Chapter II: One--two--three--four--five (2)

Here he had stayed until nightfall, expecting any minute to be routed out by a party of pursuing warders. No one had turned up, however, his ingenious idea of throwing a circle while the mist still concealed him having apparently put them temporarily off the scent.

Under cover of darkness he had stolen from his hiding-place, and, following the main road at a judicious distance, tramped doggedly on mile after mile, until the lights of Okestock some hundred feet below him had shown him that he had reached the boundaries of the moor.

Utterly dead beat, he had felt tempted to throw himself down on the open heather and snatch a few hours' rest. But the dread of discovery had urged him on, and, clambering cautiously down the hillside, he had made his way along the deserted road until he had reached the wire fence which bounded the Okestock football ground. Here a stray gleam of moonlight coming out between the clouds had shown him the patch of long, reedy grass behind the goal-posts. With a last effort he had crept into its shelter, and dropped almost instantly into a profound sleep.

It was the sun which had woke him up eventually, a bright yellow winter sun shining down out of a sky of cloudless blue. For a moment Mr. Yard had rubbed his eyes and stared at it with amazement; then with a sudden shock he had remembered he was no longer a guest of the Government. He had tried to scramble up, but his numbed limbs had refused to support him, and with a groan he had fallen back again, feeling rather like a trapped rabbit waiting the arrival of the keeper.

A few minutes' energetic rubbing, however, had been sufficient to restore both his circulation and his confidence, and it was then that he had pulled aside the reeds and peered out in the discreet manner already described.

The first thing that met his eyes was the football pavilion, a small wooden building on the left of the ground. Instantly the possibilities of a change of clothes jumped into his mind.

"There's bound to be some clobber kicking about in there," he muttered to himself. "Wonder if I can get in without bein' nabbed?"

That, as Hamlet would have said, was the question. The public road, as he remembered from last night, ran right alongside the ground, and, to judge by the sun, the time was already past ten o'clock. Still, it was no good lying like a hunted rat among the reeds. It was a case of neck or nothing, and Mr. Yard was not the man to fail at a crisis.

Licking his blue lips, he raised himself to a crouching position, and then, with a care which would have done credit to a boy scout, elevated his head above the top of the reeds.

So far as he could see in each direction, the road was empty. Hesitating no longer, he crept out from his hiding-place, and, bending almost double, covered the distance between the goal and the pavilion in almost the same time that it takes to read these words.

The door was in front, facing the yard; but Mr. Yard did not trouble about this recognized means of entrance. He hurried round to the back, where he found a small window just large enough to admit a man's body. It was shut, of course; but this was a trifling obstacle to a gentleman of his experience. In about half a minute he had forced it open, and, pulling himself up by the sill, scrambled through and dropped on to the floor.

He found himself in a small matchboard apartment, set round with wooden lockers. There were also various pegs from which were suspended one or two mud-stained jerseys and sweaters, an old greatcoat, and a couple of pairs of blue football shorts, distinctly the worse for wear.

To Mr. Yard's eyes, however, they were more welcome and attractive than the flowers in May. Stripping himself of his broad-arrowed costume with feverish rapidity, he hastily arrayed himself in the somewhat less conspicuous costume of a British footballer, minus the stockings and boots. A hurried search through the lockers revealed both these luxuries, with the aid of which he promptly proceeded to complete his outfit.

"Lor!" he chuckled, surveying himself with satisfaction in the broken bit of looking-glass that hung from the wall. "I never thought I should be wearin' footer kit again. It's like old days!"

There was no time for sentiment, however, and Mr. Yard was not slow in realizing the fact. Grabbing the greatcoat from its peg, he was just about to make for the window, when a sudden shout outside brought him to an abrupt halt.

"Hallo, Tubby!" sang out a cheery voice.

Like a cat Mr. Yard stole to the window. Some thirty yards away a young man with a bag in his hand was advancing towards the pavilion across the next field.

Swiftly and noiselessly the convict crossed the floor to the other side of the apartment, and peeped through a crack in the boards. Another young man with another bag in his hand was approaching from the roadway.

Mr. Yard swore, softly but fervently.

"Pipped!" he said; "pipped on the post!"

For a second he hesitated, and then returning to the spot where he had dressed, picked up his late garments and stuffed them into one of the lockers and shut the lid.

Having done this he sat down and waited events.

"I've got the key, Tubby!" called out the same aggressively jovial voice.

"Right-oh!" responded the other. "D'you know this bally window's open?"

There was a grating in the lock.

"That's that old ass Smith again!" said the cheerful voice. "I told him to shut it."

Mr. Yard rose to his feet. If he had to be captured he would at least enjoy the memory of one really magnificent scrap. There was a sharp click, a bump, and then the door swung open.

"Hallo!" exclaimed the young man with the bag.

"Hallo!" returned Mr. Yard coolly.

The newcomer stared at him for a moment in amazement, and then, with a sudden smile, put down his bag and advanced towards him.

"Mr. Logan, I suppose," he said. "This is awfully good of you. I'd just made up my mind we should have to play one short."

He put out his hand, which Mr. Yard grasped and shook heartily.

At that moment the other young man entered.

"This is Logan, Tubby!" exclaimed the first. "He's turned up, after all."

"Good man!" exclaimed Tubby. "But how the dickens did you get in?"

"Through the window," explained Mr. Yard truthfully.

"That's the style," laughed the other. "Jack, why weren't you here to receive your guests? I suppose you came over in Sam's cart?"

Mr. Yard, who was trying desperately hard to get his bearings, contented himself with a nod.

"Well, I'm most awfly obliged to you for turning up," said Jack. "Old Morton had heard you were at Rundlestone, and suggested my sending you a wire first thing this morning, when Collins cried off. I never thought you'd be able to come."

"It was just chance," admitted Mr. Yard frankly. "I got away unexpected."

"We're jolly glad to see you, anyhow," broke in Tubby. "The Battery are sending over a beastly hot team, and we should have been absolutely snookered without a back."

Mr. Yard suppressed a start. In more innocent days, before the stern career of burglary had claimed him for its own, he had figured as a fullback of some local renown for a famous Yorkshire club. And now apparently it was in the same capacity that he was being so hospitably received by these two unsuspicious young men. Who the missing Logan might be he could only guess. Evidently some well-known player who was staying in the district, and had been invited over to assist Okestock at the eleventh hour. "If he turns up," thought Mr. Yard, "things'll be a bit hot."

His reflections were broken in upon by Jack.

"These morning matches are the deuce, you know, Logan. Half our fellows are in business, and it's a rare job to get a team together."

"One can't always get off when one wants to," said Mr. Yard sympathetically; "I've found that meself."

"I shouldn't have taken them on," continued the other, stripping off his shirt, and groping in his bag for a jersey, "if it hadn't been that they're leaving Plymouth on Friday. The Colonel was very keen to have a cut at us first, as we haven't been beaten this year. The old beggar thought he'd catch us on the hop if he could fix up a mid-week match. He'll be awfully sick when he finds you're playing for us. I expect there are a lot of people after you when you're on a holiday, aren't there?"

"Quite enough," confessed Mr. Yard.

A sudden sound of laughter and voices outside became audible, and Tubby, walking to the door, flung it open.

"Here are the others!" he said.

Some seven or eight young fellows, most of them already changed, came straggling across the field. When they saw Tubby at the door they raised a cheerful "Coo-ee!"

"The Campbells are coming!" called out one.

The words had hardly left his lips when a big brake, packed with men, rumbled along the road and drew up at the entrance to the ground.

As the soldiers were disembarking themselves, Mr. Yard was being introduced to the new arrivals on his own side. On every hand he was greeted with the warmest of welcomes.

"I saw you play a couple of years ago for Devon," said one youngster admiringly. "My word, you were in form! Hadn't you a moustache then, by the way?"

Mr. Yard nodded.

"I had it shaved off last year," he said.

By this time the slightly mistaken impression as to his identity had become public property, and the visitors, who had all arrived in their footer kit, were standing about viewing him with mingled expressions of curiosity and respect.

The Colonel, who had brought the Battery over, a jolly-looking, fat old man with a white moustache, came up and introduced himself.

"Glad to have the chance of seeing you play, Mr. Logan," he said, "but it's a low-down trick of young Mortimer here roping you in. We weren't expecting to run up against an International fullback."

"You'll run up against him all right," interrupted Jack, with a laugh. "That's what he's here for."

Mr. Yard, who was beginning to get a little nervous about his growing reputation, smiled uneasily. He had not played for at least five years, and although, thanks to the healthy limitations of Dartmoor, he was in excellent condition, he could not help feeling grave doubts as to whether he would be able to live up to Mr. Logan's formidable fame. However, there was nothing to do now but to go through with it.

Tubby, fully changed, came running out from the pavilion with a ball, followed by several other members of the team.

"Here you are," he sang out, passing it to Yard; "have a shot at goal!"

The convict caught the leather, and somehow or other the once-familiar feel of it restored his waning spirits. Taking a couple of short steps, he sent it soaring away towards the goal, a beautiful drop-kick that only fell short of the crossbar by a couple of inches.

"Bravo!" shouted Jack, gazing after it admiringly. "What do you think of that, Colonel?"

"Too damned good altogether!" grunted the old soldier. "I shall take my boys back to barracks if he does it again."

There was a general laugh, cut short by a sharp whistle from the referee.

The two sides lined up. As far as looks went they seemed fairly equally matched, the superior weight and strength of the soldiers in the scrum being pretty well counterbalanced by the youth and speedy appearance of the Okestock three-quarters and halves.

From the solitary glory of his position at fullback, Mr. Yard cast a critical eye over his opponents. A tall, fair-haired man who was playing on the right wing seemed especially to rivet his attention.

"Who's that chap?" he asked Tubby, as the latter fell back in preparation for the kick-off.

"Private Buckle," answered the latter, glancing in the direction he indicated. "You'll have to look out for him; he's about their best man."

The full-back smiled unpleasantly.

"I'll look out for him all right," he answered.

For eighteen months Mr. Yard had been under the immediate charge of a warder of the same name, whose striking resemblance to the tall three-quarter proclaimed their relationship beyond doubt.

Mr. Yard spat on his hands.

"I only hope they're twins," he said to himself.

Another sharp whistle, a general movement forward amongst the line of stalwart soldiers, and the ball came soaring through the air straight into Tubby's hands. The game had started.

For the first ten minutes the play remained more or less confined to the centre of the ground. The Okestock forwards, settling down quicker than their adversaries, were more than holding their own in the scrum, and only the very keen tackling of the soldier three-quarters prevented Tubby and his companions from coming away with the ball.

At last the former got his chance. Taking a swift pass from the half, he cut right through the opposition line, and dashed off down the field, with only the back between himself and the goal. As the latter leaped at him, he transferred the ball neatly to Jack, who was racing along a yard and a half to his left. Catching it in his stride, that genial young man swerved round the disgruntled soldier, and, galloping over the line, placed it fair and square between the goal-posts.

Picking it up again, he leisurely retraced his steps. Some twenty yards out he halted, and beckoned to Mr. Yard.

"Will you take the kick, Logan?" he shouted.

Mr. Yard modestly shook his head.

"Oh, but you must!" protested three or four of the others. "We've all heard about your goal-kicking."

The whole field was waiting, and, seeing that there was no help for it, Mr. Yard strode reluctantly forward.

"Where would you like it?" inquired Jack.

"Oh, any old place!" answered the unhappy convict. "This'll do."

He viciously dug out a hole with his heel. Jack, carefully poising the ball in his hands, stretched himself out full length, and a painful moment of silence prevailed over the field.

Mr. Yard retired two or three steps.

"Down!" he cried hoarsely; and then, running forward, hacked at the ball with amazing ferocity. Up it flew high over the crossbar, and, describing a graceful curve in the air, settled down in the next field.

There was a wild outburst of applause from the delighted Okestock team; and Mr. Yard, mopping his forehead with his sleeve, retired to his former position.

"If I hadn't have said to myself it was a warder's head," he muttered, "I'd never have done it."

The game was resumed even more vigorously than before. Determined to draw level, the soldiers hurled themselves into their task with unsparing energy and their extra weight and strength in the scrum began to tell its tale.

On one occasion four stalwart privates broke right through the Okestock pack, and came thundering down the field with the ball at their feet. A score seemed certain, but Mr. Yard, whose arduous training as a burglar had taught him the value of strategy, saved the situation. Just as the quartette were drawing up to him, he suddenly rasped out in excellent imitation of a drill-sergeant the one magic word: "Halt!"

His opponents instinctively checked themselves, and, before they could recover, Mr. Yard had flung himself at the ball and with a flying kick sent it hurtling into touch.

He was surprised, and for a moment alarmed, at the indignation which his ingenious idea provoked among its immediate victims. All four of them were appealing angrily to the referee, who, speechless with laughter, could only shake his head and sign to them to proceed.

It was not until Mr. Yard realized that even the other members of the regimental team were hugely enjoying their companions' discomfiture that his fear lest he should have given himself away completely vanished.

"Git on with the game, ye fat'eads," roared the bully corporal who was skippering the team. Then, turning to Jack, he added admiringly: "'Ot stuff! That's what 'e is--'ot stuff!"

Jack, who was struggling between mirth and amazement, thought it wiser to say nothing. A moment later, however, finding himself alongside of Tubby, he whispered hurriedly:

"I say, that was a bit thick, wasn't it?"

Tubby grinned.

The soldiers' revenge was not long in coming. From the line-out one of them caught the ball, and flung it back to the tall, fair-haired three-quarter, who was standing unmarked. In a moment the latter had cut through and was galloping along the touch-line towards the Okestock goal.

With a grunt of joy, Mr. Yard came hurrying across, and leaped at his quarry like a tiger at a stag. In the splendour of his emotions, however, he committed the unpardonable error of going a shade too high.

The soldier's muscular hand shot out, and, catching his assailant fair and square under the chin, sent him spinning backwards on the grass. Then, amidst roars of delight from his companions, he ran round and deposited the ball half-way between the goal-posts.

Mr. Yard sat up and looked after him.

"You swine!" he said softly. "You wait!"

Jack and Tubby came hurrying up.

"Not hurt, Logan, are you?" inquired the former anxiously.

"Only in me feelings!" answered Mr. Yard.

Tubby laughed.

"Well, it's a new sensation for you to miss any one!" he said, as they walked back towards the goal. "I always thought Buckle was a pretty stiff proposition; now I'm sure."

Mr. Yard made no audible answer. To himself, however, he remarked bitterly: "He'll be stiffer still before I've done with him."

A successful place-kick put the two sides level, and immediately afterwards the whistle went for half-time.

When they resumed Mr. Yard had quite recovered from the effects of his tumble. He was standing in his place, luxuriously pondering over his next meeting with Private Buckle, when he suddenly observed a telegraph-boy opening the gate which led into the field.

Great minds work quickly. In a flash, Mr. Yard realized his danger. It was a hundred to one that the missing Logan had wired to explain his absence.

Casting a hasty glance at the game, which gave no sign of requiring his immediate services, he hurried down to the touch-line and held out his hand.

"For Mr. Mortimer, sir," said the lad.

"All right, my son," answered Mr. Yard pleasantly. "I'll give it him."

The boy handed over the yellow envelope, and then slowly began to retrace his steps, walking backwards and keeping a longing eye on the game. His own inclinations, fortunately for Mr. Yard, were at variance with the Government's views as to how long a telegraph-boy might take over a message, and, seeing that the full-back had had no opportunity as yet of passing on the wire, he at length vanished round the corner, unsuspicious as to its ultimate delivery.

It was not until he had completely disappeared that Mr. Yard opened the envelope.

"Sorry can't play to-day. Away last night; only just received letter.--LOGAN."

The convict barely had time to master the message when a sudden shout of "Look out, there!" recalled him abruptly to his environment.

The soldiers' three-quarters were in full movement; the ball travelling neatly up the line toward the right wing.

It finally came to rest in the hands of Private Buckle, who, avoiding the well-meant but somewhat belated attentions of Jack, came racing away down the touch-line.

Mr. Yard almost sobbed with pleasure.

He darted across the ground, timing his arrival to perfection. The three-quarter saw him coming, and, shifting the ball to his right arm, prepared to repeat his successful hand-off. But, like many other good intentions, his purpose was destined never to bear fruit.

Dropping his bullet head, Mr. Yard propelled himself through the air on the lines of a Whitehead torpedo, and with an appalling crash the two men hurtled to the ground and rolled over, locked in each other's arms.

"Gad, what a collar!" roared Jack, as the ball, after leaping high into the air, dropped safely into touch.

Mr. Yard was the first to rise. In that exquisite moment he seemed to have worked off all the bottled resentment of eighteen soul-searing months.

"Hope you're not hurt?" he grinned, extending a hand to the unfortunate Buckle, who lay on the ground gasping like a recently landed salmon.

The latter accepted it, and scrambled painfully to his feet.

"'Urt!" he stammered ironically. "Ho n-n-no, I ain't 'urt! I shouldn't a' known you'd c-c-collared me if you 'adn't mentioned it."

There was a general laugh, which the corporal capped by inquiring gravely:

"You don't 'appen to be wanting a job as a six-inch shell, I s'pose, Mr. Logan? We could do with a few more."

Mr. Yard shook his head.

"I've had enough o' working for the Government!" he remarked drily.

Only ten minutes more remained for play, and the fun became fast and furious. Both sides laid themselves out to score, magnificently indifferent to anything approaching defensive tactics. On one occasion Jack was hurled into touch when only a couple of feet from the soldiers' line, while, on another, nothing but an untimely stumble on the part of the big corporal prevented that gentleman from dribbling over and touching down.

It was left to Mr. Yard to put the crowning touch on the day's work. One minute from time the Battery's full-back picked up the ball in front of his own goal, and took a huge punt straight up the field. It dropped right into the hands of the convict, who was standing in a line with the centre flag.

The rushing forwards paused to give him five yards' law, and Mr. Yard gripped the occasion with commendable promptness.

Instead of kicking, he suddenly launched himself forward right into the thick of his waiting adversaries. In a moment he had bullocked his way through, his sudden run taking the opposition utterly by surprise.

There was a roar of "Collar him!" and from both sides the halves and three-quarters came thundering in to cut off his advance. Mr. Yard took in the situation at a glance. In a flash he had measured the distance between himself and the goal, and then, dropping the ball, sent it soaring away with a terrific kick straight for the bar.

There was a moment of painful silence. The ball pitched fair and square bang on the centre-piece, bounded up into the air, and then trickled gently over on the further side.

A howl of joy from the Okestock team, the referee whistled, and the game was over.

Mr. Yard found himself surrounded by a throng of his fellow-players, each endeavouring to outvie the other in compliments and gratitude. With a sudden inspiration, he thrust his way through, and made a dash for the pavilion. It could not have been more than forty-five seconds before the foremost of his laughing pursuers ran in after him, but that priceless interval had not been wasted. In Mr. Yard's breeches-pocket reposed practically the entire stock of loose cash which had previously enriched the hanging line of waistcoats and trousers.

"I must be off!" he said hastily, picking up his adopted coat and cap.

"Oh, hang it all!" cried Jack. "I was going to suggest that you should come back and have some lunch with us."

Mr. Yard shook his head. The thought of food was a very fragrant one, but the money in his pocket clamoured for instant retreat.

"Can't," he said regretfully. "It's uncommon good of you, but I've got to get into Plymouth as quickly as possible."

"Plymouth!" exclaimed the Colonel, who had just come up. "If you want to go to Plymouth you'd better pack in with us. We can drop you at the Halfpenny Gate, and you can pick up a tram from there."

"Thanks!" said Mr. Yard gratefully. "That'll do me fine."

"Come along, then," said the Colonel; "we're off right away."

"Will you be on the moor next Saturday?" cried Jack, pressing forward with the others to shake the hand of their parting guest.

"It's quite possible," admitted Mr. Yard.

"Well, you'll come and play for us again, won't you?"

"I'd like to," said Mr. Yard, "if I can get away."

He clambered into the brake with the soldiers, and waved a parting farewell to his late colleagues, who set up a ringing cheer as the big vehicle slowly rumbled off.

"Good set of lads," said the Colonel.

Mr. Yard, thoughtfully fingering the money in his pocket, nodded his head.

The eight-mile drive into Plymouth was not without its anxieties. At every turn in the road Mr. Yard half expected to find a mounted warder holding up his hand to stop the horses. No such untimely incident, however, marred the harmony of the day, and just as the clocks were striking half-past one the brake was clattering through the ill-paved, straggling streets of Devonport.

At the junction of Dockyard Road and Broadway, Mr. Yard's eyes detected a second-hand clothes shop of particularly disreputable aspect. He waited until they reached the next corner, and then, turning to the Colonel, remarked casually: "This'll do all right for me; I want to get some 'baccy."

"Right you are," said the Colonel, giving the order to stop. "You know where the bridge is--first to the left, then straight on."

Mr. Yard nodded, and climbed out. "Thank ye for the lift," he said.

"Not at all," answered the Colonel. "Delighted! The Battery will always be proud to think that they had the honour of playing against you and scoring a try--eh, men?"

There was a general chorus of "Yes, sir," and a hearty salute which Mr. Yard gracefully returned.

Then the driver cracked his whip, and the brake rolled away, leaving Mr. Yard standing in the roadway.

It was three days later, when Jack, folding up the _Western Morning News_, tossed it across to Tubby.

"There you are," he said, "pictures and everything. We shall never hear the last of this as long as we live."

Tubby caught the paper, and, unfolding it, read out the heavily leaded headlines:

ASTOUNDING AUDACITY OF ESCAPED CONVICT.
THE NOTORIOUS BILL YARD PLAYS
FOOTBALL FOR OKESTOCK
FULL STORY AND INTERVIEWS

He skimmed quickly through the three columns of description, and then, with a grin, dropped the paper on the floor.

"We _do_ look a pretty tidy lot of idiots," he admitted. "I wonder where he is?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "So do the police. They've no idea what happened to him after he got the clothes. He's simply vanished--disappeared, and my ten shillings with him." Then he paused. "I only wish it had been a quid," he added.

"Mine was," said Tubby softly.

Elsie and the Rooks

It was really a lovely afternoon; there was no doubt about that. Elsie felt very comfortable, and just a little bit sleepy. She was lying back in the big chair under the cedar tree, which was the most shady place in the whole garden. On the lawn the thrushes and sparrows were hopping about enjoying the sunshine; while up at the top of the tall elm trees the rooks were cawing away as if they were all trying who could make the most noise.

"I wish I knew what they were talking about," Elsie said to herself. "It would be such fun to shout up something in rook language, and see them all jump. I wonder what 'Caw! Caw! Caw!' means!"

She had asked her big brother that very question only the day before. He had laughed, and declared that the rooks didn't say "Caw! Caw! Caw!" It only sounded like it. What they really said was "Cad! Cad! Cad!" because they knew that he was going to shoot them next week.

Elsie didn't really believe this, because the rooks kept on saying it the whole time, whether her brother was in the garden or not. Of course, they might be only practising, but it seemed much more probable to Elsie that they had a language of their own.

She lay back in the chair and watched them as they fluttered about the tree-tops, or rose in the air in great sweeping circles. In a few more days the baby rooks would begin to fly about. Several of them were out of the nests already, and sat on the twigs looking very miserable and unsafe, while their fathers and mothers hovered round, and jeered at them for being frightened. Elsie thought that it was very unkind of the old rooks; for she was quite sure that it must be a horrible feeling to be perched up at that height on a swaying twig, and not certain whether one could fly if one let go.

"I shouldn't like it a bit myself," thought Elsie dreamily.

With a big yawn she snuggled down amongst the cushions, which were very soft and comfortable. Her eyes would keep on shutting in the funniest way, just as if it were bed-time.

"I--do--believe--I'm--going--to sleep," she murmured.

"Hullo!" said a harsh voice suddenly.

Elsie opened her eyes with a start, and looked round to see who had spoken. There was no one in sight.

"I must have been dreaming," she thought.

"Hullo!" said the voice again--this time just beside her chair.

She glanced down, and there on the lawn stood a large rook, looking up at her out of his black, beady eyes.

"Did you speak?" asked Elsie in astonishment.

"Yes," said the rook. "Do you think I whistled, or what?"

"There is no need to be rude," said Elsie with dignity. "It's only natural I should have been surprised."

"Why?" asked the rook.

"Well, birds aren't supposed to talk."

"Ever seen a parrot?"

"You're not a parrot," objected Elsie.

"Never said I was," replied the rook. "But you seem interested in us," he observed, "judging from the way you were staring just now."

"I beg your pardon," said Elsie, blushing, for she had been properly brought up, and knew that it was rude to stare.

"Don't mention it," said the rook. "I assure you we don't mind in the least. Wouldn't you like to come up and have a look at the nests?"

"Very much," answered Elsie; "but how can I? I can't climb the trees."

"If it comes to that," replied the rook, "neither can I."

"But you can fly," objected Elsie.

"So can you, I suppose," said the rook.

"No, I can't," said Elsie.

"How do you know?" persisted the rook. "Have you ever tried?"

Elsie shook her head.

"Don't be silly," she said. "I know very well I can't fly, so what's the good of trying?"

"That's exactly what our children always say," replied the rook scornfully. "And yet they fly right enough when we push them out of the nest."

He laughed a sort of hoarse, croaking chuckle.

"Of course, if you're afraid"--he added.

Elsie jumped up out of her chair indignantly.

"Afraid? Who's afraid?" she cried. "You're just saying that to annoy me!"

"No, I'm not," answered the rook. "Don't get your feathers ruffled. All you have to do is to copy me, and you'll fly like a bird."

"But I haven't got any wings," said Elsie.

"You've got arms, haven't you? They'll do just as well for a short distance, and if you get tired I'll lend you a claw. Now, come along. Just shut your eyes and jump, and you'll find you're as right as rain."

Elsie thought that there could be no great harm in trying, so she closed her eyes, and jumped up in the air as high as ever she could. Of course, she expected to come down again bang, but to her great surprise she did nothing of the kind. She found herself floating gently upwards, and, opening her eyes, discovered that she was already on a level with the roof of the house. The rook was fluttering lazily alongside.

"Don't look down," he said, "or you'll get giddy. Keep your eyes on the nests, and we'll be there in no time. How do you like it?"

"It's very nice," said Elsie. "I had no idea it was so----"

She had just made a most startling discovery.

"I seem to be getting smaller and smaller!" she exclaimed in a frightened voice.

"Naturally," answered the rook. "Everything does when it goes up in the air. Haven't you ever watched a balloon?"

"But you're just the same size," protested Elsie, for by this time the rook was almost as big as herself.

"Oh, I'm used to it!" he answered carelessly. "You see, after a bit, when one's always flying about, it ceases to have any effect."

By this time they were getting quite near the nests, and Elsie was beginning to feel rather tired.

"We're nearly there now!" said the rook. "Stick to it!"

As she spoke, a whole crowd of other rooks suddenly rose from the trees, and came circling down to meet them. They made such a tremendous noise that for a few moments Elsie couldn't hear what they were saying. At last, however, she began to make out a sort of song; but, as they were all singing it at once, and each to a different tune, it was rather difficult to follow the words. It sounded something like this:

Welcome to our brother Jim!
Caw! Caw! Caw!
He's brought the little girl with him,
Caw! Caw! Caw!
So clap your wings and loudly squeak;
There'll be no bang! bang! bang! next week!

"What do they mean?" asked Elsie.

"Oh, nothing!" said the rook hurriedly. "It's only their idea of a lark."

"I--don't--think--it's--very--like one," panted Elsie.

"Here--take my claw," said the rook. "You're getting tired."

Elsie stretched out her hand and caught hold of the rook's claw, which he held out to her, and then, before she had quite realized what was happening, she found herself sitting on a twig at the very top of the tallest elm tree. The branches all round were simply covered with rooks, who sat and stared at her solemnly. Even the young ones were peering over the edges of the nests, and making rude remarks to each other about her personal appearance.

She looked down at the garden, and it gave her quite a jump to see what a terrible distance it was. It seemed simply miles and miles away. The house looked just like one of those tiny little toy dolls' houses.

"Well," said the rook. "How do you feel?"

Elsie clung to the twig, for it had suddenly begun to sway about in the most alarming manner.

"I feel very small," she answered nervously.

"Naturally," said the rook. "So do most people when they're up a tree."

And all the other rooks went "Ha! Ha! Ha!"

"Does it always sway about like this?" asked Elsie.

"Whenever it blows," answered the rook calmly. "Where there's a wind there's a sway. But come along and see the nests."

"How can I get there?" demanded Elsie.

"Why, jump, of course! It's quite easy."

"But I might fall," objected Elsie.

"Are you proud?" asked the rook.

Elsie shook her head.

"I don't see what that's got to do with it," she remarked.

"Well, you can't fall if you aren't proud. Pride goes before a fall, you know. Now, don't be nervous. Jump when I say three; and we'll catch you if you slip."

He counted out: "One, two, three," and, as he said the last word, Elsie let go the twig and jumped for the nearest nest. It was a close shave, but she just caught hold of the edge as she was falling, and managed to draw herself up.

"Well done!" called out the rook. "You ought to have been a grasshopper."

"I think you're very rude," said Elsie.

"All our family are," replied the rook, fluttering into the nest. "We think it's clever. But come inside and see the children."

"What's that for?" asked Elsie, pointing up above the nest.

She had suddenly caught sight of a kind of round, wickerwork cover, which was fastened to the nest by a hinge, and could apparently be shut down like the lid of a box.

"That?" said the rook. "Oh, that's the roof. We have to have a roof because of the hawk. Otherwise he would eat up the children."

"How horrid of him!" cried Elsie.

There were four little rooks in the nest, and when they saw Elsie they all began to laugh in the rudest possible way.

"What is it?" asked one of them.

"Where did you pick it up, father?" inquired a second.

"She's moulting!" exclaimed a third.

"Smart, aren't they?" said the rook admiringly, turning to Elsie.

"One can see they're your children," retorted Elsie, "because they've got such bad manners; and now, if you don't mind, I think I ought to be getting back. It must be nearly tea-time."

"Getting back where?" asked the rook.

"Why, home, of course," answered Elsie.

The rook shook his head.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," he said, "but I'm afraid you won't be able to go home for another week at least."

"What do you mean?" cried Elsie.

"It may be mean," said the rook, "but I can't help it. Your brother is going to shoot at us next week, and if we've got you up here he won't be able to--see?"

"Oh!" cried Elsie. "Then that was why you invited me up?"

"Of course it was," replied the rook. "You don't suppose it was for the pleasure of your society, do you?"

You can imagine Elsie's feelings when she realized how she had been trapped. She knew she would never have the courage to try to fly down by herself; and as for climbing--well, the very thought made her giddy! In despair she stood up, and looked over the side of the nest. Far, far down below she saw her brother coming out into the garden with his gun on his shoulder. If only she could make him hear!

"Jack!" she cried. "Jack!"

She watched her voice going down, down, down; but it only got about half the distance, and then faded away.

"Try again," said the rook, with a chuckle.

But Elsie saw that it was no good; so she just sat down on the side of the nest and began to cry.

"Whatever shall I do?" she said helplessly.

"You'll have to grin and bear it," said the rook.

"It's no good blubbering," added one of the young ones.

"Coward!" said a third scornfully.

And all the rooks who were sitting round went "Yah! Yah! Yah!"

A moment later, however, one of them gave a sudden scream of terror.

"Look out!" he cried. "The hawk! The hawk!"

They all rose into the air in a great, flapping crowd, and flew away to their nests to shut down the covers before the hawk could reach them. The rook who had enticed Elsie up at once hopped across to close his own lid, but with one jump she reached the hinge before he could touch it.

"No, you don't!" she cried. "I'm not going to be shut in your horrid, stuffy nest."

"Let go!" he shrieked, pecking at her furiously.

But although he hurt her very much, Elsie held on. She could hear the sound of the hawk's wings as he came nearer and nearer, and at last, with one hoarse cry of rage, the rook abandoned his efforts and scuttled off as fast as ever he could go.

Elsie felt so tired that she could scarcely move. She just sat down on the side of the nest, and waited to see what would happen. There was a loud "whirr!" of wings, and then suddenly the hawk dropped down from above like a stone, and perched on a twig exactly opposite.

"Hullo!" he said. "What's the meaning of this?"

Elsie looked up, and found him staring at her with his bright brown eyes.

"Oh, Mister Hawk," she said. "They asked me to come up, and now they won't let me go. They tried to shut down the lid when they heard you coming, but I wouldn't let them."

"I am much obliged to you," said the hawk, eyeing the trembling young rooks with a pleasant smile. "I was feeling a bit peckish. Can I do anything for you in return?"

"If you could take me down to the garden," said Elsie timidly, "I should be so grateful."

"Why, of course," cried the hawk. "That's nothing."

He fluttered across, and took hold of her sash with his claws.

"I'll be back in a moment," he said to the young rooks, with a kind of hungry laugh.

Elsie shut her eyes. She felt herself skimming through the air at a terrific pace--there was a sudden bang--and she woke up with a start to find herself sitting in the garden chair.

Her brother was standing in the middle of the lawn. His gun was at his shoulder, and he was just going to take a second shot at a large hawk, which he had missed with his first barrel.

Elsie jumped up with a wild scream.

"Stop, Jack!" she cried. "Stop!"

He was so surprised that he lowered his gun, and in another moment the hawk was out of sight.

"Why, Elsie," he said. "What's the matter? Did I frighten you."

"Oh, Jack!" she cried. "You were just going to shoot the hawk!"

"Yes, I know I was," he said, laughing. "It's after the young rooks. It had one in its claws just now."

"Jack!" said Elsie very solemnly. "That wasn't a young rook, that was me."

"What on earth do you mean, Elsie?" cried her brother. "You've been dreaming."

Elsie shook her head.

"No, I haven't, Jack," she said, and then she sat down in the chair and told him the whole story.

He listened with a grave face right to the very end, and then bent over and kissed her.

"I'm glad I didn't shoot the hawk," he said. "Still, you know, Elsie dear, it was only a dream."

But Elsie knew better.

The Bronze-Haired Girl

"If you will pass me my guitar," said George, "I will sing to you."

"I would rather you washed up," I replied. "It would be more of a novelty."

"For one who professes to be an artist," returned George, with unruffled serenity, "you are painfully lacking in sensibility. A man who can speak of washing up ten minutes after tea on a golden June evening----"

"If you are going to get poetical, George," I said, "I would sooner you sang. Here you are."

I reached out an arm into the tent, and tossed him across the somewhat battered banjo which was lying on his bed. He caught it neatly with his left hand.

"I believe you would play cricket with a Stradivarius," he said reproachfully. "What shall I sing?"

"Anything short."

"I shall sing something sad," he went on, disregarding my interruption. "I always feel very wistful after tea. Besides, I am in love with the bronze-haired girl at Otter's Holt, and perhaps she will hear me and think that I am unhappy."

"She is much more likely to think that I am," said I. "Fire ahead."

He twanged two or three experimental chords, tightened a couple of pegs, and then settling down again in his basket-chair, launched out pathetically into the time-honoured ballad of "London Bridge":

Hurry along, sorrow and song,
All is vanity 'neath the sun;
Velvet and rags, so the world wags,
Until the river no more shall run.

"I shall not applaud you," I said, when he had finished. "You might mistake courtesy for an encore."

"I wonder if the bronze-haired girl heard me?" murmured George, laying down the banjo.

"Unless she is deaf," I pointed out, "she could scarcely have avoided it. She probably thinks we are a couple of music-hall comedians."

"Perhaps I had better call to-morrow and apologize," said George thoughtfully.

I looked him in the eyes.

"George," I observed, "if I find you thrusting your society on that defenceless young woman, I shall communicate with the local policeman."

"She is not defenceless," objected George. "She has a dog and an old woman with her; and as for youth--well, I am but a lad myself."

I laughed unkindly.

"In the matter of hair," I said, glancing at the top of George's head.

"Hair," said George hastily, "has nothing to do with it. Hair is an excrescence, a hideous and perpetual reminder of our arboreal ancestry."

"You had better tell her that," I replied. "She would appreciate it."

"I was not speaking of bronze hair. You never saw a bronze-haired monkey."

"It may be dyed," I suggested.

George picked up his banjo.

"Such blasphemy," he said, "deserves a heavy punishment. I shall sing you 'Beauty's Eyes.'"

"Is there no option?" I pleaded.

With his thumb on the strings, George paused.

"Yes," he said, "you can wash up."

I did.

Next morning at breakfast George announced his intention of walking over to Chertsey.

"They are taking entries for the regatta," he explained. "And I want to put our names down for the double punting."

"How about getting a couple of insurance policies at the same time?" I suggested. (I have punted with George before.)

"What's your programme?" he inquired, disregarding my excellent proposal.

"I shall go up the Bourne," I said. "I want to finish my picture, and the light is just right this morning."

"Well, don't collar the sardines," he replied selfishly. "I should like 'em for supper."

He sauntered off about half-past ten, stopping in the garden to pick our only carnation for his buttonhole.

After some research, I unearthed a tinned tongue, some bread and butter, a cake, and last, but not least, a bottle of claret. These I transplanted tenderly to the punt, and then, putting in my painting materials, pushed off in leisurely fashion up the backwater.

As I passed Otter's Holt, the long, low, creeper-covered bungalow that adjoined our own camping-ground, I caught a glimpse of the girl who had inflamed George's susceptible heart. She was lying in a deck-chair in the verandah, reading a book. By her side crouched a large brindled bulldog, who looked up and emitted a sharp "woof!" as the splash of my punt-pole reached his ears.

His mistress put out a small reproving hand. "Lie down, sir!" she said, in a voice that no decent bulldog could possibly have resisted.

"There are excuses for George," I said to myself as an intervening dump of willow shut out any further observations.

The Bourne, as is usual on weekdays, was delightfully deserted. I pushed my way slowly up its narrow course, thrusting aside the overhanging bushes, and startling an occasional kingfisher into a streak of living blue.

My destination was just round the fourth bend, a place where the sunshine played a bewitching game of hide-and-seek through the branches of an elm. It was this tracery of light and shadow that I was attempting to transfer to my canvas.

Tying the punt up to the bank, I pulled out my paints and set to work. It was one of those mornings which make one doubt whether any conceivable heaven could really be as attractive as earth. An infinitely faint breeze just stirred the leaves overhead, and only the occasional splash of a fish or the shrill twitter of a bird disturbed the fragrant silence around.

For about an hour I laboured at my picture with commendable industry. But somehow or other I did not make as rapid progress as such diligence deserved. A vision of a girl with bronze hair kept flitting before my eyes in the most elusive and disconcerting fashion. Once I actually found myself murmuring, "Lie down, sir!" apparently in an attempt to analyze the peculiar charm with which these three words seemed to be associated.

For a person of well-regulated mind this was distinctly humiliating. I began to take myself to task. "Because a young woman happens to address a bulldog in your hearing," I inquired, "is that any reason why you should waste an entire morning?"

Getting no reply, I continued with increasing sternness: "You are as bad as George. You are making an idiot of yourself over a red-haired slip of a girl whom you have only seen about three times in your life. Why, if it comes to that, you don't even know her name! Sir, I am disgusted with you."

Relieved by this Johnsonian rebuke, I again turned to my picture, and for twenty minutes or so worked on with unruffled concentration. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I was hungry.

I moved aside my paints, carefully laid down the canvas in the end of the punt, and, pulling out the luncheon-basket from under the seat, began to prepare my frugal but well-earned meal. The tongue, my _chef-d'œuvre_, was encased in one of those ingenious tins which you open by twisting a key. I was deep in this fascinating process when my ears were assailed by the sudden splash of an approaching craft.

I looked up with a frown. Such an intrusion on my privacy seemed to me to savour of gross impertinence. I had come to regard the Bourne as my private property, which I was magnanimous enough to open to the public cm Saturdays and Sundays. And here was some coarse-grained stranger thrusting his way in at one o'clock on Tuesday afternoon.

"In future," I said to myself, "I shall mine the channel."

Nearer and nearer came that offensive splash, varied by the occasional swish of a parted bush, and the creaking of an indifferently handled punt-pole. Assuming an expression of cold displeasure, I sat up and waited on Fate. At last the nose of a punt thrust itself round the bend, and a moment later the intruder emerged into full view.

In my agitation I dropped the tongue in the butter. It was the bronze-haired girl from Otter's Holt!

Then a series of incidents occurred with the bewildering rapidity of a cinematograph. Disturbed, apparently, by my unfortunate _lapsus linguæ_, the bulldog, which was crouching in the stern of the punt, leaped forward, barking his defiance. In his ardour he cannoned heavily against a basket reposing on the seat. There was a splash, a cry of despair from the bronze-haired maiden, and the aforesaid basket settled down peacefully at the bottom of the Bourne.

Let it be stated to my credit that I rose to the situation with some promptness. Unhitching the painter by a dexterous twitch, I snatched up my pole, and, with a couple of sharp shoves, sped gracefully to the rescue.

"I am so sorry," I said. "I am afraid I frightened your dog. May I make amends by getting out the basket?"

"It's very kind of you," she said simply. "Of course, it wasn't your fault at all. Come here sir!" This last to the dog.

I turned my sleeves up to the shoulders, and, leaning over the side of the punt, groped down through the shallow water until I got hold of the handle. Then, dripping but triumphant, I extracted my burden.

"I hope there is nothing to spoil in it," I said.

She smiled and shook her head.

"It's only a matter of a few sandwiches. I am very much obliged to you, and extremely sorry to have been the cause of so much trouble."

"On the contrary," I replied, "it is I and the dog who ought to apologize to you."

"I can't imagine why he was so silly," she said, administering a reproving pat to the animal, who still eyed me with some disfavour. "As a rule, he is as good as gold in a boat."

"What do you call him?" I inquired, in a shameless attempt to prolong the conversation.

"Winston Churchill," she said, with another smile. "He was christened before I got him."

"His jaw is certainly well developed," I observed.

She laughed, and a short pause followed.

"Well," she said, "I must be getting back."

"But really," I protested, "you have only just arrived." Then a sudden fit of recklessness seized me. "Don't go because your lunch is spoiled," I pleaded. "I have a whole tongue, to say nothing of some excellent bread, and some good, if rather dilapidated, butter. As the destroyer of your sandwiches I can surely without impertinence offer you a fair compensation."

She shook her head, still smiling.

"Oh, I don't think you are impertinent," she said, "but I believe that no really nice girl ever accepts an invitation from a perfect stranger. It would distress me to think that I was outside the pale."

Her brown eyes twinkled so deliriously that I cast subterfuge to the winds.

"Do stay," I begged. "I have been alone all the morning wrestling with an obstinate picture, and I am desperately in need of a little cheering society. Besides, there is nothing so very unconventional in the idea. Winston Churchill will make a most efficient chaperon."

She wavered.

"And you can cut me afterwards," I added.

The corners of her mouth twitched.

"Your arguments," she said, "are most persuasive."