Chapter 1 The Fifteenth Place
　　"Outside!""Don't be an idiot, man. I bagged it first.""My dear chap, I've been waiting here a month.""When you fellows have _quite_ finished rotting about in front ofthat bath don't let _me_ detain you.""Anybody seen that sponge?""Well, look here"--this in a tone of compromise--"let's toss for it.""All right. Odd man out."All of which, being interpreted, meant that the first match of theEaster term had just come to an end, and that those of the team who,being day boys, changed over at the pavilion, instead of performing theoperation at leisure and in comfort, as did the members of houses, werediscussing the vital question--who was to have first bath?
　　The Field Sports Committee at Wrykyn--that is, at the school whichstood some half-mile outside that town and took its name from it--werenot lavish in their expenditure as regarded the changing accommodationin the pavilion. Letters appeared in every second number of the_Wrykinian_, some short, others long, some from members of theschool, others from Old Boys, all protesting against the condition ofthe first, second, and third fifteen dressing-rooms. "Indignant" wouldinquire acidly, in half a page of small type, if the editor happened tobe aware that there was no hair-brush in the second room, and only halfa comb. "Disgusted O. W." would remark that when he came down with theWandering Zephyrs to play against the third fifteen, the water supplyhad suddenly and mysteriously failed, and the W.Z.'s had been obligedto go home as they were, in a state of primeval grime, and he thoughtthat this was "a very bad thing in a school of over six hundred boys",though what the number of boys had to do with the fact that there wasno water he omitted to explain. The editor would express his regret inbrackets, and things would go on as before.
　　There was only one bath in the first fifteen room, and there were onthe present occasion six claimants to it. And each claimant was of thefixed opinion that, whatever happened subsequently, he was going tohave it first. Finally, on the suggestion of Otway, who had reducedtossing to a fine art, a mystic game of Tommy Dodd was played. Otwayhaving triumphantly obtained first innings, the conversation revertedto the subject of the match.
　　The Easter term always opened with a scratch game against a mixed teamof masters and old boys, and the school usually won without any greatexertion. On this occasion the match had been rather more even than theaverage, and the team had only just pulled the thing off by a couple oftries to a goal. Otway expressed an opinion that the school had playedbadly.
　　"Why on earth don't you forwards let the ball out occasionally?" heasked. Otway was one of the first fifteen halves.
　　"They were so jolly heavy in the scrum," said Maurice, one of theforwards. "And when we did let it out, the outsides nearly alwaysmucked it.""Well, it wasn't the halves' fault. We always got it out to thecentres.""It wasn't the centres," put in Robinson. "They played awfully well.
　　Trevor was ripping.""Trevor always is," said Otway; "I should think he's about the bestcaptain we've had here for a long time. He's certainly one of the bestcentres.""Best there's been since Rivers-Jones," said Clephane.
　　Rivers-Jones was one of those players who mark an epoch. He had been inthe team fifteen years ago, and had left Wrykyn to captain Cambridgeand play three years in succession for Wales. The school regarded thestandard set by him as one that did not admit of comparison. Howevergood a Wrykyn centre three-quarter might be, the most he could hope tobe considered was "the best _since_ Rivers-Jones". "Since"Rivers-Jones, however, covered fifteen years, and to be looked on asthe best centre the school could boast of during that time, meantsomething. For Wrykyn knew how to play football.
　　Since it had been decided thus that the faults in the school attack didnot lie with the halves, forwards, or centres, it was more or lessevident that they must be attributable to the wings. And the search forthe weak spot was even further narrowed down by the general verdictthat Clowes, on the left wing, had played well. With a beautifulunanimity the six occupants of the first fifteen room came to theconclusion that the man who had let the team down that day had been theman on the right--Rand-Brown, to wit, of Seymour's.
　　"I'll bet he doesn't stay in the first long," said Clephane, who wasnow in the bath, _vice_ Otway, retired. "I suppose they had to tryhim, as he was the senior wing three-quarter of the second, but he's noearthly good.""He only got into the second because he's big," was Robinson's opinion.
　　"A man who's big and strong can always get his second colours.""Even if he's a funk, like Rand-Brown," said Clephane. "Did any of youchaps notice the way he let Paget through that time he scored for them?
　　He simply didn't attempt to tackle him. He could have brought him downlike a shot if he'd only gone for him. Paget was running straight alongthe touch-line, and hadn't any room to dodge. I know Trevor was jollysick about it. And then he let him through once before in just the sameway in the first half, only Trevor got round and stopped him. He wasrank.""Missed every other pass, too," said Otway.
　　Clephane summed up.
　　"He was rank," he said again. "Trevor won't keep him in the team long.""I wish Paget hadn't left," said Otway, referring to the wingthree-quarter who, by leaving unexpectedly at the end of the Christmasterm, had let Rand-Brown into the team. His loss was likely to be felt.
　　Up till Christmas Wrykyn had done well, and Paget had been their scoringman. Rand-Brown had occupied a similar position in the second fifteen.
　　He was big and speedy, and in second fifteen matches these qualitiesmake up for a great deal. If a man scores one or two tries in nearlyevery match, people are inclined to overlook in him such failings astimidity and clumsiness. It is only when he comes to be tried infootball of a higher class that he is seen through. In the secondfifteen the fact that Rand-Brown was afraid to tackle his man hadalmost escaped notice. But the habit would not do in first fifteencircles.
　　"All the same," said Clephane, pursuing his subject, "if they don'tplay him, I don't see who they're going to get. He's the best of thesecond three-quarters, as far as I can see."It was this very problem that was puzzling Trevor, as he walked off thefield with Paget and Clowes, when they had got into their blazers afterthe match. Clowes was in the same house as Trevor--Donaldson's--andPaget was staying there, too. He had been head of Donaldson's up toChristmas.
　　"It strikes me," said Paget, "the school haven't got over the holidaysyet. I never saw such a lot of slackers. You ought to have taken thirtypoints off the sort of team you had against you today.""Have you ever known the school play well on the second day of term?"asked Clowes. "The forwards always play as if the whole thing boredthem to death.""It wasn't the forwards that mattered so much," said Trevor. "They'llshake down all right after a few matches. A little running and passingwill put them right.""Let's hope so," Paget observed, "or we might as well scratch to Riptonat once. There's a jolly sight too much of the mince-pie and Christmaspudding about their play at present." There was a pause. Then Pagetbrought out the question towards which he had been moving all the time.
　　"What do you think of Rand-Brown?" he asked.
　　It was pretty clear by the way he spoke what he thought of that playerhimself, but in discussing with a football captain the capabilities ofthe various members of his team, it is best to avoid a too positivestatement one way or the other before one has heard his views on thesubject. And Paget was one of those people who like to know theopinions of others before committing themselves.
　　Clowes, on the other hand, was in the habit of forming his views on hisown account, and expressing them. If people agreed with them, well andgood: it afforded strong presumptive evidence of their sanity. If theydisagreed, it was unfortunate, but he was not going to alter hisopinions for that, unless convinced at great length that they wereunsound. He summed things up, and gave you the result. You could takeit or leave it, as you preferred.
　　"I thought he was bad," said Clowes.
　　"Bad!" exclaimed Trevor, "he was a disgrace. One can understand a chaphaving his off-days at any game, but one doesn't expect a man in theWrykyn first to funk. He mucked five out of every six passes I gavehim, too, and the ball wasn't a bit slippery. Still, I shouldn't mindthat so much if he had only gone for his man properly. It isn't beingout of practice that makes you funk. And even when he did have a try atyou, Paget, he always went high.""That," said Clowes thoughtfully, "would seem to show that he wasgame."Nobody so much as smiled. Nobody ever did smile at Clowes' essays inwit, perhaps because of the solemn, almost sad, tone of voice in whichhe delivered them. He was tall and dark and thin, and had a pensiveeye, which encouraged the more soulful of his female relatives toentertain hopes that he would some day take orders.
　　"Well," said Paget, relieved at finding that he did not stand alone inhis views on Rand-Brown's performance, "I must say I thought he wasawfully bad myself.""I shall try somebody else next match," said Trevor. "It'll be ratherhard, though. The man one would naturally put in, Bryce, left atChristmas, worse luck."Bryce was the other wing three-quarter of the second fifteen.
　　"Isn't there anybody in the third?" asked Paget.
　　"Barry," said Clowes briefly.
　　"Clowes thinks Barry's good," explained Trevor.
　　"He _is_ good," said Clowes. "I admit he's small, but he cantackle.""The question is, would he be any good in the first? A chap might dojolly well for the third, and still not be worth trying for the first.""I don't remember much about Barry," said Paget, "except being collaredby him when we played Seymour's last year in the final. I certainlycame away with a sort of impression that he could tackle. I thought hemarked me jolly well.""There you are, then," said Clowes. "A year ago Barry could tacklePaget. There's no reason for supposing that he's fallen off since then.
　　We've seen that Rand-Brown _can't_ tackle Paget. Ergo, Barry isbetter worth playing for the team than Rand-Brown. Q.E.D.""All right, then," replied Trevor. "There can't be any harm in tryinghim. We'll have another scratch game on Thursday. Will you be herethen, Paget?""Oh, yes. I'm stopping till Saturday.""Good man. Then we shall be able to see how he does against you. I wishyou hadn't left, though, by Jove. We should have had Ripton on toast,the same as last term."Wrykyn played five schools, but six school matches. The school thatthey played twice in the season was Ripton. To win one Ripton matchmeant that, however many losses it might have sustained in the othermatches, the school had had, at any rate, a passable season. To win twoRipton matches in the same year was almost unheard of. This year therehad seemed every likelihood of it. The match before Christmas on theRipton ground had resulted in a win for Wrykyn by two goals and a tryto a try. But the calculations of the school had been upset by thesudden departure of Paget at the end of term, and also of Bryce, whohad hitherto been regarded as his understudy. And in the first Riptonmatch the two goals had both been scored by Paget, and both had beenbrilliant bits of individual play, which a lesser man could not havecarried through.
　　The conclusion, therefore, at which the school reluctantly arrived, wasthat their chances of winning the second match could not be judged bytheir previous success. They would have to approach the Easter termfixture from another--a non-Paget--standpoint. In these circumstancesit became a serious problem: who was to get the fifteenth place?
　　Whoever played in Paget's stead against Ripton would be certain, if thematch were won, to receive his colours. Who, then, would fill thevacancy?
　　"Rand-Brown, of course," said the crowd.
　　But the experts, as we have shown, were of a different opinion.
Chapter 2 The Gold Bat
    Trevor did not take long to resume a garb of civilisation. He neverwasted much time over anything. He was gifted with a boundless energy,which might possibly have made him unpopular had he not justified it byresults. The football of the school had never been in such aflourishing condition as it had attained to on his succeeding to thecaptaincy. It was not only that the first fifteen was good. Theexcellence of a first fifteen does not always depend on the captain.
　　But the games, even down to the very humblest junior game, had woken upone morning--at the beginning of the previous term--to find themselves,much to their surprise, organised going concerns. Like the immortalCaptain Pott, Trevor was "a terror to the shirker and the lubber". Andthe resemblance was further increased by the fact that he was "atoughish lot", who was "little, but steel and india-rubber". At firstsight his appearance was not imposing. Paterfamilias, who had heard hisson's eulogies on Trevor's performances during the holidays, and camedown to watch the school play a match, was generally ratherdisappointed on seeing five feet six where he had looked for at leastsix foot one, and ten stone where he had expected thirteen. But then,what there was of Trevor was, as previously remarked, steel andindia-rubber, and he certainly played football like a miniatureStoddart. It was characteristic of him that, though this was thefirst match of the term, his condition seemed to be as good aspossible. He had done all his own work on the field and most ofRand-Brown's, and apparently had not turned a hair. He was one ofthose conscientious people who train in the holidays.
　　When he had changed, he went down the passage to Clowes' study. Clowes wasin the position he frequently took up when the weather was good--wedgedinto his window in a sitting position, one leg in the study, the otherhanging outside over space. The indoor leg lacked a boot, so that it wasevident that its owner had at least had the energy to begin to change.
　　That he had given the thing up after that, exhausted with the effort, waswhat one naturally expected from Clowes. He would have made a splendidactor: he was so good at resting.
　　"Hurry up and dress," said Trevor; "I want you to come over to thebaths.""What on earth do you want over at the baths?""I want to see O'Hara.""Oh, yes, I remember. Dexter's are camping out there, aren't they? Iheard they were. Why is it?""One of the Dexter kids got measles in the last week of the holidays,so they shunted all the beds and things across, and the chaps went backthere instead of to the house."In the winter term the baths were always boarded over and convertedinto a sort of extra gymnasium where you could go and box or fence whenthere was no room to do it in the real gymnasium. Socker and stump-cricketwere also largely played there, the floor being admirably suited to suchgames, though the light was always rather tricky, and prevented heavyscoring.
　　"I should think," said Clowes, "from what I've seen of Dexter'sbeauties, that Dexter would like them to camp out at the bottom of thebaths all the year round. It would be a happy release for him if theywere all drowned. And I suppose if he had to choose any one of them fora violent death, he'd pick O'Hara. O'Hara must be a boon to ahouse-master. I've known chaps break rules when the spirit movedthem, but he's the only one I've met who breaks them all day longand well into the night simply for amusement. I've often thought ofwriting to the S.P.C.A. about it. I suppose you could call Dexter ananimal all right?""O'Hara's right enough, really. A man like Dexter would make any fellowrun amuck. And then O'Hara's an Irishman to start with, which makes adifference."There is usually one house in every school of the black sheep sort,and, if you go to the root of the matter, you will generally find thatthe fault is with the master of that house. A house-master who entersinto the life of his house, coaches them in games--if an athlete--or,if not an athlete, watches the games, umpiring at cricket andrefereeing at football, never finds much difficulty in keeping order.
　　It may be accepted as fact that the juniors of a house will never beorderly of their own free will, but disturbances in the junior day-roomdo not make the house undisciplined. The prefects are the criterion.
　　If you find them joining in the general "rags", and even startingprivate ones on their own account, then you may safely say that it istime the master of that house retired from the business, and took tochicken-farming. And that was the state of things in Dexter's. It wasthe most lawless of the houses. Mr Dexter belonged to a type of masteralmost unknown at a public school--the usher type. In a private schoolhe might have passed. At Wrykyn he was out of place. To him the wholeduty of a house-master appeared to be to wage war against his house.
　　When Dexter's won the final for the cricket cup in the summer term oftwo years back, the match lasted four afternoons--four solid afternoonsof glorious, up-and-down cricket. Mr Dexter did not see a single ball ofthat match bowled. He was prowling in sequestered lanes and broken-downbarns out of bounds on the off-chance that he might catch some member ofhis house smoking there. As if the whole of the house, from the head tothe smallest fag, were not on the field watching Day's best bats collapsebefore Henderson's bowling, and Moriarty hit up that marvellous andunexpected fifty-three at the end of the second innings!
　　That sort of thing definitely stamps a master.
　　"What do you want to see O'Hara about?" asked Clowes.
　　"He's got my little gold bat. I lent it him in the holidays."A remark which needs a footnote. The bat referred to was made of gold,and was about an inch long by an eighth broad. It had come intoexistence some ten years previously, in the following manner. Theinter-house cricket cup at Wrykyn had originally been a rathertarnished and unimpressive vessel, whose only merit consisted in thefact that it was of silver. Ten years ago an Old Wrykinian, suddenlyreflecting that it would not be a bad idea to do something for theschool in a small way, hied him to the nearest jeweller's and purchasedanother silver cup, vast withal and cunningly decorated with filigreework, and standing on a massive ebony plinth, round which were littlesilver lozenges just big enough to hold the name of the winning houseand the year of grace. This he presented with his blessing to becompeted for by the dozen houses that made up the school of Wrykyn, andit was formally established as the house cricket cup. The question nowarose: what was to be done with the other cup? The School House, whohappened to be the holders at the time, suggested disinterestedly thatit should become the property of the house which had won it last. "Notso," replied the Field Sports Committee, "but far otherwise. We willhave it melted down in a fiery furnace, and thereafter fashioned intoeleven little silver bats. And these little silver bats shall be theguerdon of the eleven members of the winning team, to have and to holdfor the space of one year, unless, by winning the cup twice insuccession, they gain the right of keeping the bat for yet anotheryear. How is that, umpire?" And the authorities replied, "O men ofinfinite resource and sagacity, verily is it a cold day when _you_get left behind. Forge ahead." But, when they had forged ahead, behold!
　　it would not run to eleven little silver bats, but only to ten littlesilver bats. Thereupon the headmaster, a man liberal with his cash,caused an eleventh little bat to be fashioned--for the captain of thewinning team to have and to hold in the manner aforesaid. And, tosingle it out from the others, it was wrought, not of silver, but ofgold. And so it came to pass that at the time of our story Trevor wasin possession of the little gold bat, because Donaldson's had won thecup in the previous summer, and he had captained them--and,incidentally, had scored seventy-five without a mistake.
　　"Well, I'm hanged if I would trust O'Hara with my bat," said Clowes,referring to the silver ornament on his own watch-chain; "he's probablypawned yours in the holidays. Why did you lend it to him?""His people wanted to see it. I know him at home, you know. They askedme to lunch the last day but one of the holidays, and we got talkingabout the bat, because, of course, if we hadn't beaten Dexter's in thefinal, O'Hara would have had it himself. So I sent it over next daywith a note asking O'Hara to bring it back with him here.""Oh, well, there's a chance, then, seeing he's only had it so littletime, that he hasn't pawned it yet. You'd better rush off and get itback as soon as possible. It's no good waiting for me. I shan't beready for weeks.""Where's Paget?""Teaing with Donaldson. At least, he said he was going to.""Then I suppose I shall have to go alone. I hate walking alone.""If you hurry," said Clowes, scanning the road from his post ofvantage, "you'll be able to go with your fascinating pal Ruthven. He'sjust gone out."Trevor dashed downstairs in his energetic way, and overtook the youthreferred to.
　　Clowes brooded over them from above like a sorrowful and ratherdisgusted Providence. Trevor's liking for Ruthven, who was aDonaldsonite like himself, was one of the few points on which the twohad any real disagreement. Clowes could not understand how any personin his senses could of his own free will make an intimate friend ofRuthven.
　　"Hullo, Trevor," said Ruthven.
　　"Come over to the baths," said Trevor, "I want to see O'Hara aboutsomething. Or were you going somewhere else.""I wasn't going anywhere in particular. I never know what to do interm-time. It's deadly dull."Trevor could never understand how any one could find term-time dull.
　　For his own part, there always seemed too much to do in the time.
　　"You aren't allowed to play games?" he said, remembering somethingabout a doctor's certificate in the past.
　　"No," said Ruthven. "Thank goodness," he added.
　　Which remark silenced Trevor. To a person who thanked goodness that hewas not allowed to play games he could find nothing to say. But heceased to wonder how it was that Ruthven was dull.
　　They proceeded to the baths together in silence. O'Hara, they wereinformed by a Dexter's fag who met them outside the door, was notabout.
　　"When he comes back," said Trevor, "tell him I want him to come to teatomorrow directly after school, and bring my bat. Don't forget."The fag promised to make a point of it.
Chapter 3 The Mayor's Statue
    One of the rules that governed the life of Donough O'Hara, thelight-hearted descendant of the O'Haras of Castle Taterfields, Co.
　　Clare, Ireland, was "Never refuse the offer of a free tea". So, onreceipt--per the Dexter's fag referred to--of Trevor's invitation, hescratched one engagement (with his mathematical master--not whollyunconnected with the working-out of Examples 200 to 206 in Hall andKnight's Algebra), postponed another (with his friend and ally Moriarty,of Dexter's, who wished to box with him in the gymnasium), and made hisway at a leisurely pace towards Donaldson's. He was feeling particularlypleased with himself today, for several reasons. He had begun the daywell by scoring brilliantly off Mr Dexter across the matutinal rasherand coffee. In morning school he had been put on to translate the onepassage which he happened to have prepared--the first ten lines, infact, of the hundred which formed the morning's lesson. And in thefinal hour of afternoon school, which was devoted to French, he haddiscovered and exploited with great success an entirely new and originalform of ragging. This, he felt, was the strenuous life; this was livingone's life as one's life should be lived.
　　He met Trevor at the gate. As they were going in, a carriage and pairdashed past. Its cargo consisted of two people, the headmaster, lookingbored, and a small, dapper man, with a very red face, who lookedexcited, and was talking volubly. Trevor and O'Hara raised their capsas the chariot swept by, but the salute passed unnoticed. The Headappeared to be wrapped in thought.
　　"What's the Old Man doing in a carriage, I wonder," said Trevor,looking after them. "Who's that with him?""That," said O'Hara, "is Sir Eustace Briggs.""Who's Sir Eustace Briggs?"O'Hara explained, in a rich brogue, that Sir Eustace was Mayor ofWrykyn, a keen politician, and a hater of the Irish nation, judging byhis letters and speeches.
　　They went into Trevor's study. Clowes was occupying the window in hisusual manner.
　　"Hullo, O'Hara," he said, "there is an air of quiet satisfaction aboutyou that seems to show that you've been ragging Dexter. Have you?""Oh, that was only this morning at breakfast. The best rag was inFrench," replied O'Hara, who then proceeded to explain in detail themethods he had employed to embitter the existence of the hapless Gallicexile with whom he had come in contact. It was that gentleman's customto sit on a certain desk while conducting the lesson. This desk chancedto be O'Hara's. On the principle that a man may do what he likes withhis own, he had entered the room privily in the dinner-hour, andremoved the screws from his desk, with the result that for the firsthalf-hour of the lesson the class had been occupied in excavating M.
　　Gandinois from the ruins. That gentleman's first act on regaining hisequilibrium had been to send O'Hara out of the room, and O'Hara, whohad foreseen this emergency, had spent a very pleasant half-hour in thepassage with some mixed chocolates and a copy of Mr Hornung's_Amateur Cracksman_. It was his notion of a cheerful and instructiveFrench lesson.
　　"What were you talking about when you came in?" asked Clowes. "Who'sbeen slanging Ireland, O'Hara?""The man Briggs.""What are you going to do about it? Aren't you going to take anysteps?""Is it steps?" said O'Hara, warmly, "and haven't we----"He stopped.
　　"Well?""Ye know," he said, seriously, "ye mustn't let it go any further. Ishall get sacked if it's found out. An' so will Moriarty, too.""Why?" asked Trevor, looking up from the tea-pot he was filling, "whaton earth have you been doing?""Wouldn't it be rather a cheery idea," suggested Clowes, "if you beganat the beginning.""Well, ye see," O'Hara began, "it was this way. The first I heard of itwas from Dexter. He was trying to score off me as usual, an' he said,'Have ye seen the paper this morning, O'Hara?' I said, no, I had not.
　　Then he said, 'Ah,' he said, 'ye should look at it. There's somethingthere that ye'll find interesting.' I said, 'Yes, sir?' in merespectful way. 'Yes,' said he, 'the Irish members have been makingtheir customary disturbances in the House. Why is it, O'Hara,' he said,'that Irishmen are always thrusting themselves forward and makingdisturbances for purposes of self-advertisement?' 'Why, indeed, sir?'
　　said I, not knowing what else to say, and after that the conversationceased.""Go on," said Clowes.
　　"After breakfast Moriarty came to me with a paper, and showed me whatthey had been saying about the Irish. There was a letter from the manBriggs on the subject. 'A very sensible and temperate letter from SirEustace Briggs', they called it, but bedad! if that was a temperateletter, I should like to know what an intemperate one is. Well, we readit through, and Moriarty said to me, 'Can we let this stay as it is?'
　　And I said, 'No. We can't.' 'Well,' said Moriarty to me, 'what are weto do about it? I should like to tar and feather the man,' he said. 'Wecan't do that,' I said, 'but why not tar and feather his statue?' Isaid. So we thought we would. Ye know where the statue is, I suppose?
　　It's in the recreation ground just across the river.""I know the place," said Clowes. "Go on. This is ripping. I always knewyou were pretty mad, but this sounds as if it were going to beat allprevious records.""Have ye seen the baths this term," continued O'Hara, "since theyshifted Dexter's house into them? The beds are in two long rows alongeach wall. Moriarty's and mine are the last two at the end farthestfrom the door.""Just under the gallery," said Trevor. "I see.""That's it. Well, at half-past ten sharp every night Dexter sees thatwe're all in, locks the door, and goes off to sleep at the Old Man's,and we don't see him again till breakfast. He turns the gas off fromoutside. At half-past seven the next morning, Smith"--Smith was one ofthe school porters--"unlocks the door and calls us, and we go over tothe Hall to breakfast.""Well?""Well, directly everybody was asleep last night--it wasn't till afterone, as there was a rag on--Moriarty and I got up, dressed, and climbedup into the gallery. Ye know the gallery windows? They open at the top,an' it's rather hard to get out of them. But we managed it, and droppedon to the gravel outside.""Long drop," said Clowes.
　　"Yes. I hurt myself rather. But it was in a good cause. I droppedfirst, and while I was on the ground, Moriarty came on top of me.
　　That's how I got hurt. But it wasn't much, and we cut across thegrounds, and over the fence, and down to the river. It was a finenight, and not very dark, and everything smelt ripping down by theriver.""Don't get poetical," said Clowes. "Stick to the point.""We got into the boat-house--""How?" asked the practical Trevor, for the boat-house was wont to belocked at one in the morning. "Moriarty had a key that fitted,"explained O'Hara, briefly. "We got in, and launched a boat--a bigtub--put in the tar and a couple of brushes--there's always tar inthe boat-house--and rowed across.""Wait a bit," interrupted Trevor, "you said tar and feathers. Where didyou get the feathers?""We used leaves. They do just as well, and there were heaps on thebank. Well, when we landed, we tied up the boat, and bucked across tothe Recreation Ground. We got over the railings--beastly, spikyrailings--and went over to the statue. Ye know where the statue stands?
　　It's right in the middle of the place, where everybody can see it.
　　Moriarty got up first, and I handed him the tar and a brush. Then Iwent up with the other brush, and we began. We did his face first. Itwas too dark to see really well, but I think we made a good job of it.
　　When we had put about as much tar on as we thought would do, we tookout the leaves--which we were carrying in our pockets--and spread themon. Then we did the rest of him, and after about half an hour, when wethought we'd done about enough, we got into our boat again, and cameback.""And what did you do till half-past seven?""We couldn't get back the way we'd come, so we slept in the boat-house.""Well--I'm--hanged," was Trevor's comment on the story.
　　Clowes roared with laughter. O'Hara was a perpetual joy to him.
　　As O'Hara was going, Trevor asked him for his gold bat.
　　"You haven't lost it, I hope?" he said.
　　O'Hara felt in his pocket, but brought his hand out at once andtransferred it to another pocket. A look of anxiety came over his face,and was reflected in Trevor's.
　　"I could have sworn it was in that pocket," he said.
　　"You _haven't_ lost it?" queried Trevor again.
　　"He has," said Clowes, confidently. "If you want to know where that batis, I should say you'd find it somewhere between the baths and thestatue. At the foot of the statue, for choice. It seems to me--correctme if I am wrong--that you have been and gone and done it, me broth ava bhoy."O'Hara gave up the search.
　　"It's gone," he said. "Man, I'm most awfully sorry. I'd sooner havelost a ten-pound note.""I don't see why you should lose either," snapped Trevor. "Why theblazes can't you be more careful."O'Hara was too penitent for words. Clowes took it on himself to pointout the bright side.
　　"There's nothing to get sick about, really," he said. "If the thingdoesn't turn up, though it probably will, you'll simply have to tellthe Old Man that it's lost. He'll have another made. You won't be askedfor it till just before Sports Day either, so you will have plenty oftime to find it."The challenge cups, and also the bats, had to be given to theauthorities before the sports, to be formally presented on Sports Day.
　　"Oh, I suppose it'll be all right," said Trevor, "but I hope it won'tbe found anywhere near the statue."O'Hara said he hoped so too.
Chapter 4 The League's Warning
    The team to play in any match was always put upon the notice-board atthe foot of the stairs in the senior block a day before the date of thefixture. Both first and second fifteens had matches on the Thursday ofthis week. The second were playing a team brought down by an oldWrykinian. The first had a scratch game.
　　When Barry, accompanied by M'Todd, who shared his study at Seymour'sand rarely left him for two minutes on end, passed by the notice-boardat the quarter to eleven interval, it was to the second fifteen listthat he turned his attention. Now that Bryce had left, he thought hemight have a chance of getting into the second. His only real rival, heconsidered, was Crawford, of the School House, who was the other wingthree-quarter of the third fifteen. The first name he saw on the listwas Crawford's. It seemed to be written twice as large as any of theothers, and his own was nowhere to be seen. The fact that he had halfexpected the calamity made things no better. He had set his heart onplaying for the second this term.
　　Then suddenly he noticed a remarkable phenomenon. The other wingthree-quarter was Rand-Brown. If Rand-Brown was playing for the second,who was playing for the first?
　　He looked at the list.
　　"_Come_ on," he said hastily to M'Todd. He wanted to get awaysomewhere where his agitated condition would not be noticed. He feltquite faint at the shock of seeing his name on the list of the firstfifteen. There it was, however, as large as life. "M. Barry." Separatedfrom the rest by a thin red line, but still there. In his mostoptimistic moments he had never dreamed of this. M'Todd was readingslowly through the list of the second. He did everything slowly, excepteating.
　　"Come on," said Barry again.
　　M'Todd had, after much deliberation, arrived at a profound truth. Heturned to Barry, and imparted his discovery to him in the weightymanner of one who realises the importance of his words.
　　"Look here," he said, "your name's not down here.""I know. _Come_ on.""But that means you're not playing for the second.""Of course it does. Well, if you aren't coming, I'm off.""But, look here----"Barry disappeared through the door. After a moment's pause, M'Toddfollowed him. He came up with him on the senior gravel.
　　"What's up?" he inquired.
　　"Nothing," said Barry.
　　"Are you sick about not playing for the second?""No.""You are, really. Come and have a bun."In the philosophy of M'Todd it was indeed a deep-rooted sorrow thatcould not be cured by the internal application of a new, hot bun. Ithad never failed in his own case.
　　"Bun!" Barry was quite shocked at the suggestion. "I can't afford toget myself out of condition with beastly buns.""But if you aren't playing----""You ass. I'm playing for the first. Now, do you see?"M'Todd gaped. His mind never worked very rapidly. "What aboutRand-Brown, then?" he said.
　　"Rand-Brown's been chucked out. Can't you understand? You _are_ anidiot. Rand-Brown's playing for the second, and I'm playing for thefirst.""But you're----"He stopped. He had been going to point out that Barry's tender years--hewas only sixteen--and smallness would make it impossible for him to playwith success for the first fifteen. He refrained owing to a convictionthat the remark would not be wholly judicious. Barry was touchy on thesubject of his size, and M'Todd had suffered before now for commentingon it in a disparaging spirit.
　　"I tell you what we'll do after school," said Barry, "we'll have somerunning and passing. It'll do you a lot of good, and I want to practisetaking passes at full speed. You can trot along at your ordinary pace,and I'll sprint up from behind."M'Todd saw no objection to that. Trotting along at his ordinarypace--five miles an hour--would just suit him.
　　"Then after that," continued Barry, with a look of enthusiasm, "I wantto practise passing back to my centre. Paget used to do it awfully welllast term, and I know Trevor expects his wing to. So I'll buck along,and you race up to take my pass. See?"This was not in M'Todd's line at all. He proposed a slight alterationin the scheme.
　　"Hadn't you better get somebody else--?" he began.
　　"Don't be a slack beast," said Barry. "You want exercise awfullybadly."And, as M'Todd always did exactly as Barry wished, he gave in, andspent from four-thirty to five that afternoon in the prescribed manner.
　　A suggestion on his part at five sharp that it wouldn't be a bad ideato go and have some tea was not favourably received by the enthusiasticthree-quarter, who proposed to devote what time remained before lock-upto practising drop-kicking. It was a painful alternative that facedM'Todd. His allegiance to Barry demanded that he should consent to thescheme. On the other hand, his allegiance to afternoon tea--equallystrong--called him back to the house, where there was cake, and alsomuffins. In the end the question was solved by the appearance ofDrummond, of Seymour's, garbed in football things, and also anxious topractise drop-kicking. So M'Todd was dismissed to his tea withopprobrious epithets, and Barry and Drummond settled down to a littleserious and scientific work.
　　Making allowances for the inevitable attack of nerves that attends afirst appearance in higher football circles than one is accustomed to,Barry did well against the scratch team--certainly far better thanRand-Brown had done. His smallness was, of course, against him, and, onthe only occasion on which he really got away, Paget overtook him andbrought him down. But then Paget was exceptionally fast. In the twomost important branches of the game, the taking of passes and tackling,Barry did well. As far as pluck went he had enough for two, and whenthe whistle blew for no-side he had not let Paget through once, andTrevor felt that his inclusion in the team had been justified. Therewas another scratch game on the Saturday. Barry played in it, and didmuch better. Paget had gone away by an early train, and the man he hadto mark now was one of the masters, who had been good in his time, butwas getting a trifle old for football. Barry scored twice, and on oneoccasion, by passing back to Trevor after the manner of Paget, enabledthe captain to run in. And Trevor, like the captain in _BillyTaylor_, "werry much approved of what he'd done." Barry began to beregarded in the school as a regular member of the fifteen. The first ofthe fixture-card matches, versus the Town, was due on the followingSaturday, and it was generally expected that he would play. M'Todd'sdevotion increased every day. He even went to the length of taking longruns with him. And if there was one thing in the world that M'Toddloathed, it was a long run.
　　On the Thursday before the match against the Town, Clowes camechuckling to Trevor's study after preparation, and asked him if he hadheard the latest.
　　"Have you ever heard of the League?" he said.
　　Trevor pondered.
　　"I don't think so," he replied.
　　"How long have you been at the school?""Let's see. It'll be five years at the end of the summer term.""Ah, then you wouldn't remember. I've been here a couple of termslonger than you, and the row about the League was in my first term.""What was the row?""Oh, only some chaps formed a sort of secret society in the place. Kindof Vehmgericht, you know. If they got their knife into any one, heusually got beans, and could never find out where they came from. Atfirst, as a matter of fact, the thing was quite a philanthropicalconcern. There used to be a good deal of bullying in the place then--atleast, in some of the houses--and, as the prefects couldn't or wouldn'tstop it, some fellows started this League.""Did it work?""Work! By Jove, I should think it did. Chaps who previously couldn'tget through the day without making some wretched kid's life not worthliving used to go about as nervous as cats, looking over theirshoulders every other second. There was one man in particular, a chapcalled Leigh. He was hauled out of bed one night, blindfolded, andducked in a cold bath. He was in the School House.""Why did the League bust up?""Well, partly because the fellows left, but chiefly because they didn'tstick to the philanthropist idea. If anybody did anything they didn'tlike, they used to go for him. At last they put their foot into itbadly. A chap called Robinson--in this house by the way--offended themin some way, and one morning he was found tied up in the bath, up tohis neck in cold water. Apparently he'd been there about an hour. Hegot pneumonia, and almost died, and then the authorities began to getgoing. Robinson thought he had recognised the voice of one of thechaps--I forget his name. The chap was had up by the Old Man, and gavethe show away entirely. About a dozen fellows were sacked, clean offthe reel. Since then the thing has been dropped.""But what about it? What were you going to say when you came in?""Why, it's been revived!""Rot!""It's a fact. Do you know Mill, a prefect, in Seymour's?""Only by sight.""I met him just now. He's in a raving condition. His study's beenwrecked. You never saw such a sight. Everything upside down or smashed.
　　He has been showing me the ruins.""I believe Mill is awfully barred in Seymour's," said Trevor. "Anybodymight have ragged his study.""That's just what I thought. He's just the sort of man the League usedto go for.""That doesn't prove that it's been revived, all the same," objectedTrevor.
　　"No, friend; but this does. Mill found it tied to a chair."It was a small card. It looked like an ordinary visiting card. On it,in neat print, were the words, "_With the compliments of theLeague_".
　　"That's exactly the same sort of card as they used to use," saidClowes. "I've seen some of them. What do you think of that?""I think whoever has started the thing is a pretty average-sized idiot.
　　He's bound to get caught some time or other, and then out he goes. TheOld Man wouldn't think twice about sacking a chap of that sort.""A chap of that sort," said Clowes, "will take jolly good care he isn'tcaught. But it's rather sport, isn't it?"And he went off to his study.
　　Next day there was further evidence that the League was an actual goingconcern. When Trevor came down to breakfast, he found a letter by hisplate. It was printed, as the card had been. It was signed "ThePresident of the League." And the purport of it was that the League didnot wish Barry to continue to play for the first fifteen.
Chapter 5 Mill Receives Visitors
    Trevor's first idea was that somebody had sent the letter for ajoke,--Clowes for choice.
　　He sounded him on the subject after breakfast.
　　"Did you send me that letter?" he inquired, when Clowes came into hisstudy to borrow a _Sportsman_.
　　"What letter? Did you send the team for tomorrow up to the sporter? Iwonder what sort of a lot the Town are bringing.""About not giving Barry his footer colours?"Clowes was reading the paper.
　　"Giving whom?" he asked.
　　"Barry. Can't you listen?""Giving him what?""Footer colours.""What about them?"Trevor sprang at the paper, and tore it away from him. After which hesat on the fragments.
　　"Did you send me a letter about not giving Barry his footer colours?"Clowes surveyed him with the air of a nurse to whom the family baby hasjust said some more than usually good thing.
　　"Don't stop," he said, "I could listen all day."Trevor felt in his pocket for the note, and flung it at him. Clowespicked it up, and read it gravely.
　　"What _are_ footer colours?" he asked.
　　"Well," said Trevor, "it's a pretty rotten sort of joke, whoever sentit. You haven't said yet whether you did or not.""What earthly reason should I have for sending it? And I think you'remaking a mistake if you think this is meant as a joke.""You don't really believe this League rot?""You didn't see Mill's study 'after treatment'. I did. Anyhow, how doyou account for the card I showed you?""But that sort of thing doesn't happen at school.""Well, it _has_ happened, you see.""Who do you think did send the letter, then?""The President of the League.""And who the dickens is the President of the League when he's at home?""If I knew that, I should tell Mill, and earn his blessing. Not that Iwant it.""Then, I suppose," snorted Trevor, "you'd suggest that on the strengthof this letter I'd better leave Barry out of the team?""Satirically in brackets," commented Clowes.
　　"It's no good your jumping on _me_," he added. "I've done nothing.
　　All I suggest is that you'd better keep more or less of a look-out. Ifthis League's anything like the old one, you'll find they've all sortsof ways of getting at people they don't love. I shouldn't like to comedown for a bath some morning, and find you already in possession, tiedup like Robinson. When they found Robinson, he was quite blue both asto the face and speech. He didn't speak very clearly, but what onecould catch was well worth hearing. I should advise you to sleep with aloaded revolver under your pillow.""The first thing I shall do is find out who wrote this letter.""I should," said Clowes, encouragingly. "Keep moving."In Seymour's house the Mill's study incident formed the only theme ofconversation that morning. Previously the sudden elevation to the firstfifteen of Barry, who was popular in the house, at the expense ofRand-Brown, who was unpopular, had given Seymour's something to talkabout. But the ragging of the study put this topic entirely in the shade.
　　The study was still on view in almost its original condition of disorder,and all day comparative strangers flocked to see Mill in his den, inorder to inspect things. Mill was a youth with few friends, and it isprobable that more of his fellow-Seymourites crossed the threshold ofhis study on the day after the occurrence than had visited him in theentire course of his school career. Brown would come in to borrow aknife, would sweep the room with one comprehensive glance, and depart,to be followed at brief intervals by Smith, Robinson, and Jones, whocame respectively to learn the right time, to borrow a book, and to askhim if he had seen a pencil anywhere. Towards the end of the day, Millwould seem to have wearied somewhat of the proceedings, as was provedwhen Master Thomas Renford, aged fourteen (who fagged for Milton, thehead of the house), burst in on the thin pretence that he had mistakenthe study for that of his rightful master, and gave vent to a prolongedwhistle of surprise and satisfaction at the sight of the ruins. Onthat occasion, the incensed owner of the dismantled study, taking amean advantage of the fact that he was a prefect, and so entitled towield the rod, produced a handy swagger-stick from an adjacent corner,and, inviting Master Renford to bend over, gave him six of the best toremember him by. Which ceremony being concluded, he kicked him out intothe passage, and Renford went down to the junior day-room to tell hisfriend Harvey about it.
　　"Gave me six, the cad," said he, "just because I had a look at hisbeastly study. Why shouldn't I look at his study if I like? I've ajolly good mind to go up and have another squint."Harvey warmly approved the scheme.
　　"No, I don't think I will," said Renford with a yawn. "It's such a faggoing upstairs.""Yes, isn't it?" said Harvey.
　　"And he's such a beast, too.""Yes, isn't he?" said Harvey.
　　"I'm jolly glad his study _has_ been ragged," continued thevindictive Renford.
　　"It's jolly exciting, isn't it?" added Harvey. "And I thought this termwas going to be slow. The Easter term generally is."This remark seemed to suggest a train of thought to Renford, who madethe following cryptic observation. "Have you seen them today?"To the ordinary person the words would have conveyed little meaning. ToHarvey they appeared to teem with import.
　　"Yes," he said, "I saw them early this morning.""Were they all right?""Yes. Splendid.""Good," said Renford.
　　Barry's friend Drummond was one of those who had visited the scene ofthe disaster early, before Mill's energetic hand had repaired thedamage done, and his narrative was consequently in some demand.
　　"The place was in a frightful muck," he said. "Everything smashedexcept the table; and ink all over the place. Whoever did it must havebeen fairly sick with him, or he'd never have taken the trouble to doit so thoroughly. Made a fair old hash of things, didn't he, Bertie?""Bertie" was the form in which the school elected to serve up the nameof De Bertini. Raoul de Bertini was a French boy who had come to Wrykynin the previous term. Drummond's father had met his father in Paris,and Drummond was supposed to be looking after Bertie. They shared astudy together. Bertie could not speak much English, and what he didspeak was, like Mill's furniture, badly broken.
　　"Pardon?" he said.
　　"Doesn't matter," said Drummond, "it wasn't anything important. I wasonly appealing to you for corroborative detail to give artisticverisimilitude to a bald and unconvincing narrative."Bertie grinned politely. He always grinned when he was not quite equalto the intellectual pressure of the conversation. As a consequence ofwhich, he was generally, like Mrs Fezziwig, one vast, substantialsmile.
　　"I never liked Mill much," said Barry, "but I think it's rather badluck on the man.""Once," announced M'Todd, solemnly, "he kicked me--for making a row inthe passage." It was plain that the recollection rankled.
　　Barry would probably have pointed out what an excellent andpraiseworthy act on Mill's part that had been, when Rand-Brown came in.
　　"Prefects' meeting?" he inquired. "Or haven't they made you a prefectyet, M'Todd?"M'Todd said they had not.
　　Nobody present liked Rand-Brown, and they looked at him ratherinquiringly, as if to ask what he had come for. A friend may drop infor a chat. An acquaintance must justify his intrusion.
　　Rand-Brown ignored the silent inquiry. He seated himself on the table,and dragged up a chair to rest his legs on.
　　"Talking about Mill, of course?" he said.
　　"Yes," said Drummond. "Have you seen his study since it happened?""Yes."Rand-Brown smiled, as if the recollection amused him. He was one ofthose people who do not look their best when they smile.
　　"Playing for the first tomorrow, Barry?""I don't know," said Barry, shortly. "I haven't seen the list."He objected to the introduction of the topic. It is never pleasant tohave to discuss games with the very man one has ousted from the team.
　　Drummond, too, seemed to feel that the situation was an embarrassingone, for a few minutes later he got up to go over to the gymnasium.
　　"Any of you chaps coming?" he asked.
　　Barry and M'Todd thought they would, and the three left the room.
　　"Nothing like showing a man you don't want him, eh, Bertie? What do youthink?" said Rand-Brown.
　　Bertie grinned politely.
Chapter 6 Trevor Remains Firm
    The most immediate effect of telling anybody not to do a thing is tomake him do it, in order to assert his independence. Trevor's first acton receipt of the letter was to include Barry in the team against theTown. It was what he would have done in any case, but, under thecircumstances, he felt a peculiar pleasure in doing it. The incidentalso had the effect of recalling to his mind the fact that he had triedBarry in the first instance on his own responsibility, withoutconsulting the committee. The committee of the first fifteen consistedof the two old colours who came immediately after the captain on thelist. The powers of a committee varied according to the determinationand truculence of the members of it. On any definite and importantstep, affecting the welfare of the fifteen, the captain theoreticallycould not move without their approval. But if the captain happened tobe strong-minded and the committee weak, they were apt to be slightlyout of it, and the captain would develop a habit of consulting them aday or so after he had done a thing. He would give a man his colours,and inform the committee of it on the following afternoon, when thething was done and could not be repealed.
　　Trevor was accustomed to ask the advice of his lieutenants fairlyfrequently. He never gave colours, for instance, off his own bat. Itseemed to him that it might be as well to learn what views Milton andAllardyce had on the subject of Barry, and, after the Town team hadgone back across the river, defeated by a goal and a try to nil, hechanged and went over to Seymour's to interview Milton.
　　Milton was in an arm-chair, watching Renford brew tea. His was one ofthe few studies in the school in which there was an arm-chair. With themajority of his contemporaries, it would only run to the portable kindthat fold up.
　　"Come and have some tea, Trevor," said Milton.
　　"Thanks. If there's any going.""Heaps. Is there anything to eat, Renford?"The fag, appealed to on this important point, pondered darkly for amoment.
　　"There _was_ some cake," he said.
　　"That's all right," interrupted Milton, cheerfully. "Scratch the cake.
　　I ate it before the match. Isn't there anything else?"Milton had a healthy appetite.
　　"Then there used to be some biscuits.""Biscuits are off. I finished 'em yesterday. Look here, young Renford,what you'd better do is cut across to the shop and get some more cakeand some more biscuits, and tell 'em to put it down to me. And don't belong.""A miles better idea would be to send him over to Donaldson's to fetchsomething from my study," suggested Trevor. "It isn't nearly so far,and I've got heaps of stuff.""Ripping. Cut over to Donaldson's, young Renford. As a matter of fact,"he added, confidentially, when the emissary had vanished, "I'm not halfsure that the other dodge would have worked. They seem to think at theshop that I've had about enough things on tick lately. I haven'tsettled up for last term yet. I've spent all I've got on this study.
　　What do you think of those photographs?"Trevor got up and inspected them. They filled the mantelpiece and mostof the wall above it. They were exclusively theatrical photographs, andof a variety to suit all tastes. For the earnest student of the dramathere was Sir Henry Irving in _The Bells_, and Mr Martin Harvey in_The Only Way._ For the admirers of the merely beautiful therewere Messrs Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell.
　　"Not bad," said Trevor. "Beastly waste of money.""Waste of money!" Milton was surprised and pained at the criticism.
　　"Why, you must spend your money on _something."_"Rot, I call it," said Trevor. "If you want to collect something, whydon't you collect something worth having?"Just then Renford came back with the supplies.
　　"Thanks," said Milton, "put 'em down. Does the billy boil, youngRenford?"Renford asked for explanatory notes.
　　"You're a bit of an ass at times, aren't you?" said Milton, kindly.
　　"What I meant was, is the tea ready? If it is, you can scoot. If itisn't, buck up with it."A sound of bubbling and a rush of steam from the spout of the kettleproclaimed that the billy did boil. Renford extinguished the Etna, andleft the room, while Milton, murmuring vague formulae about "onespoonful for each person and one for the pot", got out of his chairwith a groan--for the Town match had been an energetic one--and beganto prepare tea.
　　"What I really came round about--" began Trevor.
　　"Half a second. I can't find the milk."He went to the door, and shouted for Renford. On that overworkedyouth's appearance, the following dialogue took place.
　　"Where's the milk?""What milk?""My milk.""There isn't any." This in a tone not untinged with triumph, as if thespeaker realised that here was a distinct score to him.
　　"No milk?""No.""Why not?""You never had any.""Well, just cut across--no, half a second. What are you doingdownstairs?""Having tea.""Then you've got milk.""Only a little." This apprehensively.
　　"Bring it up. You can have what we leave."Disgusted retirement of Master Renford.
　　"What I really came about," said Trevor again, "was business.""Colours?" inquired Milton, rummaging in the tin for biscuits withsugar on them. "Good brand of biscuit you keep, Trevor.""Yes. I think we might give Alexander and Parker their third.""All right. Any others?""Barry his second, do you think?""Rather. He played a good game today. He's an improvement onRand-Brown.""Glad you think so. I was wondering whether it was the right thing todo, chucking Rand-Brown out after one trial like that. But still, ifyou think Barry's better--""Streets better. I've had heaps of chances of watching them andcomparing them, when they've been playing for the house. It isn't onlythat Rand-Brown can't tackle, and Barry can. Barry takes his passesmuch better, and doesn't lose his head when he's pressed.""Just what I thought," said Trevor. "Then you'd go on playing him forthe first?""Rather. He'll get better every game, you'll see, as he gets more usedto playing in the first three-quarter line. And he's as keen asanything on getting into the team. Practises taking passes and thatsort of thing every day.""Well, he'll get his colours if we lick Ripton.""We ought to lick them. They've lost one of their forwards, Clifford, ared-haired chap, who was good out of touch. I don't know if youremember him.""I suppose I ought to go and see Allardyce about these colours, now.
　　Good-bye."There was running and passing on the Monday for every one in the threeteams. Trevor and Clowes met Mr Seymour as they were returning. MrSeymour was the football master at Wrykyn.
　　"I see you've given Barry his second, Trevor.""Yes, sir.""I think you're wise to play him for the first. He knows the game,which is the great thing, and he will improve with practice," said MrSeymour, thus corroborating Milton's words of the previous Saturday.
　　"I'm glad Seymour thinks Barry good," said Trevor, as they walked on.
　　"I shall go on playing him now.""Found out who wrote that letter yet?"Trevor laughed.
　　"Not yet," he said.
　　"Probably Rand-Brown," suggested Clowes. "He's the man who would gainmost by Barry's not playing. I hear he had a row with Mill just beforehis study was ragged.""Everybody in Seymour's has had rows with Mill some time or other,"said Trevor.
　　Clowes stopped at the door of the junior day-room to find his fag.
　　Trevor went on upstairs. In the passage he met Ruthven.
　　Ruthven seemed excited.
　　"I say. Trevor," he exclaimed, "have you seen your study?""Why, what's the matter with it?""You'd better go and look."
Chapter 7 ＂With The Compliments Of The League＂
    Trevor went and looked.
　　It was rather an interesting sight. An earthquake or a cyclone mighthave made it a little more picturesque, but not much more. The generaleffect was not unlike that of an American saloon, after a visit fromMrs Carrie Nation (with hatchet). As in the case of Mill's study, theonly thing that did not seem to have suffered any great damage was thetable. Everything else looked rather off colour. The mantelpiece hadbeen swept as bare as a bone, and its contents littered the floor.
　　Trevor dived among the debris and retrieved the latest addition to hisart gallery, the photograph of this year's first fifteen. It was awreck. The glass was broken and the photograph itself slashed with aknife till most of the faces were unrecognisable. He picked up anothertreasure, last year's first eleven. Smashed glass again. Faces cutabout with knife as before. His collection of snapshots was torn into athousand fragments, though, as Mr Jerome said of the papier-machetrout, there may only have been nine hundred. He did not countthem. His bookshelf was empty. The books had gone to swell thecontents of the floor. There was a Shakespeare with its cover off.
　　Pages twenty-two to thirty-one of _Vice Versa_ had parted from theparent establishment, and were lying by themselves near the door. _TheRogues' March_ lay just beyond them, and the look of the coversuggested that somebody had either been biting it or jumping on it withheavy boots.
　　There was other damage. Over the mantelpiece in happier days had hung adozen sea gulls' eggs, threaded on a string. The string was stillthere, as good as new, but of the eggs nothing was to be seen, save afine parti-coloured powder--on the floor, like everything else in thestudy. And a good deal of ink had been upset in one place and another.
　　Trevor had been staring at the ruins for some time, when he looked upto see Clowes standing in the doorway.
　　"Hullo," said Clowes, "been tidying up?"Trevor made a few hasty comments on the situation. Clowes listenedapprovingly.
　　"Don't you think," he went on, eyeing the study with a critical air,"that you've got too many things on the floor, and too few anywhereelse? And I should move some of those books on to the shelf, if I wereyou."Trevor breathed very hard.
　　"I should like to find the chap who did this," he said softly.
　　Clowes advanced into the room and proceeded to pick up variousmisplaced articles of furniture in a helpful way.
　　"I thought so," he said presently, "come and look here."Tied to a chair, exactly as it had been in the case of Mill, was a neatwhite card, and on it were the words, _"With the Compliments of theLeague"._"What are you going to do about this?" asked Clowes. "Come into my roomand talk it over.""I'll tidy this place up first," said Trevor. He felt that the workwould be a relief. "I don't want people to see this. It mustn't getabout. I'm not going to have my study turned into a sort of side-show,like Mill's. You go and change. I shan't be long.""I will never desert Mr Micawber," said Clowes. "Friend, my place is byyour side. Shut the door and let's get to work."Ten minutes later the room had resumed a more or less--thoughprincipally less--normal appearance. The books and chairs were back intheir places. The ink was sopped up. The broken photographs werestacked in a neat pile in one corner, with a rug over them. Themantelpiece was still empty, but, as Clowes pointed out, it now merelylooked as if Trevor had been pawning some of his household gods. Therewas no sign that a devastating secret society had raged through thestudy.
　　Then they adjourned to Clowes' study, where Trevor sank into Clowes'
　　second-best chair--Clowes, by an adroit movement, having appropriatedthe best one--with a sigh of enjoyment. Running and passing, followedby the toil of furniture-shifting, had made him feel quite tired.
　　"It doesn't look so bad now," he said, thinking of the room they hadleft. "By the way, what did you do with that card?""Here it is. Want it?""You can keep it. I don't want it.""Thanks. If this sort of things goes on, I shall get quite a nicecollection of these cards. Start an album some day.""You know," said Trevor, "this is getting serious.""It always does get serious when anything bad happens to one's self. Italways strikes one as rather funny when things happen to other people.
　　When Mill's study was wrecked, I bet you regarded it as an amusing andoriginal 'turn'. What do you think of the present effort?""Who on earth can have done it?""The Pres--""Oh, dry up. Of course it was. But who the blazes is he?""Nay, children, you have me there," quoted Clowes. "I'll tell you onething, though. You remember what I said about it's probably beingRand-Brown. He can't have done this, that's certain, because he wasout in the fields the whole time. Though I don't see who else couldhave anything to gain by Barry not getting his colours.""There's no reason to suspect him at all, as far as I can see. I don'tknow much about him, bar the fact that he can't play footer for nuts,but I've never heard anything against him. Have you?""I scarcely know him myself. He isn't liked in Seymour's, I believe.""Well, anyhow, this can't be his work.""That's what I said.""For all we know, the League may have got their knife into Barry forsome reason. You said they used to get their knife into fellows in thatway. Anyhow, I mean to find out who ragged my room.""It wouldn't be a bad idea," said Clowes.
　　* * * * *O'Hara came round to Donaldson's before morning school next day to tellTrevor that he had not yet succeeded in finding the lost bat. He foundTrevor and Clowes in the former's den, trying to put a few finishingtouches to the same.
　　"Hullo, an' what's up with your study?" he inquired. He was quick atnoticing things. Trevor looked annoyed. Clowes asked the visitor if hedid not think the study presented a neat and gentlemanly appearance.
　　"Where are all your photographs, Trevor?" persisted the descendant ofIrish kings.
　　"It's no good trying to conceal anything from the bhoy," said Clowes.
　　"Sit down, O'Hara--mind that chair; it's rather wobbly--and I will tellye the story.""Can you keep a thing dark?" inquired Trevor.
　　O'Hara protested that tombs were not in it.
　　"Well, then, do you remember what happened to Mill's study? That'swhat's been going on here."O'Hara nearly fell off his chair with surprise. That somephilanthropist should rag Mill's study was only to be expected. Millwas one of the worst. A worm without a saving grace. But Trevor!
　　Captain of football! In the first eleven! The thing was unthinkable.
　　"But who--?" he began.
　　"That's just what I want to know," said Trevor, shortly. He did notenjoy discussing the affair.
　　"How long have you been at Wrykyn, O'Hara?" said Clowes.
　　O'Hara made a rapid calculation. His fingers twiddled in the air as heworked out the problem.
　　"Six years," he said at last, leaning back exhausted with brain work.
　　"Then you must remember the League?""Remember the League? Rather.""Well, it's been revived."O'Hara whistled.
　　"This'll liven the old place up," he said. "I've often thought ofreviving it meself. An' so has Moriarty. If it's anything like the OldLeague, there's going to be a sort of Donnybrook before it's done with.
　　I wonder who's running it this time.""We should like to know that. If you find out, you might tell us.""I will.""And don't tell anybody else," said Trevor. "This business has got tobe kept quiet. Keep it dark about my study having been ragged.""I won't tell a soul.""Not even Moriarty.""Oh, hang it, man," put in Clowes, "you don't want to kill the poorbhoy, surely? You must let him tell one person.""All right," said Trevor, "you can tell Moriarty. But nobody else,mind."O'Hara promised that Moriarty should receive the news exclusively.
　　"But why did the League go for ye?""They happen to be down on me. It doesn't matter why. They are.""I see," said O'Hara. "Oh," he added, "about that bat. The search isbeing 'vigorously prosecuted'--that's a newspaper quotation--""Times?" inquired Clowes.
　　"_Wrykyn Patriot_," said O'Hara, pulling out a bundle of letters.
　　He inspected each envelope in turn, and from the fifth extracted anewspaper cutting.
　　"Read that," he said.
　　It was from the local paper, and ran as follows:--"_Hooligan Outrage_--A painful sensation has been caused in thetown by a deplorable ebullition of local Hooliganism, which hasresulted in the wanton disfigurement of the splendid statue of SirEustace Briggs which stands in the New Recreation Grounds. Our readerswill recollect that the statue was erected to commemorate the return ofSir Eustace as member for the borough of Wrykyn, by an overwhelmingmajority, at the last election. Last Tuesday some youths of the town,passing through the Recreation Grounds early in the morning, noticedthat the face and body of the statue were completely covered withleaves and some black substance, which on examination proved to be tar.
　　They speedily lodged information at the police station. Everythingseems to point to party spite as the motive for the outrage. In view ofthe forth-coming election, such an act is highly significant, and willserve sufficiently to indicate the tactics employed by our opponents.
　　The search for the perpetrator (or perpetrators) of the dastardly actis being vigorously prosecuted, and we learn with satisfaction that thepolice have already several clues.""Clues!" said Clowes, handing back the paper, "that means _thebat_. That gas about 'our opponents' is all a blind to put you offyour guard. You wait. There'll be more painful sensations before you'vefinished with this business.""They can't have found the bat, or why did they not say so?" observedO'Hara.
　　"Guile," said Clowes, "pure guile. If I were you, I should escape whileI could. Try Callao. There's no extradition there.
　　'On no petitionIs extraditionAllowed in Callao.'
　　Either of you chaps coming over to school?"
Chapter 8 O'Hare On The Track
    Tuesday mornings at Wrykyn were devoted--up to the quarter to eleveninterval--to the study of mathematics. That is to say, instead of goingto their form-rooms, the various forms visited the out-of-the-way nooksand dens at the top of the buildings where the mathematical masterswere wont to lurk, and spent a pleasant two hours there playing roundgames or reading fiction under the desk. Mathematics being one of thefew branches of school learning which are of any use in after life,nobody ever dreamed of doing any work in that direction, least of allO'Hara. It was a theory of O'Hara's that he came to school to enjoyhimself. To have done any work during a mathematics lesson would havestruck him as a positive waste of time, especially as he was in MrBanks' class. Mr Banks was a master who simply cried out to be ragged.
　　Everything he did and said seemed to invite the members of his class toamuse themselves, and they amused themselves accordingly. One of theadvantages of being under him was that it was possible to predict to anicety the moment when one would be sent out of the room. This wasfound very convenient.
　　O'Hara's ally, Moriarty, was accustomed to take his mathematics with MrMorgan, whose room was directly opposite Mr Banks'. With Mr Morgan itwas not quite so easy to date one's expulsion from the room underordinary circumstances, and in the normal wear and tear of themorning's work, but there was one particular action which could alwaysbe relied upon to produce the desired result.
　　In one corner of the room stood a gigantic globe. The problem--how didit get into the room?--was one that had exercised the minds of manygenerations of Wrykinians. It was much too big to have come through thedoor. Some thought that the block had been built round it, others thatit had been placed in the room in infancy, and had since grown. Torefer the question to Mr Morgan would, in six cases out of ten, meaninstant departure from the room. But to make the event certain, it wasnecessary to grasp the globe firmly and spin it round on its axis. Thatalways proved successful. Mr Morgan would dash down from his dais,address the offender in spirited terms, and give him his marchingorders at once and without further trouble.
　　Moriarty had arranged with O'Hara to set the globe rolling at ten sharpon this particular morning. O'Hara would then so arrange matters withMr Banks that they could meet in the passage at that hour, when O'Harawished to impart to his friend his information concerning the League.
　　O'Hara promised to be at the trysting-place at the hour mentioned.
　　He did not think there would be any difficulty about it. The news thatthe League had been revived meant that there would be trouble in thevery near future, and the prospect of trouble was meat and drink to theIrishman in O'Hara. Consequently he felt in particularly good form formathematics (as he interpreted the word). He thought that he would haveno difficulty whatever in keeping Mr Banks bright and amused. The firststep had to be to arouse in him an interest in life, to bring him intoa frame of mind which would induce him to look severely rather thanleniently on the next offender. This was effected as follows:--It was Mr Banks' practice to set his class sums to work out, and, aftersome three-quarters of an hour had elapsed, to pass round the form whathe called "solutions". These were large sheets of paper, on which hehad worked out each sum in his neat handwriting to a happy ending. Whenthe head of the form, to whom they were passed first, had finished withthem, he would make a slight tear in one corner, and, having done so,hand them on to his neighbour. The neighbour, before giving them to_his_ neighbour, would also tear them slightly. In time they wouldreturn to their patentee and proprietor, and it was then that thingsbecame exciting.
　　"Who tore these solutions like this?" asked Mr Banks, in the repressedvoice of one who is determined that he _will_ be calm.
　　No answer. The tattered solutions waved in the air.
　　He turned to Harringay, the head of the form.
　　"Harringay, did you tear these solutions like this?"Indignant negative from Harringay. What he had done had been to makethe small tear in the top left-hand corner. If Mr Banks had asked, "Didyou make this small tear in the top left-hand corner of thesesolutions?" Harringay would have scorned to deny the impeachment. Butto claim the credit for the whole work would, he felt, be an act offlat dishonesty, and an injustice to his gifted _collaborateurs._"No, sir," said Harringay.
　　"Browne!""Yes, sir?""Did you tear these solutions in this manner?""No, sir."And so on through the form.
　　Then Harringay rose after the manner of the debater who is consciousthat he is going to say the popular thing.
　　"Sir--" he began.
　　"Sit down, Harringay."Harringay gracefully waved aside the absurd command.
　　"Sir," he said, "I think I am expressing the general consensus ofopinion among my--ahem--fellow-students, when I say that this classsincerely regrets the unfortunate state the solutions have managed toget themselves into.""Hear, hear!" from a back bench.
　　"It is with--""Sit _down_, Harringay.""It is with heartfelt--""Harringay, if you do not sit down--""As your ludship pleases." This _sotto voce_.
　　And Harringay resumed his seat amidst applause. O'Hara got up.
　　"As me frind who has just sat down was about to observe--""Sit down, O'Hara. The whole form will remain after the class.""--the unfortunate state the solutions have managed to get thimsilvesinto is sincerely regretted by this class. Sir, I think I am ixprissingthe general consensus of opinion among my fellow-students whin I saythat it is with heart-felt sorrow--""O'Hara!""Yes, sir?""Leave the room instantly.""Yes, sir."From the tower across the gravel came the melodious sound of chimes.
　　The college clock was beginning to strike ten. He had scarcely got intothe passage, and closed the door after him, when a roar as of abereaved spirit rang through the room opposite, followed by a string ofwords, the only intelligible one being the noun-substantive "globe",and the next moment the door opened and Moriarty came out. The laststroke of ten was just booming from the clock.
　　There was a large cupboard in the passage, the top of which made a verycomfortable seat. They climbed on to this, and began to talk business.
　　"An' what was it ye wanted to tell me?" inquired Moriarty.
　　O'Hara related what he had learned from Trevor that morning.
　　"An' do ye know," said Moriarty, when he had finished, "I halfsuspected, when I heard that Mill's study had been ragged, that itmight be the League that had done it. If ye remember, it was what theyenjoyed doing, breaking up a man's happy home. They did it frequently.""But I can't understand them doing it to Trevor at all.""They'll do it to anybody they choose till they're caught at it.""If they are caught, there'll be a row.""We must catch 'em," said Moriarty. Like O'Hara, he revelled in theprospect of a disturbance. O'Hara and he were going up to Aldershot atthe end of the term, to try and bring back the light and middle-weightmedals respectively. Moriarty had won the light-weight in the previousyear, but, by reason of putting on a stone since the competition, wasnow no longer eligible for that class. O'Hara had not been up before,but the Wrykyn instructor, a good judge of pugilistic form, was ofopinion that he ought to stand an excellent chance. As the prize-fighterin _Rodney Stone_ says, "When you get a good Irishman, you can'tbetter 'em, but they're dreadful 'asty." O'Hara was attending thegymnasium every night, in order to learn to curb his "dreadful'astiness", and acquire skill in its place.
　　"I wonder if Trevor would be any good in a row," said Moriarty.
　　"He can't box," said O'Hara, "but he'd go on till he was killedentirely. I say, I'm getting rather tired of sitting here, aren't you?
　　Let's go to the other end of the passage and have some cricket."So, having unearthed a piece of wood from the debris at the top of thecupboard, and rolled a handkerchief into a ball, they adjourned.
　　Recalling the stirring events of six years back, when the League hadfirst been started, O'Hara remembered that the members of thatenterprising society had been wont to hold meetings in a secluded spot,where it was unlikely that they would be disturbed. It seemed to himthat the first thing he ought to do, if he wanted to make their neareracquaintance now, was to find their present rendezvous. They must haveone. They would never run the risk involved in holding mass-meetings inone another's studies. On the last occasion, it had been an old quarryaway out on the downs. This had been proved by the not-to-be-shakentestimony of three school-house fags, who had wandered out onehalf-holiday with the unconcealed intention of finding the League'splace of meeting. Unfortunately for them, they _had_ found it.
　　They were going down the path that led to the quarry before-mentioned,when they were unexpectedly seized, blindfolded, and carried off. Animpromptu court-martial was held--in whispers--and the three explorersforthwith received the most spirited "touching-up" they had everexperienced. Afterwards they were released, and returned to their housewith their zeal for detection quite quenched. The episode had created agood deal of excitement in the school at the time.
　　On three successive afternoons, O'Hara and Moriarty scoured the downs,and on each occasion they drew blank. On the fourth day, just beforelock-up, O'Hara, who had been to tea with Gregson, of Day's, wasgoing over to the gymnasium to keep a pugilistic appointment withMoriarty, when somebody ran swiftly past him in the direction of theboarding-houses. It was almost dark, for the days were still short,and he did not recognise the runner. But it puzzled him a little tothink where he had sprung from. O'Hara was walking quite close to thewall of the College buildings, and the runner had passed between it andhim. And he had not heard his footsteps. Then he understood, and hispulse quickened as he felt that he was on the track. Beneath the blockwas a large sort of cellar-basement. It was used as a store-room forchairs, and was never opened except when prize-day or some similar eventoccurred, when the chairs were needed. It was supposed to be locked atother times, but never was. The door was just by the spot where he wasstanding. As he stood there, half-a-dozen other vague forms dashed pasthim in a knot. One of them almost brushed against him. For a moment hethought of stopping him, but decided not to. He could wait.
　　On the following afternoon he slipped down into the basement soon afterschool. It was as black as pitch in the cellar. He took up a positionnear the door.
　　It seemed hours before anything happened. He was, indeed, almost givingup the thing as a bad job, when a ray of light cut through theblackness in front of him, and somebody slipped through the door. Thenext moment, a second form appeared dimly, and then the light was shutoff again.
　　O'Hara could hear them groping their way past him. He waited no longer.
　　It is difficult to tell where sound comes from in the dark. He plungedforward at a venture. His hand, swinging round in a semicircle, metsomething which felt like a shoulder. He slipped his grasp down to thearm, and clutched it with all the force at his disposal.
Chapter 9 Mainly About Ferets
    "Ow!" exclaimed the captive, with no uncertain voice. "Let go, you ass,you're hurting."The voice was a treble voice. This surprised O'Hara. It looked verymuch as if he had put up the wrong bird. From the dimensions of the armwhich he was holding, his prisoner seemed to be of tender years.
　　"Let go, Harvey, you idiot. I shall kick."Before the threat could be put into execution, O'Hara, who had beenfumbling all this while in his pocket for a match, found one loose, andstruck a light. The features of the owner of the arm--he was stillholding it--were lit up for a moment.
　　"Why, it's young Renford!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing downhere?"Renford, however, continued to pursue the topic of his arm, and theeffect that the vice-like grip of the Irishman had had upon it.
　　"You've nearly broken it," he said, complainingly.
　　"I'm sorry. I mistook you for somebody else. Who's that with you?""It's me," said an ungrammatical voice.
　　"Who's me?""Harvey."At this point a soft yellow light lit up the more immediateneighbourhood. Harvey had brought a bicycle lamp into action.
　　"That's more like it," said Renford. "Look here, O'Hara, you won'tsplit, will you?""I'm not an informer by profession, thanks," said O'Hara.
　　"Oh, I know it's all right, really, but you can't be too careful,because one isn't allowed down here, and there'd be a beastly row if itgot out about our being down here.""And _they_ would be cobbed," put in Harvey.
　　"Who are they?" asked O'Hara.
　　"Ferrets. Like to have a look at them?""_Ferrets!_""Yes. Harvey brought back a couple at the beginning of term. Rippinglittle beasts. We couldn't keep them in the house, as they'd have gotdropped on in a second, so we had to think of somewhere else, andthought why not keep them down here?""Why, indeed?" said O'Hara. "Do ye find they like it?""Oh, _they_ don't mind," said Harvey. "We feed 'em twice a day.
　　Once before breakfast--we take it in turns to get up early--and oncedirectly after school. And on half-holidays and Sundays we take themout on to the downs.""What for?""Why, rabbits, of course. Renford brought back a saloon-pistol withhim. We keep it locked up in a box--don't tell any one.""And what do ye do with the rabbits?""We pot at them as they come out of the holes.""Yes, but when ye hit 'em?""Oh," said Renford, with some reluctance, "we haven't exactly hit anyyet.""We've got jolly near, though, lots of times," said Harvey. "LastSaturday I swear I wasn't more than a quarter of an inch off one ofthem. If it had been a decent-sized rabbit, I should have plugged itmiddle stump; only it was a small one, so I missed. But come and seethem. We keep 'em right at the other end of the place, in case anybodycomes in.""Have you ever seen anybody down here?" asked O'Hara.
　　"Once," said Renford. "Half-a-dozen chaps came down here once while wewere feeding the ferrets. We waited till they'd got well in, then wenipped out quietly. They didn't see us.""Did you see who they were?""No. It was too dark. Here they are. Rummy old crib this, isn't it?
　　Look out for your shins on the chairs. Switch on the light, Harvey.
　　There, aren't they rippers? Quite tame, too. They know us quite well.
　　They know they're going to be fed, too. Hullo, Sir Nigel! This is SirNigel. Out of the 'White Company', you know. Don't let him nip yourfingers. This other one's Sherlock Holmes.""Cats-s-s--s!!" said O'Hara. He had a sort of idea that that was theright thing to say to any animal that could chase and bite.
　　Renford was delighted to be able to show his ferrets off to sodistinguished a visitor.
　　"What were you down here about?" inquired Harvey, when the littleanimals had had their meal, and had retired once more into privatelife.
　　O'Hara had expected this question, but he did not quite know whatanswer to give. Perhaps, on the whole, he thought, it would be best totell them the real reason. If he refused to explain, their curiositywould be roused, which would be fatal. And to give any reason exceptthe true one called for a display of impromptu invention of which hewas not capable. Besides, they would not be likely to give away hissecret while he held this one of theirs connected with the ferrets. Heexplained the situation briefly, and swore them to silence on thesubject.
　　Renford's comment was brief.
　　"By Jove!" he observed.
　　Harvey went more deeply into the question.
　　"What makes you think they meet down here?" he asked.
　　"I saw some fellows cutting out of here last night. And you say ye'veseen them here, too. I don't see what object they could have down hereif they weren't the League holding a meeting. I don't see what else achap would be after.""He might be keeping ferrets," hazarded Renford.
　　"The whole school doesn't keep ferrets," said O'Hara. "You're unique inthat way. No, it must be the League, an' I mean to wait here till theycome.""Not all night?" asked Harvey. He had a great respect for O'Hara, whosereputation in the school for out-of-the-way doings was considerable. Inthe bright lexicon of O'Hara he believed there to be no such word as"impossible.""No," said O'Hara, "but till lock-up. You two had better cut now.""Yes, I think we'd better," said Harvey.
　　"And don't ye breathe a word about this to a soul"--a warning whichextracted fervent promises of silence from both youths.
　　"This," said Harvey, as they emerged on to the gravel, "is somethinglike. I'm jolly glad we're in it.""Rather. Do you think O'Hara will catch them?""He must if he waits down there long enough. They're certain to comeagain. Don't you wish you'd been here when the League was on before?""I should think I did. Race you over to the shop. I want to getsomething before it shuts.""Right ho!" And they disappeared.
　　O'Hara waited where he was till six struck from the clock-tower,followed by the sound of the bell as it rang for lock-up. Then hepicked his way carefully through the groves of chairs, barking hisshins now and then on their out-turned legs, and, pushing open thedoor, went out into the open air. It felt very fresh and pleasant afterthe brand of atmosphere supplied in the vault. He then ran over to thegymnasium to meet Moriarty, feeling a little disgusted at the lack ofsuccess that had attended his detective efforts up to the present. Sofar he had nothing to show for his trouble except a good deal of duston his clothes, and a dirty collar, but he was full of determination.
　　He could play a waiting game.
　　It was a pity, as it happened, that O'Hara left the vault when he did.
　　Five minutes after he had gone, six shadowy forms made their waysilently and in single file through the doorway of the vault, whichthey closed carefully behind them. The fact that it was after lock-upwas of small consequence. A good deal of latitude in that way wasallowed at Wrykyn. It was the custom to go out, after the bell hadsounded, to visit the gymnasium. In the winter and Easter terms, thegymnasium became a sort of social club. People went there with a verysmall intention of doing gymnastics. They went to lounge about, talkingto cronies, in front of the two huge stoves which warmed the place.
　　Occasionally, as a concession to the look of the thing, they would doan easy exercise or two on the horse or parallels, but, for the mostpart, they preferred the _role_ of spectator. There was plenty tosee. In one corner O'Hara and Moriarty would be sparring their nightlysix rounds (in two batches of three rounds each). In another, Drummond,who was going up to Aldershot as a feather-weight, would be putting ina little practice with the instructor. On the apparatus, the members ofthe gymnastic six, including the two experts who were to carry theschool colours to Aldershot in the spring, would be performing theirusual marvels. It was worth dropping into the gymnasium of an evening.
　　In no other place in the school were so many sights to be seen.
　　When you were surfeited with sightseeing, you went off to your house.
　　And this was where the peculiar beauty of the gymnasium system came in.
　　You went up to any master who happened to be there--there was alwaysone at least--and observed in suave accents, "Please, sir, can I have apaper?" Whereupon, he, taking a scrap of paper, would write upon it,"J. O. Jones (or A. B. Smith or C. D. Robinson) left gymnasium atsuch-and-such a time". And, by presenting this to the menial whoopened the door to you at your house, you went in rejoicing, and allwas peace.
　　Now, there was no mention on the paper of the hour at which you came tothe gymnasium--only of the hour at which you left. Consequently, certainlawless spirits would range the neighbourhood after lock-up, and, byputting in a quarter of an hour at the gymnasium before returning totheir houses, escape comment. To this class belonged the shadowy formspreviously mentioned.
　　O'Hara had forgotten this custom, with the result that he was not atthe vault when they arrived. Moriarty, to whom he confided between therounds the substance of his evening's discoveries, reminded him of it.
　　"It's no good watching before lock-up," he said. "After six is the timethey'll come, if they come at all.""Bedad, ye're right," said O'Hara. "One of these nights we'll take anight off from boxing, and go and watch.""Right," said Moriarty. "Are ye ready to go on?""Yes. I'm going to practise that left swing at the body this round. Theone Fitzsimmons does." And they "put 'em up" once more.
Chapter 10 Being A Chapter Of Accidents
    On the evening following O'Hara's adventure in the vaults, Barry andM'Todd were in their study, getting out the tea-things. Most Wrykiniansbrewed in the winter and Easter terms, when the days were short andlock-up early. In the summer term there were other things to do--nets,which lasted till a quarter to seven (when lock-up was), and thebaths--and brewing practically ceased. But just now it was at its height,and every evening, at a quarter past five, there might be heard in thehouses the sizzling of the succulent sausage and other rare delicacies.
　　As a rule, one or two studies would club together to brew, instead ofpreparing solitary banquets. This was found both more convivial andmore economical. At Seymour's, studies numbers five, six, and seven hadalways combined from time immemorial, and Barry, on obtaining studysix, had carried on the tradition. In study five were Drummond and hisfriend De Bertini. In study seven, which was a smaller room and onlycapable of holding one person with any comfort, one James RupertLeather-Twigg (that was his singular name, as Mr Gilbert has it) hadtaken up his abode. The name of Leather-Twigg having proved, at anearly date in his career, too great a mouthful for Wrykyn, he was knownto his friends and acquaintances by the euphonious title ofShoeblossom. The charm about the genial Shoeblossom was that you couldnever tell what he was going to do next. All that you could rely onwith any certainty was that it would be something which would have beenbetter left undone.
　　It was just five o'clock when Barry and M'Todd started to get thingsready. They were not high enough up in the school to have fags, so thatthey had to do this for themselves.
　　Barry was still in football clothes. He had been out running andpassing with the first fifteen. M'Todd, whose idea of exercise waswinding up a watch, had been spending his time since school ceased inthe study with a book. He was in his ordinary clothes. It was thereforefortunate that, when he upset the kettle (he nearly always did at someperiod of the evening's business), the contents spread themselves overBarry, and not over himself. Football clothes will stand any amount ofwater, whereas M'Todd's "Youth's winter suiting at forty-two shillingsand sixpence" might have been injured. Barry, however, did not lookupon the episode in this philosophical light. He spoke to himeloquently for a while, and then sent him downstairs to fetch morewater. While he was away, Drummond and De Bertini came in.
　　"Hullo," said Drummond, "tea ready?""Not much," replied Barry, bitterly, "not likely to be, either, at thisrate. We'd just got the kettle going when that ass M'Todd plungedagainst the table and upset the lot over my bags. Lucky the beastlystuff wasn't boiling. I'm soaked.""While we wait--the sausages--Yes?--a good idea--M'Todd, he isdownstairs--but to wait? No, no. Let us. Shall we? Is it not so? Yes?"observed Bertie, lucidly.
　　"Now construe," said Barry, looking at the linguist with a bewilderedexpression. It was a source of no little inconvenience to his friendsthat De Bertini was so very fixed in his determination to speakEnglish. He was a trier all the way, was De Bertini. You rarely caughthim helping out his remarks with the language of his native land. Itwas English or nothing with him. To most of his circle it might as wellhave been Zulu.
　　Drummond, either through natural genius or because he spent more timewith him, was generally able to act as interpreter. Occasionally therewould come a linguistic effort by which even he freely confessedhimself baffled, and then they would pass on unsatisfied. But, as arule, he was equal to the emergency. He was so now.
　　"What Bertie means," he explained, "is that it's no good us waiting forM'Todd to come back. He never could fill a kettle in less than tenminutes, and even then he's certain to spill it coming upstairs andhave to go back again. Let's get on with the sausages."The pan had just been placed on the fire when M'Todd returned with thewater. He tripped over the mat as he entered, and spilt about half apint into one of his football boots, which stood inside the door, butthe accident was comparatively trivial, and excited no remark.
　　"I wonder where that slacker Shoeblossom has got to," said Barry. "Henever turns up in time to do any work. He seems to regard himself as abeastly guest. I wish we could finish the sausages before he comes. Itwould be a sell for him.""Not much chance of that," said Drummond, who was kneeling before thefire and keeping an excited eye on the spluttering pan, "_you_see. He'll come just as we've finished cooking them. I believe the manwaits outside with his ear to the keyhole. Hullo! Stand by with theplate. They'll be done in half a jiffy."Just as the last sausage was deposited in safety on the plate, the dooropened, and Shoeblossom, looking as if he had not brushed his hairsince early childhood, sidled in with an attempt at an easy nonchalancewhich was rendered quite impossible by the hopeless state of hisconscience.
　　"Ah," he said, "brewing, I see. Can I be of any use?""We've finished years ago," said Barry.
　　"Ages ago," said M'Todd.
　　A look of intense alarm appeared on Shoeblossom's classical features.
　　"You've not finished, really?""We've finished cooking everything," said Drummond. "We haven't beguntea yet. Now, are you happy?"Shoeblossom was. So happy that he felt he must do something tocelebrate the occasion. He felt like a successful general. There mustbe _something_ he could do to show that he regarded the situationwith approval. He looked round the study. Ha! Happy thought--thefrying-pan. That useful culinary instrument was lying in the fender,still bearing its cargo of fat, and beside it--a sight to stir theblood and make the heart beat faster--were the sausages, piled up ontheir plate.
　　Shoeblossom stooped. He seized the frying-pan. He gave it one twirl inthe air. Then, before any one could stop him, he had turned it upsidedown over the fire. As has been already remarked, you could neverpredict exactly what James Rupert Leather-Twigg would be up to next.
　　When anything goes out of the frying-pan into the fire, it is usuallyproductive of interesting by-products. The maxim applies to fat. Thefat was in the fire with a vengeance. A great sheet of flame rushed outand up. Shoeblossom leaped back with a readiness highly creditable inone who was not a professional acrobat. The covering of the mantelpiececaught fire. The flames went roaring up the chimney.
　　Drummond, cool while everything else was so hot, without a word movedto the mantelpiece to beat out the fire with a football shirt. Bertiewas talking rapidly to himself in French. Nobody could understand whathe was saying, which was possibly fortunate.
　　By the time Drummond had extinguished the mantelpiece, Barry had alsodone good work by knocking the fire into the grate with the poker.
　　M'Todd, who had been standing up till now in the far corner of theroom, gaping vaguely at things in general, now came into action.
　　Probably it was force of habit that suggested to him that the time hadcome to upset the kettle. At any rate, upset it he did--most of it overthe glowing, blazing mass in the grate, the rest over Barry. One of thelargest and most detestable smells the study had ever had to endureinstantly assailed their nostrils. The fire in the study was out now,but in the chimney it still blazed merrily.
　　"Go up on to the roof and heave water down," said Drummond, thestrategist. "You can get out from Milton's dormitory window. And takecare not to chuck it down the wrong chimney."Barry was starting for the door to carry out these excellentinstructions, when it flew open.
　　"Pah! What have you boys been doing? What an abominable smell. Pah!"said a muffled voice. It was Mr Seymour. Most of his face was concealedin a large handkerchief, but by the look of his eyes, which appearedabove, he did not seem pleased. He took in the situation at a glance.
　　Fires in the house were not rarities. One facetious sportsman had oncemade a rule of setting the senior day-room chimney on fire every term.
　　He had since left (by request), but fires still occurred.
　　"Is the chimney on fire?""Yes, sir," said Drummond.
　　"Go and find Herbert, and tell him to take some water on to the roofand throw it down." Herbert was the boot and knife cleaner atSeymour's.
　　Barry went. Soon afterwards a splash of water in the grate announcedthat the intrepid Herbert was hard at it. Another followed, andanother. Then there was a pause. Mr Seymour thought he would look up tosee if the fire was out. He stooped and peered into the darkness, and,even as he gazed, splash came the contents of the fourth pail, togetherwith some soot with which they had formed a travelling acquaintance onthe way down. Mr Seymour staggered back, grimy and dripping. There wasdead silence in the study. Shoeblossom's face might have been seenworking convulsively.
　　The silence was broken by a hollow, sepulchral voice with a strongCockney accent.
　　"Did yer see any water come down then, sir?" said the voice.
　　Shoeblossom collapsed into a chair, and began to sob feebly.
　　* * * * *"--disgraceful ... scandalous ... get _up_, Leather-Twigg ... not tobe trusted ... _babies_ ... three hundred lines, Leather-Twigg ...
　　abominable ... surprised ... ought to be ashamed of yourselves ...
　　_double_, Leather-Twigg ... not fit to have studies ... atrocious ...--"Such were the main heads of Mr Seymour's speech on the situation as hedabbed desperately at the soot on his face with his handkerchief.
　　Shoeblossom stood and gurgled throughout. Not even the thought of sixhundred lines could quench that dauntless spirit.
　　"Finally," perorated Mr Seymour, as he was leaving the room, "as youare evidently not to be trusted with rooms of your own, I forbid you toenter them till further notice. It is disgraceful that such a thingshould happen. Do you hear, Barry? And you, Drummond? You are not toenter your studies again till I give you leave. Move your books down tothe senior day-room tonight."And Mr Seymour stalked off to clean himself.
　　"Anyhow," said Shoeblossom, as his footsteps died away, "we saved thesausages."It is this indomitable gift of looking on the bright side that makes usEnglishmen what we are.
Chapter 11 The House-Matches
    It was something of a consolation to Barry and his friends--at anyrate, to Barry and Drummond--that directly after they had been evictedfrom their study, the house-matches began. Except for the Ripton match,the house-matches were the most important event of the Easter term.
　　Even the sports at the beginning of April were productive of lessexcitement. There were twelve houses at Wrykyn, and they played on the"knocking-out" system. To be beaten once meant that a house was nolonger eligible for the competition. It could play "friendlies" as muchas it liked, but, play it never so wisely, it could not lift the cup.
　　Thus it often happened that a weak house, by fluking a victory over astrong rival, found itself, much to its surprise, in the semi-final, orsometimes even in the final. This was rarer at football than atcricket, for at football the better team generally wins.
　　The favourites this year were Donaldson's, though some fanciedSeymour's. Donaldson's had Trevor, whose leadership was worth almostmore than his play. In no other house was training so rigid. You couldtell a Donaldson's man, if he was in his house-team, at a glance. Ifyou saw a man eating oatmeal biscuits in the shop, and eyeing wistfullythe while the stacks of buns and pastry, you could put him down as aDonaldsonite without further evidence. The captains of the other housesused to prescribe a certain amount of self-abnegation in the matter offood, but Trevor left his men barely enough to support life--enough,that is, of the things that are really worth eating. The consequencewas that Donaldson's would turn out for an important match all muscleand bone, and on such occasions it was bad for those of their opponentswho had been taking life more easily. Besides Trevor they had Clowes,and had had bad luck in not having Paget. Had Paget stopped, no otherhouse could have looked at them. But by his departure, the strength ofthe team had become more nearly on a level with that of Seymour's.
　　Some even thought that Seymour's were the stronger. Milton was as gooda forward as the school possessed. Besides him there were Barry andRand-Brown on the wings. Drummond was a useful half, and five of thepack had either first or second fifteen colours. It was a team thatwould take some beating.
　　Trevor came to that conclusion early. "If we can beat Seymour's, we'lllift the cup," he said to Clowes.
　　"We'll have to do all we know," was Clowes' reply.
　　They were watching Seymour's pile up an immense score against a scratchteam got up by one of the masters. The first round of the competitionwas over. Donaldson's had beaten Templar's, Seymour's the School House.
　　Templar's were rather stronger than the School House, and Donaldson'shad beaten them by a rather larger score than that which Seymour's hadrun up in their match. But neither Trevor nor Clowes was inclined todraw any augury from this. Seymour's had taken things easily afterhalf-time; Donaldson's had kept going hard all through.
　　"That makes Rand-Brown's fourth try," said Clowes, as the wingthree-quarter of the second fifteen raced round and scored in thecorner.
　　"Yes. This is the sort of game he's all right in. The man who's markinghim is no good. Barry's scored twice, and both good tries, too.""Oh, there's no doubt which is the best man," said Clowes. "I onlymentioned that it was Rand-Brown's fourth as an item of interest."The game continued. Barry scored a third try.
　　"We're drawn against Appleby's next round," said Trevor. "We can managethem all right.""When is it?""Next Thursday. Nomads' match on Saturday. Then Ripton, Saturday week.""Who've Seymour's drawn?""Day's. It'll be a good game, too. Seymour's ought to win, but they'llhave to play their best. Day's have got some good men.""Fine scrum," said Clowes. "Yes. Quick in the open, too, which isalways good business. I wish they'd beat Seymour's.""Oh, we ought to be all right, whichever wins."Appleby's did not offer any very serious resistance to the Donaldsonattack. They were outplayed at every point of the game, and, beforehalf-time, Donaldson's had scored their thirty points. It was a rule inall in-school matches--and a good rule, too--that, when one side led bythirty points, the match stopped. This prevented those massacres whichdo so much towards crushing all the football out of the members of thebeaten team; and it kept the winning team from getting slack, by urgingthem on to score their thirty points before half-time. There were somehouses--notoriously slack--which would go for a couple of seasonswithout ever playing the second half of a match.
　　Having polished off the men of Appleby, the Donaldson team trooped offto the other game to see how Seymour's were getting on with Day's. Itwas evidently an exciting match. The first half had been played to theaccompaniment of much shouting from the ropes. Though coming so earlyin the competition, it was really the semi-final, for whichever teamwon would be almost certain to get into the final. The school hadturned up in large numbers to watch.
　　"Seymour's looking tired of life," said Clowes. "That would seem as ifhis fellows weren't doing well.""What's been happening here?" asked Trevor of an enthusiast in aSeymour's house cap whose face was crimson with yelling.
　　"One goal all," replied the enthusiast huskily. "Did you beatAppleby's?""Yes. Thirty points before half-time. Who's been doing the scoringhere?""Milton got in for us. He barged through out of touch. We've beenpressing the whole time. Barry got over once, but he was held up.
　　Hullo, they're beginning again. Buck up, Sey-_mour's_."His voice cracking on the high note, he took an immense slab of vanillachocolate as a remedy for hoarseness.
　　"Who scored for Day's?" asked Clowes.
　　"Strachan. Rand-Brown let him through from their twenty-five. You neversaw anything so rotten as Rand-Brown. He doesn't take his passes, andStrachan gets past him every time.""Is Strachan playing on the wing?"Strachan was the first fifteen full-back.
　　"Yes. They've put young Bassett back instead of him. Sey-_mour's_.
　　Buck up, Seymour's. We-ell played! There, did you ever see anythinglike it?" he broke off disgustedly.
　　The Seymourite playing centre next to Rand-Brown had run through to theback and passed out to his wing, as a good centre should. It was aperfect pass, except that it came at his head instead of his chest.
　　Nobody with any pretensions to decent play should have missed it.
　　Rand-Brown, however, achieved that feat. The ball struck his handsand bounded forward. The referee blew his whistle for a scrum, and acertain try was lost.
　　From the scrum the Seymour's forwards broke away to the goal-line,where they were pulled up by Bassett. The next minute the defence hadbeen pierced, and Drummond was lying on the ball a yard across theline. The enthusiast standing by Clowes expended the last relics of hisvoice in commemorating the fact that his side had the lead.
　　"Drummond'll be good next year," said Trevor. And he made a mental noteto tell Allardyce, who would succeed him in the command of the schoolfootball, to keep an eye on the player in question.
　　The triumph of the Seymourites was not long lived. Milton failed toconvert Drummond's try. From the drop-out from the twenty-five lineBarry got the ball, and punted into touch. The throw-out was notstraight, and a scrum was formed. The ball came out to the Day'shalves, and went across to Strachan. Rand-Brown hesitated, and thenmade a futile spring at the first fifteen man's neck. Strachan handedhim off easily, and ran. The Seymour's full-back, who was a poorplayer, failed to get across in time. Strachan ran round behind theposts, the kick succeeded, and Day's now led by two points.
　　After this the game continued in Day's half. Five minutes before timewas up, Drummond got the ball from a scrum nearly on the line, passedit to Barry on the wing instead of opening up the game by passing tohis centres, and Barry slipped through in the corner. This putSeymour's just one point ahead, and there they stayed till the whistleblew for no-side.
　　Milton walked over to the boarding-houses with Clowes and Trevor. Hewas full of the match, particularly of the iniquity of Rand-Brown. "Islanged him on the field," he said. "It's a thing I don't often do, butwhat else _can_ you do when a man plays like that? He lost usthree certain tries.""When did you administer your rebuke?" inquired Clowes.
　　"When he had let Strachan through that second time, in the second half.
　　I asked him why on earth he tried to play footer at all. I told him agood kiss-in-the-ring club was about his form. It was rather cheap, butI felt so frightfully sick about it. It's sickening to be let down likethat when you've been pressing the whole time, and ought to be scoringevery other minute.""What had he to say on the subject?" asked Clowes.
　　"Oh, he gassed a bit until I told him I'd kick him if he said anotherword. That shut him up.""You ought to have kicked him. You want all the kicking practice youcan get. I never saw anything feebler than that shot of yours afterDrummond's try.""I'd like to see _you_ take a kick like that. It was nearly on thetouch-line. Still, when we play you, we shan't need to convert any ofour tries. We'll get our thirty points without that. Perhaps you'd liketo scratch?""As a matter of fact," said Clowes confidentially, "I am going to scoreseven tries against you off my own bat. You'll be sorry you ever turnedout when we've finished with you."
Chapter 12 News Of The Gold Bat
    Shoeblossom sat disconsolately on the table in the senior day-room. Hewas not happy in exile. Brewing in the senior day-room was a merevulgar brawl, lacking all the refining influences of the study. You hadto fight for a place at the fire, and when you had got it 'twas notalways easy to keep it, and there was no privacy, and the fellows werealways bear-fighting, so that it was impossible to read a book quietlyfor ten consecutive minutes without some ass heaving a cushion at youor turning out the gas. Altogether Shoeblossom yearned for the peace ofhis study, and wished earnestly that Mr Seymour would withdraw theorder of banishment. It was the not being able to read that he objectedto chiefly. In place of brewing, the ex-proprietors of studies five,six, and seven now made a practice of going to the school shop. It wasmore expensive and not nearly so comfortable--there is a romance abouta study brew which you can never get anywhere else--but it served, andit was not on this score that he grumbled most. What he hated washaving to live in a bear-garden. For Shoeblossom was a man of moods.
　　Give him two or three congenial spirits to back him up, and he wouldlead the revels with the _abandon_ of a Mr Bultitude (after hisreturn to his original form). But he liked to choose his accomplices,and the gay sparks of the senior day-room did not appeal to him. Theywere not intellectual enough. In his lucid intervals, he was accustomedto be almost abnormally solemn and respectable. When not promoting someunholy rag, Shoeblossom resembled an elderly gentleman of studioushabits. He liked to sit in a comfortable chair and read a book. It wasthe impossibility of doing this in the senior day-room that led him totry and think of some other haven where he might rest. Had it beensummer, he would have taken some literature out on to the cricket-fieldor the downs, and put in a little steady reading there, with the aid ofa bag of cherries. But with the thermometer low, that was impossible.
　　He felt very lonely and dismal. He was not a man with many friends. Infact, Barry and the other three were almost the only members of thehouse with whom he was on speaking-terms. And of these four he saw verylittle. Drummond and Barry were always out of doors or over at thegymnasium, and as for M'Todd and De Bertini, it was not worth whiletalking to the one, and impossible to talk to the other. No wonderShoeblossom felt dull. Once Barry and Drummond had taken him over tothe gymnasium with them, but this had bored him worse than ever. Theyhad been hard at it all the time--for, unlike a good many of theschool, they went to the gymnasium for business, not to lounge--and hehad had to sit about watching them. And watching gymnastics was one ofthe things he most loathed. Since then he had refused to go.
　　That night matters came to a head. Just as he had settled down to read,somebody, in flinging a cushion across the room, brought down the gasapparatus with a run, and before light was once more restored it wastea-time. After that there was preparation, which lasted for two hours,and by the time he had to go to bed he had not been able to read asingle page of the enthralling work with which he was at presentoccupied.
　　He had just got into bed when he was struck with a brilliant idea. Whywaste the precious hours in sleep? What was that saying of somebody's,"Five hours for a wise man, six for somebody else--he forgot whom--eightfor a fool, nine for an idiot," or words to that effect? Five hourssleep would mean that he need not go to bed till half past two. In themeanwhile he could be finding out exactly what the hero _did_ do whenhe found out (to his horror) that it was his cousin Jasper who hadreally killed the old gentleman in the wood. The only question was--howwas he to do his reading? Prefects were allowed to work on after lightsout in their dormitories by the aid of a candle, but to the ordinarymortal this was forbidden.
　　Then he was struck with another brilliant idea. It is a curious thingabout ideas. You do not get one for over a month, and then there comesa rush of them, all brilliant. Why, he thought, should he not go andread in his study with a dark lantern? He had a dark lantern. It wasone of the things he had found lying about at home on the last day ofthe holidays, and had brought with him to school. It was his custom togo about the house just before the holidays ended, snapping upunconsidered trifles, which might or might not come in useful. Thisterm he had brought back a curious metal vase (which looked Indian, butwhich had probably been made in Birmingham the year before last), twoold coins (of no mortal use to anybody in the world, includinghimself), and the dark lantern. It was reposing now in the cupboard inhis study nearest the window.
　　He had brought his book up with him on coming to bed, on the chancethat he might have time to read a page or two if he woke up early. (Hehad always been doubtful about that man Jasper. For one thing, he hadbeen seen pawning the old gentleman's watch on the afternoon of themurder, which was a suspicious circumstance, and then he was not a nicecharacter at all, and just the sort of man who would be likely to murderold gentlemen in woods.) He waited till Mr Seymour had paid his nightlyvisit--he went the round of the dormitories at about eleven--and then hechuckled gently. If Mill, the dormitory prefect, was awake, the chucklewould make him speak, for Mill was of a suspicious nature, and believedthat it was only his unintermitted vigilance which prevented thedormitory ragging all night.
　　Mill _was_ awake.
　　"Be quiet, there," he growled. "Shut up that noise."Shoeblossom felt that the time was not yet ripe for his departure. Halfan hour later he tried again. There was no rebuke. To make certain heemitted a second chuckle, replete with sinister meaning. A slight snorecame from the direction of Mill's bed. Shoeblossom crept out of theroom, and hurried to his study. The door was not locked, for Mr Seymourhad relied on his commands being sufficient to keep the owner out ofit. He slipped in, found and lit the dark lantern, and settled down toread. He read with feverish excitement. The thing was, you see, thatthough Claud Trevelyan (that was the hero) knew jolly well that it wasJasper who had done the murder, the police didn't, and, as he (Claud)was too noble to tell them, he had himself been arrested on suspicion.
　　Shoeblossom was skimming through the pages with starting eyes, whensuddenly his attention was taken from his book by a sound. It was afootstep. Somebody was coming down the passage, and under the doorfiltered a thin stream of light. To snap the dark slide over thelantern and dart to the door, so that if it opened he would be behindit, was with him, as Mr Claud Trevelyan might have remarked, the workof a moment. He heard the door of study number five flung open, andthen the footsteps passed on, and stopped opposite his own den. Thehandle turned, and the light of a candle flashed into the room, to beextinguished instantly as the draught of the moving door caught it.
　　Shoeblossom heard his visitor utter an exclamation of annoyance, andfumble in his pocket for matches. He recognised the voice. It was MrSeymour's. The fact was that Mr Seymour had had the same experience asGeneral Stanley in _The Pirates of Penzance_:
　　The man who finds his conscience ache,No peace at all enjoys;And, as I lay in bed awake,I thought I heard a noise.
　　Whether Mr Seymour's conscience ached or not, cannot, of course, bediscovered. But he had certainly thought he heard a noise, and he hadcome to investigate.
　　The search for matches had so far proved fruitless. Shoeblossom stoodand quaked behind the door. The reek of hot tin from the dark lanterngrew worse momentarily. Mr Seymour sniffed several times, untilShoeblossom thought that he must be discovered. Then, to his immenserelief, the master walked away. Shoeblossom's chance had come. MrSeymour had probably gone to get some matches to relight his candle. Itwas far from likely that the episode was closed. He would be back againpresently. If Shoeblossom was going to escape, he must do it now, so hewaited till the footsteps had passed away, and then darted out in thedirection of his dormitory.
　　As he was passing Milton's study, a white figure glided out of it. Allthat he had ever read or heard of spectres rushed into Shoeblossom'spetrified brain. He wished he was safely in bed. He wished he had nevercome out of it. He wished he had led a better and nobler life. Hewished he had never been born.
　　The figure passed quite close to him as he stood glued against thewall, and he saw it disappear into the dormitory opposite his own, ofwhich Rigby was prefect. He blushed hotly at the thought of the frighthe had been in. It was only somebody playing the same game as himself.
　　He jumped into bed and lay down, having first plunged the lanternbodily into his jug to extinguish it. Its indignant hiss had scarcelydied away when Mr Seymour appeared at the door. It had occurred to MrSeymour that he had smelt something very much out of the ordinary inShoeblossom's study, a smell uncommonly like that of hot tin. And asuspicion dawned on him that Shoeblossom had been in there with a darklantern. He had come to the dormitory to confirm his suspicions. But aglance showed him how unjust they had been. There was Shoeblossom fastasleep. Mr Seymour therefore followed the excellent example of my LordTomnoddy on a celebrated occasion, and went off to bed.
　　* * * * *It was the custom for the captain of football at Wrykyn to select andpublish the team for the Ripton match a week before the day on which itwas to be played. On the evening after the Nomads' match, Trevor wassitting in his study writing out the names, when there came a knock atthe door, and his fag entered with a letter.
　　"This has just come, Trevor," he said.
　　"All right. Put it down."The fag left the room. Trevor picked up the letter. The handwriting wasstrange to him. The words had been printed. Then it flashed upon himthat he had received a letter once before addressed in the sameway--the letter from the League about Barry. Was this, too, fromthat address? He opened it.
　　It was.
　　He read it, and gasped. The worst had happened. The gold bat was in thehands of the enemy.
Chapter 13 Victim Number Three
    "With reference to our last communication," ran the letter--the writerevidently believed in the commercial style--"it may interest you toknow that the bat you lost by the statue on the night of the 26th ofJanuary has come into our possession. _We observe that Barry is stillplaying for the first fifteen._""And will jolly well continue to," muttered Trevor, crumpling the paperviciously into a ball.
　　He went on writing the names for the Ripton match. The last name on thelist was Barry's.
　　Then he sat back in his chair, and began to wrestle with this newdevelopment. Barry must play. That was certain. All the bluff in theworld was not going to keep him from playing the best man at his disposalin the Ripton match. He himself did not count. It was the school he hadto think of. This being so, what was likely to happen? Though nothingwas said on the point, he felt certain that if he persisted in ignoringthe League, that bat would find its way somehow--by devious routes,possibly--to the headmaster or some one else in authority. And thenthere would be questions--awkward questions--and things would beginto come out. Then a fresh point struck him, which was, that whatevermight happen would affect, not himself, but O'Hara. This made it rathermore of a problem how to act. Personally, he was one of those doggedcharacters who can put up with almost anything themselves. If this hadbeen his affair, he would have gone on his way without hesitating.
　　Evidently the writer of the letter was under the impression that hehad been the hero (or villain) of the statue escapade.
　　If everything came out it did not require any great effort of prophecyto predict what the result would be. O'Hara would go. Promptly. Hewould receive his marching orders within ten minutes of the discoveryof what he had done. He would be expelled twice over, so to speak, oncefor breaking out at night--one of the most heinous offences in theschool code--and once for tarring the statue. Anything that gave theschool a bad name in the town was a crime in the eyes of the powers,and this was such a particularly flagrant case. Yes, there was no doubtof that. O'Hara would take the first train home without waiting to packup. Trevor knew his people well, and he could imagine their feelingswhen the prodigal strolled into their midst--an old Wrykinian _malgrelui_. As the philosopher said of falling off a ladder, it is not thefalling that matters: it is the sudden stopping at the other end. It isnot the being expelled that is so peculiarly objectionable: it is thesudden homecoming. With this gloomy vision before him, Trevor almostwavered. But the thought that the selection of the team had nothingwhatever to do with his personal feelings strengthened him. He wassimply a machine, devised to select the fifteen best men in the schoolto meet Ripton. In his official capacity of football captain he was notsupposed to have any feelings. However, he yielded in so far that hewent to Clowes to ask his opinion.
　　Clowes, having heard everything and seen the letter, unhesitatinglyvoted for the right course. If fifty mad Irishmen were to be expelled,Barry must play against Ripton. He was the best man, and in he must go.
　　"That's what I thought," said Trevor. "It's bad for O'Hara, though."Clowes remarked somewhat tritely that business was business.
　　"Besides," he went on, "you're assuming that the thing this letterhints at will really come off. I don't think it will. A man would haveto be such an awful blackguard to go as low as that. The least grain ofdecency in him would stop him. I can imagine a man threatening to do itas a piece of bluff--by the way, the letter doesn't actually sayanything of the sort, though I suppose it hints at it--but I can'timagine anybody out of a melodrama doing it.""You can never tell," said Trevor. He felt that this was but an outsidechance. The forbearance of one's antagonist is but a poor thing totrust to at the best of times.
　　"Are you going to tell O'Hara?" asked Clowes.
　　"I don't see the good. Would you?""No. He can't do anything, and it would only give him a bad time. Thereare pleasanter things, I should think, than going on from day to day notknowing whether you're going to be sacked or not within the next twelvehours. Don't tell him.""I won't. And Barry plays against Ripton.""Certainly. He's the best man.""I'm going over to Seymour's now," said Trevor, after a pause, "to seeMilton. We've drawn Seymour's in the next round of the house-matches. Isuppose you knew. I want to get it over before the Ripton match, forseveral reasons. About half the fifteen are playing on one side or theother, and it'll give them a good chance of getting fit. Running andpassing is all right, but a good, hard game's the thing for putting youinto form. And then I was thinking that, as the side that loses,whichever it is--""Seymour's, of course.""Hope so. Well, they're bound to be a bit sick at losing, so they'llplay up all the harder on Saturday to console themselves for losing thecup.""My word, what strategy!" said Clowes. "You think of everything. Whendo you think of playing it, then?""Wednesday struck me as a good day. Don't you think so?""It would do splendidly. It'll be a good match. For all practicalpurposes, of course, it's the final. If we beat Seymour's, I don'tthink the others will trouble us much."There was just time to see Milton before lock-up. Trevor ran across toSeymour's, and went up to his study.
　　"Come in," said Milton, in answer to his knock.
　　Trevor went in, and stood surprised at the difference in the look ofthe place since the last time he had visited it. The walls, oncecovered with photographs, were bare. Milton, seated before the fire,was ruefully contemplating what looked like a heap of waste cardboard.
　　Trevor recognised the symptoms. He had had experience.
　　"You don't mean to say they've been at you, too!" he cried.
　　Milton's normally cheerful face was thunderous and gloomy.
　　"Yes. I was thinking what I'd like to do to the man who ragged it.""It's the League again, I suppose?"Milton looked surprised.
　　"_Again?_" he said, "where did _you_ hear of the League?
　　This is the first time I've heard of its existence, whatever it is.
　　What is the confounded thing, and why on earth have they played thefool here? What's the meaning of this bally rot?"He exhibited one of the variety of cards of which Trevor had alreadyseen two specimens. Trevor explained briefly the style and nature ofthe League, and mentioned that his study also had been wrecked.
　　"Your study? Why, what have they got against you?""I don't know," said Trevor. Nothing was to be gained by speaking ofthe letters he had received.
　　"Did they cut up your photographs?""Every one.""I tell you what it is, Trevor, old chap," said Milton, with greatsolemnity, "there's a lunatic in the school. That's what I make of it.
　　A lunatic whose form of madness is wrecking studies.""But the same chap couldn't have done yours and mine. It must have beena Donaldson's fellow who did mine, and one of your chaps who did yoursand Mill's.""Mill's? By Jove, of course. I never thought of that. That was theLeague, too, I suppose?""Yes. One of those cards was tied to a chair, but Clowes took it awaybefore anybody saw it."Milton returned to the details of the disaster.
　　"Was there any ink spilt in your room?""Pints," said Trevor, shortly. The subject was painful.
　　"So there was here," said Milton, mournfully. "Gallons."There was silence for a while, each pondering over his wrongs.
　　"Gallons," said Milton again. "I was ass enough to keep a large potfull of it here, and they used it all, every drop. You never saw such asight."Trevor said he had seen one similar spectacle.
　　"And my photographs! You remember those photographs I showed you? Allruined. Slit across with a knife. Some torn in half. I wish I knew whodid that."Trevor said he wished so, too.
　　"There was one of Mrs Patrick Campbell," Milton continued inheartrending tones, "which was torn into sixteen pieces. I countedthem. There they are on the mantelpiece. And there was one of LittleTich" (here he almost broke down), "which was so covered with ink thatfor half an hour I couldn't recognise it. Fact."Trevor nodded sympathetically.
　　"Yes," said Milton. "Soaked."There was another silence. Trevor felt it would be almost an outrage todiscuss so prosaic a topic as the date of a house-match with one sobroken up. Yet time was flying, and lock-up was drawing near.
　　"Are you willing to play--" he began.
　　"I feel as if I could never play again," interrupted Milton. "You'dhardly believe the amount of blotting-paper I've used today. It musthave been a lunatic, Dick, old man."When Milton called Trevor "Dick", it was a sign that he was moved. Whenhe called him "Dick, old man", it gave evidence of an internal upheavalwithout parallel.
　　"Why, who else but a lunatic would get up in the night to wreck anotherchap's study? All this was done between eleven last night and seventhis morning. I turned in at eleven, and when I came down here again atseven the place was a wreck. It must have been a lunatic.""How do you account for the printed card from the League?"Milton murmured something about madmen's cunning and divertingsuspicion, and relapsed into silence. Trevor seized the opportunity tomake the proposal he had come to make, that Donaldson's _v._Seymour's should be played on the following Wednesday.
　　Milton agreed listlessly.
　　"Just where you're standing," he said, "I found a photograph of SirHenry Irving so slashed about that I thought at first it was HuntleyWright in _San Toy_.""Start at two-thirty sharp," said Trevor.
　　"I had seventeen of Edna May," continued the stricken Seymourite,monotonously. "In various attitudes. All destroyed.""On the first fifteen ground, of course," said Trevor. "I'll getAldridge to referee. That'll suit you, I suppose?""All right. Anything you like. Just by the fireplace I found theremains of Arthur Roberts in _H.M.S. Irresponsible_. And part ofSeymour Hicks. Under the table--"Trevor departed.
Chapter 14 The White Figure
    "Suppose," said Shoeblossom to Barry, as they were walking over toschool on the morning following the day on which Milton's study hadpassed through the hands of the League, "suppose you thought somebodyhad done something, but you weren't quite certain who, but you knew itwas some one, what would you do?""What on _earth_ do you mean?" inquired Barry.
　　"I was trying to make an A.B. case of it," explained Shoeblossom.
　　"What's an A.B. case?""I don't know," admitted Shoeblossom, frankly. "But it comes in a bookof Stevenson's. I think it must mean a sort of case where you calleveryone A. and B. and don't tell their names.""Well, go ahead.""It's about Milton's study.""What! what about it?""Well, you see, the night it was ragged I was sitting in my study witha dark lantern--""What!"Shoeblossom proceeded to relate the moving narrative of hisnight-walking adventure. He dwelt movingly on his state of mindwhen standing behind the door, waiting for Mr Seymour to come inand find him. He related with appropriate force the hair-raisingepisode of the weird white figure. And then he came to the conclusionshe had since drawn (in calmer moments) from that apparition's movements.
　　"You see," he said, "I saw it coming out of Milton's study, and thatmust have been about the time the study was ragged. And it went intoRigby's dorm. So it must have been a chap in that dorm, who did it."Shoeblossom was quite clever at rare intervals. Even Barry, whosebelief in his sanity was of the smallest, was compelled to admit thathere, at any rate, he was talking sense.
　　"What would you do?" asked Shoeblossom.
　　"Tell Milton, of course," said Barry.
　　"But he'd give me beans for being out of the dorm, after lights-out."This was a distinct point to be considered. The attitude of Barrytowards Milton was different from that of Shoeblossom. Barry regardedhim--through having played with him in important matches--as a goodsort of fellow who had always behaved decently to him. Leather-Twigg,on the other hand, looked on him with undisguised apprehension, as onein authority who would give him lines the first time he came intocontact with him, and cane him if he ever did it again. He had adecided disinclination to see Milton on any pretext whatever.
　　"Suppose I tell him?" suggested Barry.
　　"You'll keep my name dark?" said Shoeblossom, alarmed.
　　Barry said he would make an A.B. case of it.
　　After school he went to Milton's study, and found him still broodingover its departed glories.
　　"I say, Milton, can I speak to you for a second?""Hullo, Barry. Come in."Barry came in.
　　"I had forty-three photographs," began Milton, without preamble. "Alldestroyed. And I've no money to buy any more. I had seventeen of EdnaMay."Barry, feeling that he was expected to say something, said, "By Jove!
　　Really?""In various positions," continued Milton. "All ruined.""Not really?" said Barry.
　　"There was one of Little Tich--"But Barry felt unequal to playing the part of chorus any longer. It wasall very thrilling, but, if Milton was going to run through the entirelist of his destroyed photographs, life would be too short forconversation on any other topic.
　　"I say, Milton," he said, "it was about that that I came. I'm sorry--"Milton sat up.
　　"It wasn't you who did this, was it?""No, no," said Barry, hastily.
　　"Oh, I thought from your saying you were sorry--""I was going to say I thought I could put you on the track of the chapwho did do it--"For the second time since the interview began Milton sat up.
　　"Go on," he said.
　　"--But I'm sorry I can't give you the name of the fellow who told meabout it.""That doesn't matter," said Milton. "Tell me the name of the fellow whodid it. That'll satisfy me.""I'm afraid I can't do that, either.""Have you any idea what you _can_ do?" asked Milton, satirically.
　　"I can tell you something which may put you on the right track.""That'll do for a start. Well?""Well, the chap who told me--I'll call him A.; I'm going to make anA.B. case of it--was coming out of his study at about one o'clock inthe morning--""What the deuce was he doing that for?""Because he wanted to go back to bed," said Barry.
　　"About time, too. Well?""As he was going past your study, a white figure emerged--""I should strongly advise you, young Barry," said Milton, gravely, "notto try and rot me in any way. You're a jolly good wing three-quarters,but you shouldn't presume on it. I'd slay the Old Man himself if herotted me about this business."Barry was quite pained at this sceptical attitude in one whom he wasgoing out of his way to assist.
　　"I'm not rotting," he protested. "This is all quite true.""Well, go on. You were saying something about white figures emerging.""Not white figures. A white figure," corrected Barry. "It came out ofyour study--""--And vanished through the wall?""It went into Rigby's dorm.," said Barry, sulkily. It was maddening tohave an exclusive bit of news treated in this way.
　　"Did it, by Jove!" said Milton, interested at last. "Are you sure thechap who told you wasn't pulling your leg? Who was it told you?""I promised him not to say.""Out with it, young Barry.""I won't," said Barry.
　　"You aren't going to tell me?""No."Milton gave up the point with much cheerfulness. He liked Barry, and herealised that he had no right to try and make him break his promise.
　　"That's all right," he said. "Thanks very much, Barry. This may beuseful.""I'd tell you his name if I hadn't promised, you know, Milton.""It doesn't matter," said Milton. "It's not important.""Oh, there was one thing I forgot. It was a biggish chap the fellowsaw.""How big! My size?""Not quite so tall, I should think. He said he was about Seymour'ssize.""Thanks. That's worth knowing. Thanks very much, Barry."When his visitor had gone, Milton proceeded to unearth one of theprinted lists of the house which were used for purposes of roll-call.
　　He meant to find out who were in Rigby's dormitory. He put a tickagainst the names. There were eighteen of them. The next thing was tofind out which of them was about the same height as Mr Seymour. It was asomewhat vague description, for the house-master stood about five feetnine or eight, and a good many of the dormitory were that height, or nearit. At last, after much brain-work, he reduced the number of "possibles"to seven. These seven were Rigby himself, Linton, Rand-Brown, Griffith,Hunt, Kershaw, and Chapple. Rigby might be scratched off the list atonce. He was one of Milton's greatest friends. Exeunt also Griffith,Hunt, and Kershaw. They were mild youths, quite incapable of any deedof devilry. There remained, therefore, Chapple, Linton, and Rand-Brown.
　　Chapple was a boy who was invariably late for breakfast. The inferencewas that he was not likely to forego his sleep for the purpose ofwrecking studies. Chapple might disappear from the list. Now therewere only Linton and Rand-Brown to be considered. His suspicions fellon Rand-Brown. Linton was the last person, he thought, to do such alow thing. He was a cheerful, rollicking individual, who was popular witheveryone and seemed to like everyone. He was not an orderly member ofthe house, certainly, and on several occasions Milton had found itnecessary to drop on him heavily for creating disturbances. But he wasnot the sort that bears malice. He took it all in the way of business,and came up smiling after it was over. No, everything pointed toRand-Brown. He and Milton had never got on well together, and quiterecently they had quarrelled openly over the former's play in the Day'smatch. Rand-Brown must be the man. But Milton was sensible enough tofeel that so far he had no real evidence whatever. He must wait.
　　On the following afternoon Seymour's turned out to play Donaldson's.
　　The game, like most house-matches, was played with the utmost keenness.
　　Both teams had good three-quarters, and they attacked in turn.
　　Seymour's had the best of it forward, where Milton was playing a greatgame, but Trevor in the centre was the best outside on the field, andpulled up rush after rush. By half-time neither side had scored.
　　After half-time Seymour's, playing downhill, came away with a rush tothe Donaldsonites' half, and Rand-Brown, with one of the few decentruns he had made in good class football that term, ran in on the left.
　　Milton took the kick, but failed, and Seymour's led by three points.
　　For the next twenty minutes nothing more was scored. Then, when fiveminutes more of play remained, Trevor gave Clowes an easy opening, andClowes sprinted between the posts. The kick was an easy one, and whatsporting reporters term "the major points" were easily added.
　　When there are five more minutes to play in an important house-match,and one side has scored a goal and the other a try, play is apt tobecome spirited. Both teams were doing all they knew. The ball came outto Barry on the right. Barry's abilities as a three-quarter restedchiefly on the fact that he could dodge well. This eel-like attributecompensated for a certain lack of pace. He was past the Donaldson'sthree-quarters in an instant, and running for the line, with only theback to pass, and with Clowes in hot pursuit. Another wriggle took himpast the back, but it also gave Clowes time to catch him up. Clowes wasa far faster runner, and he got to him just as he reached thetwenty-five line. They came down together with a crash, Clowes ontop, and as they fell the whistle blew.
　　"No-side," said Mr. Aldridge, the master who was refereeing.
　　Clowes got up.
　　"All over," he said. "Jolly good game. Hullo, what's up?"For Barry seemed to be in trouble.
　　"You might give us a hand up," said the latter. "I believe I've twistedmy beastly ankle or something."
Chapter 15 A Sprain And A Vacant Place
    "I say," said Clowes, helping him up, "I'm awfully sorry. Did I do it?
　　How did it happen?"Barry was engaged in making various attempts at standing on the injuredleg. The process seemed to be painful.
　　"Shall I get a stretcher or anything? Can you walk?""If you'd help me over to the house, I could manage all right. What abeastly nuisance! It wasn't your fault a bit. Only you tackled me whenI was just trying to swerve, and my ankle was all twisted."Drummond came up, carrying Barry's blazer and sweater.
　　"Hullo, Barry," he said, "what's up? You aren't crocked?""Something gone wrong with my ankle. That my blazer? Thanks. Comingover to the house? Clowes was just going to help me over."Clowes asked a Donaldson's junior, who was lurking near at hand, tofetch his blazer and carry it over to the house, and then made his waywith Drummond and the disabled Barry to Seymour's. Having arrived atthe senior day-room, they deposited the injured three-quarter in achair, and sent M'Todd, who came in at the moment, to fetch the doctor.
　　Dr Oakes was a big man with a breezy manner, the sort of doctor whohits you with the force of a sledge-hammer in the small ribs, and asksyou if you felt anything _then_. It was on this principle that heacted with regard to Barry's ankle. He seized it in both hands and gaveit a wrench.
　　"Did that hurt?" he inquired anxiously.
　　Barry turned white, and replied that it did.
　　Dr Oakes nodded wisely.
　　"Ah! H'm! Just so. 'Myes. Ah.""Is it bad?" asked Drummond, awed by these mystic utterances.
　　"My dear boy," replied the doctor, breezily, "it is always bad when onetwists one's ankle.""How long will it do me out of footer?" asked Barry.
　　"How long? How long? How long? Why, fortnight. Fortnight," said thedoctor.
　　"Then I shan't be able to play next Saturday?""Next Saturday? Next Saturday? My dear boy, if you can put your foot tothe ground by next Saturday, you may take it as evidence that the ageof miracles is not past. Next Saturday, indeed! Ha, ha."It was not altogether his fault that he treated the matter with suchbrutal levity. It was a long time since he had been at school, and hecould not quite realise what it meant to Barry not to be able to playagainst Ripton. As for Barry, he felt that he had never loathed anddetested any one so thoroughly as he loathed and detested Dr Oakes atthat moment.
　　"I don't see where the joke comes in," said Clowes, when he had gone.
　　"I bar that man.""He's a beast," said Drummond. "I can't understand why they let a toutlike that be the school doctor."Barry said nothing. He was too sore for words.
　　What Dr Oakes said to his wife that evening was: "Over at the school,my dear, this afternoon. This afternoon. Boy with a twisted ankle. Niceyoung fellow. Very much put out when I told him he could not playfootball for a fortnight. But I chaffed him, and cheered him up in notime. I cheered him up in no time, my dear.""I'm sure you did, dear," said Mrs Oakes. Which shows how differentlythe same thing may strike different people. Barry certainly did notlook as if he had been cheered up when Clowes left the study and wentover to tell Trevor that he would have to find a substitute for hisright wing three-quarter against Ripton.
　　Trevor had left the field without noticing Barry's accident, and he wastremendously pleased at the result of the game.
　　"Good man," he said, when Clowes came in, "you saved the match.""And lost the Ripton match probably," said Clowes, gloomily.
　　"What do you mean?""That last time I brought down Barry I crocked him. He's in his studynow with a sprained ankle. I've just come from there. Oakes has seenhim, and says he mustn't play for a fortnight.""Great Scott!" said Trevor, blankly. "What on earth shall we do?""Why not move Strachan up to the wing, and put somebody else backinstead of him? Strachan is a good wing."Trevor shook his head.
　　"No. There's nobody good enough to play back for the first. We mustn'trisk it.""Then I suppose it must be Rand-Brown?""I suppose so.""He may do better than we think. He played quite a decent game today.
　　That try he got wasn't half a bad one.""He'd be all right if he didn't funk. But perhaps he wouldn't funkagainst Ripton. In a match like that anybody would play up. I'll askMilton and Allardyce about it.""I shouldn't go to Milton today," said Clowes. "I fancy he'll want anight's rest before he's fit to talk to. He must be a bit sick aboutthis match. I know he expected Seymour's to win."He went out, but came back almost immediately.
　　"I say," he said, "there's one thing that's just occurred to me.
　　This'll please the League. I mean, this ankle business of Barry's."The same idea had struck Trevor. It was certainly a respite. But heregretted it for all that. What he wanted was to beat Ripton, andBarry's absence would weaken the team. However, it was good in its way,and cleared the atmosphere for the time. The League would hardly doanything with regard to the carrying out of their threat while Barrywas on the sick-list.
　　Next day, having given him time to get over the bitterness of defeatin accordance with Clowes' thoughtful suggestion, Trevor called onMilton, and asked him what his opinion was on the subject of theinclusion of Rand-Brown in the first fifteen in place of Barry,"He's the next best man," he added, in defence of the proposal.
　　"I suppose so," said Milton. "He'd better play, I suppose. There's noone else.""Clowes thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to shove Strachan on thewing, and put somebody else back.""Who is there to put?""Jervis?""Not good enough. No, it's better to be weakish on the wing than atback. Besides, Rand-Brown may do all right. He played well againstyou.""Yes," said Trevor. "Study looks a bit better now," he added, as he wasgoing, having looked round the room. "Still a bit bare, though."Milton sighed. "It will never be what it was.""Forty-three theatrical photographs want some replacing, of course,"said Trevor. "But it isn't bad, considering.""How's yours?""Oh, mine's all right, except for the absence of photographs.""I say, Trevor.""Yes?" said Trevor, stopping at the door. Milton's voice had taken onthe tone of one who is about to disclose dreadful secrets.
　　"Would you like to know what I think?""What?""Why, I'm pretty nearly sure who it was that ragged my study?""By Jove! What have you done to him?""Nothing as yet. I'm not quite sure of my man.""Who is the man?""Rand-Brown.""By Jove! Clowes once said he thought Rand-Brown must be the Presidentof the League. But then, I don't see how you can account for _my_study being wrecked. He was out on the field when it was done.""Why, the League, of course. You don't suppose he's the only man in it?
　　There must be a lot of them.""But what makes you think it was Rand-Brown?"Milton told him the story of Shoeblossom, as Barry had told it to him.
　　The only difference was that Trevor listened without any of thescepticism which Milton had displayed on hearing it. He was gettingexcited. It all fitted in so neatly. If ever there was circumstantialevidence against a man, here it was against Rand-Brown. Take the twocases. Milton had quarrelled with him. Milton's study was wrecked "withthe compliments of the League". Trevor had turned him out of the firstfifteen. Trevor's study was wrecked "with the compliments of theLeague". As Clowes had pointed out, the man with the most obviousmotive for not wishing Barry to play for the school was Rand-Brown. Itseemed a true bill.
　　"I shouldn't wonder if you're right," he said, "but of course one can'tdo anything yet. You want a lot more evidence. Anyhow, we must play himagainst Ripton, I suppose. Which is his study? I'll go and tell himnow.""Ten."Trevor knocked at the door of study Ten. Rand-Brown was sitting overthe fire, reading. He jumped up when he saw that it was Trevor who hadcome in, and to his visitor it seemed that his face wore a guilty look.
　　"What do you want?" said Rand-Brown.
　　It was not the politest way of welcoming a visitor. It increasedTrevor's suspicions. The man was afraid. A great idea darted into hismind. Why not go straight to the point and have it out with him hereand now? He had the League's letter about the bat in his pocket. Hewould confront him with it and insist on searching the study there andthen. If Rand-Brown were really, as he suspected, the writer of theletter, the bat must be in this room somewhere. Search it now, and hewould have no time to hide it. He pulled out the letter.
　　"I believe you wrote that," he said.
　　Trevor was always direct.
　　Rand-Brown seemed to turn a little pale, but his voice when he repliedwas quite steady.
　　"That's a lie," he said.
　　"Then, perhaps," said Trevor, "you wouldn't object to proving it.""How?""By letting me search your study?""You don't believe my word?""Why should I? You don't believe mine."Rand-Brown made no comment on this remark.
　　"Was that what you came here for?" he asked.
　　"No," said Trevor; "as a matter of fact, I came to tell you to turn outfor running and passing with the first tomorrow afternoon. You'replaying against Ripton on Saturday."Rand-Brown's attitude underwent a complete transformation at the news.
　　He became friendliness itself.
　　"All right," he said. "I say, I'm sorry I said what I did about lying.
　　I was rather sick that you should think I wrote that rot you showed me.
　　I hope you don't mind.""Not a bit. Do you mind my searching your study?"For a moment Rand-Brown looked vicious. Then he sat down with a laugh.
　　"Go on," he said; "I see you don't believe me. Here are the keys if youwant them."Trevor thanked him, and took the keys. He opened every drawer andexamined the writing-desk. The bat was in none of these places. Helooked in the cupboards. No bat there.
　　"Like to take up the carpet?" inquired Rand-Brown.
　　"No, thanks.""Search me if you like. Shall I turn out my pockets?""Yes, please," said Trevor, to his surprise. He had not expected to betaken literally.
　　Rand-Brown emptied them, but the bat was not there. Trevor turned togo.
　　"You've not looked inside the legs of the chairs yet," said Rand-Brown.
　　"They may be hollow. There's no knowing.""It doesn't matter, thanks," said Trevor. "Sorry for troubling you.
　　Don't forget tomorrow afternoon."And he went, with the very unpleasant feeling that he had been badlyscored off.
Chapter 16 The Ripton Match
    It was a curious thing in connection with the matches between Riptonand Wrykyn, that Ripton always seemed to be the bigger team. Theyalways had a gigantic pack of forwards, who looked capable of shoving ahole through one of the pyramids. Possibly they looked bigger to theWrykinians than they really were. Strangers always look big on thefootball field. When you have grown accustomed to a person'sappearance, he does not look nearly so large. Milton, for instance,never struck anybody at Wrykyn as being particularly big for a schoolforward, and yet today he was the heaviest man on the field by aquarter of a stone. But, taken in the mass, the Ripton pack were farheavier than their rivals. There was a legend current among the lowerforms at Wrykyn that fellows were allowed to stop on at Ripton tillthey were twenty-five, simply to play football. This is scarcely likelyto have been based on fact. Few lower form legends are.
　　Jevons, the Ripton captain, through having played opposite Trevor forthree seasons--he was the Ripton left centre-three-quarter--had come tobe quite an intimate of his. Trevor had gone down with Milton andAllardyce to meet the team at the station, and conduct them up to theschool.
　　"How have you been getting on since Christmas?" asked Jevons.
　　"Pretty well. We've lost Paget, I suppose you know?""That was the fast man on the wing, wasn't it?""Yes.""Well, we've lost a man, too.""Oh, yes, that red-haired forward. I remember him.""It ought to make us pretty even. What's the ground like?""Bit greasy, I should think. We had some rain late last night."The ground _was_ a bit greasy. So was the ball. When Milton kickedoff up the hill with what wind there was in his favour, the outsides ofboth teams found it difficult to hold the ball. Jevons caught it on histwenty-five line, and promptly handed it forward. The first scrum wasformed in the heart of the enemy's country.
　　A deep, swelling roar from either touch-line greeted the school'sadvantage. A feature of a big match was always the shouting. It rarelyceased throughout the whole course of the game, the monotonous butimpressive sound of five hundred voices all shouting the same word. Itwas worth hearing. Sometimes the evenness of the noise would change toan excited _crescendo_ as a school three-quarter got off, or theschool back pulled up the attack with a fine piece of defence.
　　Sometimes the shouting would give place to clapping when the school wasbeing pressed and somebody had found touch with a long kick. But mostlythe man on the ropes roared steadily and without cessation, and withthe full force of his lungs, the word "_Wrykyn!_"The scrum was a long one. For two minutes the forwards heaved andstrained, now one side, now the other, gaining a few inches. The Wrykynpack were doing all they knew to heel, but their opponents' superiorweight was telling. Ripton had got the ball, and were keeping it. Theirgame was to break through with it and rush. Then suddenly one of theirforwards kicked it on, and just at that moment the opposition of theWrykyn pack gave way, and the scrum broke up. The ball came out on theWrykyn side, and Allardyce whipped it out to Deacon, who was playinghalf with him.
　　"Ball's out," cried the Ripton half who was taking the scrum. "Breakup. It's out."And his colleague on the left darted across to stop Trevor, who hadtaken Deacon's pass, and was running through on the right.
　　Trevor ran splendidly. He was a three-quarter who took a lot ofstopping when he once got away. Jevons and the Ripton half met himalmost simultaneously, and each slackened his pace for the fraction ofa second, to allow the other to tackle. As they hesitated, Trevorpassed them. He had long ago learned that to go hard when you have oncestarted is the thing that pays.
　　He could see that Rand-Brown was racing up for the pass, and, as hereached the back, he sent the ball to him, waist-high. Then the backgot to him, and he came down with a thud, with a vision, seen from thecorner of his eye, of the ball bounding forward out of the wingthree-quarter's hands into touch. Rand-Brown had bungled the passin the old familiar way, and lost a certain try.
　　The touch-judge ran up with his flag waving in the air, but the refereehad other views.
　　"Knocked on inside," he said; "scrum here.""Here" was, Trevor saw with unspeakable disgust, some three yards fromthe goal-line. Rand-Brown had only had to take the pass, and he musthave scored.
　　The Ripton forwards were beginning to find their feet better now, andthey carried the scrum. A truculent-looking warrior in one of thoseear-guards which are tied on by strings underneath the chin, and whichadd fifty per cent to the ferocity of a forward's appearance, brokeaway with the ball at his feet, and swept down the field with the restof the pack at his heels. Trevor arrived too late to pull up the rush,which had gone straight down the right touch-line, and it was not tillStrachan fell on the ball on the Wrykyn twenty-five line that thedanger ceased to threaten.
　　Even now the school were in a bad way. The enemy were pressing keenly,and a real piece of combination among their three-quarters would onlytoo probably end in a try. Fortunately for them, Allardyce and Deaconwere a better pair of halves than the couple they were marking. Also,the Ripton forwards heeled slowly, and Allardyce had generally got hisman safely buried in the mud before he could pass.
　　He was just getting round for the tenth time to bottle his opponent asbefore, when he slipped. When the ball came out he was on all fours,and the Ripton exponent, finding to his great satisfaction that hehad not been tackled, whipped the ball out on the left, where a wingthree-quarter hovered.
　　This was the man Rand-Brown was supposed to be marking, and once againdid Barry's substitute prove of what stuff his tackling powers weremade. After his customary moment of hesitation, he had at theRiptonian's neck. The Riptonian handed him off in a manner thatrecalled the palmy days of the old Prize Ring--handing off was alwaysslightly vigorous in the Ripton _v._ Wrykyn match--and dashed overthe line in the extreme corner.
　　There was anguish on the two touch-lines. Trevor looked savage, butmade no comment. The team lined up in silence.
　　It takes a very good kick to convert a try from the touch-line. Jevons'
　　kick was a long one, but it fell short. Ripton led by a try to nothing.
　　A few more scrums near the halfway line, and a fine attempt at adropped goal by the Ripton back, and it was half-time, with the scoreunaltered.
　　During the interval there were lemons. An excellent thing is your lemonat half-time. It cools the mouth, quenches the thirst, stimulates thedesire to be at them again, and improves the play.
　　Possibly the Wrykyn team had been happier in their choice of lemons onthis occasion, for no sooner had the game been restarted than Clowesran the whole length of the field, dodged through the three-quarters,punted over the back's head, and scored a really brilliant try, of thesort that Paget had been fond of scoring in the previous term. The manon the touch-line brightened up wonderfully, and began to try andcalculate the probable score by the end of the game, on the assumptionthat, as a try had been scored in the first two minutes, ten would bescored in the first twenty, and so on.
　　But the calculations were based on false premises. After Strachan hadfailed to convert, and the game had been resumed with the score at onetry all, play settled down in the centre, and neither side could piercethe other's defence. Once Jevons got off for Ripton, but Trevor broughthim down safely, and once Rand-Brown let his man through, as before,but Strachan was there to meet him, and the effort came to nothing. ForWrykyn, no one did much except tackle. The forwards were beaten by theheavier pack, and seldom let the ball out. Allardyce intercepted a passwhen about ten minutes of play remained, and ran through to the back.
　　But the back, who was a capable man and in his third season in theteam, laid him low scientifically before he could reach the line.
　　Altogether it looked as if the match were going to end in a draw. TheWrykyn defence, with the exception of Rand-Brown, was too good to bepenetrated, while the Ripton forwards, by always getting the ball inthe scrums, kept them from attacking. It was about five minutes fromthe end of the game when the Ripton right centre-three-quarter, intrying to punt across to the wing, miskicked and sent the ball straightinto the hands of Trevor's colleague in the centre. Before his mancould get round to him he had slipped through, with Trevor backing himup. The back, as a good back should, seeing two men coming at him, wentfor the man with the ball. But by the time he had brought him down, theball was no longer where it had originally been. Trevor had got it, andwas running in between the posts.
　　This time Strachan put on the extra two points without difficulty.
　　Ripton played their hardest for the remaining minutes, but withoutresult. The game ended with Wrykyn a goal ahead--a goal and a try to atry. For the second time in one season the Ripton match had ended in avictory--a thing it was very rarely in the habit of doing.
　　* * * * *The senior day-room at Seymour's rejoiced considerably that night. Theair was dark with flying cushions, and darker still, occasionally, whenthe usual humorist turned the gas out. Milton was out, for he had goneto the dinner which followed the Ripton match, and the man in commandof the house in his absence was Mill. And the senior day-room had norespect whatever for Mill.
　　Barry joined in the revels as well as his ankle would let him, but hewas not feeling happy. The disappointment of being out of the firststill weighed on him.
　　At about eight, when things were beginning to grow really lively, andthe noise seemed likely to crack the window at any moment, the door wasflung open and Milton stalked in.
　　"What's all this row?" he inquired. "Stop it at once."As a matter of fact, the row _had_ stopped--directly he came in.
　　"Is Barry here?" he asked.
　　"Yes," said that youth.
　　"Congratulate you on your first, Barry. We've just had a meeting andgiven you your colours. Trevor told me to tell you."
Chapter 17 The Watchers In The Vault
    For the next three seconds you could have heard a cannonball drop. Andthat was equivalent, in the senior day-room at Seymour's, to a deadsilence. Barry stood in the middle of the room leaning on the stick onwhich he supported life, now that his ankle had been injured, andturned red and white in regular rotation, as the magnificence of thenews came home to him.
　　Then the small voice of Linton was heard.
　　"That'll be six d. I'll trouble you for, young Sammy," said Linton. Forhe had betted an even sixpence with Master Samuel Menzies that Barrywould get his first fifteen cap this term, and Barry had got it.
　　A great shout went up from every corner of the room. Barry was one ofthe most popular members of the house, and every one had been sorry forhim when his sprained ankle had apparently put him out of the runningfor the last cap.
　　"Good old Barry," said Drummond, delightedly. Barry thanked him in adazed way.
　　Every one crowded in to shake his hand. Barry thanked then all in adazed way.
　　And then the senior day-room, in spite of the fact that Milton hadreturned, gave itself up to celebrating the occasion with one of themost deafening uproars that had ever been heard even in that factory ofnoise. A babel of voices discussed the match of the afternoon, eachtrying to outshout the other. In one corner Linton was beating wildlyon a biscuit-tin with part of a broken chair. Shoeblossom was busy inthe opposite corner executing an intricate step-dance on somebodyelse's box. M'Todd had got hold of the red-hot poker, and was burninghis initials in huge letters on the seat of a chair. Every one, inshort, was enjoying himself, and it was not until an advanced hour thatcomparative quiet was restored. It was a great evening for Barry, thebest he had ever experienced.
　　Clowes did not learn the news till he saw it on the notice-board, onthe following Monday. When he saw it he whistled softly.
　　"I see you've given Barry his first," he said to Trevor, when they met.
　　"Rather sensational.""Milton and Allardyce both thought he deserved it. If he'd been playinginstead of Rand-Brown, they wouldn't have scored at all probably, andwe should have got one more try.""That's all right," said Clowes. "He deserves it right enough, and I'mjolly glad you've given it him. But things will begin to move now,don't you think? The League ought to have a word to say about thebusiness. It'll be a facer for them.""Do you remember," asked Trevor, "saying that you thought it must beRand-Brown who wrote those letters?""Yes. Well?""Well, Milton had an idea that it was Rand-Brown who ragged his study.""What made him think that?"Trevor related the Shoeblossom incident.
　　Clowes became quite excited.
　　"Then Rand-Brown must be the man," he said. "Why don't you go andtackle him? Probably he's got the bat in his study.""It's not in his study," said Trevor, "because I looked everywhere forit, and got him to turn out his pockets, too. And yet I'll swear heknows something about it. One thing struck me as a bit suspicious. Iwent straight into his study and showed him that last letter--about thebat, you know, and accused him of writing it. Now, if he hadn't been inthe business somehow, he wouldn't have understood what was meant bytheir saying 'the bat you lost'. It might have been an ordinarycricket-bat for all he knew. But he offered to let me search the study.
　　It didn't strike me as rum till afterwards. Then it seemed fishy. Whatdo you think?"Clowes thought so too, but admitted that he did not see of what use thesuspicion was going to be. Whether Rand-Brown knew anything about theaffair or not, it was quite certain that the bat was not with him.
　　O'Hara, meanwhile, had decided that the time had come for him to resumehis detective duties. Moriarty agreed with him, and they resolved thatthat night they would patronise the vault instead of the gymnasium, andtake a holiday as far as their boxing was concerned. There was plentyof time before the Aldershot competition.
　　Lock-up was still at six, so at a quarter to that hour they slippeddown into the vault, and took up their position.
　　A quarter of an hour passed. The lock-up bell sounded faintly. Moriartybegan to grow tired.
　　"Is it worth it?" he said, "an' wouldn't they have come before, if theymeant to come?""We'll give them another quarter of an hour," said O'Hara. "After that--""Sh!" whispered Moriarty.
　　The door had opened. They could see a figure dimly outlined in thesemi-darkness. Footsteps passed down into the vault, and there came asound as if the unknown had cannoned into a chair, followed by a sharpintake of breath, expressive of pain. A scraping sound, and a flash oflight, and part of the vault was lit by a candle. O'Hara caught aglimpse of the unknown's face as he rose from lighting the candle, butit was not enough to enable him to recognise him. The candle wasstanding on a chair, and the light it gave was too feeble to reach theface of any one not on a level with it.
　　The unknown began to drag chairs out into the neighbourhood of thelight. O'Hara counted six.
　　The sixth chair had scarcely been placed in position when the dooropened again. Six other figures appeared in the opening one after theother, and bolted into the vault like rabbits into a burrow. The lastof them closed the door after them.
　　O'Hara nudged Moriarty, and Moriarty nudged O'Hara; but neither made asound. They were not likely to be seen--the blackness of the vault wastoo Egyptian for that--but they were so near to the chairs that theleast whisper must have been heard. Not a word had proceeded from theoccupants of the chairs so far. If O'Hara's suspicion was correct, andthis was really the League holding a meeting, their methods were moresecret than those of any other secret society in existence. Even theNihilists probably exchanged a few remarks from time to time, when theymet together to plot. But these men of mystery never opened their lips.
　　It puzzled O'Hara.
　　The light of the candle was obscured for a moment, and a sound ofpuffing came from the darkness.
　　O'Hara nudged Moriarty again.
　　"Smoking!" said the nudge.
　　Moriarty nudged O'Hara.
　　"Smoking it is!" was the meaning of the movement.
　　A strong smell of tobacco showed that the diagnosis had been a trueone. Each of the figures in turn lit his pipe at the candle, and satback, still in silence. It could not have been very pleasant, smokingin almost pitch darkness, but it was breaking rules, which was probablythe main consideration that swayed the smokers. They puffed awaysteadily, till the two Irishmen were wrapped about in invisible clouds.
　　Then a strange thing happened. I know that I am infringing copyright inmaking that statement, but it so exactly suits the occurrence, thatperhaps Mr Rider Haggard will not object. It _was_ a strange thingthat happened.
　　A rasping voice shattered the silence.
　　"You boys down there," said the voice, "come here immediately. Comehere, I say."It was the well-known voice of Mr Robert Dexter, O'Hara and Moriarty'sbeloved house-master.
　　The two Irishmen simultaneously clutched one another, each afraid thatthe other would think--from force of long habit--that the house-masterwas speaking to him. Both stood where they were. It was the men ofmystery and tobacco that Dexter was after, they thought.
　　But they were wrong. What had brought Dexter to the vault was the factthat he had seen two boys, who looked uncommonly like O'Hara andMoriarty, go down the steps of the vault at a quarter to six. He hadbeen doing his usual after-lock-up prowl on the junior gravel, tointercept stragglers, and he had been a witness--from a distance offifty yards, in a very bad light--of the descent into the vault. He hadremained on the gravel ever since, in the hope of catching them as theycame up; but as they had not come up, he had determined to make thefirst move himself. He had not seen the six unknowns go down, for, theevening being chilly, he had paced up and down, and they had by a luckyaccident chosen a moment when his back was turned.
　　"Come up immediately," he repeated.
　　Here a blast of tobacco-smoke rushed at him from the darkness. Thecandle had been extinguished at the first alarm, and he had notrealised--though he had suspected it--that smoking had been going on.
　　A hurried whispering was in progress among the unknowns. Apparentlythey saw that the game was up, for they picked their way towards thedoor.
　　As each came up the steps and passed him, Mr Dexter observed "Ha!" andappeared to make a note of his name. The last of the six was justleaving him after this process had been completed, when Mr Dextercalled him back.
　　"That is not all," he said, suspiciously.
　　"Yes, sir," said the last of the unknowns.
　　Neither of the Irishmen recognised the voice. Its owner was a strangerto them.
　　"I tell you it is not," snapped Mr Dexter. "You are concealing thetruth from me. O'Hara and Moriarty are down there--two boys in my ownhouse. I saw them go down there.""They had nothing to do with us, sir. We saw nothing of them.""I have no doubt," said the house-master, "that you imagine that youare doing a very chivalrous thing by trying to hide them, but you willgain nothing by it. You may go."He came to the top of the steps, and it seemed as if he intended toplunge into the darkness in search of the suspects. But, probablyrealising the futility of such a course, he changed his mind, anddelivered an ultimatum from the top step.
　　"O'Hara and Moriarty."No reply.
　　"O'Hara and Moriarty, I know perfectly well that you are down there.
　　Come up immediately."Dignified silence from the vault.
　　"Well, I shall wait here till you do choose to come up. You would bewell advised to do so immediately. I warn you you will not tire meout."He turned, and the door slammed behind him.
　　"What'll we do?" whispered Moriarty. It was at last safe to whisper.
　　"Wait," said O'Hara, "I'm thinking."O'Hara thought. For many minutes he thought in vain. At last there cameflooding back into his mind a memory of the days of his faghood. It wasafter that that he had been groping all the time. He remembered now.
　　Once in those days there had been an unexpected function in the middle ofterm. There were needed for that function certain chairs. He could recalleven now his furious disgust when he and a select body of fellow fags hadbeen pounced upon by their form-master, and coerced into forming a linefrom the junior block to the cloisters, for the purpose of handingchairs. True, his form-master had stood ginger-beer after the event, withprincely liberality, but the labour was of the sort that gallons ofginger-beer will not make pleasant. But he ceased to regret the episodenow. He had been at the extreme end of the chair-handling chain. He hadstood in a passage in the junior block, just by the door that led to themasters' garden, and which--he remembered--was never locked till late atnight. And while he stood there, a pair of hands--apparently without abody--had heaved up chair after chair through a black opening in thefloor. In other words, a trap-door connected with the vault in whichhe now was.
　　He imparted these reminiscences of childhood to Moriarty. They set offto search for the missing door, and, after wanderings and barkings ofshins too painful to relate, they found it. Moriarty lit a match. Thelight fell on the trap-door, and their last doubts were at an end. Thething opened inwards. The bolt was on their side, not in the passageabove them. To shoot the bolt took them one second, to climb into thepassage one minute. They stood at the side of the opening, and dustedtheir clothes.
　　"Bedad!" said Moriarty, suddenly.
　　"What?""Why, how are we to shut it?"This was a problem that wanted some solving. Eventually they managedit, O'Hara leaning over and fishing for it, while Moriarty held hislegs.
　　As luck would have it--and luck had stood by them well allthrough--there was a bolt on top of the trap-door, as well asbeneath it.
　　"Supposing that had been shot!" said O'Hara, as they fastened the doorin its place.
　　Moriarty did not care to suppose anything so unpleasant.
　　Mr Dexter was still prowling about on the junior gravel, when the twoIrishmen ran round and across the senior gravel to the gymnasium. Herethey put in a few minutes' gentle sparring, and then marched boldly upto Mr Day (who happened to have looked in five minutes after theirarrival) and got their paper.
　　"What time did O'Hara and Moriarty arrive at the gymnasium?" asked MrDexter of Mr Day next morning.
　　"O'Hara and Moriarty? Really, I can't remember. I know they _left_at about a quarter to seven."That profound thinker, Mr Tony Weller, was never so correct as in hisviews respecting the value of an _alibi_. There are few betterthings in an emergency.
Chapter 18 O'Hara Excels Himself
    It was Renford's turn next morning to get up and feed the ferrets.
　　Harvey had done it the day before.
　　Renford was not a youth who enjoyed early rising, but in the cause ofthe ferrets he would have endured anything, so at six punctually heslid out of bed, dressed quietly, so as not to disturb the rest of thedormitory, and ran over to the vault. To his utter amazement he foundit locked. Such a thing had never been done before in the whole courseof his experience. He tugged at the handle, but not an inch or afraction of an inch would the door yield. The policy of the Open Doorhad ceased to find favour in the eyes of the authorities.
　　A feeling of blank despair seized upon him. He thought of the dismay ofthe ferrets when they woke up and realised that there was no chance ofbreakfast for them. And then they would gradually waste away, and someday somebody would go down to the vault to fetch chairs, and would comeupon two mouldering skeletons, and wonder what they had once been. Healmost wept at the vision so conjured up.
　　There was nobody about. Perhaps he might break in somehow. But thenthere was nothing to get to work with. He could not kick the door down.
　　No, he must give it up, and the ferrets' breakfast-hour must bepostponed. Possibly Harvey might be able to think of something.
　　"Fed 'em?" inquired Harvey, when they met at breakfast.
　　"No, I couldn't.""Why on earth not? You didn't oversleep yourself?"Renford poured his tale into his friend's shocked ears.
　　"My hat!" said Harvey, when he had finished, "what on earth are we todo? They'll starve."Renford nodded mournfully.
　　"Whatever made them go and lock the door?" he said.
　　He seemed to think the authorities should have given him due notice ofsuch an action.
　　"You're sure they have locked it? It isn't only stuck or something?""I lugged at the handle for hours. But you can go and see for yourselfif you like."Harvey went, and, waiting till the coast was clear, attached himself tothe handle with a prehensile grasp, and put his back into one strenuoustug. It was even as Renford had said. The door was locked beyondpossibility of doubt.
　　Renford and he went over to school that morning with long faces and ageneral air of acute depression. It was perhaps fortunate for theirpurpose that they did, for had their appearance been normal it mightnot have attracted O'Hara's attention. As it was, the Irishman, meetingthem on the junior gravel, stopped and asked them what was wrong. Sincethe adventure in the vault, he had felt an interest in Renford andHarvey.
　　The two told their story in alternate sentences like the Strophe andAntistrophe of a Greek chorus. ("Steichomuthics," your Greek scholarcalls it, I fancy. Ha, yes! Just so.)"So ye can't get in because they've locked the door, an' ye don't knowwhat to do about it?" said O'Hara, at the conclusion of the narrative.
　　Renford and Harvey informed him in chorus that that _was_ thestate of the game up to present date.
　　"An' ye want me to get them out for you?"Neither had dared to hope that he would go so far as this. What theyhad looked for had been at the most a few thoughtful words of advice.
　　That such a master-strategist as O'Hara should take up their cause wasan unexampled piece of good luck.
　　"If you only would," said Harvey.
　　"We should be most awfully obliged," said Renford.
　　"Very well," said O'Hara.
　　They thanked him profusely.
　　O'Hara replied that it would be a privilege.
　　He should be sorry, he said, to have anything happen to the ferrets.
　　Renford and Harvey went on into school feeling more cheerful. If theferrets could be extracted from their present tight corner, O'Hara wasthe man to do it.
　　O'Hara had not made his offer of assistance in any spirit of doubt. Hewas certain that he could do what he had promised. For it had notescaped his memory that this was a Tuesday--in other words, amathematics morning up to the quarter to eleven interval. That meant,as has been explained previously, that, while the rest of the schoolwere in the form-rooms, he would be out in the passage, if he cared tobe. There would be no witnesses to what he was going to do.
　　But, by that curious perversity of fate which is so often noticeable,Mr Banks was in a peculiarly lamb-like and long-suffering mood thismorning. Actions for which O'Hara would on other days have beenexpelled from the room without hope of return, today were greeted witha mild "Don't do that, please, O'Hara," or even the ridiculouslyinadequate "O'Hara!" It was perfectly disheartening. O'Hara began toask himself bitterly what was the use of ragging at all if this was howit was received. And the moments were flying, and his promise toRenford and Harvey still remained unfulfilled.
　　He prepared for fresh efforts.
　　So desperate was he, that he even resorted to crude methods like thethrowing of paper balls and the dropping of books. And when your reallyscientific ragger sinks to this, he is nearing the end of his tether.
　　O'Hara hated to be rude, but there seemed no help for it.
　　The striking of a quarter past ten improved his chances. It had beenprivily agreed upon beforehand amongst the members of the class that ata quarter past ten every one was to sneeze simultaneously. The noisestartled Mr Banks considerably. The angelic mood began to wear off. Aman may be long-suffering, but he likes to draw the line somewhere.
　　"Another exhibition like that," he said, sharply, "and the class staysin after school, O'Hara!""Sir?""Silence.""I said nothing, sir, really.""Boy, you made a cat-like noise with your mouth.""What _sort_ of noise, sir?"The form waited breathlessly. This peculiarly insidious question hadbeen invented for mathematical use by one Sandys, who had left at theend of the previous summer. It was but rarely that the master increasedthe gaiety of nations by answering the question in the manner desired.
　　Mr Banks, off his guard, fell into the trap.
　　"A noise like this," he said curtly, and to the delighted audience camethe melodious sound of a "Mi-aou", which put O'Hara's effort completelyin the shade, and would have challenged comparison with the war-cry ofthe stoutest mouser that ever trod a tile.
　　A storm of imitations arose from all parts of the room. Mr Banks turnedpink, and, going straight to the root of the disturbance, forthwithevicted O'Hara.
　　O'Hara left with the satisfying feeling that his duty had been done.
　　Mr Banks' room was at the top of the middle block. He ran softly downthe stairs at his best pace. It was not likely that the master wouldcome out into the passage to see if he was still there, but it mighthappen, and it would be best to run as few risks as possible.
　　He sprinted over to the junior block, raised the trap-door, and jumpeddown. He knew where the ferrets had been placed, and had no difficultyin finding them. In another minute he was in the passage again, withthe trap-door bolted behind him.
　　He now asked himself--what should he do with them? He must find a safeplace, or his labours would have been in vain.
　　Behind the fives-court, he thought, would be the spot. Nobody ever wentthere. It meant a run of three hundred yards there and the samedistance back, and there was more than a chance that he might be seenby one of the Powers. In which case he might find it rather hard toexplain what he was doing in the middle of the grounds with a couple offerrets in his possession when the hands of the clock pointed to twentyminutes to eleven.
　　But the odds were against his being seen. He risked it.
　　When the bell rang for the quarter to eleven interval the ferrets werein their new home, happily discussing a piece of meat--Renford'scontribution, held over from the morning's meal,--and O'Hara, lookingas if he had never left the passage for an instant, was making his waythrough the departing mathematical class to apologise handsomely to MrBanks--as was his invariable custom--for his disgraceful behaviourduring the morning's lesson.
Chapter 19 The Mayor's Visit
    School prefects at Wrykyn did weekly essays for the headmaster. Thosewho had got their scholarships at the 'Varsity, or who were going up inthe following year, used to take their essays to him after school andread them to him--an unpopular and nerve-destroying practice, akin tosuicide. Trevor had got his scholarship in the previous November. Hewas due at the headmaster's private house at six o'clock on the presentTuesday. He was looking forward to the ordeal not without apprehension.
　　The essay subject this week had been "One man's meat is another man'spoison", and Clowes, whose idea of English Essay was that it should bea medium for intempestive frivolity, had insisted on his beginningwith, "While I cannot conscientiously go so far as to say that oneman's meat is another man's poison, yet I am certainly of opinion thatwhat is highly beneficial to one man may, on the other hand, to anotherman, differently constituted, be extremely deleterious, and, indeed,absolutely fatal."Trevor was not at all sure how the headmaster would take it. But Cloweshad seemed so cut up at his suggestion that it had better be omitted,that he had allowed it to stand.
　　He was putting the final polish on this gem of English literature athalf-past five, when Milton came in.
　　"Busy?" said Milton.
　　Trevor said he would be through in a minute.
　　Milton took a chair, and waited.
　　Trevor scratched out two words and substituted two others, made acouple of picturesque blots, and, laying down his pen, announced thathe had finished.
　　"What's up?" he said.
　　"It's about the League," said Milton.
　　"Found out anything?""Not anything much. But I've been making inquiries. You remember Iasked you to let me look at those letters of yours?"Trevor nodded. This had happened on the Sunday of that week.
　　"Well, I wanted to look at the post-marks.""By Jove, I never thought of that."Milton continued with the business-like air of the detective whoexplains in the last chapter of the book how he did it.
　　"I found, as I thought, that both letters came from the same place."Trevor pulled out the letters in question. "So they do," he said,"Chesterton.""Do you know Chesterton?" asked Milton.
　　"Only by name.""It's a small hamlet about two miles from here across the downs.
　　There's only one shop in the place, which acts as post-office andtobacconist and everything else. I thought that if I went there andasked about those letters, they might remember who it was that sentthem, if I showed them a photograph.""By Jove," said Trevor, "of course! Did you? What happened?""I went there yesterday afternoon. I took about half-a-dozenphotographs of various chaps, including Rand-Brown.""But wait a bit. If Chesterton's two miles off, Rand-Brown couldn'thave sent the letters. He wouldn't have the time after school. He wason the grounds both the afternoons before I got the letters.""I know," said Milton; "I didn't think of that at the time.""Well?""One of the points about the Chesterton post-office is that there's noletter-box outside. You have to go into the shop and hand anything youwant to post across the counter. I thought this was a tremendous scorefor me. I thought they would be bound to remember who handed in theletters. There can't be many at a place like that.""Did they remember?""They remembered the letters being given in distinctly, but as forknowing anything beyond that, they were simply futile. There was anold woman in the shop, aged about three hundred and ten, I shouldthink. I shouldn't say she had ever been very intelligent, but nowshe simply gibbered. I started off by laying out a shilling on somepoisonous-looking sweets. I gave the lot to a village kid when I gotout. I hope they didn't kill him. Then, having scattered ground-baitin that way, I lugged out the photographs, mentioned the letters andthe date they had been sent, and asked her to weigh in and identifythe sender.""Did she?""My dear chap, she identified them all, one after the other. The firstwas one of Clowes. She was prepared to swear on oath that that was thechap who had sent the letters. Then I shot a photograph of you acrossthe counter, and doubts began to creep in. She said she was certain itwas one of those two 'la-ads', but couldn't quite say which. To keepher amused I fired in photograph number three--Allardyce's. Sheidentified that, too. At the end of ten minutes she was pretty surethat it was one of the six--the other three were Paget, Clephane, andRand-Brown--but she was not going to bind herself down to anyparticular one. As I had come to the end of my stock of photographs,and was getting a bit sick of the game, I got up to go, when in cameanother ornament of Chesterton from a room at the back of the shop. Hewas quite a kid, not more than a hundred and fifty at the outside, so,as a last chance, I tackled him on the subject. He looked at thephotographs for about half an hour, mumbling something about it notbeing 'thiccy 'un' or 'that 'un', or 'that 'ere tother 'un', until Ibegan to feel I'd had enough of it. Then it came out that the real chapwho had sent the letters was a 'la-ad' with light hair, not so big asme--""That doesn't help us much," said Trevor.
　　"--And a 'prarper little gennlemun'. So all we've got to do is to lookfor some young duke of polished manners and exterior, with a thatch oflight hair.""There are three hundred and sixty-seven fellows with light hair in theschool," said Trevor, calmly.
　　"Thought it was three hundred and sixty-eight myself," said Milton,"but I may be wrong. Anyhow, there you have the results of myinvestigations. If you can make anything out of them, you're welcome toit. Good-bye.""Half a second," said Trevor, as he got up; "had the fellow a cap ofany sort?""No. Bareheaded. You wouldn't expect him to give himself away bywearing a house-cap?"Trevor went over to the headmaster's revolving this discovery in hismind. It was not much of a clue, but the smallest clue is better thannothing. To find out that the sender of the League letters had fair hairnarrowed the search down a little. It cleared the more raven-lockedmembers of the school, at any rate. Besides, by combining his informationwith Milton's, the search might be still further narrowed down. He knewthat the polite letter-writer must be either in Seymour's or inDonaldson's. The number of fair-haired youths in the two houses wasnot excessive. Indeed, at the moment he could not recall any; whichrather complicated matters.
　　He arrived at the headmaster's door, and knocked. He was shown into aroom at the side of the hall, near the door. The butler informed himthat the headmaster was engaged at present. Trevor, who knew the butlerslightly through having constantly been to see the headmaster onbusiness _via_ the front door, asked who was there.
　　"Sir Eustace Briggs," said the butler, and disappeared in the directionof his lair beyond the green baize partition at the end of the hall.
　　Trevor went into the room, which was a sort of spare study, and satdown, wondering what had brought the mayor of Wrykyn to see theheadmaster at this advanced hour.
　　A quarter of an hour later the sound of voices broke in upon his peace.
　　The headmaster was coming down the hall with the intention of showinghis visitor out. The door of Trevor's room was ajar, and he could heardistinctly what was being said. He had no particular desire to play theeavesdropper, but the part was forced upon him.
　　Sir Eustace seemed excited.
　　"It is far from being my habit," he was saying, "to make unnecessarycomplaints respecting the conduct of the lads under your care." (SirEustace Briggs had a distaste for the shorter and more colloquial formsof speech. He would have perished sooner than have substituted"complain of your boys" for the majestic formula he had used. He spokeas if he enjoyed choosing his words. He seemed to pause and thinkbefore each word. Unkind people--who were jealous of his distinguishedcareer--used to say that he did this because he was afraid of droppingan aitch if he relaxed his vigilance.)"But," continued he, "I am reluctantly forced to the unpleasantconclusion that the dastardly outrage to which both I and the Press ofthe town have called your attention is to be attributed to one of thelads to whom I 'ave--_have_ (this with a jerk) referred.""I will make a thorough inquiry, Sir Eustace," said the bass voice ofthe headmaster.
　　"I thank you," said the mayor. "It would, under the circumstances, benothing more, I think, than what is distinctly advisable. The manSamuel Wapshott, of whose narrative I have recently afforded you abrief synopsis, stated in no uncertain terms that he found at the footof the statue on which the dastardly outrage was perpetrated adiminutive ornament, in shape like the bats that are used in the gameof cricket. This ornament, he avers (with what truth I know not), washanded by him to a youth of an age coeval with that of the lads in theupper division of this school. The youth claimed it as his property, Iwas given to understand.""A thorough inquiry shall be made, Sir Eustace.""I thank you."And then the door shut, and the conversation ceased.
Chapter 20 The Finding Of The Bat
    Trevor waited till the headmaster had gone back to his library, gavehim five minutes to settle down, and then went in.
　　The headmaster looked up inquiringly.
　　"My essay, sir," said Trevor.
　　"Ah, yes. I had forgotten."Trevor opened the notebook and began to read what he had written. Hefinished the paragraph which owed its insertion to Clowes, and racedhurriedly on to the next. To his surprise the flippancy passedunnoticed, at any rate, verbally. As a rule the headmaster preferredthat quotations from back numbers of _Punch_ should be kept out ofthe prefects' English Essays. And he generally said as much. But todayhe seemed strangely preoccupied. A split infinitive in paragraph five,which at other times would have made him sit up in his chair stiff withhorror, elicited no remark. The same immunity was accorded to theinsertion (inspired by Clowes, as usual) of a popular catch phrase inthe last few lines. Trevor finished with the feeling that luck hadfavoured him nobly.
　　"Yes," said the headmaster, seemingly roused by the silence followingon the conclusion of the essay. "Yes." Then, after a long pause, "Yes,"again.
　　Trevor said nothing, but waited for further comment.
　　"Yes," said the headmaster once more, "I think that is a veryfair essay. Very fair. It wants a little more--er--not quite somuch--um--yes."Trevor made a note in his mind to effect these improvements in futureessays, and was getting up, when the headmaster stopped him.
　　"Don't go, Trevor. I wish to speak to you."Trevor's first thought was, perhaps naturally, that the bat was going tobe brought into discussion. He was wondering helplessly how he was goingto keep O'Hara and his midnight exploit out of the conversation, whenthe headmaster resumed. "An unpleasant thing has happened, Trevor--""Now we're coming to it," thought Trevor.
　　"It appears, Trevor, that a considerable amount of smoking has beengoing on in the school."Trevor breathed freely once more. It was only going to be a mereconventional smoking row after all. He listened with more enjoymentas the headmaster, having stopped to turn down the wick of thereading-lamp which stood on the table at his side, and which hadbegun, appropriately enough, to smoke, resumed his discourse.
　　"Mr Dexter--"Of course, thought Trevor. If there ever was a row in the school,Dexter was bound to be at the bottom of it.
　　"Mr Dexter has just been in to see me. He reported six boys. Hediscovered them in the vault beneath the junior block. Two of them wereboys in your house."Trevor murmured something wordless, to show that the story interestedhim.
　　"You knew nothing of this, of course--""No, sir.""No. Of course not. It is difficult for the head of a house to know allthat goes on in that house."Was this his beastly sarcasm? Trevor asked himself. But he came to theconclusion that it was not. After all, the head of a house is onlyhuman. He cannot be expected to keep an eye on the private life ofevery member of his house.
　　"This must be stopped, Trevor. There is no saying how widespread thepractice has become or may become. What I want you to do is to gostraight back to your house and begin a complete search of thestudies.""Tonight, sir?" It seemed too late for such amusement.
　　"Tonight. But before you go to your house, call at Mr Seymour's, andtell Milton I should like to see him. And, Trevor.""Yes, sir?""You will understand that I am leaving this matter to you to be dealtwith by you. I shall not require you to make any report to me. But ifyou should find tobacco in any boy's room, you must punish him well,Trevor. Punish him well."This meant that the culprit must be "touched up" before the houseassembled in the dining-room. Such an event did not often occur. Thelast occasion had been in Paget's first term as head of Donaldson's,when two of the senior day-room had been discovered attempting torevive the ancient and dishonourable custom of bullying. This time,Trevor foresaw, would set up a record in all probability. There mightbe any number of devotees of the weed, and he meant to carry out hisinstructions to the full, and make the criminals more unhappy than theyhad been since the day of their first cigar. Trevor hated the habit ofsmoking at school. He was so intensely keen on the success of the houseand the school at games, that anything which tended to damage the windand eye filled him with loathing. That anybody should dare to smoke ina house which was going to play in the final for the House Football Cupmade him rage internally, and he proposed to make things bad andunrestful for such.
　　To smoke at school is to insult the divine weed. When you are obligedto smoke in odd corners, fearing every moment that you will bediscovered, the whole meaning, poetry, romance of a pipe vanishes, andyou become like those lost beings who smoke when they are running tocatch trains. The boy who smokes at school is bound to come to a badend. He will degenerate gradually into a person that plays dominoes inthe smoking-rooms of A.B.C. shops with friends who wear bowler hats andfrock coats.
　　Much of this philosophy Trevor expounded to Clowes in energeticlanguage when he returned to Donaldson's after calling at Seymour's todeliver the message for Milton.
　　Clowes became quite animated at the prospect of a real row.
　　"We shall be able to see the skeletons in their cupboards," heobserved. "Every man has a skeleton in his cupboard, which follows himabout wherever he goes. Which study shall we go to first?""We?" said Trevor.
　　"We," repeated Clowes firmly. "I am not going to be left out of thisjaunt. I need bracing up--I'm not strong, you know--and this is justthe thing to do it. Besides, you'll want a bodyguard of some sort, incase the infuriated occupant turns and rends you.""I don't see what there is to enjoy in the business," said Trevor,gloomily. "Personally, I bar this kind of thing. By the time we'vefinished, there won't be a chap in the house I'm on speaking termswith.""Except me, dearest," said Clowes. "I will never desert you. It's of nouse asking me, for I will never do it. Mr Micawber has his faults, butI will _never_ desert Mr Micawber.""You can come if you like," said Trevor; "we'll take the studies inorder. I suppose we needn't look up the prefects?""A prefect is above suspicion. Scratch the prefects.""That brings us to Dixon."Dixon was a stout youth with spectacles, who was popularly supposed todo twenty-two hours' work a day. It was believed that he put in twohours sleep from eleven to one, and then got up and worked in his studytill breakfast.
　　He was working when Clowes and Trevor came in. He dived head foremostinto a huge Liddell and Scott as the door opened. On hearing Trevor'svoice he slowly emerged, and a pair of round and spectacled eyes gazedblankly at the visitors. Trevor briefly explained his errand, but theinterview lost in solemnity owing to the fact that the bare notion ofDixon storing tobacco in his room made Clowes roar with laughter. Also,Dixon stolidly refused to understand what Trevor was talking about, andat the end of ten minutes, finding it hopeless to try and explain, thetwo went. Dixon, with a hazy impression that he had been asked to joinin some sort of round game, and had refused the offer, returned againto his Liddell and Scott, and continued to wrestle with the somewhatobscure utterances of the chorus in AEschylus' _Agamemnon_. Theresults of this fiasco on Trevor and Clowes were widely different.
　　Trevor it depressed horribly. It made him feel savage. Clowes, on theother hand, regarded the whole affair in a spirit of rollicking farce,and refused to see that this was a serious matter, in which the honourof the house was involved.
　　The next study was Ruthven's. This fact somewhat toned down theexuberances of Clowes's demeanour. When one particularly dislikes aperson, one has a curious objection to seeming in good spirits in hispresence. One feels that he may take it as a sort of compliment tohimself, or, at any rate, contribute grins of his own, which would behateful. Clowes was as grave as Trevor when they entered the study.
　　Ruthven's study was like himself, overdressed and rather futile. It ranto little china ornaments in a good deal of profusion. It was more likea drawing-room than a school study.
　　"Sorry to disturb you, Ruthven," said Trevor.
　　"Oh, come in," said Ruthven, in a tired voice. "Please shut the door;there is a draught. Do you want anything?""We've got to have a look round," said Clowes.
　　"Can't you see everything there is?"Ruthven hated Clowes as much as Clowes hated him.
　　Trevor cut into the conversation again.
　　"It's like this, Ruthven," he said. "I'm awfully sorry, but the OldMan's just told me to search the studies in case any of the fellowshave got baccy."Ruthven jumped up, pale with consternation.
　　"You can't. I won't have you disturbing my study.""This is rot," said Trevor, shortly, "I've got to. It's no good makingit more unpleasant for me than it is.""But I've no tobacco. I swear I haven't.""Then why mind us searching?" said Clowes affably.
　　"Come on, Ruthven," said Trevor, "chuck us over the keys. You might aswell.""I won't.""Don't be an ass, man.""We have here," observed Clowes, in his sad, solemn way, "a stout andserviceable poker." He stooped, as he spoke, to pick it up.
　　"Leave that poker alone," cried Ruthven.
　　Clowes straightened himself.
　　"I'll swop it for your keys," he said.
　　"Don't be a fool.""Very well, then. We will now crack our first crib."Ruthven sprang forward, but Clowes, handing him off in football fashionwith his left hand, with his right dashed the poker against the lock ofthe drawer of the table by which he stood.
　　The lock broke with a sharp crack. It was not built with an eye to suchonslaught.
　　"Neat for a first shot," said Clowes, complacently. "Now for theUmustaphas and shag."But as he looked into the drawer he uttered a sudden cry of excitement.
　　He drew something out, and tossed it over to Trevor.
　　"Catch, Trevor," he said quietly. "Something that'll interest you."Trevor caught it neatly in one hand, and stood staring at it as if hehad never seen anything like it before. And yet he had--often. For whathe had caught was a little golden bat, about an inch long by an eighthof an inch wide.
Chapter 21 The League Revealed
    "What do you think of that?" said Clowes.
　　Trevor said nothing. He could not quite grasp the situation. It wasnot only that he had got the idea so firmly into his head that itwas Rand-Brown who had sent the letters and appropriated the bat.
　　Even supposing he had not suspected Rand-Brown, he would never havedreamed of suspecting Ruthven. They had been friends. Not very closefriends--Trevor's keenness for games and Ruthven's dislike of themprevented that--but a good deal more than acquaintances. He was soconstituted that he could not grasp the frame of mind required forsuch an action as Ruthven's. It was something absolutely abnormal.
　　Clowes was equally surprised, but for a different reason. It was not somuch the enormity of Ruthven's proceedings that took him aback. Hebelieved him, with that cheerful intolerance which a certain type ofmind affects, capable of anything. What surprised him was the fact thatRuthven had had the ingenuity and even the daring to conduct a campaignof this description. Cribbing in examinations he would have thought thelimit of his crimes. Something backboneless and underhand of that kindwould not have surprised him in the least. He would have said that itwas just about what he had expected all along. But that Ruthven shouldblossom out suddenly as quite an ingenious and capable criminal in thisway, was a complete surprise.
　　"Well, perhaps _you_'ll make a remark?" he said, turning toRuthven.
　　Ruthven, looking very much like a passenger on a Channel steamer whohas just discovered that the motion of the vessel is affecting himunpleasantly, had fallen into a chair when Clowes handed him off. Hesat there with a look on his pasty face which was not good to see, assilent as Trevor. It seemed that whatever conversation there was goingto be would have to take the form of a soliloquy from Clowes.
　　Clowes took a seat on the corner of the table.
　　"It seems to me, Ruthven," he said, "that you'd better say_something_. At present there's a lot that wants explaining. Asthis bat has been found lying in your drawer, I suppose we may take itthat you're the impolite letter-writer?"Ruthven found his voice at last.
　　"I'm not," he cried; "I never wrote a line.""Now we're getting at it," said Clowes. "I thought you couldn't havehad it in you to carry this business through on your own. Apparentlyyou've only been the sleeping partner in this show, though I suppose itwas you who ragged Trevor's study? Not much sleeping about that. Youtook over the acting branch of the concern for that day only, I expect.
　　Was it you who ragged the study?"Ruthven stared into the fire, but said nothing.
　　"Must be polite, you know, Ruthven, and answer when you're spoken to.
　　Was it you who ragged Trevor's study?""Yes," said Ruthven.
　　"Thought so.""Why, of course, I met you just outside," said Trevor, speaking for thefirst time. "You were the chap who told me what had happened."Ruthven said nothing.
　　"The ragging of the study seems to have been all the active work hedid," remarked Clowes.
　　"No," said Trevor, "he posted the letters, whether he wrote them ornot. Milton was telling me--you remember? I told you. No, I didn't.
　　Milton found out that the letters were posted by a small, light-hairedfellow.""That's him," said Clowes, as regardless of grammar as the monks ofRheims, pointing with the poker at Ruthven's immaculate locks. "Well,you ragged the study and posted the letters. That was all your share.
　　Am I right in thinking Rand-Brown was the other partner?"Silence from Ruthven.
　　"Am I?" persisted Clowes.
　　"You may think what you like. I don't care.""Now we're getting rude again," complained Clowes. "_Was_ Rand-Brownin this?""Yes," said Ruthven.
　　"Thought so. And who else?""No one.""Try again.""I tell you there was no one else. Can't you believe a word a chapsays?""A word here and there, perhaps," said Clowes, as one making aconcession, "but not many, and this isn't one of them. Have anothershot."Ruthven relapsed into silence.
　　"All right, then," said Clowes, "we'll accept that statement. There'sjust a chance that it may be true. And that's about all, I think. Thisisn't my affair at all, really. It's yours, Trevor. I'm only aspectator and camp-follower. It's your business. You'll find me in mystudy." And putting the poker carefully in its place, Clowes left theroom. He went into his study, and tried to begin some work. But thebeauties of the second book of Thucydides failed to appeal to him. Hismind was elsewhere. He felt too excited with what had just happened totranslate Greek. He pulled up a chair in front of the fire, and gavehimself up to speculating how Trevor was getting on in the neighbouringstudy. He was glad he had left him to finish the business. If he hadbeen in Trevor's place, there was nothing he would so greatly havedisliked as to have some one--however familiar a friend--interfering inhis wars and settling them for him. Left to himself, Clowes wouldprobably have ended the interview by kicking Ruthven into the nearestapproach to pulp compatible with the laws relating to manslaughter. Hehad an uneasy suspicion that Trevor would let him down far too easily.
　　The handle turned. Trevor came in, and pulled up another chair insilence. His face wore a look of disgust. But there were no signs ofcombat upon him. The toe of his boot was not worn and battered, asClowes would have liked to have seen it. Evidently he had not chosen toadopt active and physical measures for the improvement of Ruthven'smoral well-being.
　　"Well?" said Clowes.
　　"My word, what a hound!" breathed Trevor, half to himself.
　　"My sentiments to a hair," said Clowes, approvingly. "But what have youdone?""I didn't do anything.""I was afraid you wouldn't. Did he give any explanation? What made himgo in for the thing at all? What earthly motive could he have for notwanting Barry to get his colours, bar the fact that Rand-Brown didn'twant him to? And why should he do what Rand-Brown told him? I never evenknew they were pals, before today.""He told me a good deal," said Trevor. "It's one of the beastliestthings I ever heard. They neither of them come particularly well out ofthe business, but Rand-Brown comes worse out of it even than Ruthven.
　　My word, that man wants killing.""That'll keep," said Clowes, nodding. "What's the yarn?""Do you remember about a year ago a chap named Patterson gettingsacked?"Clowes nodded again. He remembered the case well. Patterson had hadgambling transactions with a Wrykyn tradesman, had been found out, andhad gone.
　　"You remember what a surprise it was to everybody. It wasn't one ofthose cases where half the school suspects what's going on. Those casesalways come out sooner or later. But Patterson nobody knew about.""Yes. Well?""Nobody," said Trevor, "except Ruthven, that is. Ruthven got to knowsomehow. I believe he was a bit of a pal of Patterson's at the time.
　　Anyhow,--they had a row, and Ruthven went to Dexter--Patterson was inDexter's--and sneaked. Dexter promised to keep his name out of thebusiness, and went straight to the Old Man, and Patterson got turfedout on the spot. Then somehow or other Rand-Brown got to know aboutit--I believe Ruthven must have told him by accident some time or other.
　　After that he simply had to do everything Rand-Brown wanted him to.
　　Otherwise he said that he would tell the chaps about the Pattersonaffair. That put Ruthven in a dead funk.""Of course," said Clowes; "I should imagine friend Ruthven would havegot rather a bad time of it. But what made them think of starting theLeague? It was a jolly smart idea. Rand-Brown's, of course?""Yes. I suppose he'd heard about it, and thought something might bemade out of it if it were revived.""And were Ruthven and he the only two in it?""Ruthven swears they were, and I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't tellingthe truth, for once in his life. You see, everything the League's doneso far could have been done by him and Rand-Brown, without anybodyelse's help. The only other studies that were ragged were Mill's andMilton's--both in Seymour's.
　　"Yes," said Clowes.
　　There was a pause. Clowes put another shovelful of coal on the fire.
　　"What are you going to do to Ruthven?""Nothing.""Nothing? Hang it, he doesn't deserve to get off like that. He isn't asbad as Rand-Brown--quite--but he's pretty nearly as finished a littlebeast as you could find.""Finished is just the word," said Trevor. "He's going at the end of theweek.""Going? What! sacked?""Yes. The Old Man's been finding out things about him, apparently, andthis smoking row has just added the finishing-touch to his discoveries.
　　He's particularly keen against smoking just now for some reason.""But was Ruthven in it?""Yes. Didn't I tell you? He was one of the fellows Dexter caught in thevault. There were two in this house, you remember?""Who was the other?""That man Dashwood. Has the study next to Paget's old one. He's going,too.""Scarcely knew him. What sort of a chap was he?""Outsider. No good to the house in any way. He won't be missed.""And what are you going to do about Rand-Brown?""Fight him, of course. What else could I do?""But you're no match for him.""We'll see.""But you _aren't_," persisted Clowes. "He can give you a stoneeasily, and he's not a bad boxer either. Moriarty didn't beat him sovery cheaply in the middle-weight this year. You wouldn't have achance."Trevor flared up.
　　"Heavens, man," he cried, "do you think I don't know all that myself?
　　But what on earth would you have me do? Besides, he may be a goodboxer, but he's got no pluck at all. I might outstay him.""Hope so," said Clowes.
　　But his tone was not hopeful.
Chapter 22 A Dress Rehearsal
    Some people in Trevor's place might have taken the earliest opportunityof confronting Rand-Brown, so as to settle the matter in hand withoutdelay. Trevor thought of doing this, but finally decided to let thematter rest for a day, until he should have found out with someaccuracy what chance he stood.
　　After four o'clock, therefore, on the next day, having had tea in hisstudy, he went across to the baths, in search of O'Hara. He intendedthat before the evening was over the Irishman should have imparted tohim some of his skill with the hands. He did not know that for a manabsolutely unscientific with his fists there is nothing so fatal as totake a boxing lesson on the eve of battle. A little knowledge is adangerous thing. He is apt to lose his recklessness--which might havestood by him well--in exchange for a little quite useless science. Heis neither one thing nor the other, neither a natural fighter nor askilful boxer.
　　This point O'Hara endeavoured to press upon him as soon as he hadexplained why it was that he wanted coaching on this particularafternoon.
　　The Irishman was in the gymnasium, punching the ball, when Trevor foundhim. He generally put in a quarter of an hour with the punching-ballevery evening, before Moriarty turned up for the customary six rounds.
　　"Want me to teach ye a few tricks?" he said. "What's that for?""I've got a mill coming on soon," explained Trevor, trying to make thestatement as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for aschool prefect, who was also captain of football, head of a house, andin the cricket eleven, to be engaged for a fight in the near future.
　　"Mill!" exclaimed O'Hara. "You! An' why?""Never mind why," said Trevor. "I'll tell you afterwards, perhaps.
　　Shall I put on the gloves now?""Wait," said O'Hara, "I must do my quarter of an hour with the ballbefore I begin teaching other people how to box. Have ye a watch?""Yes.""Then time me. I'll do four rounds of three minutes each, with aminute's rest in between. That's more than I'll do at Aldershot, butit'll get me fit. Ready?""Time," said Trevor.
　　He watched O'Hara assailing the swinging ball with considerable envy.
　　Why, he wondered, had he not gone in for boxing? Everybody ought tolearn to box. It was bound to come in useful some time or other. Takehis own case. He was very much afraid--no, afraid was not the rightword, for he was not that. He was very much of opinion that Rand-Brownwas going to have a most enjoyable time when they met. And the finalhouse-match was to be played next Monday. If events turned out as hecould not help feeling they were likely to turn out, he would be toobattered to play in that match. Donaldson's would probably win whetherhe played or not, but it would be bitter to be laid up on such anoccasion. On the other hand, he must go through with it. He did notbelieve in letting other people take a hand in settling his privatequarrels.
　　But he wished he had learned to box. If only he could hit that dancing,jumping ball with a fifth of the skill that O'Hara was displaying, hiswiriness and pluck might see him through. O'Hara finished his fourthround with his leathern opponent, and sat down, panting.
　　"Pretty useful, that," commented Trevor, admiringly.
　　"Ye should see Moriarty," gasped O'Hara.
　　"Now, will ye tell me why it is you're going to fight, and with whomyou're going to fight?""Very well. It's with Rand-Brown.""Rand-Brown!" exclaimed O'Hara. "But, me dearr man, he'll ate you."Trevor gave a rather annoyed laugh. "I must say I've got a nice,cheery, comforting lot of friends," he said. "That's just what Cloweshas been trying to explain to me.""Clowes is quite right," said O'Hara, seriously. "Has the thing gonetoo far for ye to back out? Without climbing down, of course," headded.
　　"Yes," said Trevor, "there's no question of my getting out of it. Idaresay I could. In fact, I know I could. But I'm not going to.""But, me dearr man, ye haven't an earthly chance. I assure ye yehaven't. I've seen Rand-Brown with the gloves on. That was last term.
　　He's not put them on since Moriarty bate him in the middles, so he maybe out of practice. But even then he'd be a bad man to tackle. He's bigan' he's strong, an' if he'd only had the heart in him he'd have beengoing up to Aldershot instead of Moriarty. That's what he'd be doing.
　　An' you can't box at all. Never even had the gloves on.""Never. I used to scrap when I was a kid, though.""That's no use," said O'Hara, decidedly. "But you haven't said what itis that ye've got against Rand-Brown. What is it?""I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. You're in it as well. In fact,if it hadn't been for the bat turning up, you'd have been considerablymore in it than I am.""What!" cried O'Hara. "Where did you find it? Was it in the grounds?
　　When was it you found it?"Whereupon Trevor gave him a very full and exact account of what hadhappened. He showed him the two letters from the League, touched onMilton's connection with the affair, traced the gradual development ofhis suspicions, and described with some approach to excitement thescene in Ruthven's study, and the explanations that had followed it.
　　"Now do you wonder," he concluded, "that I feel as if a few rounds withRand-Brown would do me good."O'Hara breathed hard.
　　"My word!" he said, "I'd like to see ye kill him.""But," said Trevor, "as you and Clowes have been pointing out to me, ifthere's going to be a corpse, it'll be me. However, I mean to try. Nowperhaps you wouldn't mind showing me a few tricks.""Take my advice," said O'Hara, "and don't try any of that foolery.""Why, I thought you were such a believer in science," said Trevor insurprise.
　　"So I am, if you've enough of it. But it's the worst thing ye can do tolearn a trick or two just before a fight, if you don't know anythingabout the game already. A tough, rushing fighter is ten times as goodas a man who's just begun to learn what he oughtn't to do.""Well, what do you advise me to do, then?" asked Trevor, impressed bythe unwonted earnestness with which the Irishman delivered thispugilistic homily, which was a paraphrase of the views dinned into theears of every novice by the school instructor.
　　"I must do something.""The best thing ye can do," said O'Hara, thinking for a moment, "is toput on the gloves and have a round or two with me. Here's Moriarty atlast. We'll get him to time us."As much explanation as was thought good for him having been given tothe newcomer, to account for Trevor's newly-acquired taste for thingspugilistic, Moriarty took the watch, with instructions to give them twominutes for the first round.
　　"Go as hard as you can," said O'Hara to Trevor, as they faced oneanother, "and hit as hard as you like. It won't be any practice if youdon't. I sha'n't mind being hit. It'll do me good for Aldershot. See?"Trevor said he saw.
　　"Time," said Moriarty.
　　Trevor went in with a will. He was a little shy at first of putting allhis weight into his blows. It was hard to forget that he felt friendlytowards O'Hara. But he speedily awoke to the fact that the Irishmantook his boxing very seriously, and was quite a different person whenhe had the gloves on. When he was so equipped, the man opposite himceased to be either friend or foe in a private way. He was simply anopponent, and every time he hit him was one point. And, when he enteredthe ring, his only object in life for the next three minutes was toscore points. Consequently Trevor, sparring lightly and in rather afutile manner at first, was woken up by a stinging flush hit betweenthe eyes. After that he, too, forgot that he liked the man before him,and rushed him in all directions. There was no doubt as to who wouldhave won if it had been a competition. Trevor's guard was of the mostrudimentary order, and O'Hara got through when and how he liked. Butthough he took a good deal, he also gave a good deal, and O'Haraconfessed himself not altogether sorry when Moriarty called "Time".
　　"Man," he said regretfully, "why ever did ye not take up boxing before?
　　Ye'd have made a splendid middle-weight.""Well, have I a chance, do you think?" inquired Trevor.
　　"Ye might do it with luck," said O'Hara, very doubtfully. "But," headded, "I'm afraid ye've not much chance."And with this poor encouragement from his trainer and sparring-partner,Trevor was forced to be content.
Chapter 23 What Renford Saw
    The health of Master Harvey of Seymour's was so delicately constitutedthat it was an absolute necessity that he should consume one or morehot buns during the quarter of an hour's interval which split upmorning school. He was tearing across the junior gravel towards theshop on the morning following Trevor's sparring practice with O'Hara,when a melodious treble voice called his name. It was Renford. Hestopped, to allow his friend to come up with him, and then made as ifto resume his way to the shop. But Renford proposed an amendment.
　　"Don't go to the shop," he said, "I want to talk.""Well, can't you talk in the shop?""Not what I want to tell you. It's private. Come for a stroll."Harvey hesitated. There were few things he enjoyed so much as exclusiveitems of school gossip (scandal preferably), but hot new buns wereamong those few things. However, he decided on this occasion to feedthe mind at the expense of the body. He accepted Renford's invitation.
　　"What is it?" he asked, as they made for the football field. "What'sbeen happening?""It's frightfully exciting," said Renford.
　　"What's up?""You mustn't tell any one.""All right. Of course not.""Well, then, there's been a big fight, and I'm one of the only chapswho know about it so far.""A fight?" Harvey became excited. "Who between?"Renford paused before delivering his news, to emphasise the importanceof it.
　　"It was between O'Hara and Rand-Brown," he said at length.
　　"_By Jove!_" said Harvey. Then a suspicion crept into his mind.
　　"Look here, Renford," he said, "if you're trying to green me--""I'm not, you ass," replied Renford indignantly. "It's perfectly true.
　　I saw it myself.""By Jove, did you really? Where was it? When did it come off? Was it agood one? Who won?""It was the best one I've ever seen.""Did O'Hara beat him? I hope he did. O'Hara's a jolly good sort.""Yes. They had six rounds. Rand-Brown got knocked out in the middle ofthe sixth.""What, do you mean really knocked out, or did he just chuck it?""No. He was really knocked out. He was on the floor for quite a time.
　　By Jove, you should have seen it. O'Hara was ripping in the sixthround. He was all over him.""Tell us about it," said Harvey, and Renford told.
　　"I'd got up early," he said, "to feed the ferrets, and I was justcutting over to the fives-courts with their grub, when, just as I gotacross the senior gravel, I saw O'Hara and Moriarty standing waitingnear the second court. O'Hara knows all about the ferrets, so I didn'ttry and cut or anything. I went up and began talking to him. I noticedhe didn't look particularly keen on seeing me at first. I asked him ifhe was going to play fives. Then he said no, and told me what he'dreally come for. He said he and Rand-Brown had had a row, and they'dagreed to have it out that morning in one of the fives-courts. Ofcourse, when I heard that, I was all on to see it, so I said I'd wait,if he didn't mind. He said he didn't care, so long as I didn't telleverybody, so I said I wouldn't tell anybody except you, so he said allright, then, I could stop if I wanted to. So that was how I saw it.
　　Well, after we'd been waiting a few minutes, Rand-Brown came in sight,with that beast Merrett in our house, who'd come to second him. It wasjust like one of those duels you read about, you know. Then O'Hara saidthat as I was the only one there with a watch--he and Rand-Brown werein footer clothes, and Merrett and Moriarty hadn't got their tickers onthem--I'd better act as timekeeper. So I said all right, I would, andwe went to the second fives-court. It's the biggest of them, you know.
　　I stood outside on the bench, looking through the wire netting over thedoor, so as not to be in the way when they started scrapping. O'Haraand Rand-Brown took off their blazers and sweaters, and chucked them toMoriarty and Merrett, and then Moriarty and Merrett went and stood intwo corners, and O'Hara and Rand-Brown walked into the middle and stoodup to one another. Rand-Brown was miles the heaviest--by a stone, Ishould think--and he was taller and had a longer reach. But O'Haralooked much fitter. Rand-Brown looked rather flabby.
　　"I sang out 'Time' through the wire netting, and they started off atonce. O'Hara offered to shake hands, but Rand-Brown wouldn't. So theybegan without it.
　　"The first round was awfully fast. They kept having long rallies allover the place. O'Hara was a jolly sight quicker, and Rand-Brown didn'tseem able to guard his hits at all. But he hit frightfully hardhimself, great, heavy slogs, and O'Hara kept getting them in the face.
　　At last he got one bang in the mouth which knocked him down flat. Hewas up again in a second, and was starting to rush, when I looked atthe watch, and found that I'd given them nearly half a minute too muchalready. So I shouted 'Time', and made up my mind I'd keep more of aneye on the watch next round. I'd got so jolly excited, watching them,that I'd forgot I was supposed to be keeping time for them. They hadonly asked for a minute between the rounds, but as I'd given them halfa minute too long in the first round, I chucked in a bit extra in therest, so that they were both pretty fit by the time I started themagain.
　　"The second round was just like the first, and so was the third. O'Harakept getting the worst of it. He was knocked down three or four timesmore, and once, when he'd rushed Rand-Brown against one of the walls,he hit out and missed, and barked his knuckles jolly badly against thewall. That was in the middle of the third round, and Rand-Brown had itall his own way for the rest of the round--for about two minutes, thatis to say. He hit O'Hara about all over the shop. I was so jolly keenon O'Hara's winning, that I had half a mind to call time early, so asto give him time to recover. But I thought it would be a low thing todo, so I gave them their full three minutes.
　　"Directly they began the fourth round, I noticed that things were goingto change a bit. O'Hara had given up his rushing game, and was waitingfor his man, and when he came at him he'd put in a hot counter, nearlyalways at the body. After a bit Rand-Brown began to get cautious, andwouldn't rush, so the fourth round was the quietest there had been. Inthe last minute they didn't hit each other at all. They simply sparredfor openings. It was in the fifth round that O'Hara began to forgeahead. About half way through he got in a ripper, right in the wind,which almost doubled Rand-Brown up, and then he started rushing again.
　　Rand-Brown looked awfully bad at the end of the round. Round six wasripping. I never saw two chaps go for each other so. It was one longrally. Then--how it happened I couldn't see, they were so quick--justas they had been at it a minute and a half, there was a crack, and thenext thing I saw was Rand-Brown on the ground, looking beastly. He wentdown absolutely flat; his heels and head touched the ground at the sametime.
　　"I counted ten out loud in the professional way like they do at theNational Sporting Club, you know, and then said 'O'Hara wins'. I feltan awful swell. After about another half-minute, Rand-Brown was allright again, and he got up and went back to the house with Merrett, andO'Hara and Moriarty went off to Dexter's, and I gave the ferrets theirgrub, and cut back to breakfast.""Rand-Brown wasn't at breakfast," said Harvey.
　　"No. He went to bed. I wonder what'll happen. Think there'll be a rowabout it?""Shouldn't think so," said Harvey. "They never do make rows aboutfights, and neither of them is a prefect, so I don't see what itmatters if they _do_ fight. But, I say--""What's up?""I wish," said Harvey, his voice full of acute regret, "that it hadbeen my turn to feed those ferrets.""I don't," said Renford cheerfully. "I wouldn't have missed that millfor something. Hullo, there's the bell. We'd better run."When Trevor called at Seymour's that afternoon to see Rand-Brown, witha view to challenging him to deadly combat, and found that O'Hara hadbeen before him, he ought to have felt relieved. His actual feeling wasone of acute annoyance. It seemed to him that O'Hara had exceeded thelimits of friendship. It was all very well for him to take over theRand-Brown contract, and settle it himself, in order to save Trevorfrom a very bad quarter of an hour, but Trevor was one of those peoplewho object strongly to the interference of other people in theirprivate business. He sought out O'Hara and complained. Within twominutes O'Hara's golden eloquence had soothed him and made him view thematter in quite a different light. What O'Hara pointed out was that itwas not Trevor's affair at all, but his own. Who, he asked, had beenlikely to be damaged most by Rand-Brown's manoeuvres in connection withthe lost bat? Trevor was bound to admit that O'Hara was that person.
　　Very well, then, said O'Hara, then who had a better right to fightRand-Brown? And Trevor confessed that no one else had a better.
　　"Then I suppose," he said, "that I shall have to do nothing about it?""That's it," said O'Hara.
　　"It'll be rather beastly meeting the man after this," said Trevor,presently. "Do you think he might possibly leave at the end of term?""He's leaving at the end of the week," said O'Hara. "He was one of thefellows Dexter caught in the vault that evening. You won't see muchmore of Rand-Brown.""I'll try and put up with that," said Trevor.
　　"And so will I," replied O'Hara. "And I shouldn't think Milton would beso very grieved.""No," said Trevor. "I tell you what will make him sick, though, andthat is your having milled with Rand-Brown. It's a job he'd have likedto have taken on himself."
Conclusion
    Into the story at this point comes the narrative of Charles MereweatherCook, aged fourteen, a day-boy.
　　Cook arrived at the school on the tenth of March, at precisely nineo'clock, in a state of excitement.
　　He said there was a row on in the town.
　　Cross-examined, he said there was no end of a row on in the town.
　　During morning school he explained further, whispering his tale intothe attentive ear of Knight of the School House, who sat next to him.
　　What sort of a row, Knight wanted to know.
　　Cook deposed that he had been riding on his bicycle past the entranceto the Recreation Grounds on his way to school, when his eye wasattracted by the movements of a mass of men just inside the gate. Theyappeared to be fighting. Witness did not stop to watch, much as hewould have liked to do so. Why not? Why, because he was late already,and would have had to scorch anyhow, in order to get to school in time.
　　And he had been late the day before, and was afraid that old Appleby(the master of the form) would give him beans if he were late again.
　　Wherefore he had no notion of what the men were fighting about, but hebetted that more would be heard about it. Why? Because, from what hesaw of it, it seemed a jolly big thing. There must have been quitethree hundred men fighting. (Knight, satirically, "_Pile_ it on!")Well, quite a hundred, anyhow. Fifty a side. And fighting likeanything. He betted there would be something about it in the_Wrykyn_ _Patriot_ tomorrow. He shouldn't wonder if somebodyhad been killed. What were they scrapping about? How should _he_know!
　　Here Mr Appleby, who had been trying for the last five minutes to findout where the whispering noise came from, at length traced it to itssource, and forthwith requested Messrs Cook and Knight to do him twohundred lines, adding that, if he heard them talking again, he wouldput them into the extra lesson. Silence reigned from that moment.
　　Next day, while the form was wrestling with the moderately excitingaccount of Caesar's doings in Gaul, Master Cook produced from hispocket a newspaper cutting. This, having previously planted a forcibleblow in his friend's ribs with an elbow to attract the latter'sattention, he handed to Knight, and in dumb show requested him toperuse the same. Which Knight, feeling no interest whatever in Caesar'sdoings in Gaul, and having, in consequence, a good deal of time on hishands, proceeded to do. The cutting was headed "Disgraceful Fracas",and was written in the elegant style that was always so marked afeature of the _Wrykyn Patriot_.
　　"We are sorry to have to report," it ran, "another of those deplorableebullitions of local Hooliganism, to which it has before now been ourpainful duty to refer. Yesterday the Recreation Grounds were made thescene of as brutal an exhibition of savagery as has ever marred thefair fame of this town. Our readers will remember how on a previousoccasion, when the fine statue of Sir Eustace Briggs was found coveredwith tar, we attributed the act to the malevolence of the Radicalsection of the community. Events have proved that we were right.
　　Yesterday a body of youths, belonging to the rival party, wasdiscovered in the very act of repeating the offence. A thick coating oftar had already been administered, when several members of the rivalfaction appeared. A free fight of a peculiarly violent natureimmediately ensued, with the result that, before the police couldinterfere, several of the combatants had received severe bruises.
　　Fortunately the police then arrived on the scene, and with greatdifficulty succeeded in putting a stop to the _fracas_. Severalarrests were made.
　　"We have no desire to discourage legitimate party rivalry, but we feeljustified in strongly protesting against such dastardly tricks as thoseto which we have referred. We can assure our opponents that they cangain nothing by such conduct."There was a good deal more to the effect that now was the time for allgood men to come to the aid of the party, and that the constituents ofSir Eustace Briggs must look to it that they failed not in the hour ofneed, and so on. That was what the _Wrykyn Patriot_ had to say onthe subject.
　　O'Hara managed to get hold of a copy of the paper, and showed it toClowes and Trevor.
　　"So now," he said, "it's all right, ye see. They'll never suspect itwasn't the same people that tarred the statue both times. An' ye've gotthe bat back, so it's all right, ye see.""The only thing that'll trouble you now," said Clowes, "will be yourconscience."O'Hara intimated that he would try and put up with that.
　　"But isn't it a stroke of luck," he said, "that they should have goneand tarred Sir Eustace again so soon after Moriarty and I did it?"Clowes said gravely that it only showed the force of good example.
　　"Yes. They wouldn't have thought of it, if it hadn't been for us,"chortled O'Hara. "I wonder, now, if there's anything else we could doto that statue!" he added, meditatively.
　　"My good lunatic," said Clowes, "don't you think you've done almostenough for one term?""Well, 'myes," replied O'Hara thoughtfully, "perhaps we have, Isuppose."* * * * *The term wore on. Donaldson's won the final house-match by a matter oftwenty-six points. It was, as they had expected, one of the easiestgames they had had to play in the competition. Bryant's, who were theiropponents, were not strong, and had only managed to get into the finalowing to their luck in drawing weak opponents for the trial heats. Thereal final, that had decided the ownership of the cup, had beenDonaldson's _v._ Seymour's.
　　Aldershot arrived, and the sports. Drummond and O'Hara coveredthemselves with glory, and brought home silver medals. But Moriarty, tothe disappointment of the school, which had counted on his pulling offthe middles, met a strenuous gentleman from St Paul's in the final, andwas prematurely outed in the first minute of the third round. To him,therefore, there fell but a medal of bronze.
　　It was on the Sunday after the sports that Trevor's connection with thebat ceased--as far, that is to say, as concerned its unpleasantcharacter (as a piece of evidence that might be used to hisdisadvantage). He had gone to supper with the headmaster, accompaniedby Clowes and Milton. The headmaster nearly always invited a few of thehouse prefects to Sunday supper during the term. Sir Eustace Briggshappened to be there. He had withdrawn his insinuations concerning thepart supposedly played by a member of the school in the matter of thetarred statue, and the headmaster had sealed the _ententecordiale_ by asking him to supper.
　　An ordinary man might have considered it best to keep off the delicatesubject. Not so Sir Eustace Briggs. He was on to it like glue. Hetalked of little else throughout the whole course of the meal.
　　"My suspicions," he boomed, towards the conclusion of the feast, "whichhave, I am rejoiced to say, proved so entirely void of foundation andsignificance, were aroused in the first instance, as I mentionedbefore, by the narrative of the man Samuel Wapshott."Nobody present showed the slightest desire to learn what the man SamuelWapshott had had to say for himself, but Sir Eustace, undismayed,continued as if the whole table were hanging on his words.
　　"The man Samuel Wapshott," he said, "distinctly asserted that a smallgold ornament, shaped like a bat, was handed by him to a lad of agecoeval with these lads here."The headmaster interposed. He had evidently heard more than enough ofthe man Samuel Wapshott.
　　"He must have been mistaken," he said briefly. "The bat which Trevor iswearing on his watch-chain at this moment is the only one of its kindthat I know of. You have never lost it, Trevor?"Trevor thought for a moment. _He_ had never lost it. He replieddiplomatically, "It has been in a drawer nearly all the term, sir," hesaid.
　　"A drawer, hey?" remarked Sir Eustace Briggs. "Ah! A very sensibleplace to keep it in, my boy. You could have no better place, in myopinion."And Trevor agreed with him, with the mental reservationthat it rather depended on whom the drawer belonged to.
The End