotly. "I don't want to answer you
or speak to you either."

Parfitt, stung by the boy's words, moved towards him to clutch him by
the ear. But Paul was quicker, and stood between them.

"Hands off, Parfitt! Mellor's here as a messenger from the Fifth of St.
Bede's to us, the Fifth of Garside. Don't drag us in the mud! Let's be
fair! They've sent us a challenge. Let's be polite enough to answer
it."

"Interfering again," sneered Parfitt. "Always poking your nose where it
isn't wanted!"

"Don't get waxy, Parfitt," remonstrated Hasluck. "Percival's quite
right. It isn't nice perhaps to know that one of our fellows has gone
over to the Beetles, but there it is. It can't be helped. What's done
can't very well be undone. Let's be fair, and let's be polite. There,
I'm with Percival, and so, I think, are the rest of you." ("Hear, hear,
hear," from the rest, with the exception of Parfitt, who felt rather
small.) "Shall we send an answer?"

"Yes, yes."

"I knew well enough you'd say 'Yes.' Well, the next point is, what's the
answer to be?"

"I think there can be only one answer," exclaimed Newall, speaking for
the first time. "The Fifth Form Gargoyle is quite ready to meet the
Fifth Form Beetle at the sand-pit, Cranstead Common, to-morrow
afternoon, three sharp."

At once a cheer broke out in favour of Newall's suggestion.

"As Parfitt wrote the elegant little note which has brought this storm
upon us, he'd better write the answer," said Hasluck.

This suggestion also met with general approval. Parfitt hesitated, but
at length wrote the note as dictated by Newall. Hasluck read it out.

"Will it do?" he questioned when he had finished.

"Agreed, agreed!" was the answering shout. Paul alone remained silent.
His face was unusually grave. He had come there on a peaceful mission,
and the peaceful mission had ended in a declaration of war.

"There you are, Mellor; take that and give it to your brother Beetles,
with the compliments and best wishes of the Fifth," he said, as he
folded up the note and handed it to Mellor. "Now cut!"

"Cut isn't the word," said Arbery, as he opened the door. "Crawl!"

Mellor darted out of the shed with the note, without waiting for any
further references to the new title conferred upon him.

"Won't you eat your words in the sand-pit to-morrow!" he cried as a
parting shot.

"The cheeky beggar got the last word in anyhow," quoth Arbery as he
closed the door.

Dead silence followed for a minute or two, then it was broken by
Hasluck.

"You called us here, Percival," he said, turning to Paul, "to talk over
the triangular squabble between you and Moncrief and Newall. You don't
mind us putting that off for a bit? This is the thing we've got to
settle, this cheeky challenge from the Beetles."

Paul, seeing there was no help for it, nodded assent.

"And you, Newall?"

Newall nodded in turn.

"Good! Well, then, having decided to take up the challenge from St.
Bede's, the next thing to settle is, who's to be our champion at the
sand-pit to-morrow?"

No one seemed in a great hurry to answer that question, but at length
Newall, a curious smile hovering about his lips, said:

"We're all of us anxious for the job, that's the reason we're so silent.
But I'd like to propose one as our champion who'd do us
credit--Percival."

Had a thunderbolt fallen in the shed, the boys of the Fifth could not
have been more startled than when they heard Paul's name. Was Newall in
earnest, or was he poking fun? It was hard to tell, for the curious
smile that had hovered about his lips was there no longer. It had quite
vanished, and his face was the gravest amongst them.

"Percival!" he repeated with emphasis. "He's done me a lot of honour.
He's done me the honour of calling you fellows together to settle a
quarrel between Moncrief and me. He's done me honour in the nice things
he has said of me. Well, I'd like to do him a little in turn. There
can't be a greater honour than representing the Fifth as champion of the
Form. It's one that I'd jump at myself, but after what has taken place,
after all that Percival has said about the honour of the Form, I can
only take a back seat. He comes first. So I again say, let Percival be
our champion."

Notwithstanding that Paul had rarely been seen in a school fight, it was
well known amongst his companions that he was a fine athlete and
perfectly able to take care of himself, so with ready shouts they hailed
the suggestion.

"Percival, Percival, Percival!" resounded on all sides.




CHAPTER XIV

THE CHAMPION OF HIS FORM


Paul, as may be imagined, was as much startled by Newall's proposal that
he should be the champion of the Form as at the readiness with which it
was taken up by his class-mates.

"Well, Percival"--the voice of Hasluck broke the silence which had
followed as they waited eagerly Paul's answer--"you've heard what Newall
has said, and what the Form thinks of it. What's your answer?"

A keen struggle went on in Paul's mind as the question came to him. He
had come there to settle a dispute--to ward off a meeting between
Moncrief and Newall. And now, by an adroit move on the latter's part, he
had been forced to accept or decline a challenge from outside. If he
refused, he would have to eat his own words about the honour of the
school; he would be regarded as a contemptible coward; and the quarrel
between Newall and Moncrief would still remain unsettled. If he
accepted, he would be held in honour by his Form, and, in fighting its
battle, he might be able to settle the quarrel between Moncrief and
Newall. So, coming to a swift decision, he turned to the latter:

"If I fight for the Form, will that settle the quarrel between you and
Moncrief? Will you shake hands with him?"

"Yes," came the prompt answer.

"Very well; then I'll do my best to keep up the honour of the Form at
the sand-pit to-morrow."

"Bravo--bravo; hip, hip, hurrah!" cried Devey, jumping on the box in
which Plunger was concealed, and waving his cap wildly.

The cheers were taken up by most of the Form, but Parfitt, who took no
part in the cheering, remarked, loud enough for all to hear:

"Seems to me we'd better save our shouting till to-morrow afternoon."

"For once I agree with Parfitt," answered Paul calmly. "Keep your
shouting till to-morrow afternoon."

"And even then it may all be on the other side," added Parfitt, with a
sneer.

"Trust Parfitt for throwing cold water on anything," said Devey, jumping
down from the box. "He must have been born in a refrigerator."

He gave the box an indignant kick. Plunger shivered. He was glad that
Devey's foot came on the box instead of on him.

The meeting was over, and the boys went in twos and threes from the shed
discussing the forthcoming battle in the sand-pit. Plunger, greatly
excited at all he had heard, was waiting eagerly the moment he could
emerge from his hiding-place, when he heard Arbery shout:

"Don't all run off without lending a hand. We shall have to get the
boxes back, and the shed ship-shape. Devey and I can't do all the work."

Plunger groaned. He knew what Arbery's appeal meant. One by one the
boxes were shifted back to their places; then it came to the turn of the
box in which Plunger was concealed, and once again he was bumped about
from side to side till he got painfully mixed ideas as to where he began
and where he ended--as to which was his head and which were his feet,
and whether he would ever be able to stand straight again.

At last the box was rolled back to the corner in which it had previously
reposed, and Arbery and his assistants followed in the footsteps of
their companions. When Plunger could gather together his scattered
senses, he raised the lid of the box and scrambled out.

"My!" he groaned, as he leaned against the side of the shed and felt his
limbs. "Seems to me I'm all bruises. It's a wonder I've come out alive.
I'd just like to put the fellow who's been putting my frontispiece on
that pane inside the box I've come from for half an hour!"

Gradually, however, the worried look on Plunger's face gave place to one
of satisfaction as he remembered that he was the only one outside the
Fifth who knew what had taken place at the meeting, and that he alone
knew what was to take place on the morrow. He had no chance of relating
to his companions the secret which was burning within him till he
reached the dormitory that night.

"Well," asked Baldry breathlessly, as soon as lights were out, "how did
you get on, Freddy? What happened?"

"You'd never guess. There's to be a fight to-morrow between one of the
Fifth fellows and a Beetle."

Every ear in the dormitory pricked up at this unexpected piece of
information.

"Who's our fellow?" demanded Sedgefield, breaking the silence which
followed this announcement.

"Percival."

Baldry gave a prolonged whistle of surprise.

"How's that? Why, Percival has always set his back against fighting, and
all the fellows are saying that it was to keep Moncrief major from
fighting Newall that he called a meeting of his form."

"I dare say. He seemed to be steering that way till that little
turncoat, Mellor, came on the scene with a challenge from the Beetles."

"A challenge from the Beetles!" cried Baldry. "Tell us all about it."

Plunger told them all about it. And never had any one more attentive
listeners than Plunger had as he related to them all that had happened
at the meeting in the shed. Not the least interested were Harry Moncrief
and Hibbert.

"Paul going to fight," Harry repeated to himself. "I do so hope he'll
win!" Then, remembering the words in which his father had once spoken of
Paul, he added: "Win or lose, I'm certain Paul will bear himself
bravely."

Hibbert closed his eyes in the darkness, and prayed: "Watch over
Percival--keep him from harm. For Christ's sake. Amen."

The boy had not forgotten Paul's kindness to him. It stood out as the
one bright spot in his memory since he had come to Garside. For once he
was allowed to sleep without pillows being thrown at him, the clothes
pulled from him by means of a carefully-arranged cord, and playful
tricks of that sort, of which both he and Harry had been the victims as
the latest recruits to the dormitory. The great event of the morrow
caused everything else to be forgotten.

Paul, meantime, had not had a very pleasant time of it. It had been with
the greatest difficulty he had induced Stanley to stay away from the
meeting of his form. After the meeting, one or two pointed allusions
were made to his absence by his class-mates, and to make these cut the
deeper, he overheard Parfitt say to Devey:

"You were quite right in shouting for Percival. He came out better than
I thought. It's the other fellow who's so contemptible--getting his
friend to call a meeting to white-wash him, and do all the dirty work.
He'd be hounded out of any decent school."

These remarks were made loud enough for Stanley to hear, and for his
special benefit. Though he knew well enough that he was "the other
fellow" referred to, he could not speak. Nevertheless, he felt angry
with himself for allowing Paul to persuade him to stay away from the
meeting. Then, from feeling angry with himself, he felt angry with Paul,
and the reception he gave him on his return was not a very cordial one.

"What have you been saying about me?" he demanded.

"Nothing that could harm you," smiled Paul. "It's all right between you
and Newall. The quarrel's settled."

"But how is it settled? You haven't made me swallow dirt, have you?"

"I think not," answered Paul, wounded at the suggestion. "You ought to
know me better than that."

For the first time there was a rift between the two friends. Paul did
not tell Stanley what had happened at the meeting, but left him to find
out. He heard all about it from Waterman--the easy-going, indolent
Waterman.

"Going to fight a Beetle, is he?" said Stanley, when Waterman had ended.
"It was good of him to take my part, but I wish he hadn't let me down
so."

But when he met Paul in the dormitory that night, he only remembered
that he was his friend, and that he was going to fight for the honour of
the Form on the morrow.

"I'm sorry I spoke so hastily, Paul," he whispered. "Forgive me."

The next afternoon was a holiday for both Garside and St. Bede's. It was
for this reason that the challenge had been fixed for that date.
Cranstead Common was midway between the two schools, and the sand-pit
was in an open part of the common, where the ground for some little
distance round was destitute of grass or furze.

The Fifth Form had kept to themselves the fact that an encounter was to
take place in the sand-pit, for fear it might reach the ear of some of
the masters, and be stopped. They were not aware that Plunger knew all
that had transpired at the meeting. Plunger was as loyal to his Form as
the Fifth were to theirs, and the secret of what was to happen at the
sand-pit was communicated in confidence to them on the distinct
understanding that it wasn't to travel farther.

When, therefore, the afternoon came, and the boys of the Fifth set out
in little parties of three or four to make for the sand-pit, they could
not understand how it was that little parties of the Third were found to
be travelling in the same direction. Still more curious were the various
articles borne by these little bands of stragglers. One group bore a
football; another shouldered a butterfly net, without regard to the fact
that butterflies had not been seen for many weeks; a third group
fishing-rods, and so on.

Freddy Plunger was amongst the anglers. He was talking loudly about his
achievements at different times with rod and line, when Devey, Arbery,
and Leveson came up with him.

"What are you fishing for, Plunger?" asked Devey, catching him gently by
the ear. "Whales?"

"No--eels!" retorted Plunger snappily, having good cause to remember
Devey the night before. "Slippery things, eels, aren't they?"

"Not half so slippery as you are, Mr. Plunger. But don't be cheeky."

"Never am, Mr. Devey. That's my fault--always too polite. Born like it,
so can't help myself. Where are you going to, Mr. Devey?"

"That's my business, Mr. Plunger. Little boys shouldn't ask
questions--they should be seen and not heard. If you have a good catch,
ask us to supper, won't you? Ta-ta, Plunger!"

And Devey and his companions went on, leaving Plunger and his companions
chuckling in their sleeves.

"Mr. Devey thinks himself mighty clever now, but he looked an awful ass
in the shed last night when all the fellows turned on him for laughing
like a paroquet," grinned Plunger. "I nearly killed myself trying to
keep my feelings under. It was enough to make a cat scream. Oh, dear;
oh, my!"

And Plunger went off at the recollection, till he received a dig in the
ribs from Baldry which made him gasp.

"Shut up, Freddy; here comes the noble champion of the Fifth! He doesn't
look over-pleased with himself."

As he spoke, Paul and Stanley passed them. Baldry was not far wrong.
Paul was far from pleased with himself. He was going to fight in cold
blood a boy with whom he personally had no quarrel, and he had not the
slightest notion who his opponent was. He might be a noble-hearted
fellow, as much averse to quarrelling and fighting as he was, but
compelled to fight--as he had been--for "the honour of the Form."
He--Paul--had faced danger, and had not shrunk from it; but somehow, he
shrunk from the encounter before him.

"Look! There's quite a crowd at the sand-pit already," exclaimed
Stanley, who was a great deal more excited at the coming encounter than
Paul was.

By this time they had come within sight of the sand-pit. Paul, looking
up, saw that on one side had gathered most of the boys of the Fifth,
while on the other side were the boys from St. Bede's.




CHAPTER XV

WHAT HAPPENED AT THE SAND-PIT


Though the boys of St. Bede's and those of Garside regarded themselves
as adversaries, to their credit be it said no outbreak of temper had
resulted from their meeting at the sand-pit. There had been some amount
of good-humoured chaff bandied to and fro across the pit, but nothing
more. All were eager for the coming struggle.

A cheer went up from the Garsides directly they caught sight of Paul.
The Bedes eyed him critically.

"Looks grim enough--as though he meant business," said one, as Paul
advanced to the pit.

The cheer of his comrades put fresh life into Paul. His blood, which had
seemed stagnant, began to race through his veins.

"For the honour of the Form," he said to himself, between his clenched
teeth, "I must--I will win!"

As though his comrades wished to give him all the encouragement in their
power, another cheer went up as he entered the pit, and took up his
position on the floor of hard-pressed sand below.

"Where's the other fellow?" he asked.

"Doesn't seem to have turned up yet," said Arbery; "but I don't think
it's quite time. How goes it, Levy?"

Leveson had a stop-watch and was very proud of it. He usually acted as
timekeeper at the school sports, when the stop-watch was very much to
the fore. He prided himself on one thing--always knowing the right time.
His was the only watch that kept the right time at Garside--so, at
least, Leveson said. To ask Leveson the "correct time" was one of the
greatest compliments you could pay him. It was a tacit acknowledgment
that the time kept by Leveson's stop-watch was superior to any other.

"Three minutes eighteen seconds to three," answered Leveson, after
examining the watch.

"Oh, we'll make you a present of the seconds," said Arbery. Then he
shouted across to the Bedes: "I say, Beetles, is that champion of yours
coming on an ambulance?"

"No; that's coming after," cried a bright-eyed lad named Sterry, from
the other side, "to take your champion home!"

A loud laugh from the Bedes greeted this retort.

"He scored over you there, Arbery," said indolent Waterman.

Scarcely had the laughter died away than it was followed by a loud
cheer.

"Their man's coming at last. What's the time, Levy?"

"One minute thirty secs. to the hour. He's cut it rather fine--must be a
cool sort of bounder," answered Leveson. "Hallo, look there! Hang me if
there isn't Master Plunger and a lot of the howlers from his form."

Arbery looked in the direction indicated. Plunger and his companions
were lying at full length on the banks of the pit, peering over its
sides and taking the deepest possible interest in the proceedings below.

"So it is. How did the little beggar get to know what was going on, I
wonder?"

"Said he was going eel-fishing. Thought it was a blind," said Devey.
"Hallo, they're peeling!"

Paul had taken off his coat, and rolled back his sleeves. The champion
of the other Form could not at first be seen because of the throng which
had gathered round him, but presently he came from the group that
surrounded him with his coat off, and his arms bared, just as Paul
stepped into the ring.

Their eyes met. Paul staggered back, as though he had been struck. The
youth who stood before him was Gilbert Wyndham, he who had helped him on
the night he was fleeing from Zuker. Fight him? Impossible! Not though
his life depended on it!

The excited murmur of voices that followed the two into the ring ceased.
A strange silence rested on the place, as the two boys confronted each
other. Then as the two schools were waiting eagerly for the first blow
to be struck, they saw Paul's hands fall helpless to his side; saw the
colour go from his face; saw the white lips move. What did it mean? They
stared in wonder, and the wonder grew as Paul turned away and took his
coat from Moncrief.

"I cannot fight," he murmured.

With his coat on his arm he hastened from the pit. Then the silence was
broken by the Bedes. They howled, and jeered and hooted. And above the
hooting and the jeers there rose the cry:

"The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"

Heedless of the shouting and the jeers, Paul walked swiftly away, as one
seized with sudden fear. His own Form still remained silent. They might
have been struck dumb. It was all so strange--so unexpected.

Then they in turn shouted and jeered after the retreating figure.

Paul heard the shouts. Those from the Bedes made him shiver. These from
his own Form cut into him like whips.

"They do not understand! How--how can I tell them?" he murmured as he
pressed on, anxious to get away from the place as quickly as possible.
He did not pause till he came in sight of the old flag waving above the
school. Had he disgraced that flag--the legacy of a brave soldier? Had
he dishonoured it? God would be his judge.

He passed three or four boys as he entered the grounds. They knew
nothing of what had happened at the sand-pit. One boy spoke to him, but
Paul took no heed of him. He had not heard him. He was as though deaf
and blind to all around him. He did not pause till he reached one of the
class-rooms; then his head fell on his arms.

The shouts and jeers followed him, and broke harshly in upon the
stillness of the room. With startling distinctness he could hear them,
and the cry went ringing through his brain:

"The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"

Then resting there, with his head bowed on his arms, he searched his
conscience, and asked himself the question--"Have I done right?" Had he
acted as his father would have wished him to act had he been living? Had
he done right in the sight of God? Yes, he felt confident he had done
right in refusing to fight Wyndham, though he could not explain to his
class-mates why he had so acted. That night ride was known only to
Stanley and him. It was impossible for him to divulge the secret to his
Form. He must suffer their taunts in silence, trusting that the time
would soon come when he might speak.

"There's one good thing, old Stan will understand me. I can make it
clear enough to him. He ought to be here by this time. Why doesn't he
come?" he asked himself.

He tried to shake off the gloom that oppressed him, but could not. His
head went to the desk again, and again he heard the yells and hooting of
the boys at the pit; but the cries seemed fainter.

"Why doesn't Stan come--why doesn't Stan come?" he kept asking himself.

He rested thus for some time--how long he knew not--when he was roused
by a timid hand resting on his arm, while a gentle voice whispered:
"Percival."

He looked up quickly. Hibbert was standing beside him, his face, usually
so pale, was slightly flushed, as the brown eyes turned to Paul.

"I haven't disturbed you, have I?" he asked.

"What do you want with me, Hibbert?" Paul asked rather sharply; for he
did not like the lad breaking in upon him so quietly.

"You looked so wretched and miserable I could not help coming in. You're
not angry with me, are you?"

"Angry with you? No; why should I be?" answered Paul, forcing a smile to
his face at the boy's eager question.

"Oh, I'm so used to people being angry with me, except you and--and Mr.
Weevil."

"Mr. Weevil! Doesn't he ever get angry with you?"

"No; he's very good to me."

Paul was rather astonished at this piece of information, knowing that
Weevil had a reputation for harshness.

"Glad to hear it. He makes it up on the other fellows." Paul's mind
flitted back to the night when Stanley was sent to Dormitory X. "But why
aren't you outside, enjoying yourself with your class-mates?"

"They never want me to play with them. I'm no good at their games,"
answered the boy sadly; "but I've been with some of them this afternoon.
I was at the--sand-pit."

He volunteered the information with some hesitation. Paul flushed. What
had happened would soon be known, then, to every boy in the school.

"We found out what was going to happen in our Form; and so I went with
the rest to see you--to see you----"

Again the boy hesitated.

"To see me turn tail and run. Out with it. Don't be afraid of hurting my
feelings," cried Paul bitterly. "The other fellows won't. You'll hear
what they'll be calling me presently--quite a choice collection of
names--cur, pariah, coward, and the rest of it."

"No, not coward. I know you couldn't be," said the boy confidently. "Any
one can see that by looking in your face. I know you had some reason for
going away. It's that made you so wretched. I knew you would be, and
so--and so after waiting a little time to see what would happen, I
followed after you."

Paul was touched at Hibbert's devotion. In that one moment the boy had
repaid a hundredfold the little act of kindness he had shown him when he
first entered the school. He had come to Paul in his loneliness, and had
brought a ray of sunshine into the gloom that had suddenly sprung up
around him.

"Do you know, Hibbert, you're a very good little chap to speak of me as
you do, and to think of me as you do? I'm a long way off deserving it, I
can tell you. You waited after I left the sand-pit, you say, to see what
would happen? What did happen? They kept up the groans for me till they
were tired, I suppose?"

"Don't speak of it," said the boy, shivering.

"You needn't be afraid of giving me pain, I tell you. I'm getting pretty
tough. After they'd done hooting me----"

"While they were still hooting you, Moncrief threw off his jacket, and
leapt into your place."

"What!" cried Paul, starting to his feet, and staring at the boy. "Leapt
into my place?"

"Yes, stood up to the Beetle--the fellow they call Wyndham; then the
hooting stopped, and our fellows cheered madly, specially when Newall
came forward and backed up Moncrief major."

"Newall! backed up Moncrief!" repeated Paul, bewildered. "Do you mean to
say Moncrief fought with Wyndham?"

"Yes, wildly--madly."

Paul closed his eyes, shuddering. He could see the two confronting each
other, and staggering about in the sand-pit. For some moments he could
not speak, and when his hands came from his face, it was as white as the
boy's before him.

"And who--who came off best, Hibbert?"

"I don't know. I--I could not stop. To see them fighting so made
me--made me feel bad all over. I'm not like other boys. And--and all the
time I was thinking of you; so I hastened here, and--and found you."

"They were still fighting as you left?"

"Yes, yes; but where are you going?"

Paul had seized his cap and turned to the door.

"To see what has happened."

"It will be all over by now; don't go," pleaded the boy.

But Paul was deaf to Hibbert's pleading.

"What have I done--what have I done?" he asked himself as he rushed into
the grounds. "Fool--fool, not to have guessed what would happen!"

Somehow we do rarely guess what will happen. Things which seem so clear
to us after they have happened are quite hidden from our sight
beforehand. The best of us grope about in the dark, and stumble blindly
along as Paul Percival had done.

Paul rushed on--back--back to the sand-pit. Suddenly he came to a dead
stop. The hum of many voices reached his ears. A crowd of boys were
coming towards him.




CHAPTER XVI

"HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN A LEPER"


In the midst of the boys coming along the road was Stanley. He was not
so easy to recognize, for his face was bruised and swollen, and a thin
streak of scarlet came from a cut near the right eye. He seemed to
stagger along the road rather than walk, and, what was most strange,
Newall had one arm through his, as though to support him.

Paul's heart fell. It was true enough what Hibbert had said. A fight had
taken place, and, judging by appearances, Stanley had had the worst of
it. For the moment Paul could not move; then, rousing himself, with an
effort he ran towards Stanley.

Instantly he was greeted with a storm of hisses. Stanley turned from him
with a look on his bruised and swollen face Paul had never seen there
before. It was a look of repugnance, as though the affection between
them had suddenly turned to loathing. Then the crowd of boys parted, and
drawing away from Paul, left him standing there alone--he might have
been a leper.

He began to feel indignant against Stanley. He at least ought to have
known why he had refused to fight Wyndham; and then, as he recalled
Stanley's bruised face, his indignation vanished. The old tenderness and
affection for his friend came back in a wave.

"Why did I leave you, Stan--why did I leave you?"

He reproached himself, and still more bitterly Wyndham. It was Wyndham
who had done this--who had bruised and battered Stanley, and raised this
barrier between them.

"You'll have to reckon with me some day, Master Wyndham," he said to
himself.

He looked in the direction of Garside. The boys had disappeared from
sight. How could he get an explanation of what had happened? He would go
and demand one; but somehow as he turned to the school his feet seemed
as heavy as lead. For the first time he felt as though he had no right
there. What was the use of going back when no one wanted him? He had
made a horrible mess of everything.

Paul felt utterly miserable, as though he would like to flee from
everything and every one. Then the pale face of little Hibbert rose
before him, and he heard him speaking again as he had spoken to him in
the class-room:

"Coward! I know you couldn't be. Any one can see that by looking in your
face."

There was one at the school, at any rate, who had not lost faith in him.
And Paul was strengthened by the memory.

Thus thinking, he turned away from the school again, scarcely heeding
the direction in which he went. Happening to look up, he saw Waterman
coming along the road towards him. He was strolling along with both
hands thrust in his pockets in his usual leisurely manner. He was one of
that class of boys who never seem to have anything to do, and plenty of
time to do it in.

"I wonder if he will shun me like the rest?" thought Paul. And then he
added with a smile: "At any rate he won't run away from me. It'll be too
much trouble."

As Paul anticipated, Waterman made no attempt to avoid him, but he would
have passed on without speaking, had not Paul stood directly in his
pathway.

"You were at the sand-pit this afternoon, Waterman?"

"Of course I was."

"And saw what happened?"

"Yes," was the curt answer, and Waterman endeavoured to pass on, but
Paul still stood in his pathway.

"You're not in a hurry, Watey."

"Hurry!" repeated the boy indignantly, with raised eyebrows, as though
that were one of the most offensive words Paul could use. "I never fag
over things, you know."

"Then you can spare me a minute or two. I'll turn back with you, if you
like."

Waterman neither assented nor dissented. So soon as Paul turned, he kept
on his way, with both hands in his pockets, as though unconscious of
Paul's presence.

"I want to know what happened at the pit after I left."

"Haven't you seen any of the other fellows? Why didn't you get them to
explain? I'm never good at explanations."

"I meant speaking to them, but they booed and hissed at me, like geese."

"Really?" And Waterman's eyebrows went up, as though he marvelled at so
much unnecessary exertion being expended on Paul. "I don't see the good
of that, but it's the way some fellows have of showing their feeling.
And come to think of it, I don't wonder. You cut up badly at the
sand-pit. I really don't know whether I'm doing quite right in speaking
to you--I really don't."

"You can settle that point after. Tell me first what happened at the
sand-pit, Watey," urged Paul.

"Moncrief took your place when you turned tail----"

"Yes, yes; I've heard that. After--after----"

"Well, unfortunately for Garside, Moncrief got the worst of it. He made
a very plucky stand, but he wasn't a match for the Beetle--what's the
fellow's name?--Wyndham. Moncrief stood well up to him, but it was no
good. He was knocked down once or twice, until Newall, who was backing
him, you know, threw up the sponge. Moncrief would never have given in
himself. I never saw a fellow look so wretched and miserable as he did
when, after coming to, they told him it was all over and he had lost.
But the fellows cheered him for his pluck, and some of the Beetles
joined in after they had shouted themselves hoarse over their own
champion, especially that little turncoat, Mellor. He shouted himself
black in the face."

"Wretched and miserable, you say?" repeated Paul. Brief as Waterman's
description was, he could picture all that had happened--he could see
Stanley reeling under Wyndham's blows, and the climax of it all when he
had swallowed the last bitter drop--the humiliation of defeat.

"Yes, wretched and miserable, and I don't wonder at it." They walked on
in silence for some moments; then Waterman suddenly spoke again: "Look
here, Percival, it's an awful fag trying to understand any one, but I
once thought I understood you. I never dreamt you'd turn tail like you
did. I'll never try to understand any one again. I'll give it up."

"Bear with me a little longer. I had my reasons for what I did."

"I suppose you had. You can't be quite an idiot. But reasons can be
explained. Why didn't you explain yours?"

"Look here," said Paul; "you've acted decently towards me, Waterman, and
I'll explain to you as far as I'm able. Supposing a Beetle had done you,
a few weeks back, a splendid turn--got you out of a tight corner in
which you might have lost your life? Are you following me?"

"Beetle--tight corner. Yes, I follow; but don't make it too hazy. I
don't want to suffer from brain-fag. You're out of a tight corner, and
your life's saved by--a Beetle. Trot along."

"Well, supposing on your return to school after that, a breeze springs
up between the Beetles and the Fifth; and supposing the Fifth insist on
you being its champion?"

"Oh, that's absurd. They'd never insist on my being its champion. I
can't follow you there, Percival."

"I know it's hard," smiled Paul; "but, we're only supposing, you know."

"Ah, yes, I'd forgotten; but I can't see the use of supposing
absurdities. Go on your own giddy way. Supposing----"

"The Fifth insist on you being its champion; and then supposing, when
you get to the sand-pit to do battle for your form, you find that the
champion of the Beetles--the one you're to do battle with--is the fellow
who saved your life. Well, supposing all this, could you have fought
him?"

"You don't mean to say that this is what happened to you?" demanded
Waterman, rousing himself in a surprising way.

"You haven't answered me."

"Well, if I could fancy myself as a champion of any kind, I don't think
I could go for one who'd saved my life--bother it, no! But is this
really what happened to you, Percival?"

"Yes, it really happened to me."

"Then why didn't you explain?"

"Because I couldn't. My tongue's tied for the present. I'm only
explaining to you in confidence, and I want you to promise me that you
won't let it go any further."

"I hate mysteries, they're so worrying. Why should there be any
mystery?"

"Why? I can't explain, except--except that there's something more
important than the honour of the Fifth; than the honour of the school
even. That's the reason why I'm obliged to keep silent."

"Oh, I say, this is getting more and more worrying. But if you don't
want me to speak, of course, I'll keep quiet!"

Paul knew that he could trust Waterman. In spite of his slackness--in
spite of his indolence--he could be relied on to keep his word. In fact,
he had one or two good qualities in reserve. If he made no close
friendships, he had no enemies. "It was too great a trouble," he would
have told you. "Too great a fag." That was only half the truth; the
whole truth was that Waterman had, at bottom, a very good heart, though
it was not often seen. It was hidden under his indolence of manner.

He allowed a corner of it to be seen in a curious fashion on the way
back to the school. He stuck to Paul's side--both hands in his pocket,
of course--and made no attempt to "cut him," as the others had done.
They passed several of the Gargoyles as they reached the school grounds,
and directly Waterman's ears caught the suggestion of a jibe--and he had
rather sharp ears considering how lazy he was--he would start whistling
a popular tune, so that the jibe had a good deal of the sting taken from
it by the time it reached its mark.

"I wish you could make it right with the fellows," he remarked, as he
took leave of Paul.

"All in good time. I'm grateful that you haven't turned your back on me,
Waterman."

"Oh, don't butter me for that. I can't turn my back on any one--it's too
great a fag."

And Waterman strolled away with his hands in his pocket as though they
had been glued there, whistling "Hail, smiling morn."

Paul's talk with him had put him in a more cheerful mood.

"I've only to find Stan and explain things. I don't care a snap of my
fingers for the other fellows--they can go to Halifax," Paul told
himself, as he went in search of Stanley. But though he searched for him
in every direction, he could not find him.

"He don't like to show himself just yet, with so many beauty spots on
his face. Perhaps he's lying down," thought Paul, as he made his way to
the dormitory. But Stanley was not in the dormitory--it was empty.
"Strange. Where can he have got to?"

Descending the stairs, the first boy he ran against was Plunger.

"Seen anything of Moncrief major?" he asked.

Plunger simply stared at him, while his eyebrows went up, in the way
they had, till they disappeared into the stubborn thatch above.

"Did you hear what I said?"

Plunger did another movement with his eccentric eyebrows, then turned on
his heel. Paul sprang after him, angry in spite of himself.

"Now look here, Master Plunger," he said, seizing him by the collar, and
twisting him sharply round, "none of your nonsense. You needn't pretend
that you didn't hear me, because you did. I asked you a civil question,
and I want a civil answer."

"You ought to know more about him than I do, Percival. The last I saw of
him he was being knocked about for you in the sand-pit."

And Plunger laughed impudently in Paul's face. Paul's hand fell from his
collar. The jibe struck home, and Plunger went laughing on his way. He
was always supremely happy when he could "score," as he termed it, "off
those bounders of the Fifth." Paul felt that he had descended low,
indeed, when he could be used as a target for the jibes of Master Freddy
Plunger.

He glanced back to the flag that waved above Garside--from the flag to
the school door. As he did so, the figure he was looking for appeared in
the doorway--the figure of Stanley Moncrief.




CHAPTER XVII

THE "GARGOYLE RECORD"


Stanley was not alone, as Paul hoped he would be. Newall and Parfitt
were with him. It was evident that his new-found friends had been
"doctoring" him, for the blood had been carefully washed from his face,
and it presented a less bruised and battered appearance.

As he came from the door he caught sight of Paul. Paul hoped that he had
got over his bitterness towards him by this time, and that he would come
forward and greet him on the old footing of friendship. But he was
disappointed; for as soon almost as Stanley caught sight of him, he
turned away his head and commenced talking rapidly to Newall, as though
he were unaware of Paul's existence. It was perfectly evident that his
feeling to Paul had not softened in any way, and it was quite as clear
that he meant ignoring him.

Paul determined to speak to him, however, so, as he passed by him, he
touched him on the shoulder.

"Stanley!"

At his touch, Stanley turned swiftly round and confronted him with
blazing eyes.

"What do you want with me?"

"To speak with you for a few moments--alone."

"I've had as much speaking with you as I ever want to have. I never wish
to speak with you again--never, never!" He was greatly agitated. His
voice was trembling with passion; but it grew calmer and harder, as,
turning to his new-found companions, he said:

"You hear what I say, Newall; and you, Parfitt. You are my witnesses."

"Yes, we hear. We are your witnesses," said Parfitt.

"Thanks!" And without waiting an answer from Paul, the three passed on.
Not that Paul had an answer to give. He could not have spoken had his
life depended on it. He was too staggered; too pained. Never speak to
Stanley again! He with whom he had been on the closest terms of
friendship ever since he had been at Garside!

"Had he listened to me for a few moments I could have explained all. He
doesn't dream who Wyndham is. He can be as stubborn as a mule. And what
a look he gave me!" thought Paul. "I never dreamt that Stan would ever
look at me in that way. I know what it is--it isn't Stan himself. It's
those fellows he's picked up. He's sore against me, and they keep
rubbing it in to keep the sore open. If I could only get him away from
them."

Paul thought for a moment or two how he should act. In spite of
Stanley's hard words, he had no intention that the friendship which had
existed between them should be severed without one more effort on his
part to heal the breach. They were bound to meet in the dormitory that
night. It would then be possible for him to whisper a word or two of
explanation.

But when evening came he found to his dismay that Stanley had left the
dormitory. He had got permission to exchange cubicles with Leveson; so
that he was now in the same dormitory as Newall.

"He's gone over bag and baggage to the enemy," said Paul sorrowfully.
"If Parfitt had only walked his chalks, and taken up his quarters with
his friend Newall, we could very well have spared him; but Stan----"

He glanced round. Parfitt was watching him from the side of his bed,
enjoying his discomfiture. That did not serve to lessen Paul's sorrow.

"----forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against
us."

Very earnestly he breathed the divine prayer that evening. The breach
between him and Stanley seemed to be widening. What was to be done?
There was one way left. He would write to him on the morrow.

"He has refused to listen to an explanation, but he can't refuse to read
my letter."

So Paul rose early in the morning and wrote a letter. He explained as
briefly as he could the reasons which had made him act as he had done at
the sand-pit.

"Wyndham was the fellow who acted so nobly when I went with your
father's letter to Redmead that night, Stan. I could not raise my hand
against him, and I never dreamed that you would. I hurried away because
it was impossible for me to explain to the fellows what happened on that
night--you alone know why. It would have got all over the place, and
would have soon reached Weevil's ears. Then the last chance of finding
out what is between him and Zuker would have gone. I can quite
understand your soreness against me, old fellow, and I'm sorry--very
sorry--that things turned out as they did at the sand-pit; but I hope
you now see that I'm not so much to blame as you thought me. It is our
first fall-out. Let it be our last. We were never meant to be enemies,
old fellow. It mustn't be--mustn't. If all are against me, and you are
with me, I shan't so much mind; so let's shake hands."

Paul put the letter in an envelope and handed it to Waterman, who was
still stretching and yawning, as though not quite awake.

"Do you mind giving this to Moncrief major. You're about the only fellow
in the Form who wouldn't mind doing me a favour," he said.

"Moncrief major. Yes, yes; of course I will. It's an awfully lazy sort
of morning, don't you think, Percival?" answered Waterman, stretching
himself as he took the letter.

That was Waterman's opinion of mornings generally. Every morning was a
"lazy sort of a morning."

"Yes, Watey," answered Paul, taking him by the arm and hurrying him
towards the grounds where most of the scholars were. In a little while
he espied Stanley, playing with Newall and Parfitt in the fives-court.

"How fellows can fag about at that stupid game I could never make out,"
remarked Waterman. "Am I to wait for an answer?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Mind? Not in the least. Waiting is so restful."

He strolled off leisurely with the letter. Paul watched him. He reached
the fives-court, and, waiting his opportunity, handed the note to
Stanley. He looked at it; then questioned Waterman. A laugh went up from
Newall and Parfitt as he did so. Then Stanley, without opening the
letter, tore it into fragments and threw them contemptuously into the
air.

Waterman thrust his hands deep in his pockets, shrugged his shoulders,
and returned to Paul.

"You saw what happened, Percival?" he said.

"Yes, I saw what happened," came the slow answer. "What was it he asked
for?"

"He only asked who it was from. I told him."

"And then he deliberately tore my letter up and tossed the pieces in the
air. Waterman, I'm sorry that you were so insulted."

"Don't think of me. I rather liked it--really. A snub does one good on a
lazy sort of morning like this--it really does."

He was about to pass on, but, checking himself, said in a more serious
tone:

"I wish I could have brought you a better answer, Percival."

That day was one of the longest days Paul ever remembered: it dragged so
slowly along. There was Stanley in the same room, sitting at times
within a few feet of him, and yet they did not look at each other. No
word passed between them.

"I will never hold out my hand to him again," said Paul in the
bitterness of his heart. He had done all that could be done to bring
Stanley to reason, but every effort failed. "He must go his own way, and
I must go mine. Some day, perhaps, he'll be sorry that he did not read
my letter."

Belonging to the Fourth Form was a boy named Dick Jessel. He was a
fair-haired, blue-eyed boy--quite a Saxon type--with a shrewd, sharp
wit. His father was the editor of a provincial paper, and Jessel ran a
journal of his own at the school, by the aid of a hectograph and Jowitt,
of the same Form, who was sub-editor, reporter, and "printer's devil"
rolled into one. They were called the "two J's."

A couple of days after the struggle at the sand-pit a number was issued
of the _Gargoyle Record_--so the journal was named. Among other items of
news appeared the following:

     _Motto for the Fifth._

    He who fights and runs away
    Will live to fight another day.

    "Lost, stolen, or strayed.--A few pages from the Black Book.
    Whoever will bring the same to the P. D., at the office of this
    paper, will be rewarded."

    "Hints on Fashion.--A fresher of the Third is prepared to give
    hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white
    waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why. References exchanged
    and given--through the matron--preferably by carte-de-visite."

    "Lost, stolen, or strayed.--Missing Link from the Third. Last seen
    in all his native beauty on a window in the Forum. Believed to have
    hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his
    pursuers."

    "Notice.--Our poet is stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger.' If any one can
    oblige the poet we'll give him a paragraph all to himself in the
    next number. N.B.--The rhyme must be a name of some kind--bird,
    beast, or fish."

    "Dropped. Somewhere near the sand-pit on Cranstead Common. Honour
    of the Fifth. When last seen was covered by crawlers--believed to
    be Beetles."

Plunger was one of the earliest to obtain a copy of the _Gargoyle
Record_. He read the first two paragraphs, and then raced into the
common room bubbling over with excitement.

Several boys were standing round the fire--some of the Third Form,
including Harry Moncrief, Baldry, and Sedgefield; one or two of the
Fourth, and three or four of the Fifth, including Stanley Moncrief,
Newall--the two were now almost inseparable--Arbery, and Leveson.

"Oh, I say, have you seen the last number of the _Record_? It's a
slashing number, I can tell you," Plunger burst out.

Immediately everybody was eager to get possession of the _Record_.
Baldry made a snatch at it.

"No, you don't, Baldhead," said Plunger, putting it behind him, with
his back to the wall. "Manners! If you can't listen like a gentleman,
you'd better git."

"Don't mind him, Plunger. He's only an outsider," said Arbery
soothingly. "Read."

"Read--read!" came in a chorus.

"And keep your eyebrows out of your head while you're about it," said
Leveson. "I never saw such eyebrows."

Plunger glared at Leveson.

"Never mind him, Plunger," came the soothing voice of Arbery. "It's only
envy, you know. I wish I had eyebrows like 'em. Get on."

"I will get on--I will," said Plunger, with a last savage glance at
Leveson. "Listen to this--here's a splendid hit against the Fifth." And
he read: "'Motto for the Fifth. He who fights and runs away, Will live
to fight another day.' Isn't it just splendid!"

Those of the Fifth who were present maintained a gloomy silence, while
those of the lower forms giggled and chuckled softly to themselves. They
dared not do it too openly, for fear of bringing down upon their heads
the wrath of the senior Form.

When Plunger thought his first item of news had soaked itself thoroughly
into the "bounders" of the Fifth, he read the second item. This fell
rather flat and elicited no comment.

Then Plunger began to bubble over again. He could not get on for a
minute or two.

"What's the ass giggling for?" "Get on, get on," and so forth, were some
of the comments that greeted him.

"'Hints on Fashion,'" read Plunger. "'A fresher of the Third'--ho,
ho!--'is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats,
and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why.'--Ho, ho! Hold
me up.--'References exchanged and given--through the matron--preferably
by carte-de-visite.' Ho, ho! Hold me up."

Plunger's eyebrows disappeared into his thatch of hair, and he laughed
till he was black in the face, while all eyes went to poor Harry
Moncrief, who devoutly wished that the ground might open and he might
sink through.

"Is that all, Plunger?" inquired Arbery. "Get on to the next paragraph,
or you'll choke."

"I couldn't get any farther for laughter," explained Plunger. "I thought
you fellows would like that little tit-bit, so I rushed in here." He
took up the paper again, and glanced at the next item. "This seems
rather a good bit. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from the
Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on--on----"

Plunger came to an abrupt pause, hummed and hawed, and began to look
exceedingly uncomfortable.

"'Last seen in all his native beauty----' Well, Plunger, what are you
stopping for now?" cried Leveson. "If you can't read it yourself, hand
over the _Record_ to some one who can."

"Shan't; it's my paper, and I'm not going to hand it over to any
one--see," answered Plunger defiantly, putting the paper behind his
back.

"Well, read on," shouted Arbery. "We're dying to hear who the Missing
Link can be."

"You'd better get a paper of your own, then; I'm not going to read any
more of the trash."

"Thought it was a slashing number? What's come over you, Freddy?" asked
Baldry.

"Shut up--oh!"

The exclamation came from Plunger as he felt the paper snatched from
behind him by Leveson; then, as he tried to regain possession of it, his
arms were pinioned behind him by one of the Fifth Form boys.

"Oh, oh, just listen!" laughed Leveson, "and see if you can guess why
Plunger put the brake on. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from
the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty in the Forum. Believed to
have hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his
pursuers.'"

There was an outburst of laughter, as all eyes went to Plunger, who was
making furious efforts to get away.

"When it's a question of beauty, there's only one person in it," went on
Leveson calmly, "and that is----"

"Plunger!" came in a chorus.

"When we do agree, our unanimity is wonderful, as the Head used to tell
us," went on Leveson. "Any other pretty bits? Oh--ah! Listen to this:
'Notice. Our poet is stuck for a rhyme to "hunger." If any one can
oblige the poet, we'll give him a paragraph all to himself in the next
number. N.B.--The rhyme must be a name of some kind--bird, beast, or
fish.' Ho, ho! Don't squirm so, Plunger. What branch of the animal
kingdom do you belong to?"

While they were shrieking with laughter at his discomfiture Plunger
shouted above it all:

"Go on--go on! As you have gone so far, you'd better go on a bit
farther. Ah, you're not quite so ready with your reading now, Mr.
Leveson."

The laughter suddenly stopped.

"Read--read," came in a chorus.

And Leveson read: "'Dropped--somewhere near sand-pit on Cranstead
Common--Honour of the Fifth. When last seen, was covered by
crawlers--believed to be Beetles.'"

There was an ominous silence on the part of the senior boys. The juniors
tittered. Leveson screwed up the paper in his hand.

"Mind what you're doing, Leveson. That's my paper," cried Plunger. Then
there was silence again, as Paul Percival entered the room.




CHAPTER XVIII

PAUL WRITES A LETTER


Stanley's head had fallen to his breast as Leveson read that bitter
paragraph from the _Record_. He looked up quickly as Paul entered the
room. For the moment it seemed as though he would speak; then he bit his
lips fiercely to keep back the words that sprang to them, and went from
the room. Newall followed him, then Arbery. One by one they followed his
example--Third Form boys as well as Fifth--until one only
remained--Waterman, who had been comfortably resting in a chair by the
fire throughout the scene described in the last chapter. As the last boy
went out, he glanced up.

"Hallo, Percival! Is that you?"

"Why don't you do the same as the rest of the fellows, and clear out?"
asked Paul bitterly.

"I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you."

And Waterman stretched out his legs, and settled himself more
comfortably in his chair. Paul could see that it was not altogether a
question of comfort with Waterman. His laziness was only a cloak to
disguise a real feeling of friendship towards him.

"The fellows were discussing me as I came in?"

"I don't quite know what they were discussing. Oh, young Plunger had
made himself an ass, as usual, over some paragraph in the _Record_. That
was it."

Leveson had screwed up the paper, it will be remembered, when he had
read the paragraph about the honour of the Fifth, and, as Paul entered,
had flung it contemptuously from him into a corner of the room. Paul's
eye went to it as Waterman was speaking.

"Paragraph in the _Record_," he repeated, as he smoothed it out. "What
have they got to say about Plunger?"

He quickly read the paragraphs which had reference to Plunger, and then
he read the one which he knew well enough had reference to himself.
Waterman rose from his chair as the paper dropped from Paul's hand and
placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You're cut up, Percival. I wouldn't let that paragraph worry me. It's
really not worth it. There's nothing in the world worth worrying
about--there really isn't."

"You don't mean what you say, Waterman--though it's kind of you to say
it. Honour's worth troubling about--one's own honour; the honour of
one's form; the honour of one's school; and I know that, disguise it as
you may, you're just as keen on it as any in the school. And all the
fellows believe that I've dragged it through the mud."

"Oh, well, things will clear up some day, Percival; then you'll come
into your own," said Waterman cheerfully.

"Some day I suppose they will; but it may be a long time first, and
there's no game so hard to play as the waiting game."

"That's where you're wrong, Percival. There's no game in the world like
it--the waiting game, I mean. There's no fag about it, and that's what I
like. Just wait your time, you know--take it easy--no flurry--go as you
please. It's the game of all games for my ha'pence. It really is,
Percival. So don't worry, old fellow--and don't flurry."

Paul could not help smiling to himself at Waterman's easy view of
things, but the smile quickly disappeared when he was once more alone.
Waterman had talked about "things clearing up," and "coming into his
own"; but would things ever clear up? Would he ever win back the honour
of the Form, and the confidence of those who belonged to it? Saddest of
all was the memory that Stanley, who had been his greatest friend, now
appeared to be his greatest enemy.

Suddenly it occurred to him--he would write to Mr. Walter Moncrief, and
tell him what had happened that night when he went to Dormitory X. The
idea had occurred to him before, but he had put it off in the hope that
he might have surer evidence to go upon. No further evidence had been
forthcoming, but delay might be dangerous; so he determined to write.

So he went into the writing-room, and wrote to Mr. Moncrief, telling him
exactly what had happened on the night he went to Dormitory X.

"I am pretty well certain," he went on, "that the man I saw with Mr.
Weevil is one of the men who came after me on the night I came to your
house at Redmead--the chief of the two. It was night-time, but I had a
fairly good view of his face. What he has to do with Mr. Weevil, I can't
make out. I should be sorry to think that Mr. Weevil has anything to do
with a traitor to his country; but there must be something at the bottom
of it all. What that something is, you may be able to find out better
than I can. Dr. Colville, our Head, is away, so I cannot go to him. What
ought to be done? Will you let me know what you think?"

Having written this letter, Paul felt more comfortable. So soon as he
heard from Mr. Moncrief, his lips would be unsealed, and he might take
steps to clear his own honour. He would then be able to explain to his
Form--to all the school if need be--what had prevented him from
confronting Wyndham at the sand-pit.

But having finished his letter, there was one great difficulty in the
way. All letters written in the school were supposed to pass, first of
all, through the hands of the master. How could he let that letter pass
through the hands of Mr. Weevil? As he was thinking over this dilemma,
Hibbert entered the room, and told him that Mr. Travers wished to speak
to him. Mr. Travers was master of the Fifth.

Paul rose to his feet, and thrust the letter in his pocket, wondering
what Mr. Travers could want with him. Then it occurred to him that
Hibbert was just the boy he wanted; he could trust Hibbert with
anything. Hibbert would post the letter for him.

"Hibbert, I want you to do me a great favour," he said, drawing the
letter from his pocket. "I want you to post this letter for me. There's
nothing wrong in it, I give you my word of honour; but, I don't want Mr.
Weevil to know. That's why I am not sending it through the school post."

Hibbert expressed his willingness to post it, and Paul handed him the
letter, then went to Mr. Travers' room. Hibbert hastened off with the
letter, but, as ill-luck would have it, he ran full tilt against Mr.
Weevil, just as he reached the outer door. In doing so, he stumbled, and
would have fallen to the ground had not the master caught him by the
arm.

[Illustration: "AS ILL-LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, HIBBERT RAN FULL TILT AGAINST
MR. WEEVIL, JUST AS HE REACHED THE OUTER DOOR."]

"Hallo! Where are you running to in such a hurry?" he asked, in that
gentle voice he always used to Hibbert--softer than that used by him to
any other boy in the school.

"Out--in--the grounds, sir."

In stumbling, Hibbert's hand had been jerked from his breast, and Mr.
Weevil caught sight of the letter.

"What's that--a letter?"

Hibbert did not answer. It was useless denying it.

"Step this way."

Mr. Weevil's tone had now become quite stern. He led the way into one of
the class-rooms; then closed the door.

"Now have the goodness to hand me that letter," he said, gazing at
Hibbert through half-closed eyes.

Hibbert dared not refuse; so he handed him the letter.

Mr. Weevil's eyes opened to their fullest extent when he saw the address
on it:

    W. MONCRIEF, Esq.,
    Redmead,
    Oakville (Kent).

"For whom were you posting this letter--Moncrief major, or Moncrief
minor?"

"Neither," came the low answer.

"Who, then? Come; no harm shall befall you if you speak the truth."

"I don't mind myself, but--but--I don't want any harm to happen
to--to----"

"The one who sent you--eh? Well, we'll see. Just tell me frankly who
sent you with this letter? It is quite easy for me to find out by
opening it, you know; but I would much rather hear it from you."

"Percival," answered the boy, hesitatingly, seeing there was no help for
it.

"Percival!" echoed the master. "Wait here a moment."

He left the room with the letter. Hibbert wondered what he intended
doing with it. Would he open it, or would he send for Percival? He was
on thorns. Percival had particularly wished to keep the note from Mr.
Weevil. The very first thing he had asked him to do--and that so
simple--he had made a mess of.

"How stupid of me! How stupid of me! Percival will never trust me with
anything again."

In a few minutes Mr. Weevil returned. His face had not lost its
sternness.

"In sending you with that letter, Percival knew well enough he was
acting against the rules of the school."

"I--I--dare say it slipped his memory, sir."

"Nothing of the sort. He knew well enough he was breaking the rules of
the school, and, worse still, that he was making you an accomplice in
the act. However, I do not intend to deal severely with the case, for
your sake. You are quite new to the ways and rules of this place. Take
the letter. Post it; but don't say a word to Percival that I stopped
you. Do you understand?"

"Yes; I understand," said the boy, as he took the letter, and ran off
with it to the post. He looked at the letter as he ran. Was it the same?
Yes, the very same--the same address, in Paul's handwriting. It was very
kind of Mr. Weevil, and he would always be grateful to him for his
kindness.

Paul, meanwhile, had gone to Mr. Travers, wondering what he could want
with him. The master of the Fifth was a man of about thirty, who led a
studious, secluded life. He was a capable master, but had not succeeded
in winning the sympathies of the scholars. One of the chief reasons was
that, though he took an interest in their studies, he took little
interest in their sports. He preferred instead long, solitary rambles.
Paul was, therefore, the more surprised when he found that the object of
Mr. Travers in sending for him was to question him as to the relations
between him and his class-mates.

"I've noticed that you do not appear to be on very good terms with the
Form, Percival," he said. "I should not have said anything about it,
only I happened to be near the Common Room this afternoon when you
entered, and found that that was a signal for the others to march out. I
don't like a feeling of that kind in my Form. I know well enough that
boys will have their quarrels, and that they can be usually trusted to
settle them alone; but this seems to me deeper than an ordinary quarrel,
otherwise I should not have spoken. I have no wish to press for your
confidence, but if you will tell me what the cause of this ill-feeling
is, I might do something to bring about a better understanding between
you and the Form."

"Oh, it's only a bit of a dispute between me and Moncrief major."

"And for a dispute between you and Moncrief major all the Form are
against you?"

"They take his side, sir. They think that he is right and I'm in the
wrong--that is all."

"That is all!" echoed the master. "And that is all the explanation you
can give? Remember, I'm not forcing an explanation from you. I'm not
asking you as your master, but as your friend."

Paul was drawn to him as he had never been drawn before, such is the
power of sympathy. He regretted more than ever that he had sent the
letter to Mr. Moncrief; but it was impossible to recall it. Hibbert was
on his way with it at that moment to the post.

"That is all the explanation I can give, sir."

"Very well, Percival"--the manner of Mr. Travers changed as the words
fell from Paul's lips; he was again the master, and frigid as ice--"then
there is nothing more to be said. I regret that I sent for you."

Thus curtly dismissed, Paul went out, feeling miserable. At the time
when he so wanted a friend he had lost one. And yet how else could he
have acted? There was no other way. He must wait and see what the
letter to Mr. Moncrief would bring forth. And with this thought
uppermost in his mind he went to the writing-room to await the return
of Hibbert.




CHAPTER XIX

THE SCHOOL OF ADVERSITY


Paul took up a pen as he sat and waited, and idly traced words upon the
blotting-paper. But his thoughts were far away. He was thinking of the
interview he had just had with Mr. Travers. He was still thinking of it
when the door opened and Hibbert entered.

"Have you posted the letter?" Paul asked.

"Yes; the postman was just clearing the box when I slipped it in."

Paul would almost as soon that he had not succeeded in posting it--that
he had brought the letter back with him. Perhaps it was best as it was,
however.

"Thanks, Hibbert."

He did not notice that the boy was looking uncomfortable--as though he
had something on his mind but dared not speak it.

"You have seen Mr. Travers?"

"Yes." Then noticing for the first time the nervous, apprehensive look
in the boy's eyes, and thinking it was due to the fear that he had got
into further trouble with the master, he added: "Nothing happened. He
was quite nice with me."

"I'm glad of that."

By this time Hibbert was standing by Paul's side. Suddenly an
exclamation came from his lips.

"Hallo! What's wrong?"

Paul, looking at the boy, saw that his eyes were fixed upon the
blotting-paper.

"That--that! Do you know anybody of that name?" he asked, as he pointed
to a name Paul had unconsciously traced on the blotting-paper--that of
Zuker.

"Why? Do you?" Paul asked.

"Y-yes," answered the boy, with hesitation. "I--I once knew a boy of
that name."

"Where?" asked Paul, at once interested.

"When I was at school in Germany; but there are a good many Zukers
there, you know, and the boy I speak of is dead."

"Dead! Did you know his father?"

Hibbert shook his head. Paul tore up the blotting-paper. It was just
possible that Mr. Weevil might catch sight of the name, just as Hibbert
had done.

"You--you don't like the name?" the boy asked, as he watched Paul.

"Oh, it's as good as any other, I suppose."

"You must have known some one of that name--I'm certain of it,"
persisted the boy.

"Well, I don't mind telling you, Hibbert--you've been such a good little
chap to me--it was through a man of that name my father lost his life."

"A man of the--of the name of Zuker?" stammered Hibbert.

"Yes."

"Tell me--do tell me--all about it?" pleaded the boy, clutching Paul
suddenly by the arm.

"Oh, it's a sad tale, and it won't interest you."

"Indeed it will--very, very much. Anything that has to do with you
interests me. Tell me."

Without intending to compliment Paul, the boy had paid him the most
delicate compliment he could have done. Besides, Paul was now very much
alone, and in his loneliness it was nice to have some one to speak to;
so he told his eager listener the tragic circumstances that had cost his
father his life. Hibbert scarcely spoke or moved all the time Paul was
telling the story. He hung upon every word.

"How noble of your father to jump overboard and save the man--the man
Zuker," said the lad, when Paul had finished. "There's not many who
would have risked their life to save an enemy. I think you said Zuker
was an enemy."

"Well, I don't know about an enemy. He seems to have been a wretched,
contemptible spy; but what's wrong with you?" he suddenly exclaimed, as
his eyes went to the boy's face. It was of an ashen pallor, and he was
trembling in every limb.

"Nothing wrong, except--except that I can't help thinking what a lot you
and your mother must have suffered after your father's death."

"I didn't suffer much, because I was too young to remember him. I was
only a little more than a year old when it all happened. Still, I should
so like to have known my father. They say he was very brave, and kind,
and true, and one of the best captains in the Navy; and when sometimes I
think of him, and what he might have been to me, I feel very bitter
against the man for whom he gave his life. Then I battle against the
feeling, and a better takes its place. I think to myself--What nobler
death could a man die than in trying to save the life of one who had
done him wrong."

"Yes, Percival," said the boy, looking away; "it was a noble death--very
noble--and your father must have been a noble man. What was it the spy
did?"

"Got into my father's cabin, and tried to get at his private
despatches."

"And where were they taking this man--the spy--when he jumped
overboard?"

"To Gibraltar, where he was to be tried by court-martial."

"And after they'd tried him by court-martial?"

"If the court-martial had found him guilty, they would have shot him."

"Shot him?"

"Yes, they showed no quarter at that time, I believe, to one who stole,
or tried to steal, State secrets."

"Oh, how horrible!" cried the boy, covering his face with his hands.

"Don't you think that a man like that deserves to die, Hibbert?
Remember, it isn't only one life he places in peril, but
hundreds--thousands. He betrays a country."

"Yes, yes, I dare say you are right, Percival--I'm certain you are
right; but none the less, it sounds very terrible. Is it the same now as
it was then--that no quarter would be given to a spy, I mean?"

"I think so. But I'm sorry I told you the story," said Paul, looking at
the boy apprehensively. His face was still deathly pale, while he
trembled in every limb. "I didn't think it would cut you up so. Any one
would think," he added, with a sad smile, "that it was your father's
death I'd been talking about instead of mine."

"Yes, my father"--and the boy gave a little, stifled laugh. "I--I've
been putting myself in your place, you see. How was it the spy got
away?"

"He was tried by court-martial, but nothing could be proved against him,
you see; for my father was the principal witness, and he was at the
bottom of the sea."

"At the bottom of the sea," repeated the boy, as a tear stole slowly
down his cheek. "And you don't know what became of the spy?"

"Oh, I suppose he returned to his own country after that," said Paul
carelessly; for he did not want to tell Hibbert his suspicions that
Zuker was still in England and not so far away. "But be off now, and
have a good run in the open. You've had enough of my yarn, and will be
dreaming about spies and drowning all night."

Hibbert brushed the tear from his eye. It seemed as though his heart
were too full for speech; for he went out without a word.

"What a sensitive little chap he is!" thought Paul. "He was full to
overflowing as I told him that story. I wonder what his people are
like?"

He got up as he spoke and went out. A throng of boys were playing in the
grounds. Too absorbed in their games, they took no notice of Paul, for
which he was devoutly thankful. He walked out of the grounds, along the
road leading to St. Bede's. Scarcely noticing the direction in which he
was travelling, he was rudely awakened from his reverie by the shout of
"A Gargoyle--a Gargoyle!" And before he could move a step farther he
found himself surrounded by a dozen boys, who danced wildly round him,
shouting the name of contempt again and again, as though they were a
band of savages, and had suddenly discovered a victim for the sacrifice.

Paul saw at a glance that he had fallen into the hands of the enemy--in
other words, into the hands of the rival school. There were senior boys
and junior boys. Prominent amongst the latter he noticed Mellor, who was
quite ecstatic with delight at having trapped a Gargoyle.

"Why, hanged if it isn't the fellow who turned tail and ran!" cried one
of the seniors.

"Yes, Percival. Didn't you see that?" said Mellor.

"So it is," came in a chorus.

"The noble champion of the Gargoyles--ho, ho!" cried the senior.

"Ho, ho!" came in a chorus, and they commenced dancing round Paul, in a
wilder, madder fashion than before. "Ho, ho, ho! The noble champion of
the Gargoyles."

"'And he bared his big right arm,'" cried one, when this chorus had
ceased.

"And cried aloud, 'Come on,'" shouted another.

    "Come one, come all, this rock shall fly
    From its firm base sooner than I!"

shouted a third.

A scream of laughter greeted this sally, and then the dancing was
resumed to the old chorus.

"Ho, ho! ho! The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"

Paul stood motionless as a statue and as white as one in the midst of
the jeering, mocking throng. He made no answer to the jibes, but waited
until they had exhausted themselves. It was some time before that
happened. At length the cries grew feebler, the wild dancing slackened.

"Well, have you nearly finished?" Paul asked.

"Listen. The noble champion of the Gargoyles is speaking. He's got a
tongue," exclaimed the senior who had first spoken.

"And legs as well," said a second.

"And doesn't he know how to use them!" added a third--an observation
which drew out another shriek of laughter. From white Paul turned
scarlet.

To keep silent under provocation, more especially provocation that is
undeserved, is one of the hardest lessons that can be learned, boys and
girls. Paul was only a boy, with a boy's impulses, passions, and
feelings. But some time was to pass before he was to learn the great
lesson of how to keep these passions under perfect control--and many
things were to happen in the interval--but he had begun the task. Rough
and bitter though the schooling was, in no better way could the lesson
have been taught than in that school of adversity through which he was
now passing.

"When you've quite finished," said Paul, as they once more came to a
pause, "I would like to go on my way."

"Where? To the sand-pit?" came a voice.

"No; he'd rather keep away from that. He'll always give that a pretty
wide berth," some one answered.

"Why not take him there? He doesn't know what a nice place it is for a
picnic."

The suggestion was hailed with delight.

"The sand-pit--the sand-pit!" was the cry.

Immediately a rush was made for Paul. It was more than flesh and blood
could stand. Paul had kept wonderfully calm and cool up to the moment;
but directly they tried to put hands upon him he struck out right and
left. With so much vigour did he strike that he might have made his way
through the howling, struggling pack, but just at the moment he had got
himself free, Mellor, who was one of those who had been knocked to the
ground, caught him by the legs and brought him with a crash to the
ground.

"On him--on him!" was the cry.

"Back--back! Cowards all!"

At the instant they were about to seize Paul a figure dashed into their
midst, scattering the struggling pack to right and left.




CHAPTER XX

WYNDHAM AGAIN TO THE RESCUE


"Back, back! Twelve to one--cowards, cowards!"

The Bedes fell back as the youth fell among them, and cleared a passage
to Paul. Paul, momentarily stunned by his fall, breathed freely again,
and leapt to his feet.

"Why, it's Percival!" said the new-comer. "Are you hurt?"

Paul could scarcely believe his eyes, as he found himself again
confronting Gilbert Wyndham.

"No, thanks," he answered stiffly.

He would rather have been indebted to any one than to Wyndham. He had
wished to clear off the debt between them, but instead of that he found
himself more indebted to him than ever. For a second time he had been
placed under an obligation to him.

"You don't see who it is, Wyndham," came a voice from the ranks of the
Bedes, disappointed of their prey. "It's a Gargoyle--the wretched
Gargoyle who showed such a clean pair of heels at the sand-pit."

"Yes, I do see who it is; but, whoever he is, that's no reason why a
dozen of you should set on him at once. That's not fair play, Murrell."

"Half a dozen of 'em set on me," came the voice of Mellor. "What's good
enough for the Gargoyles ought to be good enough for us."

"That's just where you're wrong, Mellor," answered Wyndham coolly.
"What's good enough for a Gargoyle isn't good enough for a Bede--is it,
Bedes?"

A murmur of ready assent went up at this appeal--from all except Mellor.

"You see, you are half a Gargoyle yourself, Mellor, or you would have
known that. You belong to the amphibia at present. When you've grown out
of that you will know better, won't he, Bedes?"

A laugh went up--from all except Mellor. The storm which had looked
threatening began to clear under the ready tact of Wyndham. Still, the
boys did not like the idea of letting Paul go scot-free.

"Yes, you'll know better than that by-and-by, Mellor," said the youth
addressed as Murrell. "Your education was neglected as a Gargoyle.
You'll improve as you go along. But, I say, Wyndham, what are you going
to do with the specimen you've got? You can't stick it in the museum,
you know. So turn it over to us again. We won't hurt it. We'll only give
it a run to the sand-pit, and a roll down. It will do it good. Eating
sand is better than eating dirt."

"Yes, hand him over," came in a chorus.

"No," came the decided answer, as Wyndham twined his arm in Paul's. "The
Gargoyle is my property."

"What are you going to do with him?" demanded Murrell.

"I want to have a little quiet talk with him, that's all."

What could Wyndham want with a little quiet talk with a Gargoyle? It
could only be for one purpose--to gather information which might be of
use to the Bedes in any future campaign against Garside. So the boys
reluctantly turned away, and left Wyndham and Paul together.

"Why have you come a second time to my help?" came in a choking voice
from Paul when they were alone.

"Really, I don't know," smiled Wyndham. "Does it matter much? Do you
mind?"

"Mind! After what happened at the sand-pit the other day. Mind! I would
rather have been under an obligation to any one than you."

"Do you mean it?" asked Wyndham, now quite grave.

"Of course I do. I was never more in earnest in my life. I had hoped to
clear off the debt that was between us, and now you have placed me in
your debt a second time."

"If you mean by debt that little service I was only too pleased to do
for you at the well, I thought it was quite cleared off."

"How?"

"By the service you did for me at the sand-pit the other day."

"You are mocking me?"

"I was never more serious in my life," answered Wyndham, using Paul's
words. "When I saw you standing before me at the sand-pit--saw who your
fellows had selected as their champion--I was staggered. You were the
last in the world I dreamt of seeing. I could see that you were
bewildered, but not more than I was. I knew not how to act. Fight you?
Impossible! Go away--turn on my heel? That seemed impossible, too. I
should be stamped as a coward. I could not explain, because that would
have meant giving away your secret. Then, as the thoughts flashed
through my mind, you solved the riddle. You had the courage to do what I
couldn't--you walked away."

Paul regarded Wyndham in wonder. The thoughts which had passed through
Wyndham's mind were almost the same thoughts that had passed through
his. The same struggle had gone on in both. For the moment the hard,
bitter feeling that had stirred within him softened, and he was on the
point of holding out his hand, when he remembered that it meant clasping
the one that had so severely punished Stanley.

"I walked away," he echoed; "and then?"

"Why, then," smiled Wyndham, "things couldn't have happened better. Some
bounder amongst your mob was anxious to bound into your shoes. He jumped
up in an awfully excited way, muttering something about 'the honour of
the Form.' He insisted on fighting me, and I didn't mind in the least.
You know how it ended."

"Too well--too well," repeated Paul sadly. "Better far had I stayed.
That was my friend you punished so."

"Your friend!"

"The best friend I had at Garside. We are friends no longer. Instead of
that, he looks upon me now as his worst enemy, while all the school look
upon me as a cur. But it isn't that I mind so much, it's losing the
friendship of Stanley Moncrief."

"I'm sorry. I did not dream things were as bad as that. Who is this
Stanley Moncrief?"

"He is the son of that gentleman for whom I took the letter to Redmead
on the night you met me, and did me so great a service."

"If it was a service, I've undone it now," answered Wyndham sorrowfully.
"I could not have done a worse one than I did you at the sand-pit. Why
couldn't you explain to your friend?"

"I've tried to, but he won't listen. He is smarting under his defeat,
and I don't wonder at it."

There was silence between them for a minute or two, then Wyndham
exclaimed:

"Are you going back to Garside?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because I am going with you. Moncrief won't listen to you. He will
listen to me."

"No, no!" said Paul firmly. "It is very kind of you, but I would rather
not. If Stanley Moncrief and I are ever to be friends again, he will
have to find out for himself that I'm not the cur he thinks me. I've
tried to explain, but he would not hear. I shall never try again, unless
he comes round and asks me."

"I think you are right," said Wyndham, after a pause. "None the less,
I'm sorry--deeply sorry--that you should have lost your friend through
me."

"Oh, things will work round presently," said Paul lightly. "I suppose,
after that affair at the sand-pit, you were quite the hero of your
school?"

"I don't know about hero. They made a lot of fuss over me, because, as
you know well enough, there's no love lost between us and Garside. But
if anybody deserves to be the hero of a school, it is you."

"Nonsense!"

"It is easy enough to flow with the tide, but awfully hard to struggle
against it. That's what you're doing just now, Percival."

He walked with Percival for some distance on the road to Garside, and
when they separated they shook hands, unaware of the fact that they had
been seen by one of the Third Form. After Wyndham's explanation, how was
it possible for Paul to refuse the hand held out to him?

Now, Stanley Moncrief was at this time in his dormitory, very miserable.
He had been so, in fact, ever since he had broken with Paul. He had a
real affection for him. He had loved him as he might have loved a
brother; then, after his defeat at the sand-pit, he felt that there was
only one thing to be done, and that was to--hate him. So he had broken
off the friendship, and rushed into the arms of the two whom he
disliked--Newall and Parfitt.

But when Stanley began to reflect a little more deeply, he began to see
that he could not altogether shake off the old link that bound him to
Paul. He had always been comfortable and at ease with him--could sit
with him, as it were, in his shirt-sleeves and slippers. He had felt at
home with him from the first day they met. He could not feel the same
with Newall or Parfitt, try as he might. He seemed to be ever acting a
part when he was with them, and they seemed to be doing the same when
they were with him. For instance, he would have liked to have read the
letter Paul sent him by Waterman; but the eyes of Newall were upon him,
so he tore it up in bravado, and scattered the fragments in the way
already described. It was not Stanley's real self did that--he was
acting a part.

Again, when Paul entered the common room, looking so sad and miserable,
Stanley's heart prompted him to stay and speak to his old friend.
Perhaps he might have done so had he been alone; but he felt that the
eyes of the others were upon him, especially Newall's. Something was
expected of him. He was to give the lead; so he gave the lead, by
walking from the room, and the rest followed him, with the solitary
exception of Waterman.

Then he joined in the laughter and the jeers of his new-found friends
when they got outside, all at the expense of Paul. Again, Stanley was
acting a part. At heart he felt miserable. The sadness of Paul's face
haunted him, and as soon as he could he escaped from his companions to
the solitude of the dormitory.

He had been puzzled all along how it was Paul had acted in such a
cowardly way at the sand-pit. He knew that he had no love for fighting;
but once having taken up the gage of battle, he was not one to shrink
from it. What was it his father had said? That no braver youth could be
found than Paul Percival. His uncle had the same opinion, and they were
not the men to make mistakes. Had his nature suddenly altered, or what
had happened? More and more he regretted that he had not opened Paul's
letter. It might have given him the answer to the riddle.

So Stanley sat on the side of the bed for a long time, very miserable.
Indeed, I very much question whether of the two he was not the more
miserable. It is true that nearly all Paul's companions dropped away
from him; but perhaps it was better to lose companions than to have
those you did not really want.

"It is all a hideous mistake. I'll go and make it up with Paul," he
thought.

As he was thus thinking, the door opened, and his cousin entered.

"Well, Harry, what do you want?" he asked gruffly, as though resenting
the intrusion.

Harry eyed him for a moment without answering.

"Can't you speak? Have you lost your tongue, Harry?"

"I saw Percival a little while ago, Stan."

"Well--what of it? What's that to me?"

"Nothing much, I suppose."

"Where did you see him?"

"Not very far from here. He was with that fellow--that beastly
Beetle--who fought with you."

"What were they doing?"

"Oh, they were walking and talking together--very chummy. When they
left, they shook hands--almost kissed each other."

"Shook hands! You are sure?"

"Positive."

"Run off, youngster. Leave me," cried Stanley hoarsely.

Harry ran out, wondering at the effect his information had had upon his
cousin.

"Shook hands with him!" echoed Stanley, as he sank with a groan upon the
bed.




CHAPTER XXI

THE CHASM WIDENS


Unintentionally Harry Moncrief had made deeper the chasm between the
one-time friends. It was quite evident to Stanley, from Harry's
description of what he had witnessed, that there was an understanding
between Paul and Wyndham, otherwise they would never have shaken hands
with each other. The fact that Paul could take the hand of one who had
thrashed him set the blood tingling in Stanley's veins. That showed
plainly enough that Paul was on friendly terms with his enemy--with an
enemy of the school. What was to be done?

Stanley got up and paced the room. The softer feelings that had been
working in his breast vanished.

"I will never speak to Paul Percival again--never!" he said fiercely.
"Perhaps the whole of that business at the sand-pit was a trap of his
into which I was fool enough to fall. How else could they have shaken
hands together?"

It seemed to him, thus blinded by suspicion against his friend, that it
could only have one meaning--they were gloating over his defeat.

Meanwhile, Harry Moncrief had no sooner descended the stairs leading
from the dormitories than he came sharply into contact with Plunger, who
was hurrying along the corridor as though he were rushing full speed up
a cricket pitch to prevent himself from being run out.

"Hallo, Harry, just the fellow I was looking for!" he exclaimed.

"Are you, Freddy? Then I wish you'd look for me with your eyes instead
of your elbows," answered Harry, rubbing his ribs, which were aching
from the blow they had just received from the boniest part of Plunger's
elbows. "What is it?"

"You know that twaddle in the _Gargoyle Record_ about the poet being
stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger'?"

"Yes," laughed Harry, as he recalled Plunger's confusion when the
paragraph was read aloud in the common room.

"What are you grinning at? You don't mean to say you saw anything funny
in it?"

"Oh, no; but you're bound to laugh when the other fellows laugh, you
know. It's like the measles--catching. I'm all right now. Go on. You
were saying----"

"I believe that paragraph was sent in to the editor--Dick Jessel, you
know--by Baldry."

"Oh! What makes you think that?"

"He's been worrying about rhymes ever since that paragraph was read
out--that's why. You see, he sent in the paragraph so that he might have
another shot at me with the answer. Baldry's a deep 'un."

"But why should he send in paragraphs to the _Record_ against you?"

"Well, I make fun of his name, so he's trying to score off me in return.
But he can't do it, for 'Plunger's' no sort of rhyme to 'hunger.' And
there's another thing I've got to tell you in confidence, Harry. I
believe that cartoon of me on the Forum window was Baldry's work."

"Oh!" answered Harry drily. "What makes you think that?"

"Baldry once said that if the glue business failed"--Plunger's father
was a glue and size merchant in a large way of business--"I could always
pick up my living as an artist's model."

"How?"

"Well, he had the cheek to tell me I had a funny sort of face. And
Baldry's smart with the pencil, you know; so, putting this and that
together, I believe Master Baldry not only sent in that paragraph to the
_Record_, but put my face on the Forum window."

"Very wrong of him, Freddy," said Harry sympathetically. "What are you
going to do with him?"

"Well, I've got a lovely old basket, once the property of a dear and
highly-respected friend of yours, Mrs. Trounce, and this basket is
filled with a lovely collection of feathers. Along with these feathers
will be mixed a little glutinous substance, as the chemistry master
calls it, which I brought last term from the pater's works. This basket
will be fixed directly over the Forum door, by means of a string, the
end of which will be held by some one hidden in a tree at the back of
the Forum. That some one in the tree will be you. Are you listening?"

"Ra-ther. That some one in the tree will be me. Go on."

"My dearly beloved and much respected chum, Sammy Baldry, will receive a
message calling him to the Forum at half-past six. Someone will be at
the side of the Forum, so as to know the exact moment Baldry appears on
the scene. Directly he nears the door that some one will whistle. That
will be a signal to you up in the tree. Baldhead will open the door.
Then you'll pull the string. Over will go the basket, and down will come
the pretty feathers over Baldhead. In the information Baldry was good
enough to supply to the _Gargoyle Record_, affectionate inquiries were
made, you remember, after the Missing Link, last seen in all his native
beauty in the Forum. What price for Baldry, eh? When he gets these
feathers on him he'll be a puzzle. No one will be able to tell which
kingdom he belongs to--animal, vegetable, or mineral."

And Plunger chuckled so that it seemed as though he would never be able
to stop himself. Just to keep him company, Harry chuckled too.

"Splendid little joke, isn't it, Harry?"

"Splendid."

"I told you what fun you'd have when you got to Garside. Better than
Gaffer Quelch's, eh? Things were awfully slow there, weren't they,
Harry?"

"Awfully."

But, so far as fun was concerned, Harry couldn't see that he had had
very much of it, except at his own expense. Plunger had, in fact, made
him his butt, and now he wished to score off Baldry through his
instrumentality.

"I didn't quite understand you, Freddy," said Harry presently, as
Plunger went on chuckling. "Who do you say was to be up in the tree at
the back of the Forum and pull the string?"

"You, Harry. I'm giving you the post of honour, because you deserve it.
Baldry has poked fun at you a lot. Now it's your turn, old fellow."

"It's very kind of you, Freddy--it really is. I don't know how to be
grateful enough. I'm to be in the tree, you say: but where will you be?"

"Oh, I'll do the whistling."

"The whistling?"

"Yes, to let you know up in the tree when Baldry comes along. Then,
directly Baldry opens the door, you pull the string, and--there you are.
Baldry in full plumage. It's all clear enough, isn't it?"

"All clear enough;--but----"

"But what? You're not going to cry off, are you?"

"I'm not going to cry off; but suppose we change places."

"How do you mean?"

"You go up the tree and do the pulling, and let me do the whistling."

"Why, it'll be ever so much more fun to pull the string. I want to give
you the best position, you see."

"I know you do, Freddy. I know your good nature; but I'm not going to
let you make the sacrifice. I'll do the whistling."

"Very well, if you wish it. I don't mind which I do," said Plunger, in a
lofty tone. "Only don't make a mess of it."

"Oh, my part's so simple, I can't make a mess of it. Mind you don't make
a mess of yours, Freddy."

Now Harry decided, immediately on quitting Plunger, that he would
acquaint Baldry with the joke that Plunger intended to play upon him. It
was he who had drawn that cartoon in the Forum that had stirred Plunger
to wrath, and Harry came to the conclusion that it was not right that
Baldry should suffer for him. Besides, as Plunger had so often scored
over him, he thought it only right that he should begin to equalize
matters. So he hunted up Baldry, and informed him of Plunger's kind
intentions towards him.

"Oh," said Baldry, when Harry had ended, "that's Plunger's little game,
is it? I thought he was getting a bit cross, but I didn't think he
meant showing his teeth. The beauty of it is, I hadn't anything to do
with that portrait of him on the Forum window. I know no more about it
than you do."

"Than I do!" echoed Harry, smiling to himself.

"He made a better guess when he told you that I inspired those
paragraphs in the _Record_. I just gave a hint to Jowett. Jowett passed
it on to Jessel, and Jessel put in the smart bits that touched Plunger
on the raw. Plunger's all right when he's going for other people, but he
doesn't like it when others go for him."

Harry quite sympathized with this view of things.

"There's my name," went on Baldry. "I can't help my name. I didn't
christen myself, and was never asked whether I liked it or not. That's
the worst of names. You never are consulted. It's all done for you by
your ancestors, and your godfathers and godmothers--and people of that
sort. I don't know why it should be, but it is; and there you are--fixed
up for life with a name, unless you happen to be a girl, and get
married, then you drop it for another, but it may be ever so much worse
than the one you've got. Now, what I say is this--Baldry isn't such a
bad name, as names go, is it, Moncrief?"

"Better than Plunger, any day," remarked Harry, in his most sympathetic
manner.

"Better than Plunger, as you say, Moncrief. Where Plunger's ancestors
picked up a name like that, goodness only knows. It must have come out
of the Ark. And yet he's always calling me 'Baldhead,' 'Bladder of
Lard,' 'The Lost Hair,' and telling me to go in for hair-restorer,
Tatcho, and making feeble jokes of that sort. But I think I went one
better when I got that paragraph in the _Record_, eh?"

"Yes, Baldry you scored there; but what we've got to think about is, how
to prevent Plunger from scoring back. Some one will have to go to the
Forum in answer to his invitation, when it comes. It won't matter who,
because Plunger won't be able to see; he'll be up in the tree, waiting
for my whistle. So who's to be the victim?"

Baldry became thoughtful. He ran through the list of his acquaintances
whom he thought most deserving of the honour that Plunger proposed to
bestow on him. He thought of one or two in his form who might have been
available for his purpose, but it was just possible that they were in
the confidence of Plunger. So he turned from his own form to the
Fifth--"the bounders of the Fifth."

"I've got it," he suddenly exclaimed. "Percival!"

"Percival!" echoed Harry.

"Yes; that's the ticket; the very thing--Percival. If it comes off all
right, it'll be a big hit. We shall be covered with glory, and he'll be
covered with feathers--ha, ha! It couldn't be better. Do you see how it
fits in? A nice little present of feathers for the fellow who showed the
white feather at the sand-pit. Isn't it splendid, Moncrief?"

Harry was silent. Percival had been far from his thoughts. He never
imagined that Baldry would suggest Percival. For the moment his mind
went back to that night when Paul came to Redmead. Once again he could
hear the low, earnest tones of his father--"Many thanks for the great
service you have done, Paul. You have not only done a great service for
me and my brother, but for your country."

"Well, Moncrief; why don't you answer?" came the voice of Baldry. "It's
the finest idea that has come to me for a long time. Feathers for the
fellow who showed the white feather."

At the words, the image of his father faded from Harry's mind. He could
no longer hear the echo of his words. He only saw his cousin's bleeding
face as he rose vanquished from the sand-pit; and, side by side with
that picture, he saw Percival walking and talking, and shaking hands
with "the wretched Beetle--Wyndham," as he had seen him walking and
talking and shaking hands with him that afternoon.

"A fine idea--splendid!" he cried. "Nothing could be better. Let
Percival be the victim."




CHAPTER XXII

HATCHING A PLOT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT


"Nothing could be better. Let Percival be the victim!"

Scarcely were the words out of Harry's lips than Viner come up to Baldry
with the notice he was expecting. It was a hectograph copy, announcing
that a meeting of the more important members of the Third Form would be
held in the Forum at half-past six prompt to consider a matter of
pressing importance.

Baldry thanked Viner. Viner smirked and retreated.

"Viner's in the know, that's certain," said Baldry, when he was out of
earshot. "Viner's a crawler."

Harry had no great reason to like Viner. It was he who had gone behind
him on the day that he had entered Garside, so that Newall might push
him over his back. From that incident the quarrel had arisen between
Stanley and Newall, and other troubles had followed in its train.

"You're right there; but now what's to be done?"

"Oh, that's easy enough. We've only got to rub out 'Third Form' and put
in 'Fifth,' and then send it on to Percival; and there you are."

With the aid of a knife and some hectograph ink this alteration was soon
made. The next question was how to get it to Percival without arousing
suspicion. As they were considering this point Baldry caught sight of
Hibbert crossing the ground.

"There's our messenger," he exclaimed. Then he shouted, "Hibbert,
Hibbert!"

Hibbert looked round. Baldry beckoned him, and he came to where they
were standing.

"I want you to give this note to Percival. If he asks you where it came
from, tell him he will see inside. Then come away. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Hibbert, looking suspiciously at the note.

"Well, run along. It won't bite you."

Hibbert went off reluctantly with the note. It seemed now as though he
were as anxious as the rest to avoid Paul. At any rate, he kept out of
his way, but he could not very well refuse Baldry's request.

He found Paul by himself, as usual, in the writing-room. He had
commenced work in downright earnest on the prize essay.

"Hallo, Hibbert, is that you?" he asked, looking up as the boy entered.
"What have you got there?"

Hibbert handed him the notice without a word, but did not beat a retreat
according to the instructions he had received.

"Another meeting of the Fifth," Paul said, as much to himself as to
Hibbert, when he had glanced at the note. "I wonder they trouble to send
to me. It is too great an honour!"

No suspicion as to the genuineness of the note crossed his mind. It was
quite usual for Sedgefield, who acted as hon. sec. for the Fifth, to
send out his notices with a messenger from the junior forms.

"What's too great an honour, may I ask?" said Hibbert timidly.

Paul explained to him the contents of the notice.

"It's to call me over the coals again, I expect. Shall I go or shan't
I?" he asked himself. Then, turning smilingly to the boy: "What would
you do if you were in my place, Hibbert?"

"Stay away," said the boy promptly.

"And improve my reputation for courage--eh? Why would you stay away?"

Having so far exceeded his instructions, Hibbert thought he might as
well go a little further.

"Because I don't believe that the Fifth had anything to do with that
notice. It came from Baldry and Moncrief minor. I believe it's a trick."

Paul, beginning to smell a rat, examined the notice with closer
attention, and soon detected the erasion where "Fifth" had been
substituted for "Third Form."

"Thanks, Hibbert. I don't know why you should, but you're always doing
me a good turn."

"Not half the good turns you've done me," said the boy earnestly, as he
went out.

"What's in the wind?" Paul asked himself, when he was alone. "Bitter as
Stanley is against me, he can't have set on his cousin to hoax and poke
fun at me. Surely not?"

What was it, then? He could not guess; but it seemed to him that he must
have sunk very low indeed in the eyes of the school when he had become a
target for the junior forms.

"I must put my foot down on that nonsense," he said to himself, as he
paced to and fro the room.

At first he thought of making straight for Baldry and Moncrief minor,
and demanding what it meant; but on second thoughts he decided against
that course, because it would mean mischief to Hibbert. His life at the
school would be made more miserable than it was.

"The best thing after all will be to face it--to accept the invitation
of Masters Moncrief and Baldry to the Forum to-night. I run the risk of
being laughed at, I know, but I'm getting fairly used to that. And it's
just possible I may be able to turn the tables."

Having come to this decision, Paul did the wisest thing possible under
the circumstances--dismissed the matter from his mind, and went on with
his work.

Now it so happened that a meeting of the Fifth had really been called
for that evening in the Forum, and still stranger to relate, for the
express purpose of discussing Paul. The information that he had been
seen in the company of Wyndham, and had actually shaken hands with him,
had quickly spread, and the meeting of the Fifth had been called for the
express purpose of considering this further development in the feud
between the Beetles and the Gargoyles. No notice of this meeting had,
however, been sent to Paul.

So it was that about the time Paul was getting ready to go to the Forum,
little suspecting the proposed meeting, Newall had already started for
it, just as ignorant of the little plot that had been hatched by certain
members of the Third. Leveson had had some lines which had kept him late
in the class-room, and Newall had taken his place in getting the shed
ready for the meeting. Thus it happened he was in advance of the rest.

It was quite dark as Newall made his way to the shed. Harry Moncrief was
hiding at the side, with his whistle between his teeth. The figure
coming towards the shed in the darkness he took to be the figure of
Paul.

"He's up to time," he chuckled to himself. "He's fallen into the trap
beautifully."

Newall reached the door of the shed, opened it, and passed in.
Simultaneously Harry blew the whistle. At the signal, Plunger pulled the
string which communicated with the basket immediately over the doorway,
sending its contents showering down on the head of Newall.

Newall gasped and staggered in the darkness, striking out wildly with
his arms. He had a confused idea that some enormous bird of prey had
suddenly swooped down from the roof, and was flapping its wings over his
head.

"Ooshter--ooshter! Get out of it!" he gasped, as he reeled about and
struck out wildly at his imaginary foe.

Meantime Plunger had slid down quickly from the tree, and, accompanied
by Viner and Bember, who had been awaiting the signal in the rear,
rushed round to the front. The three held on to the door, so as to keep
their victim floundering about in the darkness till they saw fit to
release him.

"Splendid; couldn't be better," chuckled Plunger. "My, isn't old Baldy
carrying on?"

His companions could not answer. They were doing their best to smother
their laughter.

"My, he's carrying on awful!" went on Plunger. "Breaking up the happy
home. Didn't think Baldy had so much spring in him. Seems to be all over
the shop. Do you hear him, Moncrief? Where is Moncrief?"

Moncrief had made himself scarce. He had retreated to a safe distance,
where Baldry was awaiting him. By the time he reached him, he, too, was
exploding with laughter.

"Well, what's happened?" asked Baldry.

"Oh, don't ask me. It's too funny for words."

"Percival's inside?"

"Percival's inside, ramping about like mad, and Plunger, Viner, and
Bember are holding the door outside like grim death, and laughing like
hyenas over 'old Baldy.' Good, isn't it?"

On that Baldry was seized with a fit of laughter too.

"Good? The best joke we've had at Garside for a long time," answered
Baldry, between gasps. "My, what will happen when they find out their
mistake? What will they say when they see Percival stagger out instead
of 'old Baldy?'"

"Plunger will stagger the most of the two, I reckon," laughed Harry.

"I just reckon he will."

"And I reckon also that he'd better keep out of the reach of Percival."

"Percival!" echoed Baldry contemptuously. "Percival may ramp a good
deal, but he's not likely to do much, I'm thinking, after his exhibition
at the sand-pits. Percival is----"

"I beg pardon, but did I hear some one mention my name?" came a quiet
voice in the rear of Baldry.

Both boys turned promptly round at the voice. To their amazement
Percival was standing before them.

"Per--Percival!" exclaimed Harry.

"Per--Percival!" echoed Baldry.

"I happened to be strolling this way, and thought I heard my name; but
perhaps I was mistaken."

The boys could not speak. They could only stare with open mouths at
Percival. It was a shadowy figure that stood before them in the
darkness. Was it indeed Percival, or was it his ghost?

"Y--y--yes; we--we--were speaking about you," stammered Baldry, at
length. "We--were--just wondering--how you were getting on."

"It's very kind of you to think of me," said Paul, with a quiet smile.

Paul, quite ignorant of what had transpired in the shed, thought for the
moment whether he had better tackle Baldry and Moncrief minor then and
there as to their motive in desiring him to go to the shed, but on
second thoughts he decided to find out for himself; so he passed on.

"Pinch me--punch me--kick me", exclaimed Harry. "Am I awake or am I
dreaming, Baldry?"

"It was Percival right enough."

"Then who--who's--in--the shed?" gasped Harry, a cold perspiration
coming to his brow.

"What an idiotic question to ask me," retorted Baldry indignantly. "You
ought to know best. Are you sure there's anybody in the shed at all?"

"I'm sure of that. And--and--I could have sworn it was Percival."

"You've made a nice mess of it."

"Well, if I have made a mess of it, I've kept you out of it," retorted
Harry, beginning to feel sore at the tone taken by Baldry. "After all,
Plunger and the others will be taken in a good deal more than we've
been, remember. He still thinks it's you he's got a prisoner."

"Ah, yes, so he does," exclaimed Baldry, breaking into laughter again;
"I'd forgotten that. When that door opens it'll be one of the best
little surprise packets Plunger's ever had in his life. Hallo, here
comes a lot of the Fifth fellows, and they seem making for the shed,
too!"

The shadowy figures of Arbery, Parfitt, Hasluck, and a couple of others
passed within a short distance of where the two boys were standing. They
were conversing eagerly together.

There was silence between them for a moment; then an unearthly yell rose
on the air.

"Goodness! What was that? Enough to lift your hair off, wasn't it,
Moncrief?"

Harry did not answer. He was trying to pierce the darkness to see what
was happening in the direction of the shed.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE LAST BOND OF FRIENDSHIP


While Harry had been explaining to Baldry what had happened at the shed,
Plunger and his two companions held fast to the door, under the
impression that Baldry was within. Plunger was in a high state of glee
at the capture he had made, and as soon as Harry had gone commenced
crowing loudly, explaining as he did so that "as old Baldy seemed to be
going in for dancing, he must give him a tune to dance to."

"Put the soft pedal on for a bit, Freddy," said Viner. "He's saying
things to himself. Let's listen."

Plunger, who had nearly crowed himself hoarse, kept silent for a moment,
as a smothered voice from within travelled through the door.

"Open the door--open the door!"

"Keep your wool on, Baldy!" retorted Plunger, in his most provoking
tones. "Drop the clog-dancing, and give us a song; it's getting
monotonous. What's the best rhyme for Baldy? How're the birds, beasts,
and fishes getting on? What's the kingdom you've sprinted to--animal,
vegetable, or mineral? Any more paragraphs for Jessell? We'll take them
along."

"Open the door! I'll--I'll smash you when I get out of this!" came the
voice from within.

"Smash us? Oh, oh, Baldy!" commenced Plunger, but Viner stopped him.

"Quiet, Freddy. Listen a moment. It doesn't sound to me like Baldy."

"Will you open that door? I'll pay you out for this! I'll--I'll----"

"Why--why, it's Newall!" whispered Plunger, aghast. "How's he got in
there?"

"Don't ask me," said Viner, turning cold, for he had always been on
particularly good terms with Newall.

"Can there be two of them in there, do you think?" suggested Bember.

"Ah, I see it all!" said Plunger, a light beginning to dawn upon him.
"Moncrief minor's let us in for this. That's the reason he's bolted."

"Seems to me we'd better bolt too," exclaimed Bember. "There won't be
much left of you, Freddy, if Newall gets hold of you."

"What price you? You're just as much in it as I am."

But Bember's advice commended itself to Plunger and Viner, neither of
whom was desirous of meeting their captive when he was released, so,
suddenly letting go their hold of the door, they bolted with all speed
in the direction of the school.

Newall continued shouting his threats at the top of his voice for a few
moments before he discovered that no one was on guard outside; then he
flung open the door, and dashed through with a yell, just as Arbery,
Parfitt, Hasluck, and others of the Fifth had started for the shed. They
came to a sudden stop when they saw the extraordinary figure that rushed
towards them in the darkness. And well they might, for Newall, smothered
in feathers from head to foot, presented one of the most extraordinary
sights it is possible to imagine.

"What is it?" asked Arbery, in an awestruck whisper.

"Ask me another. It--it looks like----"

But before Hasluck could explain what it looked like Newall had dashed
up to them.

"Newall!" came the astonished cry.

"Who--who's been doing this?" he cried, glaring fiercely round on his
companions.

"Doing what?" asked Hasluck.

"Can't you see? Nearly smothering me with feathers, and fastening me in
the Forum."

"We know nothing of it. We were just coming to the meeting when we heard
the shouting," answered Parfitt, in an injured tone. "Is it likely we'd
play a trick on you, Newall?"

"It sounded like some of those imps of the Third. They were talking to
me as if I were Baldry."

At this moment Paul joined the group, wondering what was the matter.
Directly Newall caught sight of him, he turned towards him fiercely:

"Do you know anything of this? Had you a hand in it?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," answered Paul coldly.

"Of course not. You never do when it suits your purpose. Can we believe
anything from the fellow who shakes hands with a Beetle--with the enemy
of Garside?" came the sneering answer.

Paul staggered back as though he had been struck. Some one had seen him
shake hands with Wyndham then, and, without knowing the facts, his
enemies were already putting the worst possible construction on it.
Stanley had joined the group as Newall was speaking.

"If you can't believe anything I say, what's the use of asking me
questions? It seems to me a waste of breath."

"Did you or did you not set those fellows on to keep me in the shed?"
demanded Newall hotly.

"I'm not going to answer you," said Paul firmly.

"Then perhaps you'll answer me," said Stanley, stepping forward to
Newall's side, pale to the lips.

Paul had not noticed his arrival, and did not know that he was present
till he heard his voice. It stirred the old feeling of love and
friendship within him, though there was little that was friendly in its
tone.

"Answer you what, Stan?" asked Paul, in softer tones.

Stanley knew little of the grounds of the present dispute, but he
guessed that he could not be far wrong in repeating the question that
Newall had just put. So he repeated it.

"Yes, I'll answer it," came Paul's response, "for whatever else you may
think me guilty of, Stanley, I don't think you'll believe me guilty of
telling a deliberate falsehood. I haven't set anybody on to keep Newall
a prisoner in the shed, and, whatever has happened to him, I've had no
hand in it."

He spoke with such earnestness and sincerity that there was scarcely any
one present, with perhaps the exception of Newall himself, who doubted
him.

"I think you can take Percival's word for it," said Stanley, turning to
Newall.

"Thanks so much for one crumb of confidence." Paul, in spite of himself,
could not prevent a slight accent of bitterness creeping into his voice.
"It is really very good of you to think that my word may be taken, and I
hope you won't think me ungrateful."

"If you say his word may be taken, Moncrief," said Newall, with a shrug
of his shoulders, "that's enough. But as you have so much confidence in
him, you'd better question him about the Beetle."

"I was going to," answered Stanley, as, once more turning to Paul, he
asked: "One of the fellows saw you speaking to a Beetle yesterday. Is
that true?"

"Quite true."

"Shaking hands with him?"

"Yes."

Stanley groaned inwardly. He had hoped that it was a mistake--that his
cousin's eyes had deceived him, but there was no mistake. It was only
too true. He turned away, unable to hide the disappointment on his face.
Paul caught a glimpse of it in spite of the darkness, and was about to
speak, but Newall quickly interposed.

"There's another question which Moncrief's modesty prevents him from
asking," he said, with a sneer. "We've been given to understand that the
Beetle you shook hands with is the same Beetle who knocked Moncrief
about in the sand-pit. Is that true, too?"

Paul was silent, as though he still stood to the resolution he had made
not to answer Newall.

"Is it--is it?" demanded Stanley, turning swiftly round again, his tone
almost as fierce as Newall's had been.

"Yes; it is true." Then he added in a lower voice: "There are things I
can't explain. Will you meet me quietly, by yourself, just for a few
minutes, Stanley?"

"There's nothing I'm ashamed of. I've no secrets," came the proud, cold
answer. "If you've anything to explain, explain it now--in the presence
of my friend Newall and the rest!"

"My friend Newall!" The words froze up all the warmer feelings in Paul's
breast. It was as though Stanley had taken a knife from his pocket, and
with one cruel stroke severed the last bond of friendship between them,
and had then bound with firmer hand the bonds that bound him to Newall.

"Very well. If that is your last word, I've spoken my last word too."

And Paul turned on his heel, leaving them to draw what conclusions they
liked from his answer.

Newall and his companions set to work removing the feathers which had
descended on him in such a shower, and while they were actively engaged
in it Waterman came leisurely along, late as usual, and drawled out:

"Hallo, Newall! What's wrong? Been moulting?"

Newall disdained to answer. It was some time before he got clear of the
feathers, and then they left unmistakable marks.

"It won't be long before I find out who served me this trick," he said;
"but I don't think we want to go to the shed now over the other matter."

"Newall's had more than enough of the shed already, seems to me,"
drawled Waterman.

"Dry up, Water. You're getting it on the brain," responded Newall
gruffly.

"I think Newall's quite right," said Stanley. "There's no need for any
meeting now. We've found out that it's all true enough about
Percival--that he has met a Beetle, that he has spoken to him, that he
has shaken hands with him that he is on friendly terms with him. He's
admitted it, so it's no use going to the shed."

There was a murmur of assent.

"Well, but you can't leave it at that. Something more must be done, else
Percival will be laughing at us in his sleeve," said Parfitt.

"Why not--why shouldn't we leave it at that?" said Waterman. "What's the
use of worrying over trifles? Percival talks to a Beetle. Why on earth
shouldn't he, if he likes it? Percival shakes hands with a Beetle.
Again, I ask, where's the objection, so long as he doesn't want me to do
it, or any other fellow in the Form. What's the use of making such an
awful smoke?"

"I think we'd better truss him with Waterman," suggested Newall.

"That's better than being feathered anyhow," retorted Waterman coolly.

"Come, what's to be done? We can't stay here all night," said Hasluck.
"Leveson will be up presently with his stop-watch."

"We oughtn't to have a fellow like Percival in the school," Parfitt
commented. "The thing is how to get rid of him. We can't go up to Weevil
and ask that he shall be turned out. And we can't do what we'd like to
do--kick him out."

"No, we can't very well do that," struck in Newall. "There's only one
way."

"What's that?" cried four or five in chorus.

"Make it too warm for the school to hold him."

"No, no; don't do that," came in quick, tense tones from Stanley. "I
wouldn't like to be one to drive Percival from Garside."

"Nor I," added Waterman, with unusual emphasis for him.

"You!" retorted Newall contemptuously; "you don't count. Moncrief does.
What's your objection, Moncrief?"

"Percival was once my friend," came the sad answer.

"Friend!" was the scornful reply.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE RAFT ON THE RIVER


From this time every effort was made to make Paul's life at Garside
unendurable. The dead set against him extended from the Fifth Form
downwards. The views which Newall had expressed with so much force on
the night he had been feathered reigned supreme throughout the school.
It was felt that Paul had no place there, and that as he would not go of
his own free will, it was the bounden duty of all of them to follow
Newall's advice, and drive him from it. So the war against him was
carried on--not so much openly as secretly--by every petty means that
could be devised.

Stanley, to his credit, took no part in this secret warfare against
Paul. He had still some affection for him; but though he took no part in
it, he made no effort to check it. The fact was that he was getting more
and more under the thumb of Newall and Parfitt every day.

Even Hibbert seemed to have deserted him. At any rate, Paul saw but
little of him at this time, and when he did see him, the boy only
greeted him with a wan, frightened smile, as though he were afraid to
speak.

Waterman was about the only one who showed no change of manner towards
him. He was still quite friendly in his lazy fashion. It was he who had
first given the hint to Paul of the movement on foot against him.

"I may as well put you on your guard, Percival," he said, on the day
following Newall's declaration against Paul. "You've put up the backs of
all the Form, and a lot of fellows outside it. They're going for you.
They mean driving you from Garside."

"I thought something was on foot. Thanks for telling me."

"Oh, you'd have soon found out, you know, without my telling you. But
you needn't give me away. I only just mention it so that you may know
what's in the wind. Don't worry. It's not worth it."

With this characteristic piece of advice Waterman left him.

"Trying to drive me from the school," Paul repeated to himself. "Well,
they may try, and beat me in the long run, but they won't find it easy.
'Be ye stedfast, unmovable.' By God's help I'll try to be true to the
school motto."

Having come to that determination, Paul set his teeth hard, and put his
back to the wall. And so, though scarcely a day passed without bringing
some fresh insult or tyranny, he still held firm to the position he had
taken up--to the resolve he had made with himself and his God. It must
be admitted, however, that the cup was sometimes very near to
overflowing.

His lot might have been easier to bear had he received some answer to
the letter he had written to Mr. Moncrief; but as day followed day
without any response, it seemed to him that Mr. Moncrief disdained
writing to him, or did not think his letter worth answering. He came to
the conclusion that Stanley must have written to his uncle, telling him
what had happened at the sand-pit, and the feeling against Paul at the
school, and so had poisoned his mind against him.

Once or twice Paul thought of writing to the one friend who never failed
him--his mother--and unburdening his breast to her; but the thought only
came to him to be dismissed. It would only make her miserable. She had
suffered enough in the past without being worried with his petty
troubles at school. So he determined to stand alone--to fight out the
battle by himself.

Things were at this pass when an event happened which caused some stir
at Garside.

About a mile from the school ran the river. Its course lay in
picturesque variety through peaceful pastoral country, cornfields, and
orchards. One part of it was spanned by an old wooden bridge. This
bridge had become so dilapidated by time and wear that the county
justices had decided that it was dangerous for traffic. So to prevent
the possibility of an accident, it was decided to pull it down, and
replace it with a new one.

Accordingly, the bridge was pulled down, and a new one begun. To aid in
this task, a raft was used by the workmen in crossing the river.

Now Plunger and his companions in the Third Form were deeply interested
in the work that was going on at the river, but what interested Plunger
most of all was the raft. It seemed to him that he would like to live
upon that raft. What could be more delightful than gliding up and down
the stream on it for ever. Then he thought of the many adventures that
had happened on rafts--of the many shipwrecked passengers that had been
saved on them.

"Wish I had one of my own," he remarked to Harry, as the two stood
watching the men crossing the stream one half-holiday. "Wouldn't it be
jolly fun?"

"Very," answered Harry, who, fired by Plunger's enthusiasm, began to
share his longing.

It should be mentioned that Plunger's attitude towards Harry had changed
since the night when Newall had been feathered in mistake for Baldry.

To use the phrase of the Third--"Moncrief minor had scored," and Plunger
never respected anybody till they had succeeded in scoring over him--in
other words, beaten him at his own game. Since then he had begun to
tolerate Harry, and receive him on something like a footing of equality.

"Those fellows," went on Plunger, nodding his head in the direction of
the workmen on the raft, "are so beastly selfish."

"How, Freddy?"

"Well, I tried to get on that raft when it was lying idle the other day;
but they commenced shouting at me like mad. I wasn't doing any harm."

"Of course not."

"If they'd been using it, it'd have been a different thing; but they
weren't. So why couldn't they have let me cross the river on it--eh?"

"I don't see why. They ought to have been glad to. They didn't know the
honour they were losing. Now, if you'd only have told 'em who you
were----"

"Shut up!" cried Plunger, pinching Harry's arm. "But, I say, couldn't we
just have some lovely games, if we only had a raft like that?"

"Lovely," assented Harry.

Here was silence between them for some moments, as they watched the raft
and the men upon it with envious eyes.

"Duffers!" exclaimed Plunger, at length giving expression to his
feelings.

"Don't take on so, Freddy."

"Can't help it--duffers!" repeated Plunger, with still greater emphasis.

Silence again, broken by Harry.

"Would you really like to go on that raft, Freddy!"

"Stow poking fun."

"I'm not poking fun, I'm quite serious. Seems to me that if we really
wanted to go on that raft, and really made up our minds to it, we ought
to be able to manage it."

"How?" came the eager question.

"Easy enough if we go the right way, and don't make a mess of it, like
Newall did that night when he walked into the Forum."

"We're not talking about the Forum," said Plunger quickly, giving Harry
another pinch. "We're talking about rafts--that raft," pointing to the
one on the river.

"And it's that raft I'm talking about. Have you ever noticed what
happens on a Saturday?"

"Many things happen on a Saturday; but what is the one thing that
happens in particular?"

"The workmen on the bridge leave off exactly as the clock strikes
twelve--a little bit sooner if they can manage it. Never later."

"Oh, yes; they're very punctual at leaving off. But what's that to do
with the raft?"

"A good deal. They always leave the raft tied up under the bridge. What
would be easier than to untie it, and there you are."

"Harry, you're a genius--a reg'lar genius!" cried Plunger, bringing his
hand down on Harry's back. "It never sprouted out like that when you
were at Gaffer Quelch's. It's come on since you've been at Garside. I
must have helped it."

Plunger had undoubtedly helped in the development of what he was pleased
to term Harry's "genius," but whether altogether to the advantage of
Harry time alone could show.

"You helped it, Freddy! The only help you give is helping Number One.
You ought to have belonged to the help-myself society. You'd have been
just the fellow for the president."

Plunger kicked Harry, and Harry returned the compliment; then their eyes
went to the river again, and the raft, which was just getting under way
again to cross to the other side.

"Those duffers don't know how to use a raft," said Harry contemptuously,
after he had been watching the workmen for some moments.

"Of course they don't. That's the worst of being landlubbers. Wish we
could only take them in hand and show them."

"One of 'em ought to be wearing a suit of goatskins and things of that
sort, with a great cap on his head, with the hair on the outside to
shoot off the rain if it came on," said Harry thoughtfully.

"Like Robinson Crusoe, you mean?"

"Like Robinson Crusoe. That slim fellow with the black hair would do for
Friday, and the others could be Indians--if they only knew how to do
things properly; but they don't."

"They don't," repeated Plunger emphatically. "My, if we only had the
working of that raft, Harry, we'd make things hum!"

It was tantalizing to watch the men, so they turned away with visions of
what it would be possible to accomplish if they only had possession of
the raft. They could discover a desert island on the other side of the
river, pitch their tent on it, and do "lots of things." Full of these
splendid visions, they walked along in silence, each busy with his own
thoughts.

"I think we can work it, Harry," Plunger at length remarked.

"Work what?"

"That Crusoe idea. We can get the raft next Saturday, and easily peg out
a desert island on the other side of the river. I shan't want to dress
up much. I've got a ragged jacket which'll be near enough for skins, and
a soft felt which I can cut round the brim with Mrs. Trounce's scissors.
That'll do for the hat."

"Whose hat?"

"Crusoe's hat, of course."

"And who's going to wear it?"

"Who's going to wear it?" Plunger's eyebrows disappeared into the roots
of his hair in amazement at the question. "I am, of course!"

"You mean that you're going to be Crusoe?"

"Of course!"

And Plunger's eyebrows remained so high up in the roots of his hair at
the bare idea of anybody else playing the part that it seemed as though
they would never come down again.

"Well, but where do I come in?"

"You can be Friday or an Indian."

"And make myself black, and go about without any shoes and socks on, and
get thorns in my feet, and--and things like that. No, Freddy; no, I
don't! We'll change parts. I'll be Crusoe; you be Friday. You look more
like a savage than I do."

Plunger did not seem altogether pleased with the compliment, for he
brought his knuckles down on Harry's head; but Harry was not quite the
meek boy he was when he first came to Garside, so he returned the
compliment, with interest. Then Plunger tried by cajolery to induce him
to let him be Crusoe, and satisfy himself with the part of Friday, but
Harry remained firm.

"I first thought of it," he argued, "and I ought to have first choice.
If we're going on that raft, I'm going as Crusoe, Freddy."

Plunger preserved a gloomy silence for some moments; then he suddenly
lifted his head, and his eyes sparkled.

"I've got it. Why shouldn't there be two Crusoes?"

"Two Crusoes! You and I, Freddy?"

"Yes."

Harry had never heard of two Crusoes existing on the desert island at
one and the same time, but he didn't see why there shouldn't be. It
would be more up to date. Besides it solved the difficulty, so he
promptly consented.

"But, who'll be Man Friday?"

"Oh, we'll make the Camel Man Friday. He'll do splendidly."

"The Camel" was the cruel nickname it will be remembered that Newall had
given to Hibbert. Unfortunately, a name like that sticks, and it had
stuck to Hibbert.




CHAPTER XXV

ON A VOYAGE OF ADVENTURE


Moncrief minor and Plunger, having decided that they would improve upon
Defoe's famous story and introduce two Crusoes into their forthcoming
adventures instead of one, and having further decided that Hibbert
should be Man Friday, it only remained to put their project into
execution as soon as possible.

A little way down the river, on the opposite side to that on which the
raft was usually moored, was a plantation. It had a thick growth of
furze and bushes, and save for the rabbits and squirrels, was quite
desolate during the winter. What better place could be selected for the
desert island?

"Just the ticket," said Plunger, rubbing his hands, after he and Harry
had explored the plantation with a view to their forthcoming enterprise.
"Couldn't have been better if it had been built for us. We must be
careful, though, and not let old Baldhead and the others know anything
about it. They'll all want to cut in--Sedgefield, Bember, and the rest.
I know them. Two Crusoes are quite enough at one time, don't you think?"

Harry quite agreed with Plunger. In fact, he was rather doubtful whether
two weren't too many--too many by one. But he didn't hint it to Plunger,
for fear of bringing up the old dispute.

"Have you sounded the Camel?" Plunger asked presently.

"Not yet; but I don't think he'll mind, except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"Having his face blacked. He's sure to object to that."

"But he needn't know anything about it till we get him over in the
plantation; then he can kick and squeal as much as he likes. It won't
matter. Let's hunt him up now."

The two thereupon went in search of Hibbert. When they found him, Harry
informed him in glowing language of their project for the coming
Saturday.

"And just by way of a little treat we thought we'd take you with us,"
said Plunger, as Harry concluded his explanation. "It'll be fine fun.
When we get on the desert island we can have splendid adventures!"

"Yes, yes; it'll be fine fun, as you say; but I'd rather not," answered
Hibbert, for whom the river had little attraction. He somehow feared it.
"I'll give way to some of the others."

"But you're not going to give way. You're too fond of taking a back
seat. You never have any fun; the other fellows have plenty. It's a
jolly shame!" exclaimed Plunger, waxing indignant. "It isn't right, is
it, Harry?"

"No, it isn't," Harry promptly assented. "I don't see why the Camel
shouldn't have as much fun as the rest of us."

"But--but I don't want it. I'm quite content."

"Ah, that's it. You're too content; but we're not. We mean making things
better for you. It's nearly time some alteration was made. Baldry,
Sedgefield, and the others would never think of giving you a bit of
pleasure. They're too selfish--aren't they, Harry?"

"Awfully!"

"So we're leaving them out of it, and you're coming with us instead,
Hibbert. We'll have a good time, I can tell you."

Plunger spoke with so much earnestness, and was backed up by Harry with
no less earnestness, that Hibbert really thought that their sole object
in taking him with them on the raft was to give him "a bit of pleasure."
It was perfectly clear also that they would take no denial; so Hibbert,
making a virtue of necessity, reluctantly consented.

"Whatever you do don't let out what we're going to do to the other
fellows," was Plunger's parting injunction, "or they'll be eating their
heads off with envy."

Nevertheless, in spite of Plunger's injunction, the secret leaked out.
Indeed, it would have been an astonishing thing if it hadn't, for the
proposed adventure on the raft had taken such complete possession of the
mind of Plunger, that he could think of little else. He dreamt about it,
and talked it over with Harry at every opportunity. In addition to this,
they had been seen carrying parcels in the direction of the plantation.

The long-looked-for Saturday at length came. It had been agreed between
the two confederates that, so as to avoid suspicion, Plunger should
stroll up to the bridge just before the hour the men left off work, and
that Harry should arrive on the scene a few minutes later with Hibbert,
from another direction.

"If anybody's about they won't suspect anything," said Plunger. "We
shall meet as if by accident, and keep out of the way till the road's
clear."

Precisely as arranged, Plunger strolled up to the old bridge, which by
this time was almost demolished. The workmen had made fast the raft to a
stake at the side of the river, and, having received their wages,
hastened off at the stroke of twelve. No one heeded Plunger. A few
minutes later, Harry came up with Hibbert, who was trying to look as
happy as possible under the circumstances, but was nevertheless far from
comfortable. The river always seemed so cruel to him--so treacherous.
And somehow it had seemed more cruel, more treacherous, since Paul had
told him the story of his father's death.

"All serene, Harry," cried Plunger. "The road's clear. We've got it all
to ourselves."

"That's good," said Harry. "We're in luck's way. Let's make hay while
the sun shines. Wait for us on the towing-path, Hibbert. We'll soon be
alongside."

Leaving Hibbert on the towing-path, the two boys got on the raft, and
proceeded to untie it from the stake to which it was attached. This did
not take them long, and, having secured a punting-pole, they soon
brought the raft to where Hibbert was awaiting them.

"I'd--I'd rather not go," said the boy hesitating.

"Don't talk rubbish. Get on. You don't mean to say you funk it?"

To tell the truth, Hibbert did "funk it," though there seemed so little
to fear; but he was, as we know, a nervous, timid boy. None the less, he
always tried to disguise his feelings even to himself.

"Funk--not a bit; but--but I'm never much help, and--and I thought I
might be in the way. It's a jolly raft, isn't he!" he said, as he
stepped on.

"Jolly."

Plunger pushed off and they went slowly down the river in the direction
of the plantation.

"It's smooth enough here, but what must it be like on the sea, eh?"
asked Plunger, after an interval of silence.

"Without any food or water and no sign of a sail."

"Yes, famishing with hunger and casting lots which shall die," added
Plunger cheerfully, glaring at Hibbert, as though he contemplated him
for a victim. Hibbert, pale before, turned to an ashen hue. "Why, what's
the matter, Camel? Don't you feel well? Seasick?"

"I--I'm all right. Is--isn't it jolly?" answered Hibbert, with a feeble
attempt at a smile.

Though Hibbert was far from enjoying himself, in spite of trying to
impress upon himself that he was, his companions were in their element.
As they floated along the river, they imagined themselves to be
adventurers, bent on discovery and deeds of heroism. All the same Harry
began to feel that Plunger, as usual, was trying to take up the position
of command, and make him play second fiddle.

"I say, Freddy," he presently burst out, "isn't it time that I did a bit
of punting?"

"I'd like you to have a try, I really would; but it's not so easy as it
looks. You've never done any punting, and you don't know how hard it
is."

"And what do you know about it? You've never done any of it till now.
You're not going to gammon me, Freddy; so hand over the pole."

As Plunger did not seem inclined to give up the pole, Harry caught hold
of it, with the intention of enforcing his demands. As he did so, the
raft swayed, and Hibbert, crying out in alarm, clutched Harry in turn to
steady himself.

"Don't be an ass, Harry," exclaimed Plunger hotly. "You'll have us over
in a minute. We're not on dry land. We're not out for a picnic."

"Give up the pole, then. We were to go halves--share and share alike. I
know as much about punting as you do; so let me have a turn."

"Put me on land," said Hibbert appealingly, fearing that a struggle
would take place between the two boys.

"Don't be such an awful funk, Camel," exclaimed Plunger roughly. "Let
go, Harry. Don't play about on this bit of wood or over we go. I'm not
insured, if you are. I said we'd go halves, and so we will. Let me
finish punting to the plantation and you shall do the punting back."

"You mean it?"

"Of course I do."

Satisfied with this promise, Harry let go the pole, much to the relief
of Hibbert. The rest of the voyage was passed without further dispute,
and in a little while they reached the plantation in safety. Having
secured the raft, they made their way into the thicket. Hibbert
timorously inquired where they were going.

"We told you we were out for adventures," explained Plunger. "Harry and
me are Crusoes--twins, you see."

Hibbert nodded assent, but he could not help thinking that he had never
seen twins who were so utterly unlike each other as the two before him.

"You're to be Friday, Camel."

"Friday--yes," Hibbert feebly assented. "Wha--what's he to do?"

"He's got to discover us--the twin Crusoes."

Hibbert thought that to balance things there ought to be a twin Friday,
but he only repeated, "Twin Crusoes--yes." As he did so, he thought he
heard a rustling among the bushes, as though some wild beast were
crawling amongst them. He looked round with a shiver, but saw nothing.
Plunger and Harry, too intent on their enterprise to hear anything, had
been groping about in the thicket for something they had hidden there.
Presently Plunger cried, "Got it!"

He drew out a brown-paper parcel from its hiding-place as he spoke,
while Harry explained as he did so:

"This is to be a sort of dress rehearsal, you see. The next time we come
we shall be able to do the thing properly."

"Yes, we've only got the hats and Friday's wig, and the stuff for his
face," went on Plunger, as he pitched a brimless felt hat to Harry and
clapped one of similar design on his own head. "We mean having the skin
coats next time. Here's your wig, Camel--Friday, I mean. Let's see how
it fits."

He took from the parcel a wig, which had been skilfully designed from a
couple of fluffy woollen table mats, once the property of Mrs. Trounce.
Pulling off Hibbert's cap, Plunger fixed this curiously fashioned wig on
the boy's head.

"Fits to a T. Doesn't it, Harry?"

Harry nodded.

"Wish we only had a looking-glass here so that you could see yourself in
it, Camel," went on Plunger. "You only want painting up a bit, and there
you are. Hold your face down while Moncrief puts on the artistic
touches."

Hibbert feebly protested. He didn't want his face painted.

"Now, look here, Camel," said Plunger, giving his arm a twist which made
him wince, "we're not going to hurt you; so don't be silly. Friday was a
savage, you know, and savages don't go about with white faces, and yours
is awfully white. Don't be silly, I say."

Hibbert wriggled for a moment, but seeing that it was useless for him to
struggle further, gave in with as good grace as possible. Harry at once
went to work on his face. First of all greasing it, he next smeared it
with burnt cork, until Hibbert was as black as a nigger. Thus blackened,
and with the rudely fashioned wig as crown, Hibbert presented a curious
appearance indeed. The two burst into laughter when they had finished.
Their laughter seemed to echo through the plantation. Suddenly their
laughter was checked.

"Did you hear it? Strange, wasn't it?" said Plunger.

Hibbert looked tremblingly round. Of a sudden an unearthly yell rent the
air, and half a dozen dusky figures leapt from the bushes in the
distance. Flourishing curiously-shaped weapons, very like tomahawks,
they rushed, yelling and screaming, towards the bewildered boys.




CHAPTER XXVI

WHAT HAPPENED ON THE RAFT


Hibbert, a picture of terror, turned and fled towards the river, and
Plunger and Harry, imagining for the moment that they had been set upon
by real savages, promptly followed his example. The dusky figures
followed in pursuit, still yelling their outlandish cries.

"Ka-pei, ka-pei! Houp, houp! O-jib-e-way! Koo-oo, koo-oo!"

Hibbert ran as he had never run before in his life. Terror lent speed to
his feet. He had got the start of his companions, so that they only drew
up to him as he reached the river.

"Quick--the raft!" shouted Plunger. "They'll be on us in a minute."

It was the raft for which Hibbert was making.

"Ka-pei, ka-pei! Houp, Houp! O-jib-e-way! Koo-oo, koo-oo!"

The cries of the pursuers drew nearer and nearer. Hibbert reached the
raft and leapt on it.

"Undo the rope! I'll push off!" panted Plunger.

Harry never thought of the promise Plunger had made--that he should punt
the raft back. His only desire was that they should put the river
between them and their pursuers as quickly as possible. In less than a
moment he had undone the rope which bound the raft to the bank, and
leapt to Plunger's side. Brief as the space of time, it had enabled the
foremost of their pursuers to reach the bank.

"Push off, Freddy," cried Harry.

Plunger pushed off in desperation. Too late! The foremost of the
pursuers had followed them on to the raft. Plunger could see the dusky
face looking into his. The raft had floated a little way from the bank.
With another unearthly cry three more of the savage-looking figures
leapt on.

The raft swayed ominously. Plunger made a wild endeavour to push further
out into the stream. The raft lurched forward. There was a cry of
horror, a splash, and the next moment three of the boys--Plunger,
Hibbert, and one of "the savages"--were struggling in the water.

The impetus given to the raft had taken it out into midstream, and when
the three rose to the surface, it was at some distance from them. By the
ducking in the water the paint of the "noble savage" was running down
his face, and Plunger, in that terrible moment, recognized that it was
Baldry.

Plunger knew little of swimming. Fortunately, Baldry knew more of it
than he did, and was able to clutch him by the arm and hold him up. But
those on the raft saw with horror that they had floated right away from
Hibbert, and that was he drowning before their eyes.

Harry looked round for the punting-hole, in the hope that he might go to
the aid of the drowning boy. Alas! Plunger had carried the pole with him
when he had fallen into the river, and it was now floating down the
stream at some distance from them.

"The Camel's drowning!" gasped Harry.

The boys on the raft saw that he was. They had caught sight of the white
face as it rose for the second time to the surface. And they stood
there, transfixed horrified, at the tragedy that was taking place before
them. Unable to find the punting-pole, Harry would have leapt into the
river, but Sedgefield, one of the "savages" who had jumped upon the
raft, was just in time to clutch him by the arm and hold him back.

"Look, Moncrief! That's Percival, isn't it?"

Harry stood, trembling in every limb, on the edge of the raft, and
followed the direction of Sedgefield's finger. Yes, Percival it was. Cut
off from the games of his companions, left entirely to himself, he had
brought out his rod and line to pass an hour or so angling. While thus
occupied, he had heard the shouts and cries raised by the "savages" on
the opposite bank.

"What's wrong?" he asked himself, as he stood quite still and listened.

The shouting grew louder; the yells more unearthly, and in a tongue, as
it seemed to him, he had never heard before.

Dropping his rod, he raced along the bank, just in time to to see from a
distance the raft push off with the boys upon it, and the disaster that
followed, as it floated further into the stream. He paused for an
instant as he breathlessly watched the scene; then raced forward at full
speed, flung off his jacket, waistcoat, and boots, and struck out, hand
over hand, to where Hibbert was struggling in the water.

Fortunately, Paul was a powerful swimmer. Even in his cradle his father
had taken his little hand in his large one, and, while looking lovingly
in his face, had said to the wife who sat beside him:

"The son of a sea-dog, the son of a sea-dog! He must never know the fear
of water."

Alas! it was the cruel water which had carried off the father, but the
son had grown up true to his wish--he had never known the fear of water.
So he had become a bold and powerful swimmer. With a swift, sweeping
side-stroke he reached Hibbert's side, just as he was sinking for the
last time. Clutching the drowning boy by the hair, he held him up; then,
turning on his back, he drew him to his chest, and, kicking out with his
feet, soon reached the bank.

Placing the boy gently on the turf, Paul gazed anxiously into his face.
The eyes were closed; the lips ghastly blue; the heart seemed still.

"Hibbert, Hibbert!" cried Paul, as he tried to restore animation.

No answer came to his pleading cry. The eyes still remained closed. A
big fear took possession of Paul. Had the eyes closed never to open
more? Had help come when it was too late? Was the little chap dead?
Notwithstanding the fear that seized him, he did not relax his efforts,
and presently, to his great joy, the lids fluttered, then opened, and
the eyes went up to his face. They were dazed, bewildered. Slowly a look
of recognition came into them.

"Per--Percival!" came in a feeble whisper from the lips; then the lids,
as though exhausted by the effort they had made, closed again.

Danger was not yet past, but the boy lived, and Paul, breathing more
freely, looked round to see what had happened to the others. It had been
a near thing with Baldry and Plunger. Baldry had supported Plunger for
some time, but neither had been able to reach the raft or the bank;
while those on the raft were unable to move to their assistance. The
strength of both was, therefore, giving out rapidly.

"Let go of me, Baldry. Take care of yourself!" gasped Plunger.

"Shan't Freddy," answered Baldry feebly. "Sit tight!"

Even in that terrible moment, with death looming grimly before him,
Plunger smiled faintly. Baldry's advice seemed so ludicrous. Sit tight!
What was he to sit tight on? They grew fainter every moment.

"God, help us!" was the prayer that came from the heart of Baldry.

Human help seemed to have failed them. So, at least, it seemed; but
Paul, looking up from Hibbert at this moment, his heart gladdened at
hearing his name, saw the dilemma in which they were placed--the peril
in which they stood. Unless assistance soon reached them, they must go
under.

What was to be done? He could not see them drown before his eyes.
Yet--yet, if he were to leave Hibbert, what would happen to him? It was
true that he had opened his eyes and spoken, but perhaps that was only
the last feeble flicker of the candle. Paul's hand went quickly to the
boy's heart. It was still beating, though feebly. Again his eyes went to
where Baldry and Plunger were making a desperate fight for life. Three
lives were trembling in the balance.

The prayer that had come from Baldry's lips a moment since came from
Paul's.

"God, help me! What am I to do?"

He gave another swift glance into Hibbert's face. It seemed to smile at
him, as though in answer to his prayer. "Go," it seemed to say. The
next instant Paul plunged into the river, swimming towards the two boys,
with the same swift stroke which had enabled him to reach Hibbert's
side.

As he cut through the water, his right hand struck against something.
His fingers closed round it. It was the punting-pole that Plunger had
lost, and which had been partly responsible for the accident. God had
answered his prayer. He had helped him. It would have been impossible
for him to have saved the two fast-drowning boys by his own unaided
efforts. Now it was possible.

"Catch hold!" he cried, as he directed one end of the pole to Baldry and
Plunger.

They eagerly gripped it; then, grasping the other end, Paul swam to
shore. It was a strange freight he was towing--two human lives. And his
heart seemed beating like the valve of a steam-tug as he reached the
bank and pulled his freight ashore.

"You're a brick--that's what you are, Percival!" were the first words
that Plunger gasped, as he struggled, with the water dripping from him,
up the bank.

Baldry's eyes had gone to the still figure lying on the grass.

"It's--it's the Camel! What--what's wrong with him?" he asked, as he
stood gazing at the still form. "Is--is he dead?"

"I hope not--I think not," said Paul, as he raised the slight figure in
his arms. "I must leave you fellows to look after yourselves."

So saying, holding Hibbert close to him, he hastened along the road that
led to the school. Once or twice he paused to make sure that Hibbert's
heart was beating. Yes; it was still beating, though feebly: having
reassured himself, he hurried on again with his burden.

The road seemed longer to him than it had ever been before; but at
length he drew near, and his eyes went up to the first thing that a
Garside boy usually looked to--the old flag.

He could scarcely believe his eyes. Were they mocking him, or was he
under a delusion? The flag did not seem to be flying there.

"My eyes are playing tricks with me," he thought as he hurried
breathless into the grounds.

A few steps more and he met Stanley. He stopped and regarded Paul with
surprise. He advanced a step, as though with the intention of speaking
to him, but quickly changing his mind, went on his way. Paul clenched
his teeth hard and staggered on with his burden. Luckily it was only a
light one.

Reaching the schoolhouse door, he met Waterman coming from it.

"Percival! What are you fagging with there?" For once Waterman was
genuinely roused. "An accident? Why, it's young Hibbert. What's
happened?"

"He's had a ducking in the river. Run for Dr. Clack--as quickly as you
can."

Waterman needed no second bidding. His natural indolence of manner,
under which was hidden much more energy than people gave him credit for,
vanished on the instant. He darted off at the top of his speed. Paul did
not relinquish his burden till, under the direction of the matron, he
had placed it on a bed in the sick dormitory.

"A doctor must be fetched," said the matron, as Hibbert's eyes remained
closed, in spite of her efforts to bring him back to consciousness.

"Waterman's gone for Dr. Clack."

"That's right. The poor little fellow's in a bad way. Oh, you boys--you
boys!" came in a sigh from the matron's lips. "Always in mischief. Who
pushed him into the river?"

"Nobody pushed him. He fell in, so far as I could see."

Paul did not tell her that two more Gargoyles had fallen into the river
at the same time, for fear of alarming her still more.

"Why didn't you stop him from playing about on the river? You're old
enough to know better," said Mrs. Trounce wrathfully.

Paul stood silent under this rebuke. He had not explained all the
circumstances of the accident--so far, at least, as he knew them--for
fear of implicating the other boys. He had caught a glimpse of the
savage "get-up" of Baldry and his companions, and the black stains on
Hibbert's face, which had only been partially washed away by the water.
He guessed, therefore, that there was more in the accident than at first
met the eye.

"If he dies we shall have the police here a-makin' all sorts of
inquiries," continued the angry matron. "And I shouldn't wonder if they
took you off to the lock-up, and brought you up before a judge and jury.
And serve you right, ses I. You elder boys want a lesson. Instead of
stopping the little fellow from playing on the river, you encouraged
him, I expect. I know the way you big boys have. You use the paws of the
little ones to pull out the roast chestnuts. It's disgraceful, I call
it."

Thus the matron poured out the vials of her wrath on Paul's head, while
she busied herself at the same time in doing all she could to restore
the patient to consciousness. Her words fell unheeded on Paul's ears. He
was watching the face of Hibbert, and wondering whether the eyes would
ever open again, and look up to him as they had looked up to him on that
day when he had put his hand timidly on his shoulder and whispered:

"You look so wretched and miserable I could not help coming to you.
You're not angry with me, are you?"




CHAPTER XXVII

THE OLD FLAG


As the thought went through Paul's mind, the door opened, and Mr. Weevil
entered. To Paul's wonder the master fell on his knees beside the bed,
and, taking Hibbert's hand in his, murmured:

"Tim, Tim, what have they done to you? Speak, Tim."

The cold nature of the master seemed to have melted as he looked at the
unconscious boy. Paul had never heard him call Hibbert by his Christian
name before. The ashen lips were moving tremulously. The blinking eyes
were fixed tenderly on the boy's face, and--was Paul dreaming?--he
thought he saw a tear roll down the master's cheek.

"Why did I leave you to yourself? Speak, Tim, speak," came the pleading
tones.

For once Mr. Weevil's self-control had given way. He was strangely
moved. Paul was too moved himself at the time to take much notice, but
he recalled every incident in that strange scene after. Then, as no
answer came to his appeal, the master seemed to wander in his talk, and
babbled words in an unknown tongue.

He was still kneeling by the bed, talking in this way, when Dr. Clack,
the school doctor, entered. His face remained very grave as he examined
his patient.

"It's been a very near thing with him," he said, when he had finished
his examination; "but with careful nursing he may pull round."

Paul heard the news with a thankful heart, for he had begun to fear that
the case was hopeless. Mr. Weevil had now quite recovered his
self-possession, and, leaving the patient in the hands of the doctor and
the matron, beckoned Paul to follow him to his room.

On entering it he closed the door, and questioned Paul minutely as to
the cause of the accident. Paul explained to him what he had seen, the
more readily because the little he had seen threw no particular blame on
any one.

"And you don't know how it happened?"

"No, sir; I haven't the least idea."

"You weren't in any way concerned in it?" demanded Mr. Weevil, suddenly
opening his half-closed eyes and fixing them on Paul.

Paul felt indignant. He had made as little as possible of his share in
rescuing Hibbert; and as a result the master seemed to have a lurking
suspicion that he was in league in some way with the boys who had caused
the accident.

"No, sir, I was in no way concerned in it," he flashed back. "It was
quite by chance that I was at the river-side this afternoon."

"Well, the matter must be further inquired into. It is quite certain
that there is something that needs explanation."

"I know nothing about that, sir; but if you've no more questions to ask
me, I'd like to change my things."

Paul's clothes had nearly dried on him. He had taken no heed of himself
in thinking of Hibbert; but now that Hibbert was in bed, and in the
hands of those who could take care of him, he began to think a little of
his own condition, which was not altogether so comfortable as might have
been desired.

"I'm sorry. I really had forgotten that you were in damp clothes. Why
didn't you mention it before? You must change them at once."

Mr. Weevil seemed really sorry that he had not given a thought to Paul's
condition before. Paul hastened off to change his damp cloth for dry
ones. While he was thus engaged, Plunger and Baldry entered for the same
purpose. Otherwise they seemed none the worse for the cold bath.
Plunger, in fact had got on good terms with himself again, and was as
perky as ever.

"I should have punted across the river all right if it hadn't been for
Hibbert," he explained. "The scream he gave threw me off my stroke. It
was jolly good of you all the same to come to us, Percival. We shan't
forget it in a hurry--shall we, Baldry?"

"No," was Baldry's emphatic answer. "By the by, how is Hibbert going
on?"

"I was just going to ask the same thing. I would rather have gone under
myself than that he should. Has the doctor been to him?"

Plunger spoke with unusual earnestness.

"Yes, Dr. Clack's been to him. He's with him now."

"And what does he say?"

"He says that it's been a near thing, but with careful nursing he may
pull round."

Plunger paused with one arm in the sleeve of the jacket he was putting
on, and sat down on the side of the bed. He was beginning to realize how
near the Crusoe expedition had been to a tragedy--nay, the danger was
not yet over. Silence fell on the room for some moments. Each was busy
with his own thoughts.

"I haven't yet heard how it all happened," Paul at length inquired.

Plunger told him the origin of the "Crusoe expedition," and all that had
happened up to the moment of the accident.

"I don't know anything about the savages that boarded us on the raft.
Baldry can tell you that part," he concluded.

"Oh, we found out all about the expedition, and didn't like being left
out of it. We thought that we'd have a cut in on our own account. So
Sedgefield, Bember, Viner, and myself got down to the plantation before
Plunger, Moncrief minor, and Hibbert reached it on the raft. While they
landed and got ready for their part, we got ready for ours. What was the
use of Crusoe without the noble savages? So we got up as savages, and
frightened the life out of Plunger and the other two by swooping down on
'em just like Indians would, you know."

"You didn't frighten me, I tell you," protested Plunger.

"Of course not; but Crusoe, when he first saw savages, never sprinted
along half so quickly as you did, I'll warrant! Greased lightning wasn't
in it with you, Plunger."

Plunger did not answer, but diligently set to work getting his other arm
into the sleeve of his coat.

"Well, but what's become of the other fellows on the raft--Moncrief,
Sedgefield, and the others?" inquired Paul.

"Oh, they were still on the raft, floating gaily along, when we left.
Goodness knows when they would get ashore," says Baldry.

"It's a bit unfortunate, you see, for none of the fellows now left on
the raft understand anything about punting," put in Plunger. "It's
rather a pity I couldn't have got back to them."

"It's just that that makes me feel easy. There's a good chance of their
pulling through, now you're not with them, Plunger," was Baldry's
ungracious response. "Why, here they are!"

As he was speaking, in fact, three of the four entered--Bember,
Sedgefield, and Harry Moncrief. After they had spent some time on the
raft, drifting aimlessly on the river, a boatman had towed them ashore.
Fixing the raft in its place by the bridge, they had returned in all
haste to the school, anxious to know what had happened to their
companions. When they had learned all particulars, Sedgefield exclaimed:

"I don't care what those Fifth Form fellows say or think, but will you
take my hand, Percival?"

Paul willingly gripped the hand extended to him. Bember and the others,
with the exception of Harry, followed suit. Harry struggled with himself
for a moment. He could not help remembering, in spite of his effort to
forget it, that Paul was responsible for the thrashing that his cousin
had received at the hands of a Beetle, and that he had seen him shaking
hands with the same obnoxious creature. Yet what could have been nobler,
Harry told himself, than the way in which, at the risk of his own life,
Paul had gone to the rescue of Hibbert, and had returned a few minutes
later to save Plunger and Baldry? He had witnessed it all from the raft,
with his heart in his mouth. Yes, it was a noble deed. He had never seen
a nobler. What was the defeat of Stanley--the wound of his
pride--compared with it? Instinctively his hand went out to Paul as the
other hands had done, when Viner entered the room.

"Have you heard the news?" he questioned, greatly excited.

"The news! What news?" demanded Sedgefield.

"The school flag. It's gone!"

"Gone!" they echoed, as with one voice.

Paul's mind went back with a rush to when he had entered the grounds
with Hibbert in his arms. His eyes had not deceived him, then. The flag
had really gone.

"Nonsense!" cried Sedgefield.

"Not much nonsense about it. If you don't believe me, you'd better go
and look for yourself."

The intelligence was so remarkable, that Plunger and Harry raced into
the grounds. A minute later they returned.

"Viner's quite right. It's gone," they exclaimed in a breath.

"But how--where--when?" questioned Sedgefield. "Who has taken it?"

"No one knows. It must have happened while we were on the river, so we
could know nothing about it. Somebody must have stolen up the turret
stair and got on to the roof. That's the only possible way it could be
done. The senior Forms are in a rare wax over it."

"I should think so," burst out Plunger. "What fellow can rest easy now
that our flag's been hauled down? I only wish that I had hold of the one
who did it."

"You'd give him a lesson in punting, wouldn't you, Freddy?" observed
Baldry, with a wink at those around him.

Plunger glared at Baldry. He would have brought his knuckles down on his
head, only he remembered what Baldry had done for him.

"Seriously," said Sedgefield, "it can't have walked. There's not a
fellow in Garside who would have pulled down the old flag, even for a
joke; I'm certain of that."

"And I." "And I." "And I," came in a chorus.

"A Beetle must have sneaked in. It must be the work of a Beetle."

"That's what I've been thinking," said Bember. "It's only one of those
cads could have done a sneakish trick like that."

"Supposing it is a Beetle, which of them could have done it? Which of
them could have made his way into the school without being seen, and
then got to the door in the turret?" asked Baldry.

"Mellor knows all about the building. He could easily describe
the way to any of the Beetles," said Viner. "That champion of
theirs--Wyndham--has made us eat enough dirt already. He made our picked
man turn tail"--every eye went to Paul as Viner spoke with
bitterness--"and Moncrief eat dirt. Now we've lost the flag. Really,
we're getting on. We can't sink much lower."

The atmosphere in the dormitory was getting oppressive. Every one felt
uncomfortable. That allusion to Paul was true enough. He had turned
away, like a frightened cur, from Wyndham; but who could accuse him of
being a coward after what had happened that day? It was altogether
inexplicable.

Baldry was the first to speak.

"You know what has happened this afternoon, Viner. Percival saved my
life, and you're not going to fling mud at him while I'm standing by."

"And I say ditto to Baldry," blustered Plunger.

"Oh, I deserve it," said Paul, for the first time breaking silence.
"It's true--every word that Viner said. I did turn tail. It was the act
of a coward. And Stanley Moncrief suffered through me, and through me
all the school has eaten dirt. But if the school has suffered through
me, through me it shall be lifted up again. If the Beetles have taken
our flag, by God's help I will get it back again, and again it shall fly
in its old place on the turret. If I fail----"

But Baldry cut him short, and shouted:

"Three cheers for Percival!"

The cheers were given very heartily, though Viner took little part in
the cheering; but ere the last cheer had died away, a messenger came
from the sick-room. Hibbert was still in a very critical condition, but
he had recovered consciousness, and was asking for Paul.




CHAPTER XXVIII

HIBBERT ASKS STRANGE QUESTIONS


The message brought back the minds of the boys with painful abruptness
to the struggle of a far different kind which was taking place in the
sick-room. In the loss of the school flag they had forgotten, for the
time being, the crisis through which Hibbert was passing. It was no time
for cheering; it was a time of sadness--Paul, at least, felt so as he
obeyed the message, and made his way to the sick-room.

"Percival," came in a low, faint voice, as he entered.

The face of the sick boy turned to him. Pale at all times, it now seemed
bloodless, as white as the pillow upon which it rested. It seemed, too,
to have shrunk, while the eyes had grown larger, and shone with a light
which Paul had never seen in them before.

"You were the first one he asked for when he came to his senses," said
Mrs. Trounce, as Paul stepped softly to the bedside. "I think he's a bit
better now; aren't you?"

"Much better, thank you," said the boy, with a painful attempt to smile
at her. Then the bright eyes went again to Paul's face and rested there.

"I'm glad to hear that, Hibbert," said Paul, taking the thin hand in
his. "You must make up your mind to get off that bed as soon as
possible, mustn't he, Mrs. Trounce?"

"Just what I tell him," said the matron, cheerfully, for she knew the
value of cheerfulness on the spirits of a patient. "If he makes up his
mind to it, he'll soon be about again."

"It's astonishing what we can do when we set our teeth hard, and go for
a thing," continued Paul, adopting her cheerful tone and manner.

"That's what you did when you came to me and saved my life. Oh,
Percival, it was terrible!"

And the thin hand went to the eyes with a gesture of pain.

"Terrible! Hooking you out of that river? That's what I call beastly
ingratitude. I think it's one of the best things I ever did in my life."

"No, no," cried the boy quickly; "don't think me ungrateful. I couldn't
bear that. You don't think me ungrateful?"

"Of course not. It's only my stupid way of putting things. All you've
got to do now is to forget about the river, and everything connected
with it. You're now on dry land--in a nice, warm, comfortable bed, where
you needn't trouble about anything except getting well again."

"Are the other fellows all right--Plunger and Moncrief, I mean?"

"Right? Rather! Going stronger than ever, especially Plunger."

"I'm glad of that. And--and the savages. Who were they?" asked Hibbert,
with a shudder.

"Can't you guess?" smiled Paul. "Nobody very dreadful. Three or four of
the fellows of your Form--Bember, Baldry, Sedgefield, Viner."

"I might have guessed it; but then I'm not like other boys. I'm such a
coward--coward. I've fought against it so hard, but I can't get over it.
I've tried to be brave--as brave as you are----"

"Hush! Don't talk of bravery. You're forgetting the sand-pit. Don't put
me on stilts, for I could never walk in them. We're just what God makes
of us. There are plenty of thorns and thistles about, heaps of 'em; but
not many sensitive plants. That's what you are Hibbert--a beautiful,
sensitive plant."

"Ah, you don't know what I am. If only I could tell you--if only I could
tell you. You would hate me--hate me. Yes, Percival--hate me. You can
call me a beautiful, sensitive plant, while all the time I'm a beastly
hypocrite. Oh, why didn't you let me die--why didn't you let me go down
in the river? Why did you save me?"

He spoke with a sudden outburst of energy, raising himself, in his
feverish excitement on his elbow.

"Come, come! Master Percival will have to leave you, if you take on that
way," said the matron.

"Yes, I think I'd better go now and come again to-morrow," said Paul,
alarmed at this sudden outburst, which he took to be a slight touch of
delirium.

"Don't leave me, Percival--don't leave me just yet!" pleaded the boy.
"I--I was forgetting myself. I'll be quieter if you'll stay with me a
little longer."

The thin fingers slipped into Paul's hand again, and clung to it
tightly.

"I'll stay with you a little longer, if you'll just do what I tell you."

"Yes, yes. What?"

"Just close your eyes and try to sleep."

Hibbert obeyed him implicitly. He closed his eyes, as though to sleep,
but still held fast to Paul's hand. In a few moments the pressure
relaxed, and he seemed to be really sleeping.

"I'll watch over him for a bit, if you like," whispered Paul to the
matron.

Mrs. Trounce looked at her patient. He seemed tranquil enough now, and
as she had other duties to attend to, she gladly availed herself of
Paul's offer.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," she whispered as she went out.

She hadn't been gone more than ten minutes before Hibbert's eyes opened
again.

"Still here, Percival? It's very kind of you." Then, looking round:
"Where's matron?"

"Gone out for a bit. I've promised to look after you. Do you want
anything?"

"No--except you. Matron's really gone?"--looking round again.

"What a suspicious chap you're getting!" smiled Paul. "Do you think
she's hiding somewhere?"

"I'm glad she's gone, Percival, because I wanted to speak to
you--alone."

"But you promised to sleep."

"Well, I've kept my promise. I've had quite a long doze."

"Very long--ten minutes."

"I can't sleep longer till I've said what I've got to say. Doesn't it
say somewhere in the Bible that we ought to confess our sins?"

Paul could now see clearly enough that there was something troubling
Hibbert, and that it would only increase the trouble if he were to
refuse to answer him. So he answered:

"Of course it does. Let me see--you must know the words as well as I
do--'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'"

"Yes, those are the words I was trying to think of. I remember them
quite well now. The water from the river seems to have got into my
brain, and things aren't quite so clear to me now as they used to be,
you see."

"That will come all right presently, and things will be quite as clear
to you as ever they were. But you mustn't worry, or else they won't."

"I can't help it; but I shan't worry so much when what is on my mind is
off it."

"Shall I send for Mr. Weevil?"

"No, no," answered the boy quickly; "it's you I want to speak to. Don't
leave me."

Paul did not move. He kept his place beside the bed, though he had no
wish to hear any confession. He guessed what it was. Some boyish freak
or escapade, magnified into undue proportion by the sensitive boy now
that he was so weak.

"I won't leave you, but if you've got anything to say, I'm not the
fellow to say it to. There's One can do you a great deal more good than
I can, Hibbert. Just confess to Him when you say your prayers to-night.
He'll help you a lot more than I can."

"Supposing I have done that, Percival. Supposing I did it when I closed
my eyes a little while ago; and supposing even then a voice seemed
whispering in my ear, 'If you want peace, if you want to meet your
mother in heaven, act the hypocrite no longer. Speak to Percival.' What
then?"

"Then I should say use your own judgment. Do what seems best."

Hibbert closed his eyes for a moment, as though he were trying to decide
within himself what was best. At length he opened them again.

"Do you remember that afternoon when I came to you in the writing-room
and told you Mr. Travers wished to speak to you?"

"Quite well. Nearly all the fellows had deserted me but you. I was
wretched."

"You looked it. You gave me a letter to post. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," answered Paul shortly. He remembered it but too well. It was the
letter he had written to Mr. Moncrief, to which that gentleman had not
deigned to answer.

"When I came back to you in the writing-room you were tracing names on
the blotting-pad. I caught sight of one--Zuker. You noticed that I was
surprised at seeing it, and asked me if I knew anybody of that name. I
told you that I did. That I once knew a boy of that name when I was at
school in Germany. And then you told me something I'm never likely to
forget--never likely to forget to my dying hour. You may think it
strange, but the words came suddenly to my ears when I fell off the raft
into the river."

"Indeed! What was it I told you?"

"You told me that it was through a man of the name of Zuker that your
father lost his life."

"Yes, that's true enough. So it was--Israel Zuker. What about it?"

"What about it!" Hibbert made a painful effort to laugh. "Why,
Percival----"

He stopped abruptly, as the door suddenly opened, and Mr. Weevil
entered.

"What, Percival! You here?" exclaimed the master. "Where is Mrs.
Trounce?"

"Hibbert wanted me to sit by him, and I'm taking her place for a short
time. She'll be back presently, sir."

"Are you feeling better?" asked the master, as he turned from Paul to
the patient.

"Oh, yes, much better. It's done me good to have Percival here."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Mr. Weevil's hand went gently, lovingly over the boy's brow, and he
watched him anxiously through his half-closed eyes. Paul recalled the
master's grief when he first saw the boy after the accident, and other
little traits of kindness--traits which had shown him that Mr. Weevil
was not altogether the stern, harsh man he had one time thought him.
None the less, he was sorry that he had entered the room at that moment.
Hibbert had awakened his curiosity. What was it that was weighing on his
mind? What had he to tell him about the man Zuker? He wished Mr. Weevil
had kept from the room a bit longer.

Paul waited, hoping that he would go out. But the master did not move
from the position he had taken up at the bedside, and his hand continued
to move caressingly over the boy's forehead. After a minute or two's
silence he turned to Paul.

"You've had your fair spell of watching, Percival. I'll take your place
till Mrs. Trounce returns. Hibbert looks very flushed and feverish. I'm
afraid he's been speaking too much."

What could Paul say? He had no alternative but to obey. Hibbert's eyes
followed him as he went out.

"What was it he had to tell me, I wonder?" Paul asked himself, as he
passed along the corridor.

It was a long time before he slept that night. His mind kept travelling
back over the many events of a singularly eventful day. And when he at
last dozed off to sleep, he could hear the voice of Hibbert sounding a
long way off.

"Oh, why didn't you let me die? Why didn't you let me go down in the
river? Why did you save me? Don't leave me, Percival--don't leave me.
I'll be quieter if you stay with me a little longer."

Then the voice died away and all was blank.




CHAPTER XXIX

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR ARRIVES AT GARSIDE


Two things, outside the ordinary school routine, occupied attention on
the morrow. The first was the adventures which had so nearly cost
Hibbert his life; the second the loss of the school flag. The report as
to the condition of Hibbert was neither good nor bad. There was no
improvement, but neither had he gone back. His condition, in fact, was
just what it had been the night before.

The loss of the flag caused the greatest excitement. The masters held a
meeting about it, but nothing was done. The Sixth Form held a meeting
about it, but nothing was done--for the simple reason that nothing could
be done. So far there was not the slightest clue as to what had become
of it. It had disappeared just as mysteriously as the pages torn from
the Black Book.

But in one thing there was a manifest change. A manifest improvement
took place in the school's attitude towards Paul. Whereas previously
nearly all the school was opposed to him, the greater proportion of the
Garsiders now came over to his side with a swing; but his own Form, with
the exception of Waterman, still held aloof. He received a communication
from Stanley, however, through his cousin.

"Stanley's sorry that he did not lend you a helping hand when he met you
with Hibbert yesterday," said Harry. "He did not dream that anything
serious had happened."

Paul had felt it even more than he dared admit to himself that Stanley
had not come forward on the previous day and given him a helping hand
when he was struggling along with Hibbert.

"How could he dream that anything serious had happened unless he
inquired?" he asked, with some bitterness. "Did he really send that
message?"

"Really."

"It's very kind of him. When you next see him say how obliged I am. It's
nice to find people so thoughtful, though it may be a little late in the
day."

Harry felt uncomfortable. He could detect the accent of bitterness
underlying the words.

"Tell you what, Percival, I wish you and Stan were friends again, like
you used to be. It's all through that beastly Beetle, Wyndham. I wish
some one had stepped on him and squashed him first."

"I don't. I can admire a plucky fellow when I see one, even though he
happens to be a Beetle."

Harry opened his eyes, and stared at Paul. Paul, annoyed at the
second-hand message he had received from Stanley, and seeing the
astonished expression on Harry's face, could not help adding: "Yes, I
can admire pluck wherever I see it. I'm not quite sure whether Wyndham
isn't worth half a dozen fellows here."

Harry stayed to hear no more. A Beetle worth half a dozen Gargoyles! It
seemed rank treason to listen to it. Paul felt a savage thrill of
delight in praising Wyndham and seeing the consternation it had caused
in Harry.

"He will tell Stanley every word I have said. Getting his cousin to
bring his mean, petty message. Didn't dream that anything so serious had
happened, indeed! Pah!"

Alas! alas! The breach between the two former friends, instead of
closing, was widening.

All the boys who had taken part in the raft incident were severely
lectured by Mr. Weevil, and were debarred from the usual half-holidays
during the next fortnight, as well as receiving a heavy number of lines
to keep them busily occupied during the same period. Then the master
went on to say:

"Percival has done a brave act. He went to the assistance of Hibbert in
a moment of extreme peril. He placed his life in jeopardy to save him.
God grant that his act of bravery may not have been in vain!"

Mr. Weevil paused for an instant, with closed eyes, as though he were
praying; then, when he opened them again, it seemed as though the
incident and all connected with it had passed from his mind, as, in a
few cold words, he turned to the duties of the day.

Paul was more than gratified with this brief allusion to what he had
done, but he could not help noticing that no reference was made by Mr.
Weevil to the part he had played in the rescue of Baldry and Plunger.
His whole thought seemed centred on Hibbert.

"Strange, his liking for the little chap," thought Paul.

It was as though the master were trying to make up to the frail,
deformed boy for the neglect of others. And whenever Paul now thought of
him, it was not as he remembered him on that night when he had peeped
through the dormitory window, and had seen him talking to Israel Zuker,
but as he had seen him kneeling by Hibbert's bed and babbling to him
tenderly in an unknown tongue.

The next number of the _Gargoyle Record_ made various indirect
references to the "Crusoe incident" in the editor's usual vein.

"Missing Link has turned up in the neighbourhood of the river--latest
mania--punting and desert islands.... Our poet is much obliged for the
response given to his appeal in our last issue. He was stuck, it will be
remembered, for a rhyme to 'hunger,' and the rhyme was to be a name of
some kind--bird, beast, or fish. Curious to say, all our correspondents
have hit upon the same rhyme and name.

"Honour of the Fifth looking up a bit. Tarnished near sand-pit on
Cranstead Common, it has just had a washing in the river. Better for its
bath, though not yet up to its former lustre.

"The Fresher of the Third who was prepared to give hints on the correct
style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats has thought better of it.
Gave it up in order to get some experience of desert islands and punting
in company with the aforesaid Missing Link. Experience disastrous and
not likely to be repeated. Has since taken to stamp-collecting and
ping-pong."

Then, among the usual notices of "Lost, stolen, or strayed," appeared
the following:

"Pages from the Black Book still missing. Greatest loss of all--the old
flag of the school. It waves over the school no longer. We have doffed
the cap and bells, and gone into sackcloth and ashes. Our heart is
heavy. We can smile no longer. We can only whistle one tune--the Dead
March. Our heart will continue heavy. Our noble frontispiece will never
beam again. Our lips will continue to warble the same melancholy tune
until the old flag once more waves over Garside!"

Stripped of its note of bombast, this last paragraph echoed pretty
accurately the feeling of the Garsiders at the loss of their flag. Their
pride had been more sorely wounded even than it had been by the affair
at the sand-pit. They had been flouted and dishonoured, and, though no
proof was forthcoming, they felt sure that this insult had been placed
upon them by their rivals--at St. Bede's.

Paul, meantime, had seen nothing of Hibbert since the day when his
confession had been interrupted by Mr. Weevil. Frequently he recalled
that strange scene--the boy's eerie-looking, pain-drawn face, the sad
eyes fixed on his, the earnest voice, with its suppressed note of
fear--as he began to unfold to him the secret that weighed upon his
heart and conscience. It seemed so real, yet so unreal. The face looking
up into his seemed real enough. It was the words he could not make sure
of. Hibbert must have been wandering.

At any rate, he had not sent for him since the afternoon he had spoken
such strange words, and that was nearly a week since.

"Of course, he was wandering, poor little chap, and has forgotten all
about it by this time. I shall have a good laugh with him about it when
he gets on his legs again," he told himself.

It was the sixth day after the accident on the river that Paul was
informed by Bax that a visitor wished to see him in the visitors' room.
A visitor! Who could it be? Paul had very few visitors to see him.

"Ah, it's Mr. Moncrief; come at last in answer to my letter!" he
thought, as he made his way to the room.

He was doomed to disappointment, however, for he found, on entering the
room, that the visitor was a perfect stranger to him--a slim,
wiry-figured gentleman, with a frock-coat buttoned closely over his
chest, reddish-brown full beard, and glasses, through which a sharp pair
of eyes at once went to Paul. Mr. Weevil was standing beside the visitor
on the hearthrug.

"This is the lad I spoke of, Mr. Hibbert--Paul Percival."

The master briefly introduced them. Paul was at once interested. This
gentleman with the tawny beard, and erect, alert, military bearing, was
Hibbert's father.

"I have only recently returned to England, and have but just heard of
the accident that has befallen my son," said Mr. Hibbert. "You saved his
life. I was anxious not to go before I had thanked you."

He took Paul's hand in his, and pressed it hard. A boy less strong than
Paul would have winced under that grip of steel.

"I'm glad to know Hibbert's father."

"And I'm glad to know Paul Percival. It isn't often one meets with a
brave lad like you."

Again he gripped Paul's hand, and seemed to be regarding him as keenly
as ever through his glasses to see if he stood his grip without
flinching.

"I think you would find many who would do as I did--even here at
Garside. It was my luck to be a good swimmer. And that luck--if I may
call it luck--I owe to my father."

"Your father taught you, you mean."

"No," said Paul, shaking his head sadly; "I wish he had. He died when I
was very young--when I could scarcely more than walk; but he was in the
Navy, and it was by his wish that I was taught swimming. The saddest
part is that he was drowned--drowned in saving another man's life."

"Really? That is sad. I hope that the man whom your father saved from a
watery grave was as grateful to him as I am to you."

Paul was silent. He was thinking that if Mr. Hibbert's gratitude were no
greater than the gratitude of the spy whom his father had saved from
drowning it would not count for much.

"I trust this will not be our last meeting. When my son gets well again,
I hope to see more of you. Perhaps we may see a few of the sights of
London together, if your mother has no objection."

Paul thanked him and went out. He was glad that he had met Hibbert's
father, though he was not a bit like the man he had pictured. He had
somehow pictured him with something of the deformity that marked
Hibbert, with the same sad, pathetic eyes; but they were as unlike as
could be, except the voice. Hibbert's voice had somehow struck a
familiar note when he first heard it. So did the father's. But there the
resemblance began and ended.

That same evening Paul went to the sick-room as usual, and inquired
after Hibbert. This time Mrs. Trounce beckoned him in.

"He's always asking after you, and it's cruel to keep you out," she
whispered.

"Who wants to keep me out?"

"Mr. Weevil thinks it makes the lad feverish, but I asked the doctor
expressly to-day, and he says it will do him good rather than harm to
see any friend he asks for. Poor little dear, he hasn't many friends.
His father didn't seem to care over much for him, and his visit was a
short one. He asked after you directly his father was gone. I've been
obliged to deny him all this time, but I can't deny him any longer. He's
dozing now. Step softly to the bed. Won't he be pleased when he wakes up
and sees you! I've never had a boy on my hands who is half so good and
patient as he is--I fear he is too patient, poor dear."

It was quite certain that during this time of trouble, Hibbert had found
one more friend in Mrs. Trounce--the kind-hearted matron, who always
tried to make the boys believe that she was a perfect virago with a
heart of flint. Paul followed her on tiptoe to the bed and looked down
on the sleeper. And as he looked, it seemed as though ice-cold fingers
were clutching him by the heart-strings, so strangely still were the
face and form of the little sleeper.




CHAPTER XXX

HIBBERT FINISHES HIS STORY


"Is he in pain?" whispered Paul, as he looked down upon the still
figure, for Hibbert's face looked strangely old and worn for one so
young, and it was as white as the pillow upon which it lay.

"I don't think so, but I've noticed, Master Percival, that he always has
that troubled look when he's sleeping, just as though he had something
on his mind," answered Mrs. Trounce.

Paul's mind went swiftly back to the last time he was in that room--to
the confession Hibbert had begun and left unfinished. Was it that which
was troubling him?

"Does he sleep well?"

"Not always like he's sleeping now. Often and often I've heard him
calling you in his sleep, as I told you just now. I'm good enough for
shaking up his pillow, giving him medicine, and that sort of thing, but
I've found out that boys are strange critters to deal with. They want a
lot of knowing, Master Percival, but I know 'em, and what Master Hibbert
wants sometimes is one of his own school-fellows to talk to. That's
better than medicine. Mr. Weevil's very kind to the boy, but he don't
understand him."

"Doesn't Mr. Weevil like my seeing Hibbert?"

"Well, he hasn't exactly forbidden it, or I shouldn't have let you in;
but he thinks you excited him when you were with him on the night of the
accident. But, as I sez, Mr. Weevil don't understand boys when they're
ill. When Mr. Colville was in charge it was different. He knew boys he
did. I wish he was back again. Since he went away things have all gone
wrong."

Paul heartily echoed her wish. Garside was quite different from what it
had been when Mr. Colville was there. He had hoped day by day that
intelligence would come of his return; but the Head still remained in
the south of France, too ill to attend to his duties at the school.

Presently the eyes of Hibbert slowly opened. A glad cry came from his
lips when they rested on Paul.

"Percival, is it really you? I thought they were never going to let me
see you again. Thanks, Mrs. Trounce; it's very kind of you."

A faint tinge of colour came to the pale cheek; the look of pain had
gone from the face. The sight of Paul seemed to have put new life and
vigour into him. The matron promptly noted the change, and was very
pleased that she had taken upon herself the responsibility of admitting
Paul into the room.

"There, there; you mustn't get excited, or I shall be blamed for letting
Master Percival in to see you, and he won't come again, will you?"

"Of course I won't," answered Paul promptly.

"I'm not the least excited, only glad--glad--so glad!"

He repeated the word three times, to make sure there might be no mistake
about it, and his thin fingers closed round Paul's, as though he feared
he might slip away.

"I hope the other fellows haven't got into trouble through me?" he
asked. "Mr. Weevil would never tell me anything."

"Oh, no; they've got off very lightly, so don't worry about that.
Plunger is going about as cheeky as ever."

A faint smile flickered over the boy's face.

"Plunger's rare fun. He was really just as much terrified as I was when
Baldry and the other fellows turned up as Indians on the 'desert
island.' I can laugh at it now, though I didn't laugh much then."

He lay placidly with his hand in Paul's, then turned pleadingly to the
matron.

"Let Percival stay with me a bit. It'll do me good, and I'm sure you
want a little change."

Mrs. Trounce could see that the presence of Paul had worked wonders, so
she had no hesitation in leaving the two together, giving Paul strict
injunctions before doing so that he was to ring the bell in case she
was needed. Immediately she had gone from the room Hibbert turned
eagerly to Paul.

"I've been waiting to go on with what I was telling you when you were
last here, Percival. It has lain here--here!"--beating his breast. "It
has kept me awake at night, and--and the time seemed so terribly long
and dreary. I watched and waited for your coming, but though you came
they would never let me see you. Mr. Weevil was the only one I could
speak to, and I could not tell him what was on my mind."

"Why not? He is very kind to you."

"Why not--why not! When I've told you, you will understand."

"You must not excite yourself. You must not talk. If you do I will ring
the bell and bring back Mrs. Trounce."

"You wouldn't be so cruel, Percival, when I've been waiting so long to
see you and speak to you again. It's that kept me back, made me weary,
and weak, and sick at heart. When I lay awake at night-time I kept
saying to myself, 'If I should die without seeing Percival again,
without telling him what is on my mind, God would never forgive me.'"

"If all of us were as good as you, we should be a good deal better than
we are, and God wouldn't have to forgive much," said Paul tenderly.
"But, there, don't get excited, and I will listen."

For Paul could now see clearly enough that Hibbert had really suffered a
good deal of mental pain and torture through not being able to complete
the confession he had begun to him.

"Thanks," came the eager answer. "It will not take long, for I haven't
much more to say. Let me see, where did I leave off? Oh, I was speaking
about the man who was a spy on your father on that day Mr. Weevil
entered the room, wasn't I?"

"Yes--Israel Zuker."

"I haven't forgotten the name," said Hibbert, with a painful smile. "I'm
not likely to forget it--never, never, never! For--for it happens to be
my name."

"Hibbert!" cried Paul.

"My name. Israel Zuker, the man who spied upon your father, and whose
life he saved at the risk of his own, was my father."

Paul staggered back, as though he had been smitten in the face. Hibbert
the son of the German spy! Hibbert the son of Zuker! Impossible! He was
wandering. The story he--Paul--had once told him about his own father,
and the way he had lost him, had got on the boy's mind.

"Ah, you shrink from me! I don't wonder at it!" cried Hibbert. "Didn't I
tell you what a hypocrite I was--how wicked?"

"No, no, Hibbert," answered Paul, taking again the hand he had let fall
from him; "nothing you can say will ever make me shrink from you.
But--but you have so surprised me. I cannot understand. Let me think for
a moment--Israel Zuker your father. How can that be when your name is
Hibbert?"

"That is a false name. I told you once that I knew of a boy of that name
in Germany. I was speaking of myself, for I spent three years of my life
at a school in Heidelberg before I came here."

"Then the man I saw this afternoon--the man who thanked me for saving
the life of his son, was----"

"Israel Zuker, my father--the man whose life your father saved, as you,
his son, have saved mine. Now can you understand what I have suffered,
Percival, by having this terrible secret on my mind? When I heard your
story that day you don't know what I felt--what a mean, contemptible
cad. I felt that I was a spy on you, just as my father had been a spy on
your father--a spy on you, who had been so good to me. Oh, it was
terrible! And then you saved my life, just as your father had saved my
father's years ago. And that was heaping coals of fire on my head. I
couldn't endure it."

He covered his face with his hands. He was choking back the sobs that
seemed of a sudden to convulse his frame.

"I shall really have to ring the bell and send for Mrs. Trounce," said
Paul firmly.

The threat had its desired effect. Hibbert uncovered his face; the sobs
died away in his throat. Then Paul put an arm round him, as he might
have done round a brother, and said, in a softer key:

"Look here, Hibbert--what your father may have done is no fault of
yours. God only judges us by what we do ourselves; and that's all I want
to judge you by. You've looked upon me as your friend; I want you to
look upon me as your friend still. Haven't I said that nothing you can
say will make me shrink from you?"

"How good, how noble you are, Percival!"

"Humbug! But listen to me--we're getting a little off the track. The
gentleman I was introduced to in the visitors' room this afternoon was
your father, Israel Zuker, you say?"

"Yes."

"Wearing a false beard, then?"

"Yes. But how did you know that? Have you met him before?" asked the boy
wonderingly.

Paul now understood what it was in the voice of the visitor that had
seemed familiar to him.

"I met somebody of that name during last vacation, so I suppose it must
have been the same," he answered, with pretended indifference; "but he
wasn't wearing a beard. It's a good disguise. What's he afraid of?"

"Well, he's obliged to. I'm telling you this as a secret, and I know I
can trust you not to repeat it. My father's an agent of one of the
foreign Governments, and he's obliged to put on a disguise sometimes to
get information."

"But what information does he want to get that makes him wear
disguises?"

"I never could quite make out, but I know it's to do with secret
service. He once told me that every Government has secret service.
That's all I ever knew."

He seemed to have an uneasy suspicion that his father's profession was
not a very honourable one, for his head sunk to his breast.

"Is your father a friend of the master's--Mr. Weevil, I mean?"

"Well, yes--more than a friend; but it's another secret I don't want to
get about the school. Mr. Weevil would be very angry if it did, so you
must promise me not to repeat it."

And Paul, scarcely knowing all his promise meant, promised him. Then the
boy leant very close to him and whispered: "Mr. Weevil's my uncle."

This information was almost as startling and unexpected as the
information that had preceded it. As it fell from Hibbert's lips, Paul
almost feared that the door would open and Mr. Weevil would walk in,
just as he had walked in before.

"Your uncle!" he repeated.

"Well, it's this way, you see. My mother was English. She was the only
sister of Mr. Weevil. I know he was very fond of her, for I've heard
mother say that he was a good brother, and that she was the only one for
whom he had a greater love than he had for science. My father first met
her when he used to give lessons in German and French--he knows three or
four languages--at the school where Mr. Weevil was master before he came
here. I think my father was then what they call a refugee. My mother
died three years ago; then I went to Heidelberg again, and last of all I
came here. You remember the day--at the opening of the term."

Remember the day! Paul was never likely to forget it. He remembered
every incident in connection with it--Hibbert coming to him in the
grounds, the insult put upon him by Newall, and the other incidents that
followed.

"I remember," he said gravely.

The door opened as he spoke, and Mrs. Trounce entered.

"What, sitting up!" she cried, for Hibbert was still sitting, with the
arm of Paul gently supporting him.

"Yes; I feel so much stronger and better," he answered brightly.

"I'm glad to hear it, but I think you'd better lie down now. If Mr.
Weevil came in now he would have a fit."

Paul thought it highly probable such a catastrophe would happen if the
master had any suspicion of what Hibbert had told him. So he gently laid
the patient down again.

"You'll come again, Percival?" he pleaded.

And Paul promised.




CHAPTER XXXI

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE


The revelation that Paul had heard in the sick-room overwhelmed him. It
was not till he was in the open air that he realized what it all meant.
The foreign spy, for whom his father had sacrificed his life--the man
who, in turn, had tried to steal from him the packet which had been
entrusted to him by Mr. Moncrief--Hibbert's father! Was he standing on
his head or his heels?

Again he could feel the night wind on his face as he galloped along the
road to Redmead; again he saw himself confronted by Zuker and his
confederate; again he felt himself rising in the saddle and bringing
down his whip on the man's face; again he felt the thrill of joy that
leapt through his veins as he escaped from the clutches of his pursuers,
and bounded once more along the road; and then--then that feeling of
despair when Falcon suddenly sank to the ground, and he found that the
noble horse was dying. This man, the man for whom his father had died,
the man who had so relentlessly pursued him on the road to Redmead, the
man who had caused the death of Falcon--this man of all men Hibbert's
father, the father of the boy whom he had watched over and protected
ever since he came to Garside, the father of the boy he had loved as a
brother, and whom he had risked his own life to save, even as his father
had risked his life to save the life of Zuker so long ago!

It was indeed staggering. No wonder he hastened into the fresh air.
Spiders seemed spinning webs about his brain. He could neither see nor
think clearly.

"Where am I standing?" he asked himself, and simple as the question was,
it was not so simple to answer, for the world seemed suddenly
topsy-turvy.

Gradually the night air swept away the cobwebs, and he began to see
things in a clearer light. This man Zuker was a spy still; nothing had
changed since the day he had been found in his father's cabin, except
perhaps that he had grown more daring. A spy! What did that mean? It
meant that he was a menace to honest people, a danger to England, a
danger to the peace and weal of the country which had given Paul
birth--the country for which so many of his relatives had given their
lives, the country which he loved. There could be no quarter for such a
man. The longer he was at large the greater the danger.

"He's in my power completely. A word from me will send him to prison,"
Paul said to himself. "To prison he shall go this very night."

Full of this determination, Paul turned to the gate. It was a couple of
miles to the police-station, but what of that? He would soon cover the
distance, and be back again at Garside. So he started on his journey
with a run. He had not gone far, however, before a still, small voice
began to whisper plaintively in his ear. It was the voice of
Hibbert--the pleading, pathetic voice that had become so dear to him.

"Paul, Paul! Are you forgetting the promise you made to me so soon? Was
it for this I told you my secret? Reveal my story to the police, and you
will kill me--kill me, as surely as though you were to thrust a knife in
my breast."

That was what the voice seemed saying to him. Paul pulled himself up
with a jerk. What was he about to do? Betray Hibbert, the poor boy who
had entrusted him with his secret! Betray Hibbert, who had clung to him
and loved him through good report and evil, who had never shrunk from
him when one by one the boys at Garside had shrunk from him as from a
leper! God help him! What was he about to do?

He was about to turn back when that other voice whispered to him: "Your
country first and foremost. You have a higher duty than the duty you
owe to Hibbert--the duty to your country. Besides, this boy's father
betrayed your father. Why should you shrink from betraying him? Eye for
eye, tooth for tooth. Pay back the debt that has been owing so long."

Paul hastened on again, but again he paused as another voice--a voice
that was full of wondrous and sublime melody--sounded in his ear:
"Vengeance is mine, I will repay."

It seemed to him as he stood there in the moonlight, the stillness so
great and solemn that he could hear his heart throb, that God had
spoken. The danger to his country was not so great that it called upon
him to give up the secret which had been entrusted in confidence to his
keeping.

He could not be true to himself or his country by being false to
Hibbert!

He would wait. Hibbert would get better. If the danger became real, he
would lay bare his breast to Hibbert as Hibbert had laid bare his breast
to him. He would tell him, fairly and honestly, why he could no longer
keep his secret; then Hibbert would be able to warn his father, and he
would be able to flee from the country he had sought to betray.

Paul felt easier when he had come to this decision. It seemed to him
that he had divided his secret with God, and that he was now acting as
He would have counselled him.

And surely His hand had been in it from the first--from the hour when
he, Paul, had been shielded from his pursuers in his ride to Redmead to
the hour which had brought the son of his pursuer to a sick bed, and
induced him to pour his strange confession in his ear. Nay, could not
the hand of God be seen in it still farther back, from the very hour
when, at the risk of his own life, Paul's father had sacrificed his own
life for the life of his enemy? Even at that time the hand of Providence
must have been at work weaving the strange events which were still
unfolding themselves.

Paul was on the point of turning back as these thoughts flitted through
his mind when the sound of a footstep caused him to draw back hastily
into the shadow of the hedge. Scarcely had he done so than a tall, lean
figure, with head thrust forward, passed quickly by. It was Mr. Weevil.

"Where is he off to, I wonder?" thought Paul.

The master had been so concentrated in his thoughts that he had no
suspicion as to who was in hiding by the roadside. Paul's memory at once
went back to the last part of Hibbert's story--the part which he had
almost lost sight of in the overwhelming interest of the first part. Mr.
Weevil was Hibbert's uncle--Zuker's brother-in-law.

Were they in league together? Paul's glance followed Mr. Weevil along
the road. An overmastering desire seized him, a desire that he could not
resist. Instinctively, as one in a dream, he followed in the footsteps
of the master. Presently they reached Cranstead Common. Instead of
turning in the direction of the sand-pits, the battle-ground of the
Bedes and the Garsiders, Mr. Weevil turned to the left--to that part of
it which was more thickly wooded--where there were trees and
furze-bushes and bramble in wild profusion.

"Where on earth can he be going?" Paul asked himself wonderingly.

Well might he ask, for it was scarcely possible to imagine a wilder or
more solitary spot. It led to no habitation, none at least that Paul was
aware of, and he was pretty familiar with the common.

"He can't be on a visit to any one, unless it be the pixies, or
creatures of that sort," thought Paul. "P'raps he's thinking out some
scientific problem, and finds this wild part the best place to do it
in."

He paused for an instant. What was the use of going farther? He was on a
wildgoose chase, but still the overmastering impulse which had led him
to follow Mr. Weevil held him in its grip and would not let him turn
back. So he went on in close pursuit of the shadowy figure in front of
him.

"Why, he'll be getting to the river presently. Perhaps that is what he
is making for?" thought Paul as the master plunged deeper into the
thicket.

The river skirted the far side of the common, and it was precisely in
that direction Mr. Weevil was travelling. He had never once looked to
the right or left, so absorbed had he been in his thoughts, but now he
suddenly paused and looked back.

Paul had just time to hide himself in the friendly shelter of a tree. He
stood there for an instant, then peeped out from his hiding-place. He
caught one glimpse of Mr. Weevil, and then, to his amazement, he
disappeared from view as completely as though the earth had opened and
swallowed him up.

Paul rubbed his eyes. What was the meaning of it! Where had the master
disappeared to? Had he been following some phantom, or had Mr. Weevil
really sunk through the ground? Paul advanced to the spot. There was
apparently nothing there but bushes. Again and again he pondered on the
strange disappearance of the master and was unable to account for it.

"Well, if that isn't one of the strangest things I've ever seen," said
he to himself. "Mr. Weevil was there a minute since, as large as life
and twice as natural. Now he's gone."

A feeling of awe stole over Paul. Mr. Weevil had always seemed a strange
being, a man quite by himself, and different from ordinary beings. Had
his dealings with science taught him some dark secret by which he could
make himself invisible? But Paul quickly dismissed this wild idea from
his mind. The days of miracles were past. Whatever Mr. Weevil's
knowledge of science, it did not lend itself to feats of magic worthy of
the genii in the enchanted realms of _The Arabian Nights_.

None the less, where was he? What had become of him? Paul examined the
bushes as closely as the darkness would permit, but could find no trace
of the master. He stood still and listened. Save for a light breeze that
was moving gently among the trees, there was no sound. It was as quiet
as the grave.

"My word! That's one of the greatest mysteries I've ever struck,"
thought Paul. He withdrew a pace or two, and took up his position
beneath a decayed elm. Possibly Mr. Weevil might make his reappearance
in the same mysterious way in which he had disappeared. He waited a few
minutes, but his patience was not rewarded. Nothing happened.

Paul began to fear that he might be locked out unless he hastened back,
so he reluctantly retraced his footsteps, determined to visit the spot
at the earliest opportunity.

He got back to Garside without mishap or incident, but when he lay down
to rest that night it was not to sleep. He could not help wondering what
had become of Mr. Weevil, and whether he had spent a night on Cranstead
Common. He was still thinking when the school clock chimed the hour of
midnight. About five minutes later he heard a quiet footstep in the
corridor.

"That's Mr. Weevil," he said to himself. "I am quite sure. I could swear
to his footsteps anywhere."

He listened till they disappeared in the corridor, then he turned on his
pillow, and tried to sleep. But he did not succeed for a long time. The
events of that night had banished sleep.

The next day Mr. Weevil was at his post as usual, and closely as Paul
watched him he could see nothing unusual in his demeanour. He was as
grave as ever--the eyes opened and closed in the same manner, most
wakeful when they seemed most sleepful; and he was as prompt and
diligent as ever in the discharge of his duties in the school.

"Was it all a dream?" Paul asked himself, as his mind went back to what
had happened on the previous night.

As that afternoon was a half-holiday, he had some idea of paying a
second visit to the spot, and continuing his examination of it. But he
remembered that there was a still more important duty before him. He had
pledged himself in the presence of Sedgefield and his companions that he
would get back the school flag, and that once again they would see it
flying from its old place on the turret.

So far, he had done nothing to redeem his pledge. Those Third Form
fellows who had cheered him so lustily would think there was no meaning
in his words, that his boast was an empty one. The time had come for him
to do something to make good his promise.

He would begin to carry out his plan that very afternoon.




CHAPTER XXXII

HOW THE OLD FLAG WAS TAKEN FROM GARSIDE


At this, the commencement of another chapter, we may as well take the
opportunity of explaining to the reader the secret which had caused so
much excitement at Garside, namely, what had become of the school
flag--who had had the audacity to capture it.

It will be remembered that one of the Bedes who always took an active
part in opposition to the Garsiders was Mellor. The fact that he had
been at one time a Garsider made him keener to "score off" his old
companions, and he was ever to the fore in any enterprise for that
purpose. But the great idea which possessed his mind, to the exclusion
of most others, was the capture of the Garside flag. He knew that
everybody in the school was proud of it. He himself had been proud of it
when he was at Garside. The school flag at Bede's had no such history.
It was just an ordinary flag, with a white shield in front, the initials
of the school, and the school motto, precisely after the fashion of the
school cap.

So it came about that ever since the day Mellor had been set upon by his
old companions, and made to crawl on all fours as "a Beetle," the idea
had come to him that he would like to inflict upon Garside the greatest
blow that had yet been inflicted upon it by gaining possession of the
old flag. He thought of it by day, and he thought of it by night; but
day followed day, and night followed night, and there seemed little
chance of carrying out his purpose.

There was only one boy at St. Bede's to whom he confided his secret, and
that was his dormitory companion and chum--Edward Crick. Crick was
about the same age as Mellor, with the same love of sport, the same
wiliness, and the same indifference to consequences when once an idea
had taken possession of him. And that's just what happened. When Mellor
confided to him his secret, the idea possessed him, and he was just as
keen on carrying it out as Mellor. If between them they could only get
possession of the Garside flag, it would be one of the greatest
achievements in the history of the school.

They knew well enough that it was impossible to obtain possession of the
flag by open assault. There was only one way--by taking the enemy
unawares--by stealing a march upon them when it was least expected.

Now, it was clear enough that in order to accomplish this purpose one of
them would have to steal into the school at Garside and get to the west
turret unobserved. Audacious as the scheme was, both were anxious for
the honour; but after discussing the point for some time, Mellor gave
way to Crick. Mellor was well known at Garside. He would be at once
stopped were he found entering the school, and questioned as to what he
had come for. Crick was unknown to the porter, and little known to most
of the boys. The main thing was to provide him with one of the Garside
caps. It so happened that Mellor had retained his old cap. There were at
least twenty other boys of about the same size and age as Crick in the
school. With the school cap on his head it would be easy enough for him
to slip into the grounds during one of the half-holidays when most of
the boys would be on the playing-fields. If any one did notice him, he
might pass muster as a new boy.

For the rest, Mellor was acquainted with every detail of the school
building, and gave Crick precise information as to the best and surest
methods to reach the west turret; so that Crick, as the result of this
information, knew almost as much about the building as Mellor.

Everything having been thus clearly planned, it only remained to put the
plan into execution. To this end Garside had been carefully reconnoitred
by the two boys at every opportunity that offered--that was to say, on
every holiday. The opportunity they sought at length came--on that
afternoon when Plunger and his companions were so busily engaged in
playing the part of Crusoe. On cautiously approaching the school, the
two confederates found that it was almost deserted. Crick thereupon
boldly entered the grounds, with the Garside cap on his head and the
collar of his sweater up, just for all the world as though he belonged
to the school.

A door at the rear of the building led through a narrow passage to the
stairs leading to the turret. Crick was not long in finding the door,
just as it had been described by Mellor.

Entering it, he quickly mounted to the turret, and reached the trap-door
leading to the roof. It had not been raised for some time, and Crick did
not find it easy to open; but putting his head to it, and forcing it
upward with the full strength of his body, it at length opened amid a
shower of dust, and the next minute Crick was through it and on the
roof.

His heart beat loudly as he saw only a few yards from him the old flag
flying from its staff. He did not lose his head, however. He knew well
enough that, though he had succeeded in reaching the turret, his
presence there might be detected at any moment. Any one passing along
the grounds might chance to glance up.

So, lying flat on the roof, he took a careful survey of the scene below.
An exclamation of surprise escaped his lips; he could not help it. He
felt like Cortez, the famous discoverer, when, with an eagle eye, he
gazed for the first time on the Pacific from a peak in Darien. The
Gargoyles in the playing-fields looked like so many pigmies darting
between the goal-posts. Beyond them stretched the roadway leading to the
common; to the left he could plainly see the glint of the sun on the
river. He little dreamt what was happening there, even as he gazed.

Turning in another direction, there was an almost uninterrupted expanse
of country till the distance was broken by the spire of St. Bede's
rising from a background of hills. He never imagined that it would be
possible to see St. Bede's from Garside. He had thought the distance too
great, but now the two schools, seen from that vantage ground, seemed
ridiculously near.

Crick remained for some time lost in the view; then a clock chiming the
quarter recalled him to his purpose. He glanced again in the direction
of the playing-fields. There was nothing to fear in that direction. The
Gargoyles were too much occupied in their game to pay any attention to
the roof. Crick drew himself nearer to the flagstaff.

Slightly raising himself from his position on the roof, he lifted it
from its socket, and, possessed of the prize for which he had risked so
much, drew it quickly beneath the trap-door.

[Illustration: "SLIGHTLY RAISING HIMSELF FROM HIS POSITION ON THE ROOF,
CRICK LIFTED THE FLAGSTAFF FROM ITS SOCKET, AND DREW IT QUICKLY BENEATH
THE TRAP-DOOR."]

"Got it!" he cried, with a thrill of joy, as he glanced at the old,
discoloured flag which had seen so much service--"got it!"

Quickly rolling it round the staff, he next drew from under his sweater
a cover of American cloth, which he wound in turn round the flag and
staff, till nothing could be seen of them. No one could have told what
the cloth concealed. It looked like a bundle of fishing-rods.

Descending the stairs as cautiously as he had ascended them, he once
more reached the door leading from the turret stairs.

"Now for it," he thought, bracing himself up.

He had only to get outside the grounds and reach the place where Mellor
was awaiting him. He crept round the side wall, and was just about to
hasten through that part of the grounds which lay between him and the
road, when he drew back suddenly. A boy was staggering along in the
direction of the schoolhouse with a burden of some sort in his arms.

"My stars! Another moment and he would have seen me!" thought Crick,
with a breath of relief. "What's he got in his arms, I wonder? Looks
like another chap, as though they'd been in the wars together."

It was Paul, hastening to the school with Hibbert. In another minute he
had passed by where Crick was hiding. Then Crick heard voices. It was
Paul speaking to Waterman at the school door. The listener caught the
word "accident." The next moment Waterman darted past him. The coast
being again clear, Crick promptly followed in Waterman's footsteps. He
was not long in reaching the hedge behind which Mellor was awaiting
him.

"Got it?" was the eager question.

"Yes. Look!"

Mellor could have shouted with joy. Was it possible that the flag was
actually in their possession?

"Bravo, Crick! It's the biggest thing we've ever scored over the
Gargoyles. My! won't they be savage! There'll be no holding them in when
they find their flag's gone. But what's up? There's been an accident of
some sort."

"I know there has. I nearly ran into a fellow who was carrying a kid in
his arms. Luckily I pulled up in time. Who were they--do you know?"

"One was Percival, the fellow who skedaddled from Wyndham at the
sand-pit. I don't know the kid he had in his arms, he must be a
fresher."

"A fresher! He wasn't much of a fresher to look at. He looked like a
drowned rat."

The two returned to St. Bede's by the longest but less frequented way,
and at length reached it without further adventure. They determined to
hide the flag for the time being, and to confide the secret to their own
Form only--the Fourth.

The Fourth was very jubilant, as may be imagined, at the feat performed
by Crick and Mellor, who were at once looked upon as heroes. The flag,
meanwhile, had been hidden in a barn, standing in a field near St.
Bede's, belonging to a father of one of the day boys in Mellor's Form.

Frequently they met in the barn, and withdrawing the flag from its
hiding-place, stuck it in the centre of the floor, and danced round it
like a band of wild Indians celebrating a victory.

Things were at this pass when Paul came to the decision to visit St.
Bede's, to see if he could obtain information as to the missing flag.
Plunger and Moncrief minor happened to be out on an expedition of their
own that afternoon on Cranstead Common. Plunger caught sight of Paul as
he turned the bend of the road leading to St. Bede's.

"That was Percival, I'm pretty well sure of it," he cried. "Didn't you
see him?"

"No. By himself?"

"Isn't he always by himself? But let's make certain."

The two boys ran to the roadway and glanced along it. There, sure
enough, was Percival striding quickly along in the direction of St.
Bede's.

"Where's he making for? For the seminary of the crawlers, seems to me,"
said Plunger. "Queer sort of chap! What can he want up there?"

Harry did not answer. He recalled the afternoon when he had seen Paul
speaking to Wyndham. He had tried to forget that incident, and along
with it the incident that had happened at the sand-pit. He had tried to
think only of Paul's heroism on the river when he had saved the lives of
three of his school-fellows. He had cheered him as heartily as the rest
on that day when Baldry had called for "Three cheers for Percival!"
After, as we have seen, he had tried to heal the differences between his
cousin and Percival; but now all the old suspicions came back with a
rush.

"Yes; what can he want up there? Supposing we find out. There can be no
harm in watching him."

Plunger, as we know, had the bump of curiosity largely developed, and
his curiosity to know what Paul was doing at St. Bede's caused him to
forget, perhaps, that in playing the spy he was not altogether making
the best return in his power to one who had risked so much to save him
from a watery grave.

So he at once fell in with Harry's suggestion, and the two, keeping in
the background, followed in the footsteps of Paul.




CHAPTER XXXIII

FRIEND AND FOE


Paul, unconscious that he was being followed, pressed forward to St.
Bede's. As he drew near a boy came from the gates. Paul recognized him.
It was Murrell, one of the seniors at St. Bede's, who had taken part
with the others in hustling and jibing at him the last time he came in
that direction.

Murrell caught sight of him almost simultaneously, so that it would have
been impossible for Paul to avoid him had he wished.

"Hallo! Turned up again, have you?" cried the youth, coming to a dead
stop in front of Paul. "I thought you'd had enough of these parts the
last time you were here. But p'raps you enjoy ragging. There's no
accounting for tastes--specially the taste of a Gargoyle. Look here, if
I were you I would cut!"

"I don't think you would. If you were me you would stand your ground,
and that's what I mean doing," smiled Paul.

"You're jolly cheeky, Gargoyle! Now, look here, take the advice of one
who wants to do you a good turn--cut! There are a lot of the Bedes
hanging about, and if they happen to get hold of you, there won't be
much left of you, I can tell you! Are you insured?"

"No."

"My stars! I wouldn't like to be standing in your shoes--I really
wouldn't! Tired of life--eh? That's why you're poking your head into the
lion's den--eh?"

"Wrong again--quite wrong. I've come to see one of your fellows who's
been very kind to me--Wyndham."

"Oh, Wyndham! The one you ran away from at the sand-pits?"

Paul winced under the jibe. He had not yet got over that weakness.
Murrell was regarding him curiously. No answer coming from his victim,
he spoke again:

"You want me to fetch Wyndham?"

"If you would be so kind."

"Well, if you don't take the cake--likewise the bun, and the biscuit! A
Gargoyle has the superb cheek to ask a Bede to be his errand-boy! Stands
Scotland where it did? Is the world going round, or is it standing
still? Am I standing on my head or my heels? Now, then--your last
chance! If you don't want to go back in pieces, take it!
Going--going--gone!"

"I don't intend going till I've seen Wyndham," said Paul firmly. "If you
won't do me the favour I ask, I must keep on till I find some one a
little more courteous."

He was about to pass on, when Murrell stopped him with a friendly pat on
the shoulder.

"All right! You needn't get into a wax! You're not such a bad sort of
fellow, after all, for a Gargoyle! Wait here! Shan't be long!"

His tone had suddenly changed, and before Paul could say anything
further he was gone. Paul was so astonished that he could scarcely
believe the evidence of his eyes and ears. In an instant Murrell's
attitude had changed from a threatening to a friendly attitude. Was it
meant to mislead him? Had he no intention of going for Wyndham? Did he
mean instead to acquaint some of the boys who had previously set on him
of his arrival, so that they might carry out the purpose which they had
been forced to relinquish? This view seemed certainly the more probable
of the two, and therefore Paul was very agreeably surprised when, a
couple of minutes later, he saw the well-known figure of Wyndham coming
from the college gates towards him. His handsome face lit up with a
smile as he caught sight of Paul.

"Percival," he said, as his hand went out to him, "I'm so glad to see
you! So was Murrell."

"So was Murrell!" repeated Paul. "You wouldn't say so if you knew the
reception he gave me just now. You're joking?"

"No; I was never more serious in my life. As a Bede, he was bound not to
be over-polite to a Garsider; but he thinks a good deal more of you than
he did, and so do most of us--all through Murrell. Why? Well, he
happened to catch a glimpse of what happened on the river a week or so
ago--came up at the tag-end, but heard all that had happened from some
of the other fellows on the bank. Murrell and many more here are
beginning to think that you are too good for a Gargoyle, though you
didn't cut such a grand figure at the sand-pits. They're beginning to
believe what they wouldn't swallow at the time--that you're one of the
bravest fellows at Garside. To think that I'm the only fellow who knows
how brave! Why don't you let me speak and set you right?"

"No, no, Wyndham! You're very good; but it mustn't be. There are reasons
against it which you will know some day. But there is a way in which you
can serve me."

"What way? If I can help you, be sure I will."

Paul thereupon told him the additional misfortune that had happened at
Garside on the afternoon the boys fell into the river in the loss of the
school flag. Wyndham listened to the story attentively. He did not speak
till Paul had ended.

"You mean to suggest, I suppose, that some of the fellows here took the
flag?"

"To speak frankly, I do; but I know well enough that you've not had a
hand in it."

"Thanks for your good opinion; but I don't know that I deserve it. After
all, why shouldn't I have had a hand in it? The fellows here look upon
you as the enemy, and you look upon us in the same light. Haven't we a
perfect right to get possession of the enemy's flag if we can?"

"Yes; in fair and open battle. But this wasn't in fair and open battle;
it was a theft."

"That's rather a hard word, Percival. It's as good as saying some one
here's a thief!"

Wyndham spoke with greater warmth than Paul had ever heard him speak.
For the first time he saw an angry light in his eye.

"Forgive me, Wyndham! I've hurt your feelings; I can see that I have.
And you are the last in the world I would do that to. I'll withdraw
theft. Let's call it strategy."

The cloud vanished like magic from Wyndham's face.

"That's a very polite and nice way of putting it, Percival," he smiled.
"You're a great deal more considerate of my feelings than I am of yours.
I tell you what"--his face became serious again--"it's done me a lot of
good since I knew you; since I was able to open my heart to you and tell
you about the little brother who was taken from us years back. I've
often wished that I was at Garside to stand by you. It must be very
lonely for you over there."

"No, indeed; it's far from lonely, but sometimes it has been very, very
hard to bear. If Moncrief had only stood by me, and all the rest of the
school had been against me, I would not have minded; but----"

"Ah, do not speak of that! It makes me miserable. It gave me a savage
delight at the time to fight that fellow. It made me a hero here; but
since I've begun to think a little I feel very far from a hero myself.
It would have been far better had I never fought. It has made bad blood
between you and Moncrief; it took from you your best friend, and set
your school against you. It did worse than that; it has widened the
breach between St. Bede's and Garside, and deepened the old feud, which
was beginning to die out. And now that it has been stirred into a flame
again, it will take longer than ever to die out."

He paused for a moment, as though deep in thought. Paul, too, was busy
with his own thoughts. He knew not how to answer him.

"Don't speak against yourself, Wyndham, for it pains me a great deal
more than it pains you. I owe you a lot for the help you gave me on that
night I went to Redmead; but there's one other debt, greater than that
even, of which I have never spoken. Speaking just now of your little
brother has brought it all back to me."

"Speaking of my brother?" repeated Wyndham, with that tremor in his
voice which had fallen so pathetically on Paul's ear when he had first
spoken of the dead boy.

"Your brother Archie. I haven't forgotten the name, you see, and I have
never forgotten--never shall forget--the story. I had never tried to
understand younger boys till then. We bigger boys rarely do, I'm afraid.
We think them only good for cuffing and fagging; so there's never much
sympathy between us. When we pass to the upper forms we only remember
the cuffs and kicks we got in the lower forms, and think it our duty to
pay them back with interest. But your story--the story of your dead
brother--stuck in my memory. I carried it back with me when I returned
to Garside after vac. The first little chap I came across was a
fresher--a poor, weak, lonely little chap, who hadn't a chum in the
school. I thought of your brother. My heart went out to the boy, and I
said to myself: 'By God's help, I'll stand by you; and I'll be your
friend!'"

"That was noble of you!" said Wyndham, clasping Paul's hand in his. "Who
is the little chap? Is he still at Garside?"

"Still at Garside!" repeated Paul, in tones that had died away almost to
a whisper. "He's the little chap I fished out of the river."

"Ah, then, you've nobly redeemed your promise. You saved his life."

"I cannot say. He is still in bed--still very weak; but the link between
us kept me strong when all Garside was against me. Once or twice it
seemed more than I could stand, and I had serious thoughts of throwing
up the sponge and clearing out of Garside. What was there to keep me
there? Then I thought of Hibbert, and the thought made me strong again.
So I kept on, and weathered the storm--or, rather, am still weathering
it. The thought of the little chap kept me to my duty."

Once more there was silence between them. Wyndham had tucked his arm in
Paul's. The two were walking along the road to Cranstead Common. The
bond of sympathy between them had grown stronger and stronger during
those brief moments in which they had bared their hearts to each other.

"About this flag," broke in Wyndham. "Do you know for certain that it's
been taken by some fellow here?"

"No; it's only a suspicion. I may be wrong, but I don't think I am."

"When was it missed?"

"On that afternoon when the accident took place on the river. It was a
half-holiday at both schools. It was waving over the turret when I left
the school; it had gone when I came back."

"That's over a week ago, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"The fellow who took it must have had plenty of pluck. Well, if I can do
anything in fairness to get you your flag back again, I'll do it; but at
present it's as great a mystery to me as to you."

The two shook hands and parted.

Plunger and Harry had crept through a hedge, and witnessed a good deal
of the interview that had taken place between the two, without hearing
anything. When the two passed down the road--Wyndham with his arm linked
in Paul's--Plunger and Harry prepared to follow them; but before they
could move a step they were seized by the legs and thrown to the ground.

"Those Gargoyles!" The words were enough. They were in the hands of the
enemy.




CHAPTER XXXIV

THE MYSTIC ORDER OF BEETLES


To the bewilderment of Plunger and Moncrief minor they found themselves
in the grip of four figures, with masks somewhat after the fashion of
those worn by motorists. They had been taken so completely by surprise
that they made no attempt at resistance. If they had it would have been
useless, for their captors held them firmly by both arms, and rushed
them breathlessly across the field as far as possible from the roadway.

"St--stop it, will you?" Plunger at length found breath enough to
stammer. "Oh--oh!"

The last exclamation was caused by a sharp dig in the ribs, which
brought his question to an abrupt conclusion. Inspired by Plunger's
example, Harry thought that he might also venture on a question.

"Who--who are you? And--and--where are you taking us?"

An answer was conveyed to him in the same forcible manner in which it
had been conveyed to Plunger; but, though the dig in the ribs made him
gasp, it did not altogether silence him.

"Crawlers--wretched Beetles--that's what you are! Oh, oh, oh!"

A dig in the ribs from both sides effectually closed Harry's lips for
the time being, while the pace at which his captors took him along was
increased to such a rate that he could scarcely keep his feet. At length
they stopped before a barn, and the foremost of the four captors knocked
upon the door three times with his knuckles.

"Who's there?" came a voice from within.

"Four of the Brethren," answered the youth who had knocked.

"Are you alone?"

"No; we have brought two novices who are anxious to be introduced to the
mystic order."

Plunger began to prick up his ears. The mystic order? What mystic order?
And what were they going to do with them?

"Two novices who are anxious to be introduced to the mystic order?" came
the voice from within. "They wish to become brethren?"

"Yes."

"N--n--no!" came in a gasp from Plunger's lips; but another sharp dig in
his ribs reduced him once more to silence.

"Yes, most worthy K. O. P. They are dying to become brethren of the
noble band."

"I say, you unkind Beetles," began Harry. "Oh, oh!"

He was silenced by the same unfailing method which had just been brought
to bear upon his companion.

A short conversation took place between the masked figure who had acted
as spokesman and the person within. At the end of it the former turned
to his companions.

"Blindfold the novices. The Keeper of the Portal has commanded it."

Keeper of the Portal? That, then, was the meaning of the initials "K. O.
P." thought Plunger.

It was getting more and more mysterious, but he did not like the idea of
being blindfolded. What were they going to do with him--with Moncrief?
At first he felt inclined to resist, but a sharp twist of the wrist soon
convinced him that resistance was useless. Harry had come to the same
conclusion, so they submitted with the best grace they could to bandages
being placed round their eyes. Then they heard the door open and the
voice of the "Keeper of the Portal" commanding them to enter.

They entered. As they did so, Plunger thought he heard some one
sniggering, and again a wild idea crossed his mind that he would strike
out and make a desperate effort to escape from his captors; but the
instant he moved he was brought to a standstill by the energetic
measures which were now becoming painfully familiar to him.

The sniggering, if sniggering it was, soon ceased, and then a strange
silence reigned in the barn. The silence was a great deal worse to
Plunger than any amount of ridicule. Who were in the barn? What was
happening?

He strained his ears to the utmost. He could hear the sound of
mysterious footsteps walking stealthily to and fro, but no one spoke. He
stood there and shivered, though the perspiration was oozing from his
forehead. Was some desperate plot on foot against them? The footsteps
ceased. All was again so still that he began to think the barn had been
deserted and that he had been left in it blindfolded, to make his way
from it the best he could. He was about to call out to Harry when a
voice he had not yet heard called out sharply:

"Gargoyle with the eyebrows, what is thy name?"

Gargoyle with the eyebrows!

"S'pose that's meant for me," thought Plunger, "but I'm not going to
answer such impudent questions."

"The noble president speaketh. Answer, Gargoyle with the wiry thatch,"
came a voice in Plunger's ear, accompanied by a sharp kick on the shins.

Gargoyle with the eyebrows! Gargoyle with the wiry thatch! Was there
ever such insolence? But that kick on the shins told Plunger that to
raise any protest would only bring upon him worse punishment, so he
stammered out:

"Fre--Frederick Pl--Plunger."

"Plunger! Thy name is worse than thy face."

Plunger heard sniggers on every side at this reference to his name, of
which he had always been very proud.

"It's such an uncommon one, you know," he had often said to his cronies
at Garside. And now the wretched crew into whose hands he had fallen
were trying to make fun of it. He bubbled over with indignation, but
simmered down on hearing similar questions put to his companion in
misfortune.

He was aroused from these reflections by hearing the chief of the band
exclaim, in tones of command:

"Make fast the portal!"

He heard the sound as of a rusty bolt being thrust into its socket.

"I say, you chaps," he protested, beginning to feel alarmed again as he
heard this ominous sound, "I wish you'd stop your larks and take this
wretched thing from my eyes. If you'll just oblige me, I won't give you
away--I really won't."

"We're going to take the bandage from thy eyes, but first thou must
promise, on the banner of our Noble Order, to become a comrade and a
brother."

"I--I promise," stammered Plunger, anxious only to get the use of his
eyes again.

"Thou must promise also, by the same sacred emblem, never to reveal what
thou dost see."

"I--I promise."

The same questions were put to Harry, who was just as anxious as his
companion to see what was going on, and thought that no possible harm
could be done in following Plunger's lead. So he gave the same promises.

The bandages, however, were not immediately removed. The two boys could
hear the sound of footsteps moving round them, and voices chanting in
some unknown tongue what seemed to be a mysterious incantation.

"Remove the bandages," commanded the chief, when this curious
incantation, of which the two prisoners could make nothing, had ended.

At this command the bandages were removed. The scene that presented
itself to the astonished eyes of Plunger and Harry was one of the most
extraordinary they had ever witnessed. Their four captors seemed to have
disappeared. Standing around them in a circle were what appeared to be
eleven beetles standing erect on two legs, instead of crawling about on
four. On the breast of each was a letter, which, being white, stood out
prominently from the dark background, and gave to this singular circle a
still more singular appearance. The letters made up the following:

     M. O. OF BEETLES.

in other words--The Mystic Order of Beetles.

Plunger rubbed his eyes. Was he awake or sleeping? He was wide enough
awake, but he could not at once grasp the situation. What did it all
mean?

The reader has doubtless made a better guess at what had happened than
Plunger. It was in this way. Mellor and Crick, the two boys who had
gained possession of the Garside flag, had found a good deal of
amusement at first in making surreptitious visits to the barn, and
dancing round their capture, but they soon began to long for something
more exciting. Truth to tell, the capture had not made the sensation in
the ranks of the enemy they had anticipated--so at least it seemed to
them. They had expected early reprisals, but none had come. So, after
they had performed a war-dance round the flag with their companions five
or six times, Mellor yearned for something more exciting. So did Crick.
So did the others.

"The Gargoyles don't seem to worry much about the flag after all," said
Mellor, thoughtfully wiping his brow, after the last of these spirited
exercises round the Garside standard.

"Not a bit. Seems to me they're only too glad to get rid of the wretched
thing," remarked Finch, one of the boys who had been envious of the
daring capture.

"Are they? That's all you know, Finch," retorted Mellor, angry that his
remark should be taken so literally. "If we could only see them, we
should find them tearing their hair and gnashing their teeth."

"Then why don't they come after their property and try to get it back
again?"

"Because they don't know for certain who's got it. They're lying low."

"Well, we'd better do the same. I can't see much fun in hopping round
the wretched rag. Why the Gargoyles should make so much of it I can't
make out."

"That's because you've never been at Garside. I dare say if we'd been
left a flag like that by an old school-fellow who had made a name for
himself, we should have been as proud of it as they are. It was worth
getting just to set those bounders back a bit. I should like to see you
do what Crick did, Finch!"

There were murmurs of approval at this, and Finch subsided into silence.
Nevertheless, when Mellor began to reflect, there seemed to be a good
deal of force in Finch's observation. There wasn't much fun, after all,
in hopping round "the wretched rag." So he thought of a way to improve
matters. Once or twice the idea had occurred to him of establishing a
society calling itself the "Mystic Order of Beetles," and using it for
the benefit of the rivals who had bestowed upon them so contemptuous a
title.

Directly he mentioned it to his companions it was hailed with
enthusiasm.

What could be better than making some of those wretched Gargoyles eat
humble pie under the very flag they were so proud of? So amongst them
they designed an appropriate costume for the "Mystic Order of Beetles,"
and the meeting-place and dressing-room were arranged in the barn.

So the society was started. Having started it, the next thing was to
capture some of the enemy. In order to accomplish this interesting
purpose, a band of scouts was established for the purpose of reporting
on the movements of the enemy at the first favourable opportunity. It so
happened that this was on the very day that Paul went to Wyndham to make
inquiries about the flag.

The scouts were rather disappointed when they found, from their post of
observation on the other side of the hedge, that the boy making his way
to St. Bede's was Percival. There had been already one trial of strength
with him which had not been entirely successful. Besides which Wyndham
had championed his cause, and they were bound to respect Wyndham's
opinion. Furthermore, the fame of Paul's heroism had reached St. Bede's,
as the reader has seen, and they had lost their former contempt for him.
They were therefore on the point of turning disconsolately away when
their eyes were gladdened by the sight of Plunger and Harry following
Paul.

Here were the prizes they had longed for. The enemy was delivered into
their hands.

So the scouts had carried off their prisoners to the barn, where their
comrades were waiting them. What followed we have seen.

Plunger and Harry looked on the extraordinary circle which surrounded
them in wonder. No word fell from the Beetles. They stood perfectly
still, as though enjoying the surprise which their extraordinary
appearance had created in the breast of their prisoners.

"I say, you are a rum lot!" Plunger at length burst out. "Mystic Order
of Beetles! Ha, ha!"

He burst into a wild fit of laughter, but his laughter was suddenly
checked by a resounding thud upon the shoulders. He then discovered that
the Beetles standing around him were armed with sheepskin bladders
attached to sticks. They did not hurt much, but the noise they made was
considerable.

"Silence! Thy mirth is unseemly," came from the chief of the circle, who
was no other than Mellor. "Remember, that thou hast been admitted to the
Mystic Order of Beetles, and hast promised by the sacred emblem above
thee to be true to the cause."

The sacred emblem above! The prisoners looked up. There was a flag
hanging from the roof of the barn--a tattered flag. Plunger rubbed his
eyes. Surely it was the old flag--the flag of Garside?

"Why--why--that's--that's----"

"Silence!"

The bladders came down in a perfect shower on Plunger's head and
shoulders. As for Harry, he could not speak. The sight of the flag had
smitten him dumb.

"Thou hast promised to be true to the cause," repeated the chief
solemnly. "Should'st thou ever dare to break the vow, thou wilt be
haunted for the rest of thy life--haunted sleeping and waking by the
Beetles thou hast betrayed! Describe the mystic circle."

Describe the mystic circle! What in the name of wonder was that? The
bladders descended upon Plunger as he stood in the centre of the ring
with his companion, wondering what was expected of him.

"I--I don't know any mystic circles," he stammered in despair.

"On hands and knees--quick!"

Plunger hastened to obey the command.

"Crawl round the mystic circle three times."

Plunger would have refused had he dared, but he dared not; so, amid a
good deal of suppressed laughter from the Beetles standing round him, he
crawled round the circle three times.

"Rise, brother!" commanded Mellor, when he had accomplished this feat.

Plunger gladly sprang to his feet.

"Give him the mystic tap."

Thwack--thwack came the bladders on Plunger's devoted head. And Plunger
almost regretted that he had risen. Harry went bravely through the same
ordeal. This accomplished, the Beetles joined hands, and galloping
wildly around the two boys, chanted:

    "Beetles of the mystic band,
    Wind we round thee, hand in hand;
    Whene'er thou hear'st thy chieftain's call
    Rest not, pause not, hither crawl;
    Or to the realms of creepy-crawley,
    Shivery-shaky, we will haul thee!"

As this incantation went on, Plunger and Harry had a lively time inside
the mystic circle. By the dexterous application of a knee or a shoulder,
Plunger would be sent with a run in one direction, while Harry would be
sent flying in another. They were whirled about from this side to that
like indiarubber balls. Then of a sudden they would find themselves
closely embracing each other in the centre of the ring, only to be
sundered again, and sent flying in another direction.

At length the "Brethren of the Mystic Order" stopped breathless, much to
the relief of Plunger and Harry.

"Keeper of the Portal conduct our newly-made brothers to the door."

The Keeper of the Portal, Crick, conducted them to the door.

"The time has come to say farewell--for the present," said Mellor, as
they all gathered round the door. "Don't forget that thou art pledged to
us by the bonds of our noble order. In token whereof, give them the
mystic wallop."

The bladders came down with a resounding thwack on the newly-made
brethren, during which the Keeper of the Portal opened the door. Plunger
and Harry darted through. Roars of laughter followed them, but they did
not look back. They did not pause till they were well on the road to
Garside.

"I say, Moncrief minor," said Plunger, drawing up breathless, "we've
dropped in for a fine thing."

The same idea had occurred to Harry, but he was not so ready to admit
it.

"How do you mean?"

"Why, we've joined hands with the enemy--the Beetles. There's no getting
out of it."

"I suppose there isn't," answered Harry gloomily.

They walked on in silence for a few moments. Then Harry glanced round,
as though half fearful that some one was following, and whispered:

"I say, Plunger."

"Well, what is it?"

"Did you notice the flag we were standing under?"

"The flag we were standing under?" repeated Plunger innocently. "Well,
not particularly. What was it like?"

"Like! I believe it was the school flag!"

"You don't say so. Never!"

"I'm positive it was."

"The school flag? This is awful! Couldn't you have let me know? What a
duffer you are! I would have sacrificed my life to get that flag! I
wouldn't have stood their nonsense like I did had I thought that was our
flag. I would have fought them till my last breath. Why--why didn't you
let me know?"

"I thought you did know."

"And to think that I crawled to them--crawled, with the flag of the old
school looking on. It's nothing to you--you're only a fresher from
Gaffer Quelch's; but to me, Plunger, it's--it's----" Not being able to
find a word strong enough to express his meaning, Plunger suddenly
turned on Harry again. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Moncrief
minor, letting me make such an ass of myself."

"How could I help it, Freddy. They made an ass of me too."

"There you go again, always poking your wretched self in. What does it
matter to you? You don't count at Garside. I do--that's the difference.
I wish you wouldn't look at these things from such a selfish point of
view. You're always thinking of yourself--a miserable fresher, as I've
said, from Gaffer Quelch's. If it ever gets about the school that I've
been made a Beetle under the Garside flag, what will the fellows think
of it? I shall never hear the last of it. I shall be roasted all round."

"And serve you right, too!" cried Harry, losing his temper. "A jolly
good roasting will do you good. It'll take some of the bounce out of
you. If it hadn't been for you, we shouldn't have got into this mess."

"What do you mean?" demanded Plunger hotly.

"It was all through playing the spy on Percival. If it hadn't been for
following him, those Beetles wouldn't have got hold of us."

"Come, that's good. Your cheek's superb. That's the only thing you seem
to have brought with you from Gaffer Quelch's. Who was it suggested we
should follow Percival? Was it me, I should like to know, or one of the
little prigs from Gaffer Quelch's?"

Harry could not immediately respond. He had forgotten for the moment
that the suggestion to follow Percival had come from him. But after a
moment's reflection he answered lamely:

"Yes; but it was you who caught sight of Percival as he was on the road
to St. Bede's and put the suggestion in my head."

"Well, of all the bosh----Oh, shut up, or put on a strait-waistcoat.
You're getting dangerous," said Plunger crushingly, seeing that he had
"scored."

Harry, indignant with himself, Plunger, and all the world, went on
ahead. But after a bit Plunger caught up to him.

"You needn't get into a wax because I set you right just now. I flatter
myself there aren't many chaps can score over me when I choose to set
about them. It's not your fault that you've got too much of Gaffer
Quelch's seminary for boys and girls about you. I had it for the first
term at Garside, but I soon grew out of it. And you'll grow out of it,
too. Fact is, Harry, neither of us is to blame for falling into the
hands of the Philistines--Beetles, I mean. Let's put the blame on the
right shoulders."

"And the right shoulders are----"

"Percival. It was through following him we fell into that beastly trap,
and it seems to me--though I don't like to say it--that Percival has a
good deal to answer for. What was he doing at St. Bede's? What was he
doing with that fellow, Wyndham, who knocked about your cousin so
unmercifully at the sand-pits? Did you notice what good terms they were
on--Wyndham with his arm tucked through Percival's."

Harry had seen it all, and as Plunger was speaking he recalled that
other scene he had striven so hard to forget--when he had seen Percival
and Wyndham together near the school. He had tried to put that from him,
especially since the heroism Percival had shown on the river. But now it
all came back with a rush. There was not the slightest doubt that
Percival and Wyndham were on terms of friendship. No one who had
witnessed the scene that he and Plunger had witnessed could question it.
What did it mean? There was something behind it all.

"Yes, I noticed it, Freddy," he slowly answered. "It puzzles me, and I
don't know what to make of it." Then looking up quickly, as though a
sudden suspicion had come to him, he blurted out: "I say, is it possible
that--that----No, I can't say it--it's too horrid."

"Out with it. There's no one to hear you but me. Remember, we're both in
the same boat."

"No one to hear me but you," said Harry, looking quickly round. "And I
shouldn't like anybody to hear but you; it's a horrid suspicion that
came into my mind just now. There must be something between Percival and
Wyndham, that's certain. I've tried not to believe it; but it's no use
trying to shut our eyes to facts. Can it be that Percival's plotting
against his own school, can it be that he is betraying us to the
enemy--those beastly Beetles?"

"Funny! Just the same thing's been running through my mind. Can it be
that he's betraying us to the enemy, and can it be"--here Plunger's
voice dropped to a whisper, as though he feared the very hedges might
overhear him--"that it was he who hauled down the school flag and handed
it over to the Beetles?"

"No, no; I can't believe that," cried Harry, clasping his hands over his
face, as though to blot out the suspicion.

"And I've been trying not to believe it, but what else are you to make
of it? A Beetle couldn't have got to the turret and taken the flag off
his own bat. There must have been some one helping him who knew all
about the school. If it wasn't Percival, who was it? What are we to
think after what we've seen?"

So it came about that while Percival had been doing his best to trace
out where the school flag had gone, so as to return it to its old place
of honour on the turret, the suspicion came into the minds of these two
boys that he was betraying the school.

Even at the moment that this suspicion was born, Paul was sitting by the
bedside of Hibbert, with the boy's hand in his. Hibbert had been
talking, but the tired eyes, which shone out so brightly from the wan
face, had begun to close. Yet the hand still held fast to Paul's. And as
Paul looked down lovingly on the face, he murmured to himself the words
he had spoken to Wyndham that afternoon--"The link between us kept me
strong when all Garside was against me."

And Paul had need of strength, for the battle had not yet ended.




CHAPTER XXXV

A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY


The improvement in the school's attitude to Paul did not last long. The
Garsiders who had come over to him with a swing, for some reason swung
back with the same alacrity. The juniors who had cheered him to the echo
in the dormitory now passed him without a word.

Fortunately, Paul's mind was too much occupied just then with other
matters to take much notice of this change. First and foremost in his
thoughts was Hibbert. Would he pull through? The progress he made was
very slow--if, indeed, it could be called progress. One day he seemed
stronger, the next found him as weak as before. A curious thing had
happened on the afternoon Paul returned to the school after his
interview with Wyndham. Mr. Weevil had sent for him to his room. Paul
thought that it was to reprimand him for something or other. He was
agreeably surprised, therefore, when the master motioned him to a chair,
and in a kindly voice, altogether unlike his "school voice," bade him
sit down.

"I understand that you've visited Hibbert once or twice," he began,
regarding Paul through his half-closed eyes.

"Now it's coming," thought Paul. "He's going to forbid me visiting
Hibbert." Then, aloud: "Yes, sir. I hope you've no objection."

"I did object at first to visitors of any kind, because I thought it
would do the lad more harm than good. But I think the objection may be
withdrawn as far as you're concerned."

Paul could scarcely believe his ears. Had he heard Mr. Weevil aright?

"He seems to look forward eagerly to your visits, more than to the
visits of anybody"--a sigh, so slight as to be almost imperceptible,
escaped the master's lips. "It would be cruel to debar the poor little
fellow from any pleasure we can give him. Therefore, Percival, I hope
you will understand that you are quite at liberty to visit him when you
feel inclined."

"It is very kind of you, sir, and I am deeply grateful."

"You will be careful, of course, not to make your visits too long, or
not to unduly excite him."

"Oh, yes, sir; I'll be careful of that."

Paul rose to go, thinking the interview at an end. As he did so, the
master placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"You have been very good to the boy--God will reward you! The fear
sometimes oppresses me that he will not get over this illness."

The half closed eyes were blinking in a curious fashion. Indeed, Paul
saw what was suspiciously like a tear slowly making its way down the
cheek of the master. His emotion was no longer a mystery to Paul.
Hibbert's revelation had thrown a light upon it. He now knew that the
man whom he had regarded as without emotion--as one wrapped up
completely in his equations and scientific formulae--had yet a deeply
human side. Hibbert was the son of his dead sister, and he loved
him--loved him with a love that was a hundred times greater than that
which the boy's own father had ever bestowed on him. And Paul learnt a
lesson in that brief interview which he never forgot--that lying deep
down in the hearts of most men, sometimes overladen by rust, sometimes
in the midst of decay, may frequently be found a vein of purest gold.

"Don't say that, sir. He was looking better the last time I saw him. He
will pull round as soon as he can get out a bit."

"I hope your words will come true, Percival; but he's so frail. If he
were only strong like you--but there, it's useless talking. It must be
as God wills." Then his voice changed to its old frigid tone.

"You can go, sir."

Thus abruptly dismissed, Paul went out.

"Weevil's a puzzle," he said to himself. "I'm as far off knowing him as
ever I was; but there seems to be some warm blood in him, and that's
something. I thought he was all pothooks and hangers at one time; but he
can't be as bad as that. That shows you shouldn't go by appearances.
He's not half as black as I painted him."

Paul was very pleased that he could now visit Hibbert without
restriction, and that same night he visited him, much to the boy's joy,
and sat by his bed, as we have seen, till he slept.

Thus it was Paul took little heed of the school's attitude towards him
for the next few days. Then an incident happened which was to absorb his
attention still more. Thinking of Mr. Weevil, and his recent interview,
his mind went naturally back to that evening when, devoured with
curiosity, he had followed him to Cranstead Common. The more he thought
of it, the more he wondered what could have become of him on that night
he had so strangely disappeared from view before his very eyes. The
ground had not swallowed him up, for he had returned to school that same
night. What, then, was the meaning of it?

Paul had promised himself that he would make an effort to find out; so,
as he had heard nothing from Wyndham, he seized the first opportunity
that occurred to visit that part of the common where the master had
disappeared. He followed the trail which the master had pursued in the
direction of the river until he came to the thickly-wooded part where
the trees, furze-bushes, brake, and bramble grew in wild profusion.

This was the spot where he had lost sight of him. At first Paul could
see nothing but the brambles. Examining the place more minutely, he
found the bushes curiously divided in the centre. Feeling beneath them,
his hand came in contact with cold iron. It was a ring, attached to a
circular piece of wood, rusty and moss-grown, so that in appearance
there was little to distinguish it from the undergrowth. He found little
difficulty in moving it.

He thought at first that it would prove to be the entrance to a well,
similar to the well in the ruins where he had hidden on the night he had
fled from Zuker; but to his amazement he discovered that it was no
well, but led to a sloping tunnel cut in the sandstone. That then was
the place where the master had so suddenly disappeared. For what
purpose? And where did it lead? It was impossible to tell without
exploring it. Should he make the venture? Should he enter it?

Paul hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. The next he entered
the tunnel, cautiously drawing over the lid which concealed it. The
passage in which he found himself sloped downward, and was at first
scarcely large enough to allow him to walk upright. Little of light
penetrated into it, and he had, therefore, to walk cautiously along,
like a blind man, making sure of every step he took.

Presently the path seemed to broaden. Extending his arms to their full
extent Paul could just feel the walls on either side. He proceeded still
more slowly, straining his ears to catch the sound of footsteps. All was
silent. It was the silence of the tomb.

"My stars, what a queer place! I wish I could only strike a light, so as
to have a peep at it," thought Paul. "What can Mr. Weevil do down here?
It isn't a cheerful place, even for a man who happens to be very much in
love with his own society."

He came to a sudden pause. What was the use of exploring the tunnel
further? He could see nothing, hear nothing. So where was the use of
groping along in the darkness? It was folly, especially when he might be
precipitated at any moment into some hidden chasm. But folly though it
might be, Paul could not turn back. A mysterious voice within him seemed
to be urging him on. If Mr. Weevil had passed along that tunnel in
safety, why shouldn't he? It must have an outlet somewhere, and Paul
grew more and more curious to find out what that outlet could be.

"I feel very much like an explorer in darkest Africa," he smiled to
himself. "Shall I be coming across an unknown lake presently, or a race
of pigmies? Hallo! What's that? Light at last."

Light it was but of the faintest. It came with a faint streak into the
tunnel. The darkness was only darkness before, but now fantastic shadows
seemed to menace Paul at every footstep he took. Feeble though the
light was, it was enough to show him that the tunnel had broadened
considerably. Stepping warily along, the light grew stronger at every
step, until he at length discovered that the path along which he was so
cautiously travelling led into a cave lit with oil-lamps.

Then he came to a sudden pause again, and his heart beat wildly against
his ribs, as he caught the sound of voices. The cave was not empty.
There was some one inside. Who?

As he approached nearer he saw that a curtain was partly drawn over the
entrance. Paul knew that a false step might betray him.

To lessen the risk of detection, therefore, he crawled on hands and
knees to the curtain, and eagerly peered through the space nearest the
wall.

The cave looked quite warm and comfortable. A fire of anthracite, which
sent out plenty of heat but no smoke, burnt on a hearth cut out of the
sandstone. Two or three lamps suspended from the roof diffused an
Oriental glow, while several warm bear-skin rugs were scattered over the
ground.

A couple of guns and two or three cutlasses were hanging on the wall;
and what was more astonishing to Paul, several maps and designs. The
nature of these it was impossible for him to ascertain. He further
noticed that in one niche of the wall was a photographic camera. In
another were ship models, in the third the models of torpedoes, engines,
and machinery of various kind.

Paul had taken all this in at a glance. He had not yet seen the
occupants of the cave, but there appeared from what he could hear, to be
only two. They were conversing in low tones at the far end, where the
lights from the lamps dimly penetrated. After a while the conversation
became more animated, and the two moved to a table at the centre.

"I think we've succeeded in quieting suspicion," said the foremost of
the two. As he spoke the light from the lamp fell full upon his face.

It was Zuker, the German Jew!

Paul's glance turned from him to the other man. It was Brockman, the
burly ruffian who had seized the bridle of Falcon on the night of his
flight to Redmead--the ruffian who struck the blow which caused the
gallant horse's death.

"We've succeeded in calming suspicion for the time being," Zuker was
saying, "and that is a great point in our favour; but still we must move
cautiously. A false step, and down would fall all my plans like a house
of cards. We've been very near discovery once or twice, the nearest was
when that youngster got ahead of us with the packet. You remember?"

"Remember! I'm never likely to forget it," said Brockman. "I could never
understand how it was the youngster slipped through my fingers."

"Well, it doesn't matter so much as it has turned out, for those
Admiralty men--the Hansons--have gone to sleep again. They think that
danger is passed, that Zuker, the man they so fear and dread, is out of
England."

He chuckled softly to himself. Paul grew colder. He knew well enough the
youngster they were referring to, no one better, for it was himself. It
was quite clear that the letter he had sent from the school to Mr.
Moncrief had never reached him. A staggering suspicion flashed into his
mind. He recalled that he had entrusted the posting of that letter to
Hibbert. Could it have been that Hibbert had failed him, or worse, could
it have been that Hibbert had deceived him? Was he not the son of Zuker?
But the suspicion only dwelt in his mind for one brief moment, and he
felt indignant with himself that it had rested there so long.

How could he doubt Hibbert, the one boy at Garside who had so clung to
him and who was at that moment lying on a bed of sickness?

"Heaven forgive me!" he said to himself; then he caught the voices of
the men as they again spoke, and listened eagerly.




CHAPTER XXXVI

THE "FOX-HOLE"


"They really believe you're out of England. You're quite sure of that?"
questioned Brockman, in his thick, guttural voice.

"As sure of it as you're standing there," answered Zuker. "The search
for me went on actively for a fortnight, and then dropped. How should
they suspect a hiding-place like this? How should they suspect that when
the hounds were in full chase of the fox, he had a hole to retreat to
where they could never follow?"

"Ha! ha!" chuckled Brockman; "we ought to call it the Fox-Hole. I only
wish we had the youngster in it who slipped through my fingers that
night on the road to Redmead."

"Do you really?" said Paul to himself. "Well, the youngster's obliged
you, and yet you don't seem to be grateful to him."

"_Zut! zut!_ Don't worry about him. He's only a cipher--a pawn in the
great game we have in hand. If we win, it'll be for a prize worth
winning--fame and fortune," went on Zuker, as he strode to and fro with
rapid strides. "Yes, fame and fortune, and we shall have dealt a
staggering blow at a country that we hate. The risk is great, but the
stakes are greater still, and each day makes our position surer."

"Surer? Do you think so? Sometimes it seems to me, master, that we're
standing on the very edge of a deep precipice, and that one day we shall
make a false step, and then----"

Brockman did not finish the sentence, but gave a significant shrug of
the shoulders which was much more eloquent than words.

"Das ist recht--that is right; I have never hidden from you the danger.
It is true that one false step might spoil all my plans, but that only
makes the game more worth the winning. And listen, Brockman, we must not
make that false step. We made one on that night we let the boy get
through with the cipher to Redmead. We must not make another."

Paul's ears tingled as he listened. Notwithstanding the peril in which
he stood, his heart beat with joy. The words of Mr. Moncrief came back
to him: "You have not only done a great service for me and my brother,
Paul, but for your country." He had almost forgotten those words in the
whirl of events that had since happened at Garside, but now they came
flashing back, shining out vividly as a beacon in the darkness around
him.

"No; we must not make another," answered Brockman, sending his fist
vigorously into the palm of his hand to emphasize his words. There was
silence between the two for a moment, then it was again broken by Zuker.

"Those ancestors of yours were dull dogs, Brockman, but there must have
been some grit in them to have got up to Chatham. See, they got to this
point." Paul could see that a chart was spread out upon the table, and
that Zuker was pointing with his finger to a place on it. "Here is the
River Medway, which, as you know, can be reached through this tunnel."

The river through that tunnel! Was he awake or dreaming? Paul could
scarcely believe the evidence of his ears. His heart thumped so loudly
against his ribs that he feared the conspirators might hear him.

"A chain had been drawn across the river, for all England was in a state
of alarm at the approach of the Dutchmen," went on Zuker.
"Fortifications had been added to Sheerness and Upnor Castle just here."

Brockman bent over the chart and followed the finger of Zuker.

"Just there. And the chain--what happened to the chain?"

"Sheerness was first taken, and then, taking advantage of a spring tide
and an easterly wind, the Dutch broke the chain."

"Broke it? But wasn't it fortified?"

"It was guarded by three ships, but the Dutch took them. They played
havoc with several other vessels, and advanced with six men-o'-war and
five fireships as far as Upnor Castle, where they burned three more.
That was good, wasn't it?"

"Splendid! Real pluck! Dull dogs and slow, as you say, but real grit.
I'm proud of my Dutch fore-fathers."

It was clear that Brockman, if not himself a Dutchman, was of Dutch
descent.

"The Dutch," continued Zuker, "then fell down the Medway--see, in this
direction." His finger again went to work over the chart. "They sailed
next to Portsmouth; they assaulted Harwich, and then sailed again up the
Thames as far as Tilbury--this point here--where they were repulsed.
What has been done once can be done again. Why not?"

Zuker, in his excitement, strode over in the direction of the curtain.
Paul drew back and waited. Had he seen the curtain move? Did he suspect
there was a listener behind? For a moment Paul scarcely breathed. Then
he heard Zuker pacing back to the table, and breathed freely again.

"You forget the difference in the times," answered Brockman. "Then there
were no ironclads."

"I'm forgetting nothing. Ironclads are useless without the brains behind
them. Battles nowadays are won not so much on the battlefield as by the
Intelligence Department--the Secret Service"--his voice went almost to a
whisper--"the service to which you and I belong."

A cold feeling of horror and repulsion stole over Paul as he listened.
He felt as he might have felt in listening to the rattle of a deadly
snake. These men were in the Secret Service of another country--spies,
collecting material for the enemy--material which might be used at any
time with deadly effect against England, dear old England! And as he
looked, a mist seemed to rise before him, and suddenly out of the mist
he saw a strange picture--the cabin of a ship, a man bending over a
dispatch-box, and rapidly turning over the papers within. Then the door
of the cabin opened. An officer, with a bronzed, noble face swiftly
entered, and seized the spy at the dispatch-box. The spy threw himself
at the officer's feet and pleaded for mercy. Paul saw it all as clearly
as though it were on a screen before him. Looking at the spy's face, he
knew it for Zuker. Looking at the officer's face, he knew it for his
father's.

As the scene faded, he felt that he, too, must spring out on Zuker and
denounce him. "Spy--traitor! You're the man who tried to betray my
father! You are the man who would betray Britain!" By some impulse over
which he had no control he tried to shriek out the words. His lips
moved, but fortunately no sound came from them.

The next instant he was brought to his senses by the sound of
footsteps--footsteps in the tunnel by which he had entered. Instantly he
realized the position in which he stood. The new-comer, whoever he was,
was probably a confederate of the two spies inside, and would be bound
to pass into the cave through the curtain behind which he was hidden.
Quick as thought he retreated a pace or two, well out of the light of
the lamps, and drew himself close up to the wall.

Nearer and nearer came the footsteps. Presently Paul could just see the
shadowy outline of a man's figure. Then he passed him, coming so close
that his coat brushed against him. The figure paused. Paul held his
breath, and for one brief instant thought that he had been discovered.
The next, the curtain was lifted aside, and the new-comer passed inside
the cave.

"Ah, Weevil! What news?" came the voice of Zuker.

Weevil! Paul crept again to the curtain, and peered through the side. It
was the master, sure enough. He wore a cape, with the collar turned up
and buttoned tight round the chin.

"Still the same," answered the master.

"No change?"

"No change to speak of. Sometimes he's a little better; then he goes
back again, and is worse. Poor little chap! it makes my heart bleed to
see him."

Then Paul knew they were speaking of Hibbert.

"Your heart! What of mine?" exclaimed the man fiercely. "You always
speak as though you were the only one who cared for the boy. And a lot
of good you've done for him. It was through you I had him trained as an
English boy. His mother was English, said you. It was through you he
went to Garside, because you could take greater care of him, said you.
What care? Himmel, himmel! You let those imps of Satan torture him;
through you he has been brought to the door of death."

"Cease, man--cease to torture me!" cried the master.

Paul listened in wonder, not unmixed with awe. He had heard that note of
anguish in the master's voice before--on that night when he had seen him
by Hibbert's bed; but the face, with the light of the lamp flickering on
it, might have been hewn from the limestone. It was as stern and rigid
as Fate itself.

"I have no wish to torture you; but it sickens me to hear you speak
about that boy as though it were no concern of mine--as though you were
the only one who cared for him. I tell you again, I was a fool to let
him go to Garside."

No answer came for a few moments. It seemed as though Mr. Weevil were
struggling with his feelings. When he at length spoke, his voice was
calm again. It had resumed that calm, deliberate tone with which Paul
was so familiar.

"I would like to speak to you for a few minutes alone, Israel."

Brockman took the hint, and retreating at the other entrance of the
cave, left the two together.

"I wished to speak with you alone, because I have discovered one or two
matters which will interest you. You were struck, you may remember, with
the name of the boy who saved Tim's life?"

"Yes; what of it?"

"You thought that he might be the son of that Captain Percival who years
ago saved your life at the risk of his own. I knew that the boy's father
was dead, and on examination of the school-books, I found that he was a
naval officer. I was not aware of the circumstances under which he met
his death, however. I have since discovered that he was drowned at sea
'whilst trying to save the life of a spy'--pardon me the word, but so
the record runs."

"_Ach!_ Is it possible?" came hoarsely from Zuker's lips. "I had my
suspicions when I first questioned him."

Paul pressed his ear closer to the side of the curtain. He was anxious
not to lose a word of what was spoken, for he knew that he was "the boy"
to whom the master was referring; that "Tim" was, of course, Hibbert.

"I have discovered, further, that it was this same boy--Paul
Percival--who got through with that letter to Redmead."

"The same? Ach Himmel! I caught but a glimpse of him in the darkness
that night."

"The hand of a Higher than man is in it. You cannot escape it. Be warned
in time. Give up this scheme of yours; if not for your own sake, for the
sake of your son."

"Give up the scheme--the scheme for which I have worked so long. The
scheme which, day by day, brings me nearer to fame and fortune. You talk
like a madman. It is more to me than life itself--more to me than the
life of fifty sons!"

A cry of pain came from Mr. Weevil's lips.

"I know you well enough--you have no love for my scheme. Your heart is
in what you call science, and in the boy. You wish to frighten
me--frighten me from the work which every day draws nearer to success.
Shall I tell you what for? So as to drive me back to the Fatherland that
you may keep all to yourself, my boy--the boy of your dead sister. Ach!
I see through your scheming!"

"Hush, man--hush! Is it to hear reproaches from your lips that I have
risked so much--that I have involved myself in these schemes of yours
which may mean my ruin?" Mr. Weevil's voice was stern, fearless; but as
quickly turned to a softer key. "Let us not quarrel, Israel. Heaven
forbid that we should quarrel over the boy whom we both love in our own
peculiar way. Remember that his life is still in jeopardy."

They shook hands, and then Mr. Weevil turned towards the curtain behind
which Paul was hidden.




CHAPTER XXXVII

THE LETTERS AT THE TUCK-SHOP


This time Paul did not move--he could not. He was as one rooted to the
spot. Fortunately, Mr. Weevil did not come to that side of the curtain
where he was crouching, but passed through on the other side. It was not
till he had hastened past Paul that the power of movement returned to
his limbs. To remain there longer was useless. He had heard enough--more
than enough. But he was unable to think clearly in that tunnel. The air
seemed to stifle him; he must get outside.

So he followed in the master's footsteps, taking care, however, to keep
a good distance between them. At length he reached the entrance. He
waited a minute or two, then cautiously lifted the circular piece of
wood that covered the entrance, and made his way through the undergrowth
to the open.

By that time Mr. Weevil had disappeared from view.

"Am I awake or dreaming?" Paul asked himself, as he drew a deep breath
of relief.

It seemed, indeed, like a dream--or, rather, a nightmare--that cave, the
two conspirators, the conversation he had overheard about the taking of
Sheerness by the Dutch, the advance on Upnor Castle, and, lastly, the
appearance on the scene of Mr. Weevil.

What was he to do? How was he to act? He was face to face with the same
dilemma that had confronted him when Hibbert had confessed to him his
relationship to Zuker. The more he thought of it, the more difficult it
seemed to move. He was bound hand and foot by the promise he had made
to Hibbert. How could he be false to that promise--how could he give
information which might cause his death?

Strange to say, his confidence in Mr. Weevil had grown by what he had
overheard at that interview. It was true enough that the master seemed
involved in some way in the schemes of Zuker, but it seemed equally
certain that he was against them. The words he had overheard were still
ringing in his ears: "You wish to drive me back to the Fatherland, and
keep all to yourself, my boy--the boy of your dead sister!" Things
seemed clearer to Paul. The master's purpose seemed clearer. It was his
love for his nephew--for Hibbert--which had involved him in the schemes
of Zuker. Paul had disliked and suspected Mr. Weevil, but, curiously
enough, he now seemed to understand better than ever he had understood
before, and that understanding was to the advantage rather than the
disadvantage of the master.

"The hand of a Higher than man is in it." Those were the master's words.
They had been spoken from his heart; there was no doubt of that. Though
they had failed to move Zuker, they had moved Paul strangely. Yes; the
hand of a Higher than man was in it, and the designs of Zuker would
certainly be overturned.

"I wish Mr. Moncrief had answered my letter, though," he said to
himself, as he returned to the school. It must have miscarried. He
determined to question Hibbert about it again that very evening.

So when the evening came he went to the sick-room, and the nurse, who
was now in attendance, gladly vacated her place at the bedside to him.
As usual, Hibbert had been looking forward to Paul's visit, and the thin
white face was at once all sunshine.

"I'm feeling ever so much better," he said, in answer to Paul's
inquiries. "I'm feeling quite strong. I shall soon be out again if I go
on like this. Do you think the fellows will be pleased to see me?"

"Of course they will!"

"I was never very popular, you see," Hibbert went on thoughtfully. "It
was all my fault. I never took any interest in the sports. I mean to be
different when I get off this wretched bed--turn over a new leaf; go in
for footer, cricket, and that sort of thing. I don't see why I shouldn't
do as well as the rest of them, do you, Percival?"

"I don't see why," answered Paul cheerfully.

"And there's a lot of other things I mean to do. Do you know, I've been
thinking over so much to-day about our being at the same school--how
wonderful it all is that you and I should be at Garside. And when I get
out again, do you know what I mean to do?"

Paul shook his head. He was looking at the face, which seemed to grow
smaller and smaller, and wondering whether Hibbert would get out again.

"I mean to do my best to pay on that debt my father owed your
father--the debt that never has been paid. That'll be something to live
for and work for, and God helping me, I'll do it--do it! Don't say that
you don't wish it--that you don't want it."

"Certainly not," answered Paul, very softly, falling in with his mood.
"You shall do as you think best when you get out again."

There was silence between them for a few moments. Hibbert lay with his
hands crossed on his breast and his eyes upturned to the ceiling.

"What have you been doing this afternoon, Percival?" he suddenly asked,
as his eyes went back again to Paul's face.

The question took Paul by surprise. How could he tell Hibbert what he
had been doing that afternoon--the discovery he had made, what he had
seen and what he had heard in the cave?

"Doing?"

"Yes. Half-holiday, wasn't it? I still keep count of holidays, you see."

Hibbert smiled.

"Oh, I went for a walk!"

"By yourself?"

"By myself." Paul could see that the boy's eyes were scanning his face
curiously, so he added quickly: "I'm rather fond of walking by myself."

"Have you heard anything about the flag?"

"How did you come to know that it was gone?" Paul asked, astonished, for
he had thought it better not to trouble him with the information.

"Oh, Mrs. Trounce told me. I get her to tell me any special news. I like
to know what's going on in the school. Matron's a good sort. It was a
beastly shame to take the flag, whoever did it. Have they got any clue?"

"Not yet."

"I expect the Beetles had a hand in it. What do you think?"

"I scarcely know what to think. It's a mystery. You haven't been
climbing to the turret in your sleep, and hauling the flag down just for
the fun of the thing, have you?"

The idea quite tickled Hibbert, for he laughed outright.

"By the by," said Paul, turning the conversation to the purpose for
which he had come to that room, "you recollect that letter I gave you to
post a few weeks back?"

"Yes."

"You're quite certain you posted it?"

"Quite certain. I think that I said so at the time."

Paul noticed that though Hibbert was quite certain that he had posted
the letter he spoke with some hesitation.

"Yes, yes; you said so at the time--that's quite right. But I was
wondering whether by any chance you might have given it to some other
boy to post."

"No; I put it in the letter-box with my own hands." Hibbert again
hesitated for a moment, then added; "Something did happen, but I did not
think it worth while to worry you about it."

"What was it?" Paul asked eagerly.

"I was blockhead enough to run full tilt against Mr. Weevil when I got
outside, and--and he caught sight of your letter."

"Caught sight of my letter! And what did he do?"

"Made me go to his room. He asked me who sent me with the letter, and I
was obliged to tell him. It didn't matter, did it?"

"It didn't matter," repeated Paul, his throat suddenly becoming parched.
"Well, well, what happened then?"

"He took the letter to his room, but came back with it in a minute or so
and handed it back to me. He said that you had broken the rules of the
school in sending off a letter without the knowledge of the masters, but
he would overlook the offence, for--for my sake. That's the reason I
didn't make a fuss about it to you."

"He said that--Mr. Weevil said that? And he gave you back my letter?
You're quite certain it was the same?"

"Oh, quite certain! I thought perhaps he might have opened it, as he
said he had a right to, so I looked at it to make sure it was the same.
It was the same--in your handwriting. I could tell that anywhere. But
what makes you ask? Has it miscarried?"

"I hope not. I haven't had an answer yet--that's all. I dare say I shall
get one presently, so don't you worry about it."

To prevent him doing so, Paul turned the conversation again to other
matters, and then went out. The information Paul had given him about the
letter set him thinking. What had the master done with his letter in the
few brief moments he had had it in his possession away from Hibbert? Had
he opened it and read it? If so, was the letter he had handed back to
Hibbert to post the same letter that he--Paul--had written? to Mr.
Moncrief? Hibbert was sure that it was--sure that it was in his
handwriting. In any case, a letter had been posted to Mr. Moncrief. What
letter was it?

In this state of perplexity, Paul determined to write briefly to Mr.
Moncrief again. That was the only way in which all doubt could be ended.

So he wrote a note stating that he had written a letter of some
importance a few weeks since, and wishing to know as soon as possible
whether or not it had been received. This letter he directed the same as
before--"W. Moncrief, Esq., Redmead, Oakville, Kent." He determined that
this time he would post the letter himself; so the next day, watching
his opportunity, he slipped from the grounds, and posted it at the
village post-office.

"It can't go wrong now," he said to himself, as he retraced his
footsteps.

Meanwhile, Plunger and Moncrief minor were thrown into a state of great
excitement by finding letters awaiting them at the adjacent tuck-shop.
Plunger tore the envelope open.

Immediately he drew out the letter and glanced at it he groaned. His
groan was echoed by Harry. On the top of Plunger's letter was a
rudely-designed facsimile of a cockroach. On the top of Harry's letter
was a similarly grotesque design.

Beneath it, in scarcely less grotesque handwriting, as though one of the
legs of the cockroach had been dipped in ink and made to trace words
upon the paper, was the following:

"Brother of the Mystic Order,--Greeting from the Brethren. Meeting
to-morrow afternoon at headquarters. Time, half-past three sharp. Be not
absent at thy peril."

Then followed the lines which Plunger so well remembered--the words
which had formed part of the incantation of the "Mystic Circle:"

    "Whene'er thou hear'st thy chieftain's call,
    Rest not, pause not, hither crawl,
    Or to the realms of Creepy-crawly,
    Shivery-shaky, we will haul thee."

Plunger groaned again. Harry again echoed it.

"What are you making that row for, you little ass?" cried Plunger
testily.

"Thought I'd cheer you up a bit. You look just awful, Plunger!"

"You look worse than that! Ever seen a petrified mummy? No? Well, just
look at yourself in the glass, then! What's your letter about?"

They exchanged letters, and found that they were in precisely the same
terms--that both were summonses for them to appear before "the Mystic
Order" at the same date and hour.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

"FORGIVE, AND YE SHALL BE FORGIVEN"


The two boys looked at each other blankly. How were they to act? What
was to be done? If they refused to obey the summons from the "Mystic
Brethren," they knew not what would be the penalty. The more they looked
at the letters, with their grotesque design, the more imposing they
seemed.

"What's to be done, Freddy?" asked Harry, when they were outside the
shop.

"We shall have to go, I suppose!" answered Plunger despondently. "We've
given ourselves away, you see. We're one of them--one of the wretched
Beetles. We've taken the vow of allegiance. They've got us in a tight
corner."

"What's the 'realms of Creepy-crawly, Shivery-shaky' I wonder?" asked
Harry, in an equally dejected tone.

"Some ditch with plenty of toads and slime about it, I expect. You
needn't be anxious. We'll know soon enough!" groaned Plunger. "I wish to
goodness you'd been anywhere before you let me in for this mess! Why did
they ever let you loose from Gaffer Quelch's?"

"Oh, shut up, Plunger! You're tiring! After all, you wouldn't make such
a bad Beetle. You can crawl a lot better than you can punt, and----Oh,
oh!"

Plunger had caught him by the ear and given it a vigorous pull. Harry
returned it by kicking Plunger on the shins. Having thus equalised
matters, they became once more on friendly terms.

"Look here, Harry, we're both in the same boat. Supposing we don't go?"

"Then what'll happen?"

"I don't know. We shall have to chance that. They can't eat us."

"Oh, but I'm not afraid! It's not that; but--but I don't somehow like
breaking my word."

"Neither do I. It's jolly awkward; yet, come to think of it, I don't see
why we shouldn't."

"We promised to be true to the cause."

"Yes; but the promise was got from us by force, and that isn't binding.
I've heard my pater say so."

"Oh, he's in the glue line, and ought to know what's binding! Stop it,
Plunger!"--as Plunger seized him once more by the ear. "That's the worst
of you. You don't know a compliment when you hear one. Don't I wish my
pater was in the glue line! It's fine stuff. Made out of horses' hoofs,
isn't it? Well, go on. Not binding, you said. How do you make that out?"

"Haven't I said, stupid--because it was got from us by force? But don't
take my word for it. Let's ask your cousin. Will that satisfy you?"

Harry at once consented. He still had the highest admiration for his
cousin, notwithstanding the fact that he had been defeated by a Beetle.
They returned to the school, where they were not long in finding
Stanley, who had just been joined by Newall.

"We want to talk with you alone, if--if you wouldn't mind, Stan," said
Harry.

"You don't think that I'm going to clear out for any of you Lower Form
cubs, do you?" sneered Newall.

"Oh, you can speak before Newall as you would before me, Harry! Come,
fire away!"

Harry still hesitated. He could not forget how Newall had served him
when he first came there, but while he was hesitating Plunger began:

"This is what we want to know. Supposing any fellows in this school--we
won't mention names--happened to be captured by the enemy, and supposing
the enemy forced them into a--a----"

"Secret society," put in Harry, as Plunger came to a standstill.

"Yes, secret society. A kind of brotherhood--vendetta, with masks and
knives and forks--daggers, I mean--and that sort of thing----"

"Now, look here, Master Plunger, stop plunging! Drop it, and come to the
point!" said Stanley firmly. "What do you want to know? Come, Harry;
you're not so gassy. Perhaps we can get some sense out of you."

Harry explained as well as he was able what they wanted to know. Stanley
at once decided that a promise given under such circumstances was not
binding, and his opinion was, of course, backed up by Newall, who was
eager to know what this mystery could mean. Thus assured, Plunger and
Harry told them all that had happened on the afternoon they had been
captured by the "Mystic Brethren." As may be imagined, Stanley and
Newall were greatly excited by the story--especially that portion of it
referring to Paul.

"Now are you satisfied?" cried Newall triumphantly. "Didn't I always say
what Percival was? He's not only a cur, but a traitor!"

And Stanley, who in days gone by would have fiercely resented the
slightest reflection on Paul, allowed the words to go unchallenged.

"You're quite certain that it was Percival you saw?" he at length asked.

"Am I certain that I see you?" answered Plunger. "Besides, Harry saw
him, too. Both of us couldn't be mistaken."

"There wasn't much mistake, Stan. I wish there had been. That makes the
second time I've seen them together."

"If you don't believe us, you'd better put to him the question straight.
Send for him now, and put him face to face with us. See if he'll deny it
then!"

"I think you're right, Plunger. We'll send for Percival, and see what he
has to say. You go and fetch him, Harry. You'll find him somewhere about
the grounds.

"One moment. Don't be in a hurry. We've got an artful young gentleman to
deal with, and if we want to find things out, and pay back the Bedes in
their own coin, we shall have to be artful as well. We mustn't show our
hand too soon."

"I don't quite understand."

"No; but I'll make all clear in a word or two. If we call in Percival,
we shall not get much from him. It isn't likely he'll give himself away.
He'll say that Plunger was mistaken; that it wasn't him, but somebody
else who was talking to the fellow up at Bedes. What we've got to do is
to meet craft with craft, and go one better than Percival at his own
game."

"Hear, hear!" cried Plunger. "But how are you going to do it? Strikes me
you'll have to get up very early in the morning to score off Percival."

"We sha'n't score if you keep that noisy tongue of yours wagging, Mr.
Plunger. All you've got to do is to keep quiet till to-morrow evening,
and then you can let it wag again as much as you please. My scheme is
this: We've first got to make good your word about the flag. If we can
get it from that shed in which you say it is, we can prove that you
haven't been dreaming. With the flag in our possession, we'll call a
meeting of the principal fellows from each Form down to the Third. You
and Moncrief minor can tell the story. Percival can then say what he
pleases. We can produce the flag to prove our case--and--there you are!
Percival will be kicked out of Garside!"

Stanley did not speak. The chasm between him and Percival had gone on
widening instead of narrowing, but it was no pleasure to him to hear
those words. Percival kicked from Garside! Then Garside would no longer
be Garside to him. Harry, too, was silent. He did not know why, but he
began to think they were not doing the right thing by Percival. They
were trying to trap him, and the one setting that trap was the one who
hated him.

"A jolly good idea, Newall!" exclaimed Plunger enthusiastically.
"Smart--real smart! But how are you going to work it? How are you going
to get the flag?"

"To-morrow's Wednesday; so we've got the whole of the afternoon before
us. You're supposed to meet the Beetles at half-past three, aren't you?"

"Yes; half-past three sharp."

"Well, we'll be beforehand--half an hour, say. That will give us plenty
of time to get possession of the flag, and away with it before your
brethren of the Mystic Circle put in an appearance."

"You--you won't want me?" asked Plunger anxiously. He had a keen
recollection of what had happened at the shed the last time he was
there.

"Of course we shall. You'll have to take us to the shed and show us
what's inside it."

Plunger did not like this suggestion. Why couldn't Newall have selected
Moncrief minor? But he could not very well raise any objection. So,
making a virtue of necessity, he raised his eyebrows to their fullest
extent, and said he should be "delighted."

Then came the question as to who should go with Plunger. It was not
advisable to take too many, for fear of the risk of discovery. So Newall
decided that only three should accompany Plunger--Stanley, Parfitt, and
himself. Stanley would gladly have given way to anybody else, but Newall
insisted that he should be one of the party. He seemed determined to
leave no stone unturned to blacken Paul in the eyes of his one-time
friend.

Stanley crept away as soon as he could to the solitude of his dormitory.

He was very wretched. He felt as though he were acting a mean part. It
might be true that Paul was not the friend to him that he had at one
time been--that he had gone over to the Bedes, and acted a mean part;
but that was no reason why he should act a mean part, too. Two blacks
did not make a white. "Percival will be kicked out of Garside!" Newall's
words kept repeating themselves in his brain. He could not forget them.
Percival would be kicked out of Garside, and he would be one of those
who had helped to kick him out.

No, no; whatever wrong Paul had done him, he could not do that. But how
could he prevent it? How could he put him on his guard? He thought for a
long time; then he got a half-sheet of notepaper, and wrote on it in a
disguised hand:

"Beware! Steer clear of Bedes. Plot on foot to turn you from Garside."

The next difficulty to get over was--how to get that note to Paul
without rousing suspicion. It must be read by him, and him alone. He was
a long time before he could think of any means of accomplishing this
purpose; then he remembered that Paul was in the habit of reading a few
verses every night before going to rest from a Bible given to him by his
mother. He went to Paul's dormitory--the dormitory in which he had once
slept, and to which he had often longed to get back.

Glancing cautiously in, he found that it was empty. He crept softly to
Paul's locker, and drew out his Bible. There was a bookmark in it. He
opened it at the bookmark. The first words that met his eyes were:

"Judge not, and ye shall not ye judged; condemn not, and ye shall not be
condemned; forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.... With the same measure
that ye mete, withal it shall be measured to you again."

Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven! The words seemed in a mist before
Stanley's eyes. Pshaw! What had he to do with forgiveness?

His eyes went again to the Bible:

"With the same measure that ye mete, withal it shall be measured to you
again."

He read the words thrice, then placed the note inside the Bible and
closed it.

"He's sure to see it, I should think, and won't suspect who put it
there," he told himself, as he stepped softly to the corridor.

Scarcely had he reached it when he heard a footstep coming along it.

Looking in the direction whence it came, he saw that it was he of whom
he had been thinking--Paul Percival!




CHAPTER XXXIX

THE MISSING FLAG


Stanley did not wish to meet Paul. He might suspect his purpose in being
there. There was no possibility of turning away, however, so he kept
straight on, keeping as close to the wall as possible. Paul's head was
bent to the ground. He seemed absorbed in thought, and passed by Stanley
as though he had not seen him.

"I don't think he saw me," Stanley told himself. "He looked a bit
worried, and I don't wonder at it. He can't have a very pleasant time of
it."

For an instant Stanley felt inclined to turn back. "Forgive and ye shall
be forgiven." Still the words he had just read were repeating
themselves. Paul and he had not spoken for so long. A few words might
clear up everything. Clear up everything? No. How was it possible to
clear up that scene in the sand-pits? So Stanley's heart hardened again,
and he went on.

Meanwhile Paul entered the dormitory, and drew from his pocket a note he
had just found awaiting him at the porter's lodge. He had read it twice
before, but he could not help reading it again.

"Meet me to-morrow (Wednesday), half-past two, at old elm, near
sand-pits. Be sure and come. Very important."

This note was scribbled in pencil, and unsigned, but Paul knew the
writing well enough. It was Wyndham's. What was it Wyndham wanted with
him? What was it that was so important? Had he gained any information as
to the missing flag? He was thinking over this note when he passed by
Stanley, and it was this which had given to him that "worried"
appearance that Stanley had noticed in his face.

He sat for some time musing over this letter, and then, to get away from
it, drew from the locker his Bible. It opened, of course, at the place
in which Stanley had placed his note. Paul unfolded and read it, with no
small astonishment: "Beware! Steer clear of Bedes. Plot on foot to turn
you from Garside."

Plot on foot to turn him from Garside! What could the plot be? This note
was more puzzling than the other. Like that, too, it was unsigned; but
this time Paul was beaten. The writing was unknown to him. He could not
guess the writer, but he could see plainly enough that it was in a
disguised hand.

Then he suddenly realized that the two notes clashed. The one was an
invitation to meet a Bede; the other warned him to steer clear of Bedes.
If he obeyed the one, he would have to disregard the other. What was he
to do? He did not hesitate long. Wyndham he knew. His friendship had
been proved. He knew nothing of this anonymous writer--the writer who
professed to warn him of a hidden danger, but did so in a disguised
hand, and had not the courage to put to it his name. He would keep the
appointment with Wyndham, whatever happened.

So the next day, as soon as the clock had struck two, and he was free,
Paul started off for the old elm, near the sand-pits. Punctual though he
was, Wyndham was awaiting him.

"I'm so glad you've come, Percival," he said, as he came towards him and
shook him warmly by the hand. "I've splendid news to tell you."

"The flag?" exclaimed Paul, speaking the thought that was uppermost in
his mind.

"You've made a very good guess. Yes, the flag. I've got some very good
news about it--very good news indeed. In fact, I rather fancy I know
where it is."

"Where--where? Can we make for it?" exclaimed Paul, excited at the news.

"Wait a bit. Don't be in such a steaming hurry!" smiled Wyndham. "Before
I say a word more, I must ask you not to make use of the information I'm
going to give you against any of our fellows at Bede's."

Paul readily consented. To get possession of the flag was the chief
thing he cared for. That accomplished, he could afford to be
magnanimous.

"From the first I suspected that one of our fellows had a hand in it,"
went on Wyndham. "You remember that day when you were set upon by a
dozen or so of the sweet cherubs from Bede's?"

"Only too well."

"Sorry to stir up painful memories. There was one amongst the number
said to belong to the amphibia. Do you recollect that, too?"

"Of course I do!" laughed Paul. "Mellor, you mean--once a Gargoyle, now
a distinguished Beetle? Recollect it? Who could forget it? It labelled
him to a T. You don't mean to say----"

"Yes, I do," smiled Wyndham. "He and another Beetle, whose name I
needn't mention, captured the flag between them. It was a plucky thing
to do, and when I found out what had happened, I don't think I should
have troubled any more about it, only I remembered that there was a
fellow at Garside who was standing alone, fighting against the wall."

"Wyndham!"

"Don't interrupt. This fellow was rather anxious to get hold of the
missing flag; and so, out of respect for him, and not for any of the
mean cads who hail from the same place, I persuaded Mellor & Co. to hand
it over. It was not easy work, I can tell you. They felt that I was
robbing them of their rightful prey. But at last they came round,
and----"

"You got possession of the flag!" cried Paul. "How splendid of you,
Wyndham! Instead of getting out of debt, I get deeper and deeper into
it. But where is the flag?"

"Can't you guess?" smiled Wyndham.

"Guess?" repeated Paul, puzzled.

"Yes. I've done my part; that's your part," answered Wyndham, enjoying
his mystification. "S'posing we go for the old game--'Hot boiled beans
and very good butter'? Hallo!" The smile died from his face as his
glance went to the roadway. "Here are some of your lot! They haven't got
wind of our meeting, have they?"

Paul glanced in the direction of the roadway. Sure enough, there were
four Garsiders coming along the road--Newall, Parfitt, Plunger, and
Stanley. As his glance went to the road Parfitt caught sight of him;
then all four stopped and glanced in the direction where Paul and
Wyndham were standing. An animated conversation took place for a minute.
It seemed as though they were undecided how to act. Then they came to a
decision, and walked quickly on.

"I'm not sorry they didn't come, though I should have been pleased
enough to meet them at any other time," said Wyndham contemptuously.
"Let's get on with our game. Now, then, are you ready? 'Hot boiled
beans, very good butter; ladies and gentlemen, come to supper.' At
present you're frightfully cold, freezing, perfect icicle."

He rubbed his hands together, and flung them across his chest, and blew
upon his fingers as though he were suffering from the same complaint;
and then he laughed again at Paul's mystified expression as he gazed
round. There was no sign of the flag. At length Paul's glance rested
upon the decayed old elm-tree, near which they were standing.

"You're getting warmer," smiled Wyndham. Then, as Paul walked towards
the tree: "In fact, quite hot."

Paul put his hand into the hollow of the tree, and drew out the missing
flag, wrapped in a covering of American leather-cloth, just as it had
been when Mellor and Crick had taken it to St. Bede's.

"What can I say, Wyndham?" he asked, in a thick voice as he stood there,
with the prize in his hand. For the moment there seemed to be a mist
before his eyes.

"Say? Nothing, of course! All you've got to do is to get back to Garside
as soon as you can, for I shouldn't be surprised if those fellows we saw
just now mean mischief."

The anonymous letter flashed into Paul's mind as Wyndham spoke--"Beware!
Steer clear of Bedes. Plot on foot to turn you from Garside."

Could it be that the four he had seen were concerned in that plot? It
was quite possible to believe it of Newall and Parfitt--they had always
been his enemies--but Stanley--No, he could not believe it of him.
However, he scarcely cared what happened to him now he had gained
possession of the flag. He would be able to redeem his promise. The main
thing was to get it back to its old place on the turret.

So he took Wyndham's advice, and started back to the college without
further delay.

Meanwhile the three who had started from Garside, under the guidance of
Plunger, for the purpose of capturing the flag on their own account, had
passed Wyndham and Paul, as we have seen, on the way. They little
suspected the purpose of that meeting. They never imagined that it had
anything to do with the flag.

Parfitt, the first to catch sight of the two, gloated over the
discovery. Stanley's heart fell. He now saw with his own eyes that Paul
was really on friendly terms with Wyndham. He had taken no heed of his
note of warning. He had treated it with scorn.

"He's playing a deep game," said Parfitt. "I believe he means turning
over Garside for Bede's, like Mellor did."

"I believe so, too; but he can't do it before next term, and we must get
our blow in before then. It all depends on getting hold of that flag.
Now, then, Plunger, buck up!"

Plunger increased his pace, and it was not long before he reached the
shed in which he and Moncrief minor had been initiated into the "Noble
Order of Beetles." They reached it, as arranged, fully half an hour
before the time appointed for Plunger to meet "the mystic brethren." So,
as they hoped and expected, they found it empty.

"Now, Plunger, where do you say the flag is? Quick! We've got no time to
lose!" said Newall.

Plunger did not answer. He stood dumfounded. There was the place where
he had been initiated into the "mystic brotherhood." There was the place
where he had stood and looked up at the "mystic emblem," and had
discovered to his amazement that it was the missing school flag. He
rubbed his eyes then; he rubbed them now. The flag had gone! Gone! Had
it ever been there? Was that scene, after all, as it had more than once
seemed, only a dream?

"Wake up, sleepy!" cried Newall, kicking him on the shins to rouse him.
"Where's the flag?"

"It was there, just over my head," answered Plunger, pointing to the
roof above him; "but it isn't there now."

They searched the shed, but could find no trace of the missing flag.
There was a large box in which it might be hidden, but that was locked,
and there was no time to force it.

"You're not making fun of us, Plunger, are you?" demanded Newall,
clutching him fiercely by the arm.

"Really, I'm not."

"Well, look here, you'll have to meet these fellows again, just as
though you'd turned up in answer to their note, and see if you can worm
out anything about the flag. If we're seen here it'll spoil the game.
But we won't be far off. If you want any help, yell out, and we'll see
what we can do for you. Do you understand?"

Plunger understood perfectly, but, all the same, he did not like the
prospect of meeting the brethren of the mystic order again. However,
there was nothing for it but to give in, so he gave in with as good
grace as possible.




CHAPTER XL

HOW THE FLAG FOUND ITS WAY BACK TO THE TURRET


Paul got safely back to Garside with his prize. He mounted with it to
his dormitory and undid the covering in which it was encased. Yes, there
was the old flag, none the worse for its temporary absence from the
school. Paul's heart beat the quicker. He was as proud of the flag as
any boy at Garside, and as he looked at it he realized in some degree
the feelings of a soldier when he has recaptured the colours from the
enemy.

Folding it up again, he hid it under one of the cubicles, and went in
search of the boys who had been with him in the dormitory when the loss
of the flag was first discovered.

He was not long in finding Moncrief minor, who was wandering about the
ground like a lost spirit. He was unhappy at the absence of his
companion in mischief, the redoubtable Plunger. He began to think that
he had been left out in the cold. What a hero Plunger would be if,
through him, the flag were brought back again to the school!

As he was thus thinking he saw Paul coming towards him. He quickly
turned his head and walked off as though he had not seen him, but Paul
came up with him in a stride or two, and, clutching him by the arm,
twisted him round till he was in front of him.

"You needn't run away, Harry. I want you to do me a favour."

"What is it?" asked Harry, reluctantly.

"You remember that afternoon when the flag was lost?"

Harry looked up quickly. What was coming out about the flag now? Ha, ha,
he guessed what it was! Percival had begun to smell a rat. He meant
trying to pump him, so he answered cautiously.

"Of course I do, and so do most of the fellows here, I'm thinking. I
wonder if we shall ever get it back again?"

"I wonder. It was Viner who brought us the news, I remember, and besides
yourself there were several other fellows in the dormitory at the
time--Baldry, Plunger, Sedgefield, Bember. I want you to get together
again the same fellows if you can, and bring them to my dorm. Would you
mind doing that for me?"

"What for?" was the curious answer.

"Oh, I'll explain what for when you're there. Will you do it?"

Harry thought for a moment before answering. What was Percival's game?
He was curious to know; but there couldn't be any harm in doing as he
asked.

"I can't bring Plunger--he's got something special in hand, but I'll
hunt up some of the others, and bring them along with me, if I can."

So he ran off, and Paul returned to the dormitory. Half an hour elapsed
before he heard the welcome sound of footsteps on the stairs. Harry had
succeeded in capturing three out of the five, Sedgefield, Baldry, Viner.
They were just as curious as Harry was to know what Paul could want with
them.

"I'm much obliged to you for coming along," said Paul, "it's really very
good of you, considering the dead-set against me. But I wanted to get
together the fellows who were here when Viner brought up the bad news
about the flag. I wish all six were here, but I must be satisfied with
four out of them. At any rate, there's enough of you to remember what I
said. I said, you'll remember, that through me the school had eaten
dirt."

"Oh, yes, we remember that well enough," said Viner bitterly, "because
it was so true."

"So true; yes, Viner. As your memory's so good on that point, perhaps
you can remember what else was said?"

"Of course I do. We all do, for one or two of us have laughed over it
since. You talked some nonsense about the school suffering through you,
and through you being lifted up again."

"And that you meant getting the flag back again, and putting it in its
old place on the turret," added Sedgefield.

"You're right, Viner, and so are you, Sedgefield. I'm glad you remember
things so well. I made that promise, uncertain whether or not I should
be able to carry it out, but determined to do my best. Well, by God's
help, I'm able to keep my word."

To the profound amazement of the boys, he drew out the flag.

"Where did you find it? Where did you get it from?" cried Viner.

Harry did not speak. He could only stare at the flag. Was it really the
old flag? There could be little doubt about that. How, then, had
Percival come by it? Had he stolen a march upon Plunger and the others?

"Where did I get it from? Well, that's my secret for the present. I've
got the flag, and kept my promise. Now I want you to mount with me to
the turret, so that we can put it back again in its old resting-place."

He waved the flag over his head, and Baldry and Sedgefield gave a cheer.
Harry echoed the cheer in a dazed, bewildered fashion. He had not yet
recovered from his surprise. Viner remained silent. They followed Paul
to the turret, where once again the flag was placed on the summit with
another cheer.

Meanwhile Plunger was inside the shed, awaiting with no small
trepidation the arrival of the "Mystic Brethren." He had not long to
wait before six of the masked brethren entered. The foremost of these
was Mellor, followed by five of his companions. They had put on their
masks outside the door, so that Plunger was just as much in the dark as
to who they were as ever.

"Gargoyle with the eyebrows, greeting!" exclaimed Mellor.

"Greeting," repeated the other masks, bowing.

"Now, then, greet," came a peremptory cry, as Plunger received the point
of two or three knees in different parts of his body, which sent him
staggering round the circle. It revived painful memories of a similar
performance on his part on a previous occasion, and he hastily stammered
out, "Gr-gr-greeting," and jerked his head in imitation of the
brethren.

"We are glad thou hast obeyed the call; but where is thy brother
novice--Henry Moncrief?"

"He--he's otherwise--engaged," stammered Plunger, not knowing what to
say.

"Otherwise engaged! Know this, Gargoyle with the wiry thatch, no
engagement should keep him from answering the call of the Mystic
Brethren. It shall be inquired into."

As he spoke, Plunger saw, with fear and trembling, that one of the
number had drawn from the box the weapons he so well remembered--the
sticks with bladders attached to the ends. He guessed what was coming,
and it came.

"Describe the Mystic Circle!" cried Mellor.

It was useless resisting. Down flopped Plunger on his knees and hands,
and crawled round the ring as quickly as possible three times, while the
bladders showered upon his head with amazing rapidity. Then the brethren
joined hands, and galloping wildly round him, repeated as before:

    "Beetles of the Mystic Band
    Wind we round thee, hand in hand;
    Whene'er thou hear'st thy chieftain's call,
    Rest not, pause not, hither crawl,
    Or to the realms of Creepy-crawly,
    Shivery-shaky we will haul thee."

And once again, to the strains of this extraordinary incantation,
Plunger was sent whirling about the ring from side to side, as though he
were an indiarubber ball. The last time two of them--Harry and
himself--divided honours; but this time Plunger had it all to himself.
Owing to this fact the brethren were able to give him their sole and
undivided attention, and they did it with such effect that Plunger began
to wonder whether he was himself or someone else.

"Dost thou like the Mystic Circle?" inquired Mellor, when they paused.

"Oh, y-y-yes," stammered Plunger, with a painful attempt to laugh, "very
much." And then he added quickly, as he saw the uplifted bladders ready
to descend: "But--but if you've got any more of it, you might keep it
for my brother novice."

"It shall be as thou askest, Gargoyle with the eyebrows," said Mellor.
"And now to business."

"To business? Do they call what I've just gone through pleasure?"
thought Plunger, as he waited in fear and trembling what was to come
next.

"Thou belongest to the Third Form?"

Plunger nodded.

"A wonderful scholar art thou, Gargoyle with the wiry thatch," was the
cutting comment.

"Oh, I could be much higher in the school," exclaimed Plunger, blushing
to the roots of the "wiry thatch"; "but I don't like the boys in the
upper Forms, you know. They put too much side on for me."

"You look a modest, retiring kind of fellow. That's the reason the
Mystic Brethren have taken such a fancy to thee."

Down came the bladders on Plunger's back as tokens of brotherly
affection. Plunger felt flattered at this testimony of the brethren to
his virtues, but he wished at the same time they had expressed it in
some other way.

"It's very kind of you," he gasped.

"Though thou dost despise the bounders of the Upper Form, peradventure
thou wouldst not mind taking a small present from the Mystic Brethren of
the Fifth?"

"A present?" repeated Plunger, pricking up his ears. "Not at all. Shall
be delighted to make myself useful."

"Let me see. The head boy of the Fifth is one named Hasluck, is he not,
wearer of goggles?"

"Yes."

"Is there not also in that same Form one named Leveson, famous
timekeeper, owner of a stop-watch?"

Plunger nodded, marvelling at the accuracy of the brethren's
information. At a sign from Mellor, one of the masks, who was no other
than Crick, left the circle, and brought from the corner of the shed a
long parcel, wrapped in American leather-cloth--a facsimile, in fact, of
the parcel which Paul had received from Wyndham a little earlier.

"Give this to Hasluck, in the presence of the timekeeper Leveson and as
many other menials of the Fifth as thou canst find. It is a souvenir
from thy brethren to celebrate thy initiation to the Mystic Order. Dost
thou understand?"

Fluttering with excitement, Plunger clutched the parcel, and declared
that he understood perfectly.

He had not got far on the homeward road before he was rejoined by his
companions, who had been lying in wait for him behind the friendly
shelter of a hedge.

"I've got it!" he gasped.

"Got what?" demanded Newall.

"The flag!" he cried, flourishing the precious parcel.

"Bravo, Plunger!" exclaimed Newall.

"Hurrah!" shouted Parfitt. "How did you get it?"

"Presented to me in honour of my initiation to the Mystic Order."

"Let's have a look at it."

"It mustn't be opened till we get to the school. Hasluck's got to open
it, in the presence of Leveson."

As Plunger had faithfully followed out their instructions, they could
not very well object to this condition, so they ran by his side,
questioning him by the way as to what had happened to him in his
absence. Plunger answered to the best of his ability, colouring
considerably the part he had played in the ceremony, and the esteem in
which he was held by the brethren.

"Why--why, what's that?" exclaimed Stanley, coming to a dead stop. The
others did the same. Their eyes followed his to the turret. There was
the old flag flying from the top!

Plunger turned pale; then a sickly hue went over his face as he looked
from the flag to the parcel in his hand.




CHAPTER XLI

FRIENDS IN COUNCIL


Plunger's bewilderment was shared by his companions as they saw the old
flag fluttering on the turret. What had happened? How on earth had it
got there? Newall's hand went out to Plunger's ear.

"Thought you said you'd got the flag, ass?"

"Oh, oh, oh! Le' go my ear!" roared Plunger, as he gazed first on the
turret, then on the mysterious parcel in his hand. He firmly believed
that the Mystic Brethren had given the flag into his care, that it was
inside the parcel when he had set out from the shed, but that by some
magical influence it had managed to transfer itself from the parcel to
the turret. Yet there was something still inside the parcel without a
doubt. What was that something?

"Yes, bounder!" exclaimed Parfitt, helping himself to the other ear.
"Got the flag--that's what you told us! Presented to you in honour of
your initiation! What's your game, blockhead?"

"Oh, oh, oh! Le' go my ear! That flag up there must be a beastly fraud,
or there must be two of 'em! Le' go my ear, will you!"

Plunger began to think that the sympathetic attention he had received at
the hands of the enemy was only to be equalled by the polite attention
of his friends.

"Didn't you say you'd got the flag in that parcel, Plunger?" asked
Stanley, in a quieter tone, because he detested bullying himself, and
did not like it practised on others.

"Yes, I did, Moncrief!" persisted Plunger. "That's a twin up there, or
an imitation, or something of the sort. Get Hasluck and Leveson, and
I'll prove it to you."

"We're not going to wait for Hasluck or Leveson! You've gammoned us
enough! Give it up!"

Newall snatched the parcel from Plunger's hand. It was carefully bound
round with cord. Too impatient to untie it, Newall severed the cord with
his knife. As he did so a small bundle of "swishers"--long sticks, such
as were used by the boys of St. Bede's for "beating the bounds"--fell
from the cloth. They were bound round in turn with a sheet of white
paper, and on this paper was written in a bold hand:

"Your dull ass will only go with beating. You've provided the ass. We've
provided the swishers. We deliver both safely into your hands. Times to
be called by the Gargoyle--Leveson--with the stop-watch."

Disappointed though they were, the boys standing around Plunger burst
into laughter. Plunger had been skilfully hoaxed. Under the impression
that he was carrying the flag, he had delivered into their hands the
formidable-looking swishers, with precise directions as to the method in
which they were to be employed. Plunger's self-assurance for once gave
way. Where was he standing? He scarcely knew. The ground was crumbling
under his feet.

"Well, Plunger, if you don't take the cake, and the bun, and the
biscuit!" came the cutting voice of Newall. "My word, how the Beetles
must be sniggering at you! The flag, didn't you say?"--holding up the
swishers. "Oh, oh, it's too funny! Given in honour of your initiation to
the Mystic Order! Oh, oh! Help yourself, Parfitt; help yourself,
Moncrief!"

He tossed them a swisher each, and selected one for himself, the quality
of which he tested by flipping it in the air, much too near the
crestfallen Plunger to be pleasant.

"Thanks, Newall!" said Parfitt, putting the swisher he had received to a
similar test on the other side of Plunger. "Wasn't to be opened till you
got to the school, was it, Plunger, in the presence of Leveson--eh?"

"Yes, in the presence of Leveson!" repeated Newall grimly. "Cut and find
him, Plunger, and tell him to be sure and bring his stop-watch."

Down came the swishers--twice, thrice. Plunger did not require any
second bidding. He did "cut." His speed would have astonished himself
had he had time to think about it, but he hadn't. His one great desire
was to put as great a distance as possible between himself and Newall
and Parfitt. Moncrief major had been more considerate of his feelings,
and had not made use of his swisher.

"Where can I hide myself," panted Plunger--"where?"

He was not only sore and wounded in spirit, but in body as well.

And here perhaps it is necessary to add a brief word of explanation as
to how it was Plunger came in possession of the extraordinary parcel
which had drawn upon him so much ridicule. When, with much reluctance,
Mellor and his friends had given up the flag to Wyndham, they decided,
by way of compensation, to prepare a parcel that closely resembled it.
If the flag had been taken from them, they did not wish to be defrauded
of their due share of sport at the hands of the enemy. So the note had
been sent from the "Mystic Brethren," which, by a roundabout method, had
drawn Plunger to the shed. What followed has been seen.

To return to the scene outside Garside. So soon as Newall and Parfitt
had ceased chasing Plunger they turned to Stanley.

"You don't seem to be enjoying the fun, Moncrief?" said Parfitt.

"No; can't quite see where the fun lies," answered Stanley gravely.
"Seems to me that Plunger's not the only ass that wants beating. We
might use those sticks very well on ourselves. We've been just as much
sold as he has. We've been on a fool's errand. We were going to bring
the flag back, and the flag's come back without us."

"Yes; the flag's come back, sure enough," answered Newall. "And how the
dickens did it come back?--that's the puzzle. Hallo! There's your young
cousin. He ought to know something about it. Moncrief--Moncrief minor!"
he shouted.

Harry, who was crossing the grounds at the time, turned in answer to the
shouts and came towards the three boys.

"Got the flag?" he asked innocently.

"No cheek, kid, else we'll trounce you like we've just trounced your
friend Plunger!" retorted Newall sharply.

"Who brought the flag back? How did it get there?"--glancing to the
turret.

"Oh, it got there by a friend of yours--Paul Percival," answered Harry,
hitting back. "He's beaten you, just like you've beaten my friend
Plunger."

Newall scowled, and would have treated him to a taste of the swisher,
only he recollected that he was Stanley's cousin.

"Be serious, Harry," said Stanley. "Percival, did you say? Do you really
mean that the flag was brought back by him?"

"I am serious, Stan--never more so in my life. The flag was brought back
by Percival, and put in its old place on the turret by Percival."

He then told them precisely what had happened. The three boys listened
in silence. Percival had stolen a march upon them, that was quite clear.
Stanley wondered whether his note of warning had put him on his guard.
The thought that it had been of some service might have pleased Stanley,
but the memory of Percival talking to Wyndham hardened his heart against
him once more. He smothered the old feeling of friendship that would
keep trying to assert itself, in spite of himself.

"I told you that we should have to meet craft with craft!" cried Newall,
breaking the silence. "But so far Percival has beaten us. Plunger's an
ass, but he was quite right for once when he said that we'd have to get
up very early in the morning to score off Percival. What's our next
move?"

As neither Moncrief major nor Parfitt responded, Newall went on:

"We saw Percival talking to a particular friend of yours, Moncrief."
Stanley winced at the cold, cutting words. "That was a couple of hours
ago. At that time the flag was not on the turret. We can all answer as
to that, I think?"

Stanley and Parfitt nodded assent.

"What happens? In the interval Percival returns to Garside with the
flag. Where did the flag come from? I think the answer's simple
enough--it must have come into Percival's possession by the help of your
particular friend, the Beetle who was so kind to you at the sand-pits,
Moncrief."

Every word had its venom, and distilled its poison in the breast of
Stanley.

"Well, well, what of it?" he demanded hoarsely.

"What of it?" repeated Newall, raising his eyebrows and regarding him
with feigned astonishment. "It's all clear enough, I should think. The
whole business is an artfully-concocted plot between Percival and
Wyndham. The flag disappears. How it disappears is a mystery. No one
knows--least of all Percival. But he makes use of some high-sounding
words in the presence of a few of the fellows--flag gone, by Heaven's
help he'll bring it back again! The fellows cheer him to the echo. A
short time elapses, during which the mystery deepens; then Percival
turns up with the flag. He has kept his word. More cheers. Oh, yes, it's
all clear--clear as day! Don't you think so, Moncrief?"

"One moment," answered Stanley, passing his hand over his forehead. "I'm
a bit dazed somehow. Let me understand. You believe that--that----"

"That the hand which brought back the flag is the same hand that took it
away."

"Of course!" assented Parfitt. "As you say, Newall, it's as clear as
day. Nothing could be clearer."

"Nothing could be clearer," echoed Stanley, as his head fell to his
breast.

Harry was silent. Like his cousin, there had always been deep down in
his heart a real affection and sympathy for Paul. He had always hoped
that he would be able to reinstate himself in the good opinion of the
school; so it was he had cheered with the rest when Paul returned with
the flag. It was all very mysterious, it was true; but Harry had shut
his eyes on the mystery. The flag had come back to the school. Paul had
brought it. He had made good his word. That was enough. He would be
again the Paul he had once known--the Paul Stanley had known and loved.

"What's to be done?" demanded Stanley.

"Well, we can't do anything to-day. Let's wait developments to-morrow.
Mr. Weevil's bound to take some sort of action."

"Oh, there you go again!" cried Stanley impatiently. "Putting things on.
Yesterday it was the same."

"How do you mean?"

"I wanted to make straight for Percival. 'No,' said you; 'don't be in a
hurry. We mustn't show our hands too soon.' And so on, and so on. Oh,
I'm sick of it all--sick of everything--sick of waiting!"

Harry looked up at his cousin. There was a note of passionate revolt in
his voice, a fierce light in his eyes; both hands were clenched, and he
seemed to sway to and fro, as though no longer master of himself.

"For that matter, so am I," said Newall softly. "Perhaps I was wrong,
Moncrief, in putting things off. I dare say I was. You gave in to me
yesterday, I give in to you to-day; that's only fair. What do you want,
old fellow?"

Newall placed a hand quite lovingly on Stanley's shoulder.

"Want? No more of this wretched waiting game! Let's go to Percival
straight--straight! Do you hear?" came hoarsely from Stanley's lips.

"Yes, I hear; and I am with you."

And Newall exchanged a swift smile of triumph with Parfitt.




CHAPTER XLII

UNEXPECTED TIDINGS


As soon as Paul had accomplished his purpose, and seen the flag waving
in its old place on the turret, he went to the room of Mr. Weevil. He
knew well enough that inquiries would be made respecting the return of
the flag, and therefore he took the straightforward course of going at
once to headquarters.

"Come in!" came the voice of the master in response to the knock on his
door.

He was pacing to and fro the room--the same room in which Paul had seen
him on that never-to-be-forgotten night with Zuker. He stopped as Paul
entered, and regarded him in his usual manner--through half-closed eyes.

"You, Percival! What is it you want with me?" came the sharp answer.

"I only came to tell you that the flag is back in its old place, sir."

"I know--I know! And you brought it back, I understand? I meant
inquiring into the matter. I'm glad you've forestalled me. You want to
explain--eh? That's what you've come for--eh?"

"That's what I've come for, sir," answered Paul, astonished that he
should have gained such speedy information as to what had happened.
Sometimes, indeed, it seemed as though those half-closed eyes not only
saw further than other eyes, but that they had the faculty of double
sight as well.

"And yet I don't know whether I can call it an explanation, for there
are things which cannot be explained."

"Not explained? How do you mean, sir?" came the sharp answer.

"I received the flag back from a friend of mine--a proved friend--on the
solemn promise that I would not make use of the information he had given
me to get any of the fellows who had taken it into a scrape."

"Why did you make that promise?"

"Because it was the only way of getting the flag back."

"And that is all the information you can give me?"

"That is all, sir."

"And you call it an explanation? Really, sir, it is one of the most
extraordinary I have ever heard! And you expect me to accept it?"
demanded the master, facing Paul, and looking him fully in the eyes.

"I trust so, sir, because I can give no other--have no other to give."

Mr. Weevil did not at once answer, but took two or three more turns
across the room.

"I believe you to be a lad of honour, Percival," he said, stopping once
more, "and a lad of sense. Let me put it to you, then, as a lad of
honour and of sense. Supposing I am perfectly ready to accept your
statement, do you really believe that the school will be as ready to
accept it?"

"The school might be curious to know more, sir, but if you accept my
explanation as sufficient, I don't see why anybody should question it."

"Yes, yes; that might be well enough. But there have been one or two
rather mysterious things that have happened within the last month or two
which have never been cleared up. There was the breaking open of my
desk, for instance, and the torn pages in the Black Book."

"I could mention a still greater mystery that wants clearing up,"
thought Paul, as his mind went back to the afternoon when he had seen
the master enter the strange hiding-place of Zuker.

"The culprit in that case has never been found out. It still remains a
mystery," continued Mr. Weevil. "Then came the mysterious disappearance
of the flag, and its equally mysterious return. The school will be
getting suspicious--uneasy. If no better explanation is forthcoming
than that you have given me, suspicion will grow--I am certain of it."

Paul saw that the master was right. Still, he had no intention of giving
up his secret.

"I have given my word, sir," he answered firmly. "You would not have me
break it?"

"You said that you have received the flag from a friend, if my memory
serves me--a proved friend?"

"Yes, sir."

"May I ask in what way his friendship has been proved?"

How could Paul answer him? How could he tell the man before him in what
way Wyndham had proved his friendship to him? Suddenly, it flashed into
Paul's mind that the bold course was the best.

"When I was home last vacation, sir, a gentleman had an accident with
his horse. He asked me to take a packet for him to Mr. Moncrief, the
father of Moncrief minor. I took the packet. On the way I was set on by
two ruffians. I got away from them, but they followed me, and would have
got the packet from me had it not been for the friend I speak of."

Mr. Weevil's eyes began closing as Paul was speaking. When he finished
they opened again.

"What did this friend do?"

"Hid me till the ruffians had gone."

"Good! And that enabled you to get the packet to Mr. Moncrief?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent! But, do you know, Percival, this really seems a stranger
story than the other."

"Perhaps so, sir; but I can prove every word of it, if you like. By your
permission, I will send for Mr. Moncrief----"

"No, no; that is altogether unnecessary!" said the master quickly.
"Strange though the story is, I accept every word of it--every word. The
friend you speak of was indeed a friend in need. You must keep your word
to him--it would be an act of baseness to break it. I did not know the
facts, you see. You may leave the rest to me."

Paul's heart bounded joyfully. The bold course had been the right one.
It had succeeded where a weaker course might have utterly failed.

"Thank you, sir. It is very kind of you."

Paul was about to withdraw, when the master called him back.

"Let me see, there was a letter came for you while you were out. There
it is in the rack."

Paul took the letter from the rack as Mr. Weevil turned to his books.
Again his heart gave a great bound. One glance at it told him who it was
from. It was the letter he had been so anxiously awaiting from Mr.
Walter Moncrief.

"It _is_ for you, isn't it?" Mr. Weevil asked, glancing into the boy's
eager face.

"Yes, sir," answered Paul, wondering whether the master suspected who it
was from or had any knowledge of its contents. He inspected the envelope
as he hastened to his dormitory. No; it did not seem to have been
tampered with. Mr. Weevil could not have seen its contents. On reaching
his room, he tore open the envelope, and read:

     "My dear Paul,--I received your first letter, but was away from
     home at the time, so was unable to answer it. Pardon my delay. You
     need not worry about the man Zuker. I am kept informed as to his
     movements.

     "With regard to your master Mr. Weevil, I quite agree with you--I
     cannot think that he has anything to do with a traitor to his
     country, though appearances may be against him. At any rate, till
     anything is distinctly proved, give him the respect due to a
     scholar and a gentleman.

     "To turn to other and more agreeable matters. I trust that Harry is
     getting on well. He seems too busy to write much. And when he does
     write, it's nothing but 'Plunger, Plunger, Plunger,' from start to
     finish. You would fancy there was nobody else but Plunger in
     existence. Tell him that when he can get away from Plunger we shall
     be very glad to hear from him again.

     "I know the great friendship there is between you and my nephew
     Stanley. I only hope that Harry will find as good and worthy a
     friend. Tell Stanley that he has to come here during next vacation,
     and bring you with him. I think we shall be able to provide you
     with plenty of amusement, though I can't promise you it will be of
     so exciting a kind as you had last vacation.--Your sincere friend,

     "WALTER MONCRIEF."

A great feeling of relief came over Paul when he read the first part of
this letter. There was nothing to worry about Zuker. Mr. Moncrief was
kept informed of his movements; and yet, and yet----If Mr. Moncrief knew
of his movements, why, in the name of wonder, did he not arrest him? But
perhaps there were reasons against it. In any case, the answer was
satisfactory, and he felt relieved.

It was with far different feelings he read the last part of the letter.

"I know the great friendship existing between you and Stanley," Paul
read again, with sorrow. "I only hope that Harry will find as good a
friend."

And the message? What was he to do with the message Mr. Moncrief had
asked him to deliver to Stanley? He turned the letter over and over in
his hand. He must deliver it to him somehow.

"Stanley must answer it; not I. I will give it to his cousin."

As he passed along the corridor a deep groan came from one of the
dormitories. It sounded like some one in pain. He stopped and listened.
A few seconds more, and the groaning was repeated. He opened the door
softly and looked in. The dormitory was to all appearances empty.

"Strange! My ears must have deceived me," thought Paul.

He was on the point of retreating when the sound came again to his ears.

"No; I wasn't mistaken," he said, stepping softly into the room and
closing the door after him. "It was somebody, but who?"

He looked round, puzzled. There was no one visible. He stood perfectly
still and waited. A few seconds more, and the groaning was repeated. But
this time he detected whence it came. It came from under one of the
cubicles. He crossed to it and looked underneath. A boy was huddled up
on the floor. One glance was sufficient to tell him who it was--it was
Master Plunger.

"Here. Plunger, come out of that!"

Plunger did not attempt to move.

"Come out of that, I tell you!"

As Plunger still refused to move, Paul took him by the leg and hauled
him out.

Such a woebegone Plunger it was! His wiry thatch was more dishevelled
than usual. The eyebrows seemed to have made a more desperate attempt
than ever to invade the territory of the forehead. The self-assurance
which had been the distinguishing mark of Plunger's manner had gone.

"Le' me go--le' me go!" he groaned. "I want to die!"

"Die!" Paul could scarcely refrain from laughing. "There's not much of
that about you! You're not one of those whom 'the gods love,' so you'll
never die young, Plunger. What have you been up to? I believe you've
been smoking."

This accusation brought Plunger to a sitting posture on the bed.

"I haven't been smoking--I haven't been smoking! It's the flag!"

"What about the flag?"

"I angled for it, and thought I'd hooked it; but I hadn't. Some other
fellow had; so instead of hooking the flag I got a beastly swishing.
That's not all. I shall get roasted all round, and, of course, the Two
J.'s will be poking fun at me in the 'Gargoyle Record.' I'd like to know
who the fellow was who got the flag. Have you heard?"

"I have heard, but I haven't time to go into it just now. Your friend
Moncrief minor can tell you all about it. Cheer up, Plunger, and don't
talk any more about dying."

Paul hurried off, leaving Plunger to digest the scanty information he
had given him as best he could.

"Now for Stan!" he said, as he made his way to the common room, but
little dreaming what was there in store for him.




CHAPTER XLIII

THE STORM BREAKS


As Paul approached the common-room, the sound of voices came through the
open door, and clear above the hubbub rose the voice of some one making
free use of his name. He knew the voice well enough. It was Stanley's.
Why were they discussing him?

On entering the room, the voices ceased as by magic. Every eye was
turned in his direction. Several boys were gathered round the fireplace.
Foremost in the group were Newall, Parfitt, and Stanley.

"I thought I heard my name?" Paul exclaimed, as he stepped into the
room.

"Quite right," said Stanley, coming from the group and confronting him.
"I've been looking for you."

Paul was on the point of saying that he also had been looking for
Stanley, but the silence that followed Stanley's words, the concentrated
gaze of that group of boys, and, above all, the face of Stanley
himself--white, yet with a burning, feverish light in the eyes--kept
back the words.

"Looking for me?" he repeated.

"Yes; I did hope that I should never have to speak to you again, but one
or two things that have just happened make me. All the fellows here know
how much it's against the grain."

Paul's face fell. He had come in search of Stanley with the hope of
bringing about a reconciliation. That hope receded in an instant to the
far distance.

"If it's against the grain, I wonder you should trouble," he could not
help answering.

"Oh, we have to swallow things we don't like sometimes." Then he broke
off into a tone of banter. "So you've brought the flag back to Garside?"

Paul did not answer. He was only conscious that the group had drawn
closer to him, and that Stanley's eyes were burning at a fiercer heat.
It seemed some other than Stanley who was speaking. He had assumed the
tone and manner of Newall; but he was forcing himself into a part which
did not suit him, so that he acted it badly.

"The worst of Percival is that he's so modest. He doesn't know what a
smart thing he's done," went on Stanley. "It isn't to be wondered at
that the kids of the Third and Fourth have been cheering him like mad.
Why should we be left out in the cold, eh?"

"Why?" echoed Parfitt. "Let's give him a rouser."

Parfitt led off the cheers--cheers which fell with a hollow sound on
Paul's ears, for he knew well enough they were only mocking him.

"When we hear about a smart thing, we're naturally anxious to know how
it was done," jeered Parfitt.

"Naturally," echoed Newall, followed by cries of assent from the rest.

"Order! Order for Percival!" exclaimed Stanley, holding up his hand for
silence.

Silence instantly reigned. You might have heard a pin drop as they
waited for Paul to speak; but they waited in vain. He neither spoke nor
moved. He was not thinking of himself, nor of the boys that stood around
him. He had ears and eyes for Stanley, and no other. It was a
transformed Stanley--not the Stanley he had once known.

"Lost your tongue?" cried Stanley, breaking the silence. "Come, out with
it. We can't wait here all day! How did you manage to get hold of the
flag? Who had it, and how did you get it back to Garside? Don't be so
awfully modest? You've hidden your light under a bushel too long."

"The flag is back at Garside," answered Paul firmly, ignoring the taunt.
"For the rest you had better ask Mr. Weevil. I don't owe any explanation
to you or any other fellow in the Form!"

He turned away, but Stanley sprang between him and the door.

"That won't do? You do owe us an explanation, and I mean having it!"

"You?"

There was more of sorrow than anger in Paul's voice, but to the
sensitive ears of Stanley, strung to the highest tension, it sounded
strangely like contempt.

"I! What were you doing with the Beetle we saw you with near the
sand-pits this afternoon?"

"The Beetle you ran away from, you know," added Newall. "The Beetle you
left Moncrief to fight for you!"

This wholly unnecessary piece of information sent the scarlet back for a
moment into the white face of Stanley. His hands opened spasmodically;
then closed in a firmer grip than before.

The gibe acted differently on Paul. He recalled that Stanley had really
suffered for him; he recalled too, the note of warning that had been
left for him in his dormitory. Perhaps, after all, it had been written
by Stanley? The Stanley he had once known as a friend. And there came
over him the old longing to clasp him by the hand.

"I will try to explain to you if you will meet me somewhere alone," he
said, drawing near to Stanley, and speaking in a little more than a
whisper.

"Speak out! I want no secrets!" cried Stanley.

"All the fellows in the Form have as much right to hear as I have! What
I can hear they can hear! I don't want to go about sneaking and
whispering in corners!"

Murmurs of applause greeted this expression of opinion.

"If that's the way you look at it," answered Paul sorrowfully, "the
thing's ended. I've nothing more to say."

"But I have, and you must hear--must!" repeated Stanley, with emphasis,
as Paul tried to pass him. "It's your honour I'm thinking of, as much as
the honour of the school. Do you know what they are saying?"

"I don't know or care," came the swift answer. "As for my honour, it can
very well take care of itself."

"Like it did at the sand-pits," put in Parfitt, amid an outburst of
laughter.

Paul bit his lip to keep back the angry words that sprang to his tongue.
And the gibe went again as a poisoned shaft to the wound that was lying
as a canker in the breast of Stanley.

"Well, we'll leave your honour out of it, if you don't care to stick up
for it. But there's the honour of the school, and do you know what
they're saying? They're saying that the flag business was all a
dodge--that it's been engineered between you and the Beetle you would
not stand up to in the sand-pits!"

"Engineered! How do you mean?" demanded Paul, staggered by this fresh
accusation.

"That it was all arranged between you and the Beetle."

"I--I can't quite see. I don't understand. Do you mean----"

"Let him have it straight; so that he can't wriggle out of it!"
exclaimed Newall, as Paul paused, unable to get out the words that came
as a torrent to the lips.

"I mean that the theft of the flag was arranged between you and that
fellow at St. Bede's; and that it's come back again by the same clever
piece of trickery."

"Is that what they're saying?" demanded Paul.

"That's what they're saying."

"And--and--what do you say, Stan?" The name came out in a gulp.

Had Stanley only followed his better impulse, he would have answered:

"I don't believe it. Though appearances are against you, I cannot
believe it. I still have faith in you, as I used to have. We have
wandered apart, but Garside has never been what it was since we ceased
to speak. I have been unhappy--miserable."

But the gibes of Newall and Parfitt were still rankling in his breast.
He seemed to feel again the blows of Wyndham on his face. So instead of
answering as his better nature dictated, he replied:

"I stand by the Form. I say the same."

"Then it's a lie--a dirty lie. Let me pass."

Paul was choking. It would not so much have mattered what his Form said.
He could trust to time to bring them round again; but that Stanley could
have believed him guilty of such mean, despicable trickery--there was
the sting. Stanley had felt the blows of Wyndham on his face, but that
was as nothing to the torture endured at that moment by Paul. It was as
a flail cutting deep down into his very flesh.

Stanley still barred the way to the door, and did not move.

"Let me pass!" came again the hoarse, choking cry.

Stanley did not budge. Neither did he answer. He was as dumb, as
immovable, and as white as a block of marble. Paul could endure it no
longer. He caught him by the arm to turn him aside. His touch started
the statue before him into life. As though it were an insult to be wiped
out, Stanley struck out blindly with his fist. Paul received the blow
full on the face, and fell to the ground like a log.

It was a cruel blow. Stanley knew it the moment he had struck his
one-time friend, and he would have given all he possessed to have
recalled it. But it was too late.

"Well hit!" applauded Parfitt, as though Stanley had just made a
brilliant drive in the cricket-field instead of striking his best
friend.

"First knockdown and blood to Moncrief!" exclaimed Newall. "Oh, he's all
right, Waterman. He doesn't want any help from you."

Waterman, who had been standing in the background, leaning in his usual
indolent manner against the most comfortable corner of the fireplace,
shook on his lethargy as Stanley struck the blow which felled Paul to
the ground, and at once left his favourite spot by the fireplace and
went to his assistance.

"Hurt, Percival?" he asked as, heedless of Newall's remarks, he wiped
away the blood that was trickling down Paul's cheek.

Paul had been momentarily dazed by the unexpected blow; but he was
strong, and soon shook the feeling off.

"Thanks, Waterman. No; I'm not hurt," he whispered, rising slowly to his
feet.

The boys gathered round. The excitement had grown from the moment Paul
had entered the room. From that instant the storm-clouds had begun to
gather, and with the blow struck by Moncrief major they had burst.

What would happen?

"Steady yourself, Percival," whispered Waterman. "So--Are you sure you
are all right?"

"Quite."

Waterman let go his arm. The blood still trickled down Paul's face, but
he walked steadily up to Stanley, who had thrown up his arms in defence,
as though expecting a return of the blow.

"You can put down your hands, Stanley. I'm not going to fight you," said
Paul calmly.

"He's moulting again--more feathers!" cried Newall.

"And aren't they white ones?" added Parfitt.

"I'm not going to fight you," repeated Paul, looking Stanley squarely in
the face; "but I'll pay you back again--some day."

Stanley did not attempt to stop him this time; so Paul made his way back
to his room, and sank upon his bed thinking. He had done nothing of
which he was ashamed, but the blow of Stanley was burning on his cheek,
and he felt wretched, miserable. He had striven for the best, but
somehow things had turned out for the worst. Once before when things
were at their blackest, there was one who had come to him, and placed a
little hand in his; but now there was no one, save the good God above.

He was thinking thus, when there was a tap on the door; the door was
jerked open with a shoulder; and Waterman, with his hands thrust deep
into his pockets, strode indolently in--just for all the world as though
he were coming to a picnic.




CHAPTER XLIV

IN THE GARDEN


"It's tiring work getting up stairs, especially these stairs--ugh!" said
Waterman, as he entered. "If you don't mind, I'll take a seat."

And without waiting for Paul to answer, Waterman dropped down, with his
hands still in his pockets, beside him on the bed.

"It was very good of you to give me a helping hand just now, Waterman."

"Oh, humbug! I've got a wretched sort of memory. Fact is, it's too great
a fag trying to recollect half the things crammed into you at school,
but I seem to have a better memory than most fellows for some things.
And there's one thing I can't forget--I can't forget you coming across
the ground with that little chap, so like a drowned rat, in your arms. I
shall have to be blind, deaf, and silly before I forget it."

Waterman spoke in his usual drawling tone, but its underlying note of
earnestness was quite unusual. Strange that Paul, too, had just been
thinking of Hibbert, but in a scene far different from that to which
Waterman had referred. God had been very good to him after all. He had
been thinking how utterly lonely he was, and yet a friend--true, a
somewhat indolent one--had come to him in his hour of adversity.

"And look here, Percival," went on Waterman, "there's something else I
remember. I don't know why, you know, but I do."

"What's that? Seems to me your memory's improving," said Paul.

"Oh, my memory's fairly good when it's not grubbing about amongst Latin
roots, or making a fellow bald-headed worrying over problems invented by
a fiend calling himself Euclid ever so many years ago. Why the
undertakers couldn't have buried them along with old Euclid, or stowed
them away with his mummy, is one of those things I could never
understand. Then if people wanted to dig them up again, they'd have been
in their right place--in the mummy department of the British Museum.
Where was I? Oh, on memory. Yes, there's one thing I remember, in spite
of the Latin roots and weary old Euclid. I recollect what you told me on
that day when you surprised every one by turning tail at the sand-pits.
I've kept it to myself all this time. Is it necessary to keep it a
secret any longer?"

"Yes, Waterman," answered Paul firmly.

"Why? Let me set you right with the Form? It'll be an awful fag, I know.
Still, the vac's coming on, and one can have a good long rest after
one's pulled through."

"No, Waterman," said Paul, shaking his head; "I'm not going to curry
favour that way. You've been a friend to me--a friend where I least
expected to find one. Bear with me a little longer."

"But you don't understand the dust that Newall, Parfitt & Co. are
kicking up? Can't you see that they've got Moncrief major completely
under their thumb? They'll make Garside too hot to hold you."

"We'll see. I'm not beaten yet."

"Better let me speak," persisted Waterman.

Paul shook his head.

"I give you up. You are worse than old Euclid!" exclaimed Waterman,
plunging his hands deeper into his pockets.

With a yawn he strolled towards the door, edged his shoulder round it
until he had opened it wide enough for his body to pass through, closed
it by a like man[oe]uvre, and with the same measured step went on his
way.

"After all, I've got one friend at Garside," thought Paul, with a smile,
"though he does like to take his time over things."

He looked in the glass. His cheek was swollen and bruised. His
appearance was very much what Stanley's had been when he had returned
from the sand-pits after his encounter with Wyndham.

"I hope Stanley is satisfied," he said, smiling grimly at himself in the
glass.

Then he remembered that he hadn't carried out the purpose for which he
had gone to the common room. He had gone there for the purpose of
speaking to him about Mr. Moncrief's letter. It was useless to think of
doing so now. He would put the letter in his desk till a more convenient
season. His hand went to his pocket. The letter had gone!

The old feeling came over him that had come over him on the day when he
had lost that other letter on his way to Redmead. It had disappeared
from his pocket just as mysteriously. He looked around. There was no
trace of it in the room. Then he remembered that he had pulled out his
handkerchief in the common room to staunch the blood from his cheek. He
must have pulled out the letter with it.

It would not have mattered much had it been an ordinary letter. But it
was not an ordinary one. Far from it. It contained references to Zuker
and Mr. Weevil which might cause no end of mischief were it to get into
the wrong hands.

He did not like the idea of returning to the common room; it was like
swallowing a nauseous draught of medicine. Probably the boys were still
there, laughing over his discomfiture. Yet, nauseous though the draught
was, it had to be swallowed, and it was best to swallow it quickly.

So he again descended to the common room. He faintly hoped that it might
be deserted, but that hope vanished as he reached the room. This time he
heard the voice of Newall. He paused for a moment; then went boldly
forward.

Stanley had gone--he saw that at a glance; so had most of the others;
but Newall, Parfitt, and two or three more had remained, and were
evidently discussing recent events.

They could not have been more startled had a ghost entered, instead of
a being of flesh and blood. Paul searched round the room in the hope of
finding some trace of the missing letter, but found none.

"Dotty!" came the voice of one of the boys, who had by this time
recovered from their surprise at the unexpected return of Paul.

"Looking for the courage that oozed out at his heels," sneered Parfitt.

"I've lost a letter," said Paul, on whom these facetious remarks were
quite lost. "You don't happen to have seen it?"

No one answered him. They stared blankly at him. They did not mind
speaking at him. Speaking to him was quite a different thing.

It was perfectly useless to expect an answer from them; so Paul went
out, feeling far from comfortable. He could only hope that no bad use
would be made of the letter, supposing it had fallen into their hands.

_The Gargoyle Record_ came out next day. Among other items of
information were the following:

"Old flag back to tower. Brought back by 'two P's' of the Fifth. Great
enthusiasm--little waddlers of the Third cheering like lunatics; big
cacklers of the Fifth hissing like geese. Mystery in three volumes. Vol.
I.--How the flag disappeared from Garside. Vol. II.--Where it went to.
Vol. III.--How 'two P's' got it back again. Snorters of the Fifth
getting excited. A commission of inquiry into the conduct of 'two P's.'

"Rumours of a scrum in common room. 'Two P's' again distinguishes
himself. Still living up to his old motto:

    "He who fights and runs away
    Will live to fight another day."

"What has become of that promising junior whose name rhymes with hunger?
Nothing has been seen or heard of him for the last day or two. What has
come over him? His native modesty seems to have left him. He has
retreated to a back seat. Is he projecting further adventures in desert
islands, or giving lessons in punting? Anxious inquiries are being made
at the offices of the _Record_. Colonial papers in the neighbourhood of
desert islands, please copy."

Paul, on reading these paragraphs, knew well enough who was meant by
"two P's." They were the initials of his own name--Paul Percival.

But his mind was taken from these happenings by a message from the
sick-room. Hibbert had been up for a few hours each day, and had pleaded
hard with the doctor to be allowed to go out; so the doctor at last gave
the nurse permission. On two days the invalid went out with the nurse.

On the third day he asked Paul, as a special favour, to take him out.
Paul willingly consented, only too pleased to feel that he could be of
some help to him again. There was one favourite spot to which the
solitary boy used to go when he was well. It was in the garden attached
to the schoolhouse, apart altogether from the playing-fields. It was
marked "Private," and the boys, as a rule, were not allowed there. It
was chiefly used by the masters.

It was because it was so tranquil, so different from the playing-fields,
and because the sun seemed to linger around this old garden longer than
anywhere else, that the dreamy boy loved it, and used to steal there
when he was well.

"I'm so glad to feel you on my arm again, Hibbert!" said Paul, as he led
him to a basket-seat, with cushions, beneath a wide-spreading elm.

"I feel better now than I've felt for a long time, Paul. How I must have
wearied people lying up there!"

He glanced in the direction of the school.

"Don't say that, Hibbert. It sounds as though there was no one in the
world who cared for you."

"I know it sounds ungrateful; but even when we care for people, we must
get weary of them when they're ill a long time. I don't mean you, but
the nurse, and doctor, and--other people."

Paul knew that Hibbert was thinking chiefly of his father, who, absorbed
in his own schemes, had only been to see him once since his illness--on
that afternoon when Mr. Weevil had introduced him to Zuker.

To turn the boy's mind from these sad thoughts, Paul told him some of
the latest exploits of Plunger, winding up with his recent discovery of
him under the bed in his dormitory. Hibbert was amused and interested.

"Plunger's a funny lot. He makes me smile to think of him. I hope he's
never worried himself much about that raft accident?"

"Plunger's not the sort of fellow to worry himself much about anything
for long; but he's often asked me about you."

"I was thinking a good deal about what happened on the raft last night.
I could not sleep for thinking of it; and then, when I went to sleep, I
dreamed--dreamed that my mother was standing by me all in white. She was
smiling down at me, and held out her arms to me. I tried to get to her,
and in trying to get to her I awoke. Do you know, I was so disappointed!
The dream was better than the awaking. I so wished my mother had lived,
for then you would have known her, Paul. I'm sure you would have liked
her, and that she would have liked you. But perhaps it is best as it
is."

"I'm sure it's for the best, though it seems hard to say so. Everything
is for the best, Hibbert. We don't see it, because we're only blind
people leading the blind. But God sees, and God knows. That's what my
mother has told me so often that I've never forgotten it. It has helped
me a lot--more than I can tell you. You've talked about your mother, let
me tell you a little about my own."

And Paul talked to Hibbert about his own mother. The boy listened
eagerly, with one hand resting in Paul's, a smile upon his lips.
Suddenly he drew a deep sigh of content; the fragile head fell back upon
the chair; the hand in Paul's grew suddenly cold.

Paul looked into the boy's face. The smile still hovered about his lips,
but he saw something in the face he had never seen there before.

"Hibbert!" he cried. But there was no response.

Paul gently withdrew his hand and ran to the house. He met Sedgefield,
and sent him for the nurse, while he hurried back to Hibbert.

The little fellow was still lying back in the chair. A wren had perched
itself lovingly upon his shoulder, but Hibbert knew nothing of its
presence. He was fast asleep--in the long, last sleep that knows no
waking.




CHAPTER XLV

HOW THE VOTE WAS CARRIED


Hibbert's death caused a lull in the storm that recent events had raised
at Garside. Notwithstanding his illness, it was thought that he was
getting better. It came, therefore, with a shock to the school when he
was found sleeping that afternoon in the garden. The little fellow was
laid to rest in a country churchyard, at some distance from the school,
by the side of the mother whom he had so loved.

No one in the school, with the exception, perhaps, of Mr. Weevil, missed
him so much as Paul did. He had a great pity for Hibbert, and that pity
had grown to love. He never forgot that last scene in the garden--in the
warm sunshine, with the shadows creeping over it, and the Great Shadow
of all drawing nearer and nearer, until it at last rested on the boy's
head.

Nor did he forget the interview he afterwards had with Mr. Weevil, when,
with tones that were strangely uneven for Mr. Weevil, he had questioned
him about all that Hibbert had said in those last moments before he had
fallen asleep. When Paul told him what the boy had said about his
mother--of his dream, and the awakening--the master's eyes blinked as he
had never seen them blink before.

"Ah! He has his wish; he is with her--with his mother," said the master,
as one speaking to himself rather than to Paul. "He is at rest
and--happy."

Then he remained silent for so long, as one buried in deep thought, that
he seemed to have quite forgotten the presence of Paul. Paul knew of
whom he was thinking; that he, too, was thinking of the boy's
mother--the sister whom he had loved and reverenced; so he stole
quietly from the room.

During this time Paul saw nothing of Hibbert's father. He wondered
whether he was still carrying on his schemes in the cave, or whether the
death of his son had altered his plans in any way. In any case, Paul
felt no cause for alarm. The letter of Mr. Moncrief had removed all
cause for anxiety. None the less he could not help feeling anxious as to
what had become of the letter itself. Where had it gone to on that day
it had fallen from his pocket? Into whose hands had it fallen? Had it
fallen into the hands of the enemy, Newall and his lot? If so, what use
were they making of it?

He was still left pretty much to himself, so he was able to put the
finishing touches to his essay on "The Invasion of Great Britain," a
subject, as the reader knows, which had occupied some share of his time
and attention. Then the essay was sent in with others for the
competition.

The breach between him and Stanley, as may be imagined, had not been
lessened by what had happened between them in the common room. Stanley
avoided him as much as possible, and they never spoke.

After the momentary lull in the storm caused by the death of Hibbert, it
broke out again more violently than ever. This was due to the fact that
Mr. Weevil had made no inquiry, or seemed to have made no inquiry, into
the circumstances which had brought about the return of the flag. Newall
and his parasite Parfitt said it was a disgrace to the school.

Thus the storm, which had momentarily lulled, broke out with fresh
vigour. While it was at its height, the Fifth once more assembled in the
Forum. Hasluck presided, as usual, and the rest of the Form, with one
exception--Paul--were present. Arbery and Leveson guarded the door
against invasion from "the little beggars of the Third and Fourth."

Hasluck mounted the rostrum, and brought his mallet down with a bang as
a signal that the meeting had commenced.

"Now then, you fellows, order! I'm not going to spout a lot----"

"Couldn't if you tried!" put in Devey.

"Look here, Devey, are you in the chair, or am I? If you don't keep
quiet, I'll chuck the mallet at you," said Hasluck, raising it
threateningly. "As I said before, till I was interrupted by an ass
braying, I'm not going to spout a lot. What we've got to do is to get to
business, and most of you know what that business is."

"Hear, hear, hear!"

"Most of you were present in the common room when certain charges were
made against Percival by Moncrief major. He told Percival to his face
that the flag business was all a dodge; that it was engineered between
him and the champion of the Beetles. Percival denied it; but you know
what happened after that. Moncrief struck him, and Percival went away
with his tail between his legs just as he did at the sand-pits. We were
all disgusted----"

"All!" echoed the others, with the exception of Waterman, who was
reclining languidly on a box, apparently quite unconcerned in what was
going on.

"We were all disgusted, and decided to take some action which would
bring matters to a point. Unfortunately, Hibbert died just then, and we
could do nothing. We were obliged to wait a decent interval. The time
for waiting's past." (Cheers.) "We've got to get to business. Moncrief
major will explain."

Stanley, with white, set face, was standing between Newall and Parfitt.
After the charge he had made against Paul at Newall's instigation, and
the blow that had followed it, he had been forced into a position from
which it was impossible for him to retreat. First he had been adroitly
forced into the position of being Paul's accuser; and now, with no less
adroitness, he had been compelled to take a step which struck more
cruelly at his friend.

"Oh, I haven't much to explain," he said, in a thick, unnatural voice.
"As Hasluck has said, we all decided to take action after what happened
in the common room. Hibbert's death prevented us. I think you know what
that action is. We're going to call upon the Head to expel Percival from
the school."

A loud cheer greeted this announcement. There could be no doubt as to
the feeling of the Form, and that Stanley had voiced it.

"Move, move!" came from several of the boys, when the cheers had
subsided.

"Yes, we must have everything in order," said Hasluck. "It's about the
first time that we've ever called upon the masters to expel a fellow."

Stanley hesitated. How was it possible for him to strike at Paul
again--this time behind his back!

"Get on--move! What are you stopping for?" demanded Parfitt, nudging him
with his elbow. "I'll back you up."

"Get on," repeated Newall, nudging him from the other side.

"I--I move," said Stanley, in faltering tones, "that we call upon the
Head to expel Percival from the school."

"And I second!" cried Parfitt.

"And I support!" exclaimed Newall.

"Hands up for!" demanded Hasluck.

"One minute before you vote," came the languid voice of Waterman, as the
hands shot up. "You don't want to be in such a hurry. It's bad for the
nerves. People in a hurry have fits. They get themselves into knots and
tangles which take no end of time to get out of, and leave them with a
lovely headache into the bargain. That's what you're going in for--fits,
tangles, headaches. I gave Moncrief major credit for sense. You're not
going to follow his lead, are you?"

The arms that were held up fell. The boys stared at Waterman in
astonishment. It was not often that he took the trouble to speak at
these meetings, but when he did it was usually to the point.

"Of course we are. Why shouldn't we?" exclaimed Parfitt.

"You'll be bigger asses than I took you for--and that's saying a good
deal, you know--if you do. I didn't hear all that took place after
Moncrief struck Percival. The atmosphere was getting bad, you see, and I
don't like breathing bad atmosphere, if I can help it; so I don't know
what passed between you fellows. I've no doubt it was something choice,
and that I lost a great deal; so perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me
why Percival's to be expelled."

This demand on Waterman's part, made in the most innocent manner, was
met with howls of derision. They could never quite tell from Waterman's
manner whether he was serious or poking fun at them; but this time it
seemed quite clear that he could only be poking fun.

"Yes, that's very musical," proceeded Waterman calmly, when the howling
had subsided. "I couldn't do better myself, if I tried. You're going to
expel Percival because you believe he engineered the flag. That's it,
isn't it?" (Cries of assent.) "Good! I like to get at things," retorted
Waterman, still keeping his languid position on the box. "Engineering
the flag means--what? It means that Percival, by trickery, got it away
from Garside. Is that it?"

"Yes, yes!" came the approving shout.

"Well, vote as you like. Here's one that's going to vote against you."

"Why? What's your reason?"

"Because I happen to remember what happened on the day the flag was
lost. Seems to me most of you have forgotten."

Waterman had started up from his languid position on the box; his face
had lost its wearied, languid expression, and had become quite animated.

"I haven't, and never shall, though I never pretend to remember things;
they're so beastly uninteresting, as a rule. This wasn't. That's why I
remember, I suppose. Well, on the afternoon the flag was lost I was
going from the school, when I nearly ran full tilt against a fellow who
was carrying a little chap, dripping wet, in his arms. The fellow was
Percival; the little chap was Hibbert. You know what happened, though
you seem to have forgotten it. Percival, at the risk of his own life,
saved the little chap from the river."

Stanley's head fell to his breast. The scene came to him as Waterman was
speaking. Had he not met Paul on that day staggering along with his
burden? Had he not avoided him, when he might have given a helping hand?

"What's that to do with it?" demanded Newall. "Supposing Percival did
pull the youngster out of the river, what's that to do with the flag?"

"What's that to do with the flag!" repeated Waterman. "It's this to do
with it--how could Percival be playing tricks with the flag, and fishing
at the same time a poor little chap out of the river? Besides, would a
fellow who'd done a splendid thing like that stoop to such a mean thing
as the other?"

"Yes," retorted Newall boldly. "A fellow who would turn tail like he did
at the sand-pits, and again in the common room, would do anything. It's
you who forget, Waterman. We've asked Percival for an explanation. If
he's innocent, why doesn't he explain?"

"I don't know, and what's more, I don't care. What I've seen of Percival
is quite good enough for me."

"Vote, Vote!" cried Parfitt. "We don't want any more twaddle."

Hasluck brought down his hammer as a signal that discussion was at an
end. Then he put the motion moved by Stanley--"That the Form call upon
the Head to expel Percival from the school."

Stanley would have voted against his own proposal had it been possible.
But it was impossible; so his hand went up with the rest--all save one.

"Against!" cried Hasluck.

Up went the hand of Waterman, amid the derisive cheers of those around
him.

"Phew! The atmosphere of this place is getting beastly, just like the
common room on the day when the shindy was. Phew! I don't wish to be
unpolite, but I'm sure you fellows won't mind if I get out of it."

And thrusting his hands into his pockets, Waterman sauntered out.

       *       *       *       *       *

So the vote was carried that Paul Percival should be expelled from
Garside.




CHAPTER XLVI

WATERMAN DOES A STRANGE THING


For one who had professed himself as beastly hot and fagged, Waterman
did a strange thing after he had left the Forum. He walked with a speed
that was simply amazing for him in the direction of St. Bede's; and what
was still more remarkable, he did not stop until he had reached it. None
of the Beetles were about at the time, but he had not long to wait
before he caught sight of one of the junior form.

"Will you tell Wyndham I wish to see him--as quickly as possible."

The boy stared at him, as Murrell had stared at Paul when he had visited
St. Bede's. It was not till he had repeated his message that he seemed
to comprehend.

"Quick, there isn't much time to lose!" exclaimed Waterman, as though it
were a matter of life and death.

Then the boy hurried off, and a minute or two later Wyndham appeared.
Waterman was unknown to him; so that he was just as much astonished at
seeing him as the smaller boy had been.

"I'm a Gargoyle, you can see that. My name's Waterman, and I've come
here about a fellow named Percival. Spare me the fag of explaining too
much."

"Percival! What about him!" demanded Wyndham, at once interested.

"There's a strong movement on foot to get him expelled from Garside.
It's chiefly over the flag. His best friend, or one who was, has turned
against him; and things are looking as black for Percival as they can
look. I'm afraid that he'll get the worst of it, unless something's
done. I can do nothing; so I've come to you. There's some beastly
mystery about the whole business. Percival won't explain because of
somebody else, and that somebody else is you. I'm certain you won't see
Percival kicked from Garside, if a few words from you will set things
right."

"Kicked from Garside!" exclaimed Wyndham. "Tell me what happened?"

Waterman, feeling that the time for speaking frankly had come, told
Wyndham all that had happened--from the day Wyndham had fought and
conquered Stanley in the sand-pits.

They remained a long time in conversation, and when Waterman at length
returned to Garside, Wyndham returned with him.

In the meantime an interview of a different nature was taking place at
Garside. After the meeting in the Forum, Stanley, feeling very wretched,
had retreated to his dormitory, where in a few minutes he was joined by
his cousin Harry, who was looking just as miserable and uncomfortable.

"I say, Stan, is it right what I hear--that Percival is to be kicked out
of Garside?"

"Well, what if he is? Doesn't he deserve it?"

"I don't know. It's a puzzle. I can't make things out. Look at this
letter. I picked it up while the shindy was going on between you and
Paul in the common room. All the fellows were crowding round you. No one
saw the letter but me. Paul dropped it when he was mopping the blood
from his face. I ought to have given it back, but I saw that it was
father's handwriting; so I sneaked off with it, and read it; and
then--then I knew that I'd done a mean thing and did not like to give it
back to Paul."

He handed Stanley the letter--the letter in which Mr. Moncrief had
answered Paul's inquiries about Zuker and Mr. Weevil, and concluded by
inviting him and Stanley to Redmead at the next vacation.

"What does it all mean?" demanded Stanley, when he had read the letter.

"I can't make out. I thought, perhaps, you might be able to throw light
on it."

"I'm afraid not; but you might leave it with me. I'll think it over."

"All right; but I say, Stan, you must do something to prevent Paul being
chucked from the school. That's going it a bit too strong. I know whose
working that beastly dodge--Newall and his jackal Parfitt."

How could Stanley tell his cousin that it was he--Stanley Moncrief--who
had actually moved that Paul should be expelled from the school? If it
were possible for Stanley to have felt more wretched than he had felt
when Harry came to him, he certainly did so when he was once more alone.
"I know the great friendship there is between you and my nephew
Stanley." Those were the words which stared him in the face. Friendship?
What mockery! How had he proved his friendship? By doing his best to get
Paul expelled from the school. What would his uncle say to him when he
next visited Redmead? It was to show him this letter Paul had doubtless
come to him that day in the common room. And he had met him--with a
blow. It was dastardly.

He must do his best to undo the mischief he had done. Stanley started
up, and went to the door; then he paused, and his heart began to harden
again.

After all, if mischief had been created, Paul was alone responsible. It
was he, and not Stanley, who had acted in a dastardly manner. It was he
who had run away at the sand-pits, and left him to fight his battle with
the beastly Beetle; it was he----

His meditations were cut short by the door being opened, and the
entrance of Waterman.

"Hallo, Moncrief. The very fellow I've been looking for. Horrid bore
looking for fellows. Phew! Close in here, isn't it? You look a bit off.
Come for a little stroll. I've got a fellow who's dying for an
introduction to you."

Waterman slipped an arm through Stanley's, and before Stanley was aware
of it, had led him through the door.

"A fellow--wants to be introduced to me! What fellow?" he demanded.

"Ah, that's it. What fellow? You'd never guess. It's a pleasant little
surprise I've got in store for you. Think of all your rich uncles and
aunts, and people of that sort. Ha, ha! A pleasant surprise, lovely,
delightful. Mustn't spoil it by telling you. Come along."

Waterman's reference to uncles at once reminded Stanley of the uncle
whose letter he had been reading. Could it be that his uncle Moncrief
was paying him a surprise visit? But Waterman did not take him to the
visitors'-room. He took him out of the grounds to some elms which
flourished not far from the school. Here a boy was leaning against one
of the trees. Stanley glanced at him; then turned white. It was Wyndham.

"Told you I had a little surprise," said Waterman. "Wasn't I right? I
like little surprises--don't you? Explanations are an awful bore. I
never like explanations if I can get out of them. Wyndham's got
something to tell you. You'll find him very decent for a Beetle."

And Waterman vanished with a speed which was really marvellous for him,
leaving the two together. The last time they had met face to face they
had met as antagonists, and had fought hard. The memory of that time was
present to both of them, for neither seemed anxious to break the
silence.

"Do I understand that you wish to see me?" Stanley presently asked.

"Yes; it was kind of you to come."

"You needn't compliment me, for I mightn't have come had I known whom I
had to meet," answered Stanley coldly. "Waterman misled me."

"Anyhow, I'm glad you have come, and so will you be, I think, before you
go back. I hope you don't look upon me as an enemy?"

"How else can I look upon you? Have you sent for me to mock me?"

"That's my last wish. I've sent for you to prevent you doing a great
wrong to a friend of yours--Paul Percival."

"A friend of mine!" repeated Stanley, scornfully.

"Well, one who was your friend, and who, I hope, will soon be your
friend again."

"You have more reason to be thankful to him than I have," laughed
Stanley, bitterly. "He ran away from you, and left me with the work he
hadn't the courage to go on with. I know that I didn't come very well
out of it, but I didn't run away."

"No; you did well--much better than I did. I'm sorry, very sorry, I
fought with you. More so, as by fighting you I separated two friends.
Often and often I have prayed to be forgiven. It has all been a ghastly
mistake."

"Mistake? Percival running away--there wasn't much mistake about that,
I'm thinking."

"That is the greatest mistake of all. All of you put it down to fear of
me; but it wasn't--far otherwise. I don't believe that Paul Percival
knows what fear is; and you, who were his friend, ought to have known
that as well as I do."

"So I thought--up till then. After, what could I think? What could any
of us think?"

"Your best of him, instead of your worst. Haven't you ever suspected the
reason why he would not stand up to me?"

"Never! Why?"

"Blind--blind! Do you remember that Percival on one occasion--during
last vacation--helped a gentleman in distress by acting as his
messenger?"

"Quite well, seeing that that gentleman was my father."

"Your father? Yes, that was the gentleman, I believe, for whom Percival
did this kindness. He was set upon by the way by two ruffians, but
managed to escape. Did he ever tell you how he managed it?"

"By hiding down a well."

"Right! But there was a boy who helped him to this queer hiding-place.
That boy was me!"

"You?"

"Yes. On the day Percival came to the sand-pits to meet the champion of
the Beetles, he little knew whom he was to meet. I knew as little whom I
was to meet. He looked upon me as one who had saved his life. How could
he fight me? So he turned away."

"Why didn't he explain?" asked Stanley.

"And give away his secret, or, rather, your father's secret, before that
mob of boys? You--you ask that?"

"But after----"

"After? From what he has told me, he made more than one effort to
explain to you, but you would never listen to him."

It was true enough. Stanley remembered it all--the effort Paul had made
to speak to him immediately after the fight, and later. Everything was
now clear. How noble Paul had been! How he had wronged him! He covered
his face with his hands. He could not speak. Wyndham respected his
silence.

At length he placed his hand upon the bowed shoulder. Stanley did not
shrink from it.

"I'm sorry if I've caused you pain; but it was the only way. Mischief is
being done. You must prevent it from going any further."

"I will--I will! You can trust me," cried Stanley, fervently. "Paul,
Paul, how I've wronged you!"

"I'm glad you see that. You will make it up with him--you will be
friends with him once more?"

"Yes, yes; if he will have my friendship. But I don't deserve it. I
deserve kicking. It was kind of you to take so much trouble."

Wyndham turned on his heel, but as suddenly turned round again.

"Would you mind taking my hand, Moncrief?" he said.

Stanley took it in his, and shook it heartily.

"Thanks; I am very sorry it was raised against you. But we understand
one another better now."

Stanley wiped away the mist that had somehow gathered in his eyes, and
when he could see clear Wyndham had gone.

Then he went in search of Paul, anxious to ask his forgiveness, and
undo, as best he could, the mischief that had been done. But he could
not find him.

He searched everywhere with the same result. And, what was still more
astonishing, his cousin was also missing.

Night came on, and still Paul and Harry were missing from the school.

Mr. Weevil began to get alarmed. It was past ten, and still no news of
the missing boys. What had become of them?




CHAPTER XLVII

IN THE FOX'S HOLE


What had become of Paul? What was the cause of his absence from the
school? Had he heard of the decision come to by his Form, and instead of
waiting to be expelled, had he left of his own accord? That was the view
of Newall and others of the Fifth.

"About the best thing he could have done," said Parfitt. "It wasn't only
the flag business, but there were other things in the background. The
Black Book business has never been cleared up, you know."

Parfitt made this remark in his most significant manner, with uplifted
eyebrows and a shrug of the shoulders.

"That's right. Kick a man when he's down," drawled Waterman. "Parfitt's
better at a drop kick than any fellow I know."

The Third were just as much concerned over the disappearance of
Moncrief, jun., as the Fifth were over the disappearance of Percival.
Stanley was doubly anxious--anxious for Paul, anxious for his cousin.

Could they have gone away together? That was scarcely likely. They were
hardly on speaking terms for one thing; and even if the idea of running
away from Garside had suddenly come into Paul's head, it was not at all
likely that he had induced Harry to run away with him. What, then, had
happened?

While the school was thus anxiously awaiting news of the missing boys,
we will try to explain what had really happened.

Paul knew that a meeting of his Form had been called, and that he and
his doings were to be discussed, probably censured. When would the time
arrive that he might take steps to defend himself? When would his lips
be unsealed? How much longer would Mr. Moncrief keep him in suspense,
and what had become of Zuker?

Unconsciously Paul had strayed from the school to the garden where
Hibbert had, not so long since, fallen asleep--in the sleep that knows
no waking. He sat for a long time under the tree, thinking of these
things, with no one to disturb his thoughts, save the birds that
fluttered around him as they used to flutter around Hibbert.

What had become of Hibbert's father? Again and again the question came
to him, and he could not dismiss it from his thoughts. He thought of the
strange circumstance under which he had last seen him--of that weird
scene in the cave with the man Brockman. All that had happened at that
interview was fixed indelibly on his memory. He could see Zuker tracing
with his finger on the chart the passage of the Dutch to the
Medway--could hear his voice as he described all that had happened as
they broke the chain on the river and advanced on Upnor Castle.
Then--then had followed the strange appearance of the master, and the
still stranger interview between him and Zuker.

Was the cave still there? Often and often a strong desire had seized
Paul to go there again, but he had resisted it. Now, however, as he
thought of all that had happened on the evening he went there, the
impulse grew so strong upon him that he could wrestle with it no longer.
He must respond to its call.

So, as one under some mighty spell, Paul passed from the garden, and was
soon on his way to Cranstead Common.

It was beginning to get dusk as he followed the trail along which he had
once followed in the footsteps of Mr. Weevil. After travelling some time
in the direction of the river, he came to the thickly-wooded part, where
the master had disappeared.

Searching amongst the brambles, he found the curious division which
marked the centre, and placing his hand beneath the bushes as before, he
was not long in finding the ring that was attached to the circular
opening. Raising it, he entered again the sloping tunnel cut in the
sandstone.

Though he had only been in that tunnel once before, he had travelled
along it so often in imagination since that it seemed to him he was on
familiar ground. He had hesitated when he first entered it. He knew not
whither it would lead him, what dangers might meet him on the way. He
hesitated no longer. Still he walked cautiously, with his hands before
him, like a blind man in the darkness, until it began to broaden. Once
he thought he heard footsteps behind him, and he came to a sudden pause.
Was some one really following him, or was it only the echo of his own
footsteps?

He listened attentively, but could hear nothing. It was as silent as the
tomb.

"My ears must have deceived me," he told himself, as he continued his
way.

Presently he came to that part of the tunnel where a faint film of light
penetrated into it, and again the fantastic shadows he had before seen
seemed to menace him at every footstep he took. The cave, then, was not
deserted. It was still inhabited by some one. Who? Zuker and
Brockman--the same tenants as before, or had some one else come into
possession?

Yes, there was the curtain, partly concealing the main entrance to the
cave. To reach it, he crawled on hands and knees as before, and peered
through the space between the curtain and the wall.

There was no anthracite fire burning this time. It was dimly lighted by
one of the lamps suspended from the roof. There was no sign of life. The
place seemed deserted.

Paul waited for a long time listening. No sound came from the cave. It
was as silent as the tomb. But as he listened, he thought that he could
again hear the sound of a light step behind him, coming along the path
he had travelled.

Was it possible that some one else had entered the tunnel? Surely the
master had not again followed unconsciously in his footsteps? Paul
turned his head and listened, but it was as silent in that direction as
the other.

"I'm getting as nervous as a kitten," he laughed to himself. "My ears
have again deceived me."

No one appeared to be in the cave. Mr. Moncrief had said in his letter
that he knew about Zuker's movements. Could it have been that he had
been arrested? It was just possible. Anyhow, he would like to have a
nearer view of the cave. There could be no danger, and if there were, it
was worth the risk.

So Paul rose from his hiding-place behind the curtain, and stepped
cautiously into the cave. The guns and cutlasses were still hanging on
the wall, but the models and designs had gone, and the photographic
camera had gone from its niche.

There was a passage on the other side of the chamber similar to the one
through which he had come.

"Where does that lead to, I wonder?" thought Paul.

There could be no harm in exploring it a little way. He might just as
well know where it led to, if it were possible to find out. The
information might be useful. Paul was animated with the adventurous
spirit of the explorer, which knows no rest until it is satisfied. He
crossed to the opening. At the moment he reached it, a figure emerged
from the darkness, and confronted him. It was Zuker.

It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Paul could not move. He stood
there as one rooted to the spot. Before he could move, the man had
sprung upon him with the swiftness of a tiger, and seizing him by the
throat, dragged him to the light.

"You!" he cried. "The boy from Garside. Your name is----"

"Paul Percival," gasped Paul, as the fierce grip relaxed.

"Paul Percival. _Ach Himmel!_ It is Fate itself."

He had in turn shrunk back, as though Paul were no longer a being of
flesh and blood, but a phantom. Then he murmured hoarsely to himself:
"Weevil was right. The hand of a Higher than man is in it."

In the uncertain light he had not at first recognized Paul; but now he
saw him, and knew that just as he had once been face to face with the
father at a supreme crisis in his life, now he was face to face with the
son. Had Paul seized that moment of stupefaction, he might have escaped,
but he made no effort. And the moment passed.

"Who showed you this place? Who brought you here?" demanded Zuker,
himself again.

"No one; I found it out myself."

"How?"

"That is my secret."

Zuker's hand went to his breast, to a weapon concealed there.

"Be careful how you answer, boy. You're not now in school, and you
haven't a school-master to deal with. Is this the first time you've been
here?"

"No."

Zuker started in spite of himself.

"Not the first time! How many times have you been here before then, may
I ask?"

"Once."

"_Ach!_ Now I understand. It is through you my plans have been defeated.
It is through you my man--_mein_ Brockman--has been arrested. It is
through you that I have scarcely dared venture from this hole for two
days past. You have been a mean, dirty spy."

"As you were to my father when I was a child." The words were upon
Paul's lips, but he forced them back. Then aloud, "I've not been a spy.
I've told no one."

Zuker looked searchingly into Paul's face.

"Who has told, then--who has given information to the police, to what is
called your Secret Investigation Department--if it is not you?"

Paul was silent. He now understood Mr. Moncrief's letter. It must have
been Mr. Weevil who had given information to Mr. Moncrief, it must have
been he who had kept him informed of Zuker's doings. Mr. Weevil was not
a traitor to his country, after all. Nay, it seemed as though he had
striven, in his peculiar way, to defend it against traitors.

"Silent, eh? I can see what you've told me is false. You have worked
against me from the first. It was you who outwitted me once before. It
was you who got that packet through to the man who has always stood
between me and my plans, the Admiralty man, Moncrief. All would have
been over; I should have got all through had it not been for that. _Ach
Himmel_, you will not have the chance of blabbing any more secrets! I
have you now--tight in the Fox's Hole--and you will not leave it alive.
Let me see what your school is good for. I will give you five minutes
to get ready for _sterblichkeit_. _Ach_, it is a long word! Do you know
what it means?"

Paul knew what it meant. It was the German word for mortality.

"Thank you," answered Paul simply. "That is longer than my father had
when he was called upon to die, and it should be enough for me."

Zuker's hand trembled as it fingered the weapon concealed in his breast.
Paul closed his eyes, and repeated in a low, yet clear voice:

"'Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom
come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day
our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that
trespass against us----"

"Halt! Stop!" cried Zuker hoarsely. "You spoke of your father just
now--how he died. Tell me quickly how it was."

"He was drowned, in saving the life of a man who had robbed him."

"_Ach!_ And do you know who that man was?"

No answer came from Paul's lips for several seconds, seconds that seemed
as hours. Deep silence reigned in the cave, then it was broken by the
clear voice of the boy:

"Yes; I know who that man was. He called himself Israel Zuker."

Zuker could not repress a movement of astonishment as Paul pronounced
his name.

"Knowing this--knowing that it was through me your father lost his life,
you could yet say that prayer--'As we forgive them that trespass against
us'? You are as brave as your father was," came hoarsely from his lips.

"I could wish no greater praise than that," answered Paul. "But I had
not finished. Shall I go on?"

"You need not be in so great a hurry. Wait till I tell you. I have one
or two more questions to ask you. How did you come to know that I was
the man who spied upon your father--the man through whom he lost his
life--the man----_Ach!_" He stopped himself suddenly. His brow darkened;
the veins stood out in knots upon his forehead. "Fool! Why didn't I
guess it? I see it all now. It is your master--it is Weevil who told
you. It is Weevil who has betrayed me."

His hand went to the weapon in his breast again.

"No, you are mistaken; Mr. Weevil has told me nothing. He has not
betrayed you."

"You are telling me false. You are trying to mislead me. Beware! No one
else knew my secret. Who else could tell you?"

"I learned it from a little fellow whom I loved as a brother, and who
loved me as a brother, too. Alas, he is now dead! We called him
Hibbert."

"Hibbert--my son!" Zuker's voice softened wonderfully as the words
passed his lips; then it hardened again, as he demanded: "How was it my
son came to betray me?"

"It was after that accident on the river. Perhaps you have forgotten? It
was I who helped him back to the school. And the dear little chap was
always so grateful for it--always made such an awful fuss about it. That
was his way--ever so much too sensitive and grateful. Poor little chap!"

Paul brushed the back of his hand quickly across his eyes; and somehow
the man did the same.

"Well, I was often with him after that," he presently continued. "He
felt that he would never get well, I think, and I could see that he
suffered a good deal from something he had on his mind. I never guessed
what it was; but one night, when I was sitting beside him, he told me
that he could not sleep because of it, and he felt that if he didn't
speak, God would never forgive him. That's how it was he came to tell me
that you, Israel Zuker, were his father."

"I see--I see! Now I understand!"

Zuker strode across and across the chamber, as though uncertain how to
act. At length he disappeared into one of the recesses of the cave,
evidently used as a storehouse, and almost as instantly appeared again
with a coil of rope in his hands.

"For all you did for my son, I spare your life; but I must keep you here
for a few hours. My safety depends on it."

Paul knew that it was useless to protest. He knew well enough that
Zuker had the power of shooting him as a dog, and he was not the man to
stand any nonsense. So he allowed himself to be bound; and when he had
bound him, Zuker brought out some cushions from the recess, and placed
Paul on them.

"There! I am making you as comfortable as circumstances will permit," he
said. "_Gute nacht_--good-night. Remember Israel Zuker again in your
prayers. _Ach!_ it was good of you to be kind to my boy when others so
mocked and hated him. Adieu!"

With these words, he passed swiftly out by the way he had come. Paul
rested for a few minutes, thinking quietly over the strange interview
through which he had just passed. It was kind of Zuker to spare his
life, but he did not much appreciate the prospect of lying there, bound
hand and foot, for several hours--nay, it might so happen that Zuker
would never return.

His last words had an odd sound. It was difficult to know what he meant
by them. He might have an intention of returning, or he might not.
Perhaps he was uncertain himself. He knew well enough that he might be
arrested at any moment, just as his confederate had been. In that case
he (Paul) might lie there, bound hand and foot, for days and nights,
gradually getting weaker and weaker, and finally dying of starvation.
The prospect was not a very agreeable one.

So Paul determined to do his best to free himself of the coils that
bound him. He was a strong boy, and struggled might and main to loosen
them; but Zuker seemed to have tied them with devilish cunning. Struggle
as Paul would, he was unable to loosen them. And the more he struggled,
the more the rope cut into his flesh.

"My! The tightest knots I've ever struck," said Paul, as he lay back
gasping.

"Paul!"

What was that? An echo, or some one calling him by name?

"Paul!"

There it was again. Surely it was some one calling him. He tried to turn
his quivering limbs in the direction whence the voice came. Was he awake
or was he dreaming?

The figure of a boy was creeping towards him--creeping, as it seemed
to him, from the shadows in the tunnel. Who--who was it? Was it
really a being of flesh and blood? At first it seemed to him that
it must be the wraith of the little fellow about whom he had been
speaking--Hibbert--but even as the thought filtered through his mind the
boy was kneeling beside him, looking anxiously into his face.

It was Moncrief minor.

"Harry!" cried Paul in amazement.

"Are you all right?" came in a whisper from the boy.

[Illustration: "THE BOY WAS KNEELING BESIDE HIM,--IT WAS MONCRIEF
MINOR.... 'ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?' CAME IN A WHISPER FROM THE BOY."]

"Right enough, but not altogether comfortable. Where in the name of
wonder did you spring from?"

"Is there any chance of that man you called Zuker coming back?"

"No; you may be sure of that."

"Then, first, let me get that rope off."

Paul, as may be imagined, was by no means opposed to that proceeding. So
Harry drew out his pocket-knife and promptly severed his bonds.

"Ah, that's better," cried Paul, springing to his feet and stretching
his limbs. "It's worth while being tied up, so as to feel how nice it is
to be free again. Now perhaps you'll tell me how you got here?"

"There's really no fear of that man, Zuker, coming back?"

"No; I'm sure of it."

"Then I'll explain. First of all, I must tell you that I've done a mean
thing. You lost a letter when that scrimmage took place between you and
Stan in the Common Room. I found it, and seeing that it was from my
father, read it; then I was too ashamed to give it back to you, so I
kept it. Hearing that there'd been a meeting about you in the Forum, I
took the letter to Stan and showed it to him. As I came away from
interviewing Stan, I saw you hurrying through the gates. You looked
round, and seemed anxious that no one should see you. That made me
curious. I'd just been reading my father's letter to you--remember. I'd
begun to see there was some mystery which wanted clearing up. Why
shouldn't I have a hand in it? I asked myself. So forgive me, Paul, I
followed you."

Paul was silent. How could he blame him? Was it not the same spirit of
curiosity which had first led him to that place?

"It was fortunately dusk, and I took good care that you shouldn't see
me," continued Harry. "Besides, you seemed to be so taken up with your
own thoughts that you scarcely looked round once when you had gained the
common. It was easy following you after that. I was never so puzzled in
my life when I saw you creeping about amongst the bushes, then disappear
through the ground.

"I was so close to you then, that I saw the exact place where you had
disappeared, so that it did not take me long to find the opening to the
tunnel. I must say that I funked following you farther; but my curiosity
grew. I was on the verge of a big discovery. If I followed you, I should
find out the secret which would explain the mystery about you, and set
you right with the school. Believe me, Paul, that was what I longed for,
and I don't think that anything short of that would have made me go
farther, and so I felt my way along the tunnel until I could just see
you stretched at full length beside the curtains at the entrance to this
place."

Paul recalled the sounds he had heard as he made his way along the
tunnel. His hearing had not deceived him after all.

"I was still more amazed when I saw that, I can tell you. I was struck
all of a heap," went on Harry. "What were you up to? What were you doing
there? You seemed to be watching for somebody. Who? I was burning. I got
more and more curious. All thought of turning back had gone. I must find
out what it all meant. So, when you rose to your feet, and stepped
cautiously into this chamber, I just as cautiously crept to the place
where you had been lying, and watched you moving about. Then I saw the
man you called Zuker enter, and all that went on after.

"It was fearful, Paul. I saw you were in a fix, but I could do nothing
to help you. Once I tried to cry out. It was when that man used the long
foreign word. I did not understand what it meant at first, though you
seemed to; but presently, when you began to say 'Our Father,' I knew
what it meant. Then it was I tried to cry out, but no word came from my
parched throat. I think it must have been God who prevented me from
crying out, for had I done so, it might have been worse for both of us.

"A minute later I could see that a great change had come over the man
when you began speaking about your father and Hibbert. Then I was
knocked all of a heap again when I learned that poor little Hibbert was
the man's son, and that you knew it. I think that the time I passed
while I was watching and listening behind the curtain was the most awful
I have ever been through--yes, worse than the time on the raft, and
that's saying a great deal; but there was one good thing about it--I was
beginning to see how we had all wronged you at Garside--what a noble
fellow you really are, Paul."

"Humbug! Get on."

"There's little more to tell. I didn't so much mind when the man bound
you, especially as I saw that he was going to leave you. I waited till
he had gone--long enough to make sure that he didn't mean popping in his
head again; then I crept from my hiding-place. The rest you know. I hope
you're not sorry I followed you?"

Paul began to think that the hand of God was in this, as it had been in
so many other things. It must have been Something Higher than mere
chance which had prompted Harry to follow him to that place.

"Heaven only knows what might have happened to me, Harry, if you hadn't
followed me. But come, we mustn't waste any more time. We don't want to
spend the night in this place."

"Not quite, though I would not mind exploring it some other time,"
exclaimed Harry, gazing round the chamber curiously. "Plunger would give
something to strike on a place like this. It's chalks better than desert
islands. Where does that other passage-way lead to?"

Paul had more than once put the same question to him self. That place of
mystery had often been in his thoughts since the day he had first
visited it, and frequently had he asked himself--Where does it lead to
on the other side? He had now seen clearly enough that there must be
some way out on the other side, for Zuker had gone that way. If he
could only find out, the information might be of some service to Harry's
father.

"I don't know, Harry; but I'd very much like to find out. Would you mind
waiting here for a few minutes? I won't be long."

"What are you going to do?"

"Going to explore--just a little way. The coast's clear."

"Going to explore? Well, then, I do mind waiting here. If you mean
exploring, I mean going with you."

"Very well, Harry, we'll explore together."

So the two boys passed together through the passage on the other side of
the chamber.




CHAPTER XLVIII

THE BURNING SHIP


The two boys had not gone very far before they came to a pause. It was
impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them because of the
darkness.

"Let's try to get a light," suggested Paul. "We can get one, I think, in
the place we've just come from."

They returned to the chamber. Paul entered the recess from which Zuker
had brought the rope and the cushions, and found that it was quite a
storehouse; one part of it for provisions, tinned meats, fruits, fish;
another for wood, tools, weapons, models; a third, for a curiously mixed
wardrobe, which Paul guessed served the purpose of disguise. Here he
found a lantern and matches, and thus provided with a light, they
resumed their way.

The gallery or tunnel along which they now passed was about two hundred
feet long. The width, as Paul roughly judged, was about thirteen feet,
narrowing to some six or seven feet at the top. It had been cut through
the chalk bed, at a depth of about six feet below the sand which covered
it. At the end of this gallery were two passages, extending right and
left. Passing down the former, they found it blocked by heaps of sand
and chalk.

"It's quite certain we can't get out that way, Harry," said Paul; "we'd
better try the other."

So, retracing their footsteps once more, they passed along the other
passage. It was not so wide as the one they had already traversed, but
the way was clear for a hundred yards or so; then the tunnel came
abruptly to an end.

Paul regarded the wall in wonder. There was no way through it. Where,
then, had Zuker gone? How had he managed to get out? Paul held the
lantern up and examined the roof. It was clear to see that he was
standing below what had once been the shaft to the tunnel. There were
footholes in the sides.

"Ah, there's the way out! Hold the lantern, Harry, while I try to find
the open sesame," said Paul.

Harry took the lantern, and Paul quickly made his way by means of the
footholes to the top. He could then see that there was a square space
which, though similar in appearance to the rest of the gallery,
concealed the entrance to the shaft. He pushed it upward. It gave
easily. It was a trap-door, leading into a square, ramshackle shed!

Paul made his way through into the shed, and a minute later Harry
followed his example. They closed the trap-door, which then formed part
of the floor, and completely concealed the opening into the shaft.

"Well, if that doesn't beat all!" exclaimed Harry, as the trap-door
fell. "Mr. Zuker and his confederates must have been very tricky. No one
would imagine what's beneath this old shed. Hallo! What's that?"

As Harry spoke a lurid gleam of light lit up the semi-darkness of the
shed; only for an instant; then it as quickly died out.

"Seems like a fire somewhere," said Paul, as he tried to open the door
of the shed; but it would not open. It was locked on the outside.

"We shall have to get through the window, Harry."

There was a small window on the right of the shed, just wide enough to
get through.

"All right. Follow my leader, Paul."

Paul soon mounted to the window and climbed through. Harry quickly
followed him. As he reached the ground there came another lurid gleam of
light; then it died out as quickly as before.

"There it goes again, Paul. What is it?"

Paul was asking himself the same question. What was it? Whence did the
light come? It was a dark night--no moon and few stars. But in the
distance they could see lights flitting about like will-o'-the-wisps
from the mastheads of ships; so they knew they were not far from the
Medway.

"Thought so. We're close to the river," said Paul. "Now that we've found
out all that we can, we'd better make for Garside."

"Yes. Hallo! there it goes again! Why--why, it's a ship on fire!"
exclaimed Harry.

It was now clear enough to see that Harry was right. A ship was on fire.
The flames, at first spasmodic, uncertain, had now gained a complete
hold of the ship, and were shooting upward, like fiery serpents, into
the sky.

All thought of Garside vanished from the boys' minds as they raced
towards the river. As they drew nearer, they could see that the unusual
spectacle had already attracted a great throng of spectators to the
banks.

Little wonder, for as the flames crept upward to the rigging, writhing
inward and outward to the arms, it was a grand, if terrible sight. And
there was pathos in it, too; for the ship on fire was one of the great
wooden ships in the Navy of the past. Its day of action--of
fighting--had long since passed. So, moored in midstream, it had been
used as a storeship.

The signal-lights "Ship on Fire" flashed along the river, and a
picket-boat from a flagship, with other boats, approached as near as
they could to the burning ship. Was there anybody on board? It seemed
not--so far, at least, as could be seen.

But suddenly a cry of horror went up from the crowd. A man had suddenly
made his appearance on the deck. He rushed about like a hunted fox,
trying to elude its pursuers; then, finding it impossible, flung
himself, with a strange cry that long haunted Paul's ears, into the
river.

Paul knew that the man was Zuker. The picket-boat tried to reach him,
but could not. The fire had enveloped the sides of the old ship, and
shot out tongues of flame from every porthole. For the space of a minute
Zuker's figure was seen silhouetted in flame against the darkness. Then
the waters closed over him, and he was seen no more.

"That--that was Zuker. I'm sure of it," Paul whispered to Harry, when he
could speak.

"I thought it looked like him, too," said Harry, in an awestruck
whisper. "What could he be doing on that ship?"

"Up to no good, I'm afraid; but good or ill, his work is ended now."

Zuker had at last come to his death by the element from which Paul's
father had saved him so long ago.

"Yes; I don't think he'll trouble anybody again," answered Harry, as he
slipped his arm, with a shudder, through Paul's.

The flames from the middle of the ship were now leaping fifty feet into
the air. The river manuals played upon it, but made little or no
impression. It seemed to hiss back contempt and defiance as the water
fell.

The excitement of the spectators grew, for a new and terrible source of
danger had revealed itself. The chains by which the old ship was moored
were beginning to give way. If that happened, she might drift, a mass of
flame, against any one of the warships lying in her path.

"I say, Paul, this business may get father into a mess," Harry
whispered.

Paul had forgotten, for the time, Mr. Moncrief's connection with the
Government dockyard. Harry's words reminded him. A dread fear took
possession of him. Perhaps the fire had all been designed--perhaps it
was the work of an incendiary, and that incendiary Mr. Moncrief's
enemy--Zuker. So long as the fire was limited to the old wooden ship it
would not much matter, but if it once got from its moorings, it was
impossible to say where the mischief would end.

"Oh, you needn't worry about your father, Harry," Paul answered, putting
on his most cheerful voice and manner. "No one could blame him for a
ship catching fire."

"I don't know so much about that. Pater's held responsible for almost
everything. It's a great shame, that's what it is."

Paul thought the same, but did not venture to express an opinion. A buzz
of excitement from the crowd broke in upon his meditations.

Looking in the direction in which all eyes were turned, he saw that a
gunboat was steaming along the river. It was making for the flaming
hulk.

"What's it going to do?" cried Harry, clutching Paul's arm excitedly.
"It'll be right into the burning ship."

Paul was too intent on watching the man[oe]uvres of the gunboat to
answer.

Suddenly, when it had got to within one hundred yards of the burning
ship, it stopped and opened fire, just as though it had entered into
action. Its target was the old ship--a mass of flame from bow to stern.
The first shell, missing its mark, went hissing into the river. Jets of
water shot upward into the air and fell in a sparkling cascade.

Boom! A flash of light from the gunboat, a whiff of smoke. This time the
shell finds its target. Myriads of sparks are whirled in a mad dance to
the heavens, then drop again like golden rain into the river. Shell
followed shell. The old warship, engaged in its last great battle,
fought grimly on. Like the old Guard, it refused to surrender. Twelve
shots had been fired. Raked from bow to stern, it was a pathetic
spectacle, like some huge leviathan lying wounded to death on the water,
with its undaunted heart throbbing a requiem.

Shell could not vanquish it, so a charge of guncotton was exploded
immediately beneath it; then the old warship gave a lurch. There was a
flash of light--its last dying effort. After, darkness. The great tongue
of flame was engulfed in the waters.

The boys had been so absorbed in the terrible spectacle that they had
taken no heed of time. But when the ship had gone down, they found that
it was ten o'clock. Garside was a good three miles distant, so that it
would be close upon eleven before they reached the school again.

Three or four search-parties had been formed under the masters, and they
met one of these as they neared the gates. It had been decided between
Paul and Harry that nothing should be said about their adventures in the
cave until Paul had had an explanation with Mr. Weevil. There was, of
course, no reason why they should not speak of the exciting spectacle
they had witnessed on the river.

"It must have been a remarkable sight," admitted Mr. Travers, the head
of the search-party, "but I don't think Mr. Weevil is likely to accept
it as an excuse for your long absence from the school. Besides, you had
no business to take with you a junior boy."

Harry was about to explain that he had followed of his own accord, but a
glance from Paul kept him silent. When they reached the school, they
found Mr. Weevil awaiting them in the hall. He seemed to know that
something unusual had happened.

"Come to my room, Percival," he said.

Percival followed him to his room, just as he had done on that day when
Hibbert died.

"Something has happened. What is it?" he demanded, as he closed the
door.

There was no need for secrecy longer, so Paul told the master
everything--how he had discovered Hibbert's parentage; how he had
discovered the cave, and all the events that had happened in the train
of these discoveries up to the moment of Zuker's death.

"Zuker dead!" exclaimed the master, when Paul came to this part of his
story. "You are sure of it?"

"As certain as I can be of anything, sir."

Mr. Weevil paced up and down the room with his arms behind him. It was
very clear to Paul to observe that he was very much agitated.

"Dead! dead!" he kept repeating; then suddenly stopped, and confronting
Paul astonished him by abruptly demanding: "And what do you think of
me--eh? What do you think of your master--eh? You think him a precious
scoundrel--eh? You think that he ought to be with Zuker in the
river--eh?"




CHAPTER XLIX

THE PETITION--WHAT BEFELL IT


The master put the questions--the questions which formed so strong an
indictment against himself--with grim solemnity. Paul scarcely knew how
to answer him, so was silent.

"Well?" persisted Mr. Weevil.

"I must say that at one time I was suspicious of you, sir. I thought you
were in league with traitors against your country--against England."

"When did your opinion alter?"

"When I heard you in the cave appealing to Zuker to give up his scheme;
when I heard you telling him that the hand of a Higher than man was in
it. Then I remembered that however stern you had been to others, you had
been kind and tender to Hibbert, and it slowly dawned upon me that it
was for poor Hibbert's sake you kept in with Zuker, that for his sake
you were playing a part you did not care for."

"Thank you. I'm glad you've done me justice in your own mind, Percival,"
answered the master, with more feeling than he was in the habit of
displaying. "You have guessed my motive precisely. It was for Hibbert's
sake--the son of the sister I loved--that I kept on friendly terms with
Zuker. But my duty to Hibbert--my love for him--did not make me blind to
the interests of my country. All along I have been in communication with
the Moncriefs. It was I who first communicated with Mr. Henry Moncrief,
in cipher, the information of Zuker's arrival in England. It was
arranged, however, that Zuker was to be allowed to develop his plans,
along with his confederates, before any action was taken to checkmate
him. The Admiralty wished to obtain complete information of all the
details of the scheme, and I alone was in the position of giving it
them. First of all, however, I made my terms with the Admiralty. They
were these: When Zuker's plans were developed, they were at liberty to
take what action they pleased to counteract those plans, and arrest any
accomplice who might be engaged in work with Zuker, but I made this
proviso, that no step should be taken to arrest Zuker himself, without
my knowledge and sanction. Furthermore, that in return for the
information I was able to furnish as to every detail of the plot, I was
to be permitted in the last resort to warn Zuker, so that he might
escape to his native country, if he cared to.

"In that interview you overheard, I made my first strong appeal to him.
Unfortunately it was not successful, and worse than that, he became
suspicious of me. The death of dear little Hibbert took away the only
link that bound me to Zuker. One or two of his confederates were
arrested, and he himself became conscious that the net was closing round
himself. Your appearance in his hiding-place must have brought that home
to him. What happened after that I can only guess. I have two
theories--the first, that, in escaping by the river, he might have taken
refuge for a time on the old battleship, and was in hiding at the time
when the fire broke out. The other theory is that, recognizing that his
schemes had been a complete failure, he deliberately set fire to the
ship, and perished in the flames. He who knows the motives as well as
the actions of all men, will alone know which of these theories is the
right one. God be merciful to him, as to me, miserable sinner."

Mr. Weevil stood with bowed head. And as he breathed, thus reverently,
the response he had so often heard, Paul felt his mother's hand stealing
into his, as it had so often stolen into it in the village church in
days gone by, when the good vicar read the Litany, and prayed for
deliverance from "lightning and tempest, from plague, pestilence, and
famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death." The man who had
brought about "the sudden death" of his father, had ended his with
tragic swiftness, and now stood before the Judge of all. The time for
the last great trial had come for Israel Zuker.

"Before Him--before the Judge of all men," said Mr. Weevil, at length
breaking the silence, "I hope to justify myself for what I have done, as
well as for what I have left undone, but in the meantime I shall never
forget the part that you have played, Percival. It is true, profoundly
true, that no good deed is ever lost. Your kindness to Hibbert will ever
be a sacred memory to me. Good-night, Percival, and God bless you."

"Good-night sir."

And Paul, with his heart very full, turned from the room.

When Paul went out, Mr. Weevil did not retire to rest. He was one of
those men who require very little sleep. He unlocked a drawer in his
desk, and took from it several loose sheets of paper, with entries on
them. These he regarded closely for a moment or two, then leaned
reflectively back in his chair, with eyes closed. Then he looked at the
pages again, together with some memoranda jotted on a separate sheet of
paper. His scrutiny ended, he put them back into the drawer, and locked
them up again.

Having done this, he took up a sheet of foolscap, on which was written,
in the form of a petition, the resolution of the Fifth calling upon Mr.
Weevil to expel Percival from Garside. To this petition were attached
the names of the mover and seconder of the resolution--Stanley Moncrief
and Parfitt--followed by the names of the other boys in the Form, with
the exception of Waterman.

Mr. Weevil had not yet answered this unusual petition, so he took up a
pen and paper and wrote:

"Mr. Weevil's compliments, and he will be pleased to meet the Fifth, and
go into their petition to-morrow. As so delicate a matter cannot be
discussed before the whole school, the form will return to the
class-room, where the master will come to them at the end of the day's
work. One last proviso, as it is the conduct of Percival which has been
impugned, it will, of course, be necessary for him to be present at the
inquiry, so that he may be heard in his own defence."

This note he folded up, placed in an envelope, and directed to Hasluck,
the head of the Form. The following morning it was delivered to Hasluck
by Bax, the porter. Having read it, Hasluck passed it round the Form.
Waterman was next to Percival. Instead of passing it to him, he just
glanced at it and passed it back to Parfitt with a yawn.

"Doesn't interest me. More in your line, Parfitt."

Waterman, in this dexterous manner, escaped the painful duty of passing
on a note for which he was in no way responsible.

As he afterwards said, "he liked to see others troubling over their own
underhand business."

Parfitt bit his lip, then, without a word, handed it to Paul. Paul read
it. He had no difficulty in understanding its meaning. Harry had told
him about the meeting that had been held about him. This letter was the
result of it.

Adopting Parfitt's own tactics, he handed it back without a word, but he
could not help stealing a glance at Stanley. His eyes were heavy, as
though from want of sleep. He looked quite haggard and ill. He kept his
eyes away from Paul, as though uncertain as to himself. He looked very
miserable, and, indeed, he was even more miserable than he looked.

At the close of school that day, the Fifth passed back to their
class-room. Soon after, Mr. Weevil entered. He looked cold, stern,
implacable--a different man from the one Paul had seen the previous
night speaking in tremulous tones about Hibbert. Those little human
traits seemed to have vanished with the night. He was no longer the man,
but the judge.

"Step forward, Percival," he said briefly.

Paul stepped forward.

"You know the charge against you?"

"No, sir; I've come to hear."

"The charge is in this petition," said the master, taking up the
petition, which he unfolded and placed on the desk. "I needn't read it,
but I can tell you briefly what the charge is. The charge is that you
connived with the boys of a rival college--St. Bede's--to have the flag,
which is held in so much honour and esteem here, stolen from the tower."

"Yes, sir. Anything more?" asked Paul, as the master paused and glanced
down at the petition.

"The petition further alleges that having placed this dishonour on the
school, you connived with the enemy to keep it by them till it suited
your time and purpose, and that then you arranged for its return."

"Time and purpose?" repeated Paul. "What purpose?"

"What purpose?" repeated the master, glancing again at the petition. "It
is clearly enough set forth. Listen. 'Percival had made enemies of his
Form, and had looked for his friends at St. Bede's. His object in
getting back the flag was to try to regain at one stroke some of his
lost popularity.' Is that clear enough?"

"Quite clear, sir. What followed?"

"A resolution was moved and carried, with only one dissentient, that you
should be expelled from the school."

"Who--who moved the resolution?" asked Percival, with an effort.

"Is it worth while my giving names?"

"I would like to know, sir, if you would be kind enough."

Mr. Weevil glanced at the names. He did not answer. The silence was
broken by Stanley.

"I moved the resolution, Percival--Paul!" he cried, in a voice that
seemed to be choking him. "I did you an injustice before all the Form. I
now ask your pardon before all the Form. I'm ashamed of myself--ashamed
that I so degraded myself as to move that resolution. My eyes were shut.
Now they're open. I've been groping about in the dark. Now I'm in the
light. I was a fool ever to doubt you, but appearances were so against
you. It was your turning away from Wyndham at the gravel-pits that so
rankled in my mind, and--and your friendly meetings with him after. I
did not know----"

"Stop! Not quite so fast!" commanded Mr. Weevil. Stanley had poured out
at a feverish rate the words that had been burning at his heart
throughout the whole of the night and day. "Do I understand that you,
Moncrief major, who proposed this resolution, now wish to withdraw it?"

"Yes, sir; every word of it. I have wronged Percival--deeply wronged
him, and before all the Form I ask his pardon."

Paul's heart leapt with joy. He cared little what the others might
think. Stanley had come round of his own accord. He had voluntarily
asked his pardon. Paul grasped the hand stretched out to him.

"I see that it was you, Parfitt, who seconded this resolution, asking
that Percival should be expelled from the school. Is it your wish to
withdraw also?" asked the master.

"Certainly not," said Parfitt indignantly. "I'm not going to turn tail
because Moncrief has. If Moncrief has sold me, I'm not going to sell all
the other fellows who signed that petition."

A murmur of approval came from "the other fellows," except Waterman. He
greeted it with the customary yawn.

"You still hold to your wish that Percival should be expelled from
Garside?" asked Mr. Weevil.

"Yes, sir."

"You understand that expelling a scholar from Garside is a very serious
matter. It is a grave stigma placed on him at the commencement of his
career--a stigma which clings to him when he goes from school into the
sterner battle of life. I'm bound to impress this upon you, Parfitt, so
that you may understand the gravity of the step you wish me to take."

"I understand, sir. We all understand."

"And you decline to do what Moncrief has done--withdraw from the
petition?"

"Yes, sir. We can't stand Percival any longer."

"Hear! hear!" from Newall.

Suddenly, to the astonishment of the Form, the master opened the desk
before him, and drew from it a book.

"You know this book?" he demanded.

Know it? They knew it but too well. It was the dreaded Black Book.




CHAPTER L

FOUND OUT


Why had the master produced the Black Book?

What was it to do with the question whether Percival should or should
not be expelled?

"You are wondering why I produce the Black Book," said the master
slowly, as though reading their thoughts. "I will explain--we have never
yet discovered who tore out the leaves from this book. It occurred to me
that before taking the step of expelling Percival from the school, it
would be as well to make one more effort to find out who is the culprit.

"A few weeks ago, I received an anonymous letter suggesting that
Percival should be questioned as to what he was doing on the night that
part of the Black Book, and other documents, disappeared from my desk.
As a rule, I take no heed of anonymous communications. The testimony of
any one who is ashamed to put his name to a letter is, as a rule,
worthless. But I was keenly interested in trying to discover who the
culprit was who opened my desk, and I thought it just possible that if I
could only find out the writer of this anonymous letter, it might lead
to other discoveries which would throw light upon the theft of my
notes."

The boys listened intently. What did it mean? Was yet another and more
serious charge to be made against Percival?

"The letter was in a disguised hand, like most anonymous letters," the
master proceeded; "but a master becomes a bit of an expert in
handwriting, so, with the help of Mr. Travers here, the master of your
Form, I was not long in finding out who wrote the anonymous letter. It
was written by Parfitt."

The accusation was made slowly, deliberately, as by one who makes sure
of his facts before speaking. It fell as a bomb in the midst of the
listening boys. Parfitt turned to an ashen hue, and muttered something
between his teeth.

"Speak up, sir! Please not to mutter," commanded Mr. Weevil, turning to
Parfitt. "Do you deny that this letter"--he held up the anonymous
letter, with its cramped, disguised handwriting--"is the work of your
hand?"

Parfitt held up his head, and put on a bold front.

"No, sir; I don't deny it. That letter was written by me. As there were
other things coming out against Percival, I thought it only right that
you should make some inquiry into what he was doing on the night when
the pages were torn from the Black Book. I did not want to push myself
forward. I thought the inquiry would be better made by you; but as no
steps seem to have been taken to find out what Percival did, I don't see
why I should keep back what I know any longer."

"Well, what is it? What do you know? I am here to learn all I can."

"Well, sir, on the night that the pages were torn from the Black Book, I
saw Percival get out of bed, slip into some of his things, and out of
the dormitory. I saw him steal along the corridor, for what purpose I
couldn't guess. I made a pretty good guess the next day."

"Your guess was that Percival opened my desk, and stole the papers?"

"I believe he did, sir. For what else could he have stolen from the
dormitory in the dead of night?"

"Well, but what could be his purpose? Can you explain that?"

"Oh, that's easy enough explained. There were entries against himself
and his friend Moncrief in the book. A serious one had been made against
Moncrief that very afternoon, for which, you will remember, sir, he was
sent to Dormitory X."

"I remember--quite well," said the master. "Well, Percival, what have
you to say against this last charge?"

"Only that it is as false as the other."

"Did you leave your dormitory that night?"

"Yes, sir; I don't deny that. I did leave my room, but not to steal. I
left it to go to Moncrief in Dormitory X. I thought the punishment too
severe, sir, if you'll pardon me for saying so, so I thought that I
would keep him company. It was wrong of me, I know; but I did not give
it much thought at the time."

"And I can confirm every word that Percival has said!" exclaimed
Stanley. "He came to me that night--to Dormitory X."

"Pshaw!" cried Newall, taking up Parfitt's case. "How could he get to
you through the locked door?"

"He didn't get through the door. He came along the parapet, and got
through the dormer window."

Blank amazement fell on the group.

"It's all very well to say that. Any one could say that," cried Parfitt;
"but we want something better than that. We want proof!"

"If you won't take Moncrief's word, I think I can prove it by Mr.
Weevil," said Paul, turning to the master. "As I passed by the window of
your room, sir, I took the liberty of peeping in. I saw you discussing
some plans with a friend. Perhaps you can recall it, sir?"

Mr. Weevil's mind had gone back to that night. He knew well enough to
whom Paul was referring thus delicately as his friend--Zuker.

"Percival is right in every particular, but"--he broke off, as though
suddenly recalling something--"there is one thing I ought to say.
Fancying I heard a noise in Dormitory X that night, I paid it a visit,
but found nobody there, except Moncrief, and he seemed fast asleep."

Parfitt, who had been looking glum, brightened up at this again.

"Seemed, sir," repeated Stanley, with a smile; "but I was just about as
wide awake as I am now, and Percival was--under the bed."

There was a titter of laughter at this piece of information. The ghost
of a smile played across the stern face of Mr. Weevil.

"I think Percival has made it perfectly clear as to where he was that
night. You see that he is perfectly innocent of the charge brought
against him by Parfitt; so we are thrown back into precisely the
position we were in before. We have still to find out who is the real
culprit--who it was opened my desk that night. As Parfitt has failed in
his purpose, let us put our heads together and see if we can get a
little nearer the truth. I will try to reconstruct the case for you, as
the French say. Who was the culprit? What was his motive? His motive was
to get possession of certain pieces of paper in my desk which gave
valuable information for a prize competition which was taking place
amongst the seniors--the prize, that is to say, to be given by Admiral
Talbot for the best essay on 'The Invasion of Great Britain.' He did not
want the Black Book. That would give him no assistance in his essay; but
what he wanted was to throw suspicion on a certain boy--also a
competitor for the prize--who was absent from his dormitory that night.
He did this by removing the leaf, amongst others, which referred to the
boy himself and the detention of his friend in the Punishment Dormitory.
Am I clear?"

The Form were following Mr. Weevil so closely that they could only
murmur an assent.

"I have told you about the anonymous letter," continued Mr. Weevil, "and
the conclusion I had arrived at by the help of Mr. Travers. You have
seen that that conclusion is correct, for Parfitt has himself admitted
it. So much is clear. Now follow me a little farther. Not long after
receiving this anonymous letter, some of the competitors began to send
in their essays for the Talbot prize. Among others was one from
Parfitt."

A profound silence fell on the room as the master once more pronounced
that name. Every eye was turned to Parfitt, who was still doing his best
to put on a bold face.

"It was a remarkably clever piece of work and would assuredly have won
the prize. It was too clever, in fact. It contained information which
astonished me--information which could not be obtained from the school
library. It was information, in fact, such as I myself had obtained
after special research, and which had been embodied in the notes that
had been stolen from my desk."

"You mean to say that I am the thief--that I stole your notes!"
blustered Parfitt.

"Silence, sir!" came the stern voice of the master. "Have the courtesy
to hear me to the end. I have but little more to add, and then I shall
be only too pleased to hear anything you may have to say in your
defence. The way in which the information was used was so ingenious that
it would have been quite impossible to declare that the writer of this
essay was the culprit. I was quite certain of it in my own mind, but it
needed additional proof. How to get it was the next point. In
consultation with Mr. Travers here, a speedy decision was come to. It
was of the utmost importance that the innocent should be cleared; the
guilty punished. A locksmith was called in on the next half-holiday.
Parfitt's box was opened, its contents examined. At the bottom we
discovered the missing notes. The pages from the Black Book, as being
useless, had been destroyed. The same fate would doubtless have followed
my notes, so soon as the result of the competition was known. I took the
notes from the box. A facsimile was put in their place. Here are the
originals."

He held up the notes. All heads were eagerly craned forward to look at
them.

"These are the originals," repeated the master, when the sensation
caused by their production had abated. "I doubt not the facsimiles to
which I have referred will still be found in Parfitt's box. What I
suggest, therefore, is that he hand over his key to Hasluck, the head of
this Form, that the porter should then bring the box to this room, and
that it be opened in the presence of all of you. We shall then see if
the facsimiles are still there."

Not a word fell from Parfitt's lips in answer to this appeal. At that
moment he was passing through one of the most terrible ordeals a boy can
pass through. The silence in the room became painful.

"I hope it won't be needful to call in the locksmith again, Parfitt,"
said the master. Then in a burst of agony came from the wretched boy's
lips:

"You needn't open the box. I--I did it."

He dropped to the form, and covered his ashen face with his hands. Then
came the master's voice again, with the solemnity of a judge pronouncing
sentence:

"I did not wish to go through this ignominy, Parfitt, before the whole
school. That is the reason I confined the inquiry to your Form and this
room. Everything has been done to spare your feelings, though I cannot
help saying that you do not seem to have cared very much for the
feelings of others. I am sorry to say that the sentence you wished
passed on Percival must be passed on yourself. You can no longer remain
a scholar at Garside."

Parfitt knew well enough what that meant--it was a sentence of
expulsion. He staggered to his feet, and was about to pass out without a
word, when the voice of Paul brought him to a standstill.

"I do not mind what has been said against me--indeed, I don't!"
exclaimed Paul; "we've all made mistakes; so please don't go so far with
Parfitt. Don't expel him. Give him another chance!"

Parfitt could scarcely believe his ears. The boy whom he had sought to
expel was taking his part--pleading that he might remain.

"It is generous of you to plead for him, but after what has happened,
how is it possible for him to remain?" said the master.

Paul scarcely knew how to answer; but as he stood nonplussed a mist rose
in the room, and as the mist cleared he saw a garden, with a
delicate-faced boy, lying in an invalid chair, as though asleep. A
little wren had perched itself upon his shoulder.

"Let him stay for--for Hibbert's sake," came in a gulp.

The master turned his head for a moment. When he once more faced the
boys, the hard light had vanished from the blinking eyes, and a softer
light shone there.

"What has happened has not gone beyond this room. The facts, so far,
have not been disclosed to the whole school," he said. "It may not,
perhaps, be necessary. I will see what can be done in consultation with
my colleagues. I trust it may be possible for us to respond to
Percival's generous appeal. Attention! Half-turn! March!"

And the boys filed slowly from the class-room.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vacation at last!

To Paul the term through which he had passed was the most memorable in
his school life, as it was, perhaps, the most memorable in the history
of the school. He spent a week with the good mother whom he loved, and
who so loved him. He sat again in the old church with her, and heard
again the vicar's fervent voice in the Litany:

"From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence, and famine; from
battle and murder, and from sudden death."

In the days gone by he used to wonder how it was that his mother's hand
used to tremble in his when those solemn words echoed in the church. Now
he understood, as he knelt once more by her dear side--none better. The
last term at Garside had taught him a lesson which would never be erased
from his mind so long as life lasted.

At the end of the week he went to Redmead, in response to the invitation
which Mr. Walter Moncrief had sent him in that letter to Garside which
had caused him such heart-burning. Stanley was there to meet him. The
old friendship between them was resumed. The clouds had passed away,
leaving them the better, the stronger--they were once more in the
sunshine.

Mr. Moncrief had learnt all that had happened at Garside. Harry
entertained them at tea-time with his and Plunger's adventures as
members of the Mystic Order of Beetles, and his sister nearly had a fit
of apoplexy as he described Plunger crawling on hands and knees round
the ring while the Mystic Brethren proceeded to initiate him as "a
brother."

Stanley was the only one who was not infected with Connie's mirth. He
remained so serious amid the general merriment that Harry suddenly
brought down his hand upon his shoulder and in a tragic voice declaimed
the incantation which had made so remarkable an impression upon Plunger:

    "Beetles of the Mystic Band,
    Wind we round thee hand in hand,"

and so on.

"No, we're not going to send Stan to the Realms of Creepy-Crawley,"
smiled Connie, putting her arm through her cousin's with an air of
possession as Harry ended:

"We don't mind Mr. Plunger going there. He'd be quite at home; but not
Stan."

Stanley smiled, but soon relapsed into his former gravity.

"A penny for your thoughts, Stan!" said Mrs. Moncrief.

"Oh, I was only thinking of one of the Beetles--Wyndham. I was wondering
whether we should see anything of him during the vac."

"Would you like to meet him?" asked Mr. Moncrief.

"Very much."

Paul said nothing; but he felt a keen sense of gratification at the
words that fell from Stanley. It showed that all animosity towards
Wyndham had completely vanished, and that he was anxious to meet him
again, not as an enemy, but on a footing of friendship.

Mr. Moncrief was absent for a good part of the next day. On the day
following he announced that he was going to take them for a drive in the
wagonette. They were, of course, anxious to know where.

"Well, Harry has asked me once or twice whether we couldn't travel over
some of the ground over which Paul travelled on the night when he broke
in upon us here at the end of his last vacation. I think this is the
most favourable opportunity we shall have to carry out his suggestion,
if you're all agreeable."

Of course they were agreeable. So, early the next morning, the wagonette
came to the door, and the little party, in the best of spirits, started
on the drive.

No contrast could have been greater than the contrast between that
morning of bright sunshine and the night when Paul started from Redmead
with Mr. Moncrief. On that never-to-be-forgotten night danger seemed to
be lurking in every hedgerow. The shadows lay thickly across their
pathway, and the sight of home had never been so dear to Paul as when he
at length came in sight of it that night. How different it all seemed in
the bright sunshine!

By an indirect route they came to the common over which Paul had ridden
on Falcon. They stopped at the spot where Zuker and his confederate had
seized Falcon's bridle. Then they turned back, and paused once more
where the brave horse had staggered and fallen. Paul had not seen the
place since, and as they reached it, he lived once again through the
incidents of those few terrible moments when the life-blood of Falcon
was slowly oozing away. He could see it lying there; he could see the
crimson stream running from its flank, the look of pathos in its eyes as
it turned to him.

"I think we will drive on," said Mr. Moncrief gently. "We owe a good
deal to Falcon, so I mean to have a little memorial to his memory some
day--to the memory of a noble horse. There are some animals, it seems to
me, who are as much entitled to it as human beings."

A great surprise was in store for them when they reached the well down
which Paul had hidden from his pursuers. Wyndham was standing there,
just as he had stood on the night when he had covered Paul's retreat!

Then it turned out that Mr. Moncrief had arranged this little surprise
on the previous day; that he had visited Wyndham, and appointed to meet
him at the well. To the delight of the boys, the arrangement went still
further--Wyndham was to return with them, and spend a few days at
Redmead.

Stanley was one of the first to give him a hearty greeting.

"You must be my friend as well as Paul's," he said earnestly, as he
shook him by the hand.

"There's no one, I suppose, who would like to repeat Paul's experience
in the well?" smiled Mr. Moncrief, when the excitement of the meeting
had cooled down.

The invitation, it is unnecessary to say, was "declined with thanks."

The happy party returned to Redmead. When the evening came on, the
blinds drawn, the lamps lit, and the friends were all together, Paul
could not help thinking there was just one thing missing to complete the
day's experience.

"When I came here that night and listened at the door, you were
singing," he said.

"Singing what?" asked Mrs. Moncrief.

"'Now the day is over.'"

"Happy thought! Let us have it again!" exclaimed Mr. Moncrief.

Mrs. Moncrief went to the piano, and heartily they sang:

    "Now the day is over,
      Night is drawing nigh,
    Shadows of the evening
      Steal across the sky.

    Through the long night watches,
      May Thine angels spread
    Their white wings above me,
      Watching round my bed."

Of a surety that fervent appeal had been answered. God had indeed
guarded the boys through the "long night watches" at school, and through
much trial and temptation had brought them safely together under the
same hospitable roof.


THE END



       *       *       *       *       *



A SERIES OF EXCELLENT STORIES


Full of incident and adventure, which will be read with keen interest
and enjoyment.

_Each with a distinctive Coloured Jacket, Coloured Frontispiece and
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"HONOUR BRIGHT" (David Chester's Motto) _By H. ESCOTT-INMAN_

THE SECOND FORM MASTER OF ST. CYRIL'S _By H. ESCOTT-INMAN_

LOYAL AND TRUE _By M. B. MANWELL_

THE BOYS OF MONK'S HAROLD _By J. HARWOOD PANTING_

CLIVE OF CLAIR COLLEGE _By HARRY HUNTINGDON_

THE HERO OF GARSIDE SCHOOL _By HARRY HUNTINGDON_

THE TWO RUNAWAYS _By HARRY HUNTINGDON_

AN UPHILL GAME _By HARRY HUNTINGDON_

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