Chapter VI: Part 6

"I may tell you, Travers," he said, "though there is no reason to repeat it, that Bradwell is not _persona grata_ with the gentleman who stands to him _in loco parentis_. That is unfortunate for Bradwell, because he may lack friends in the future, being a boy without any mental ability, or that charm and power to please we occasionally find in the stupid lad. His guardian, however, evinces no uneasiness at the disappearance of Bradwell, and my knowledge of human nature inclines me to doubt if the individual in question will much care whether Bradwell returns or does not. I speak, of course, in confidence. But he is a busy man, and has a large family of his own, with its concomitant anxieties. He sends his own boys to Harrow, and it is not for us to judge his motives in so doing, or whether they are guided by disinterested desire for the future welfare of an obscure attorney's sons, or influenced by that spirit of snobbishness from which few Englishmen are entirely free.

"Now, I shall ask you this afternoon, Travers, to undertake a little mission which I can safely trust to you. We are, as you know, very short-handed, and to spare a master is almost impossible. I will therefore invite you to go as far as Plymouth, call at No. 10 Mutley Plain Villas, and ask to see Miss Mason, the maternal aunt of Bradwell, and his sole surviving relative. It is a somewhat delicate duty, and you must regard it as a compliment that I seek your aid. Here is half a crown for your return railway fare. You will alight at Mutley Station, and should catch the five-thirty train back to Merivale. The lady has not responded to my telegram, hence my desire, before putting the matter in the hands of the police, to learn all she may be able to tell us. Present my card, and she will see you at once if at home. If not, wait until she returns."

It was rather a responsible thing, and a great compliment to me. So I went, first putting on my best clothes and a new pair of gloves. Arrived at Plymouth, I got out at Mutley, and easily found Mutley Plain Villas, which were only a quarter of a mile from the railway. The house was small, but very neat in appearance, and the door-knocker, which was of highly polished brass, gave a loud tapping sound into the hall. There was no sign of the "Turbot."

A servant of considerable age answered my knock, and when I asked her if Miss Mason was at home, she replied that she was. She told me to walk in, which I did. I then gave her Dr. Dunston's card, and was shown into a neat drawing-room, which had a piano in it, and a pile of khaki wool on a sofa. There was also an illustrated newspaper in the room, and I sat down on a chair and read the illustrated newspaper until Miss Mason arrived.

Presently she came, and proved younger than her servant, though still not in reality young. She was unlike Bradwell in every way. Even her eyes did not resemble his, being black and small--you might say beady--and her mouth had thin lips, which revealed lustrous teeth, which might have been false ones, though, on the other hand, they might not.

"Curiously enough," she said, "I was just writing a letter to Dr. Dunston when you arrived. Now I can send a message by you instead. Are you his son?"

"No, Miss Mason," I answered. "I am Travers, the head boy at Merivale School."

"How interesting!" she said. "And what are you going to do in the world, Travers?"

"I leave next term--this is my last term, in fact--and I am then going to try for Woolwich," I said.

"That means the Army, of course," she answered. "I hope you will pass well."

I then thanked her for this kind wish, and said I hoped so, too.

"Owing to the War," I explained, "there is no very great difficulty in passing into Woolwich at present, and I hope to get on quickly, and take my place in the fighting-line before the War is over."

She approved of this.

"Quite right," she said. "I never wanted to be a man before the War, but I do now."

She spoke in a very martial and sporting way, and rang for tea.

This was good of its kind, and when I had eaten pretty well everything, after handing her each dish first, she asked me if I would like an egg, and, of course, I said I would. Then she ordered the old servant to boil two eggs; and the old servant did so, and I ate them both. We talked of the War, and, funnily enough, I quite forgot all about the "Turbot" till a clock chimed on the mantelshelf the hour of five.

This, as it were, reminded me of my mission.

"I must soon go back to the station," I said, "so perhaps you will now be so kind as to tell me about 'Turbot.'"

"And who is 'Turbot'?" she asked.

So I had to explain that we were all called fish, owing to a silly joke, and I also hoped that she would not think that I meant anything rude to her nephew by mentioning him in that way. She was not in the least annoyed, and said:

"Ralph came to me on Saturday, and he left me on Sunday morning."

"Do you know where he has gone?" I asked.

And she said: "I haven't the slightest idea where he has gone, Travers."

"That's very serious," I said, "because your nephew's guardian hasn't the slightest idea, either."

Her lips tightened over her dazzling teeth at the mention of the guardian, and I could see she didn't like him. She spoke in a sneering sort of voice and said:

"Ah! Really?"

Then, feeling there was nothing more to discuss, I got up and cleared.

"Let me know if anything transpires," she said, and not happening to remember exactly what "transpire" meant, I merely said that no doubt the Doctor would tell her all that might happen in the future about Bradwell.

She shook hands in a kindly manner and saw me to the gate. And such was her friendly spirit that she picked a small blue flower and gave it to me to wear.

"Put it in your buttonhole," she said, which I did do until I was out of sight, and could chuck it away without hurting her feelings.

The Doctor didn't seem to like what I had to say, and evidently thought I hadn't got it right.

"His aunt appears as callous as his guardian," said the Doctor. "I am to understand that he went out on Sunday morning and did not return, and that Miss Mason has not the slightest idea where he has gone to?"

"That's what she made me understand, sir," I said.

"I fail to credit it," answered the Doctor. Then he dismissed me, rather slightingly, and sent for Brown, who always does the detective business at Merivale.

There was a good deal of quiet excitement about it, and, of course, we all thought "Turbot" would be run to earth in a few hours, or days, at most. But he never was; and though the police looked into the matter, and hunted far and wide, they never even got a clue, because apparently there wasn't one to get. In fact, "Turbot" vanished off the face of the earth as far as Merivale was concerned; and it was a nine days' wonder, as the saying is, and no light was ever thrown upon it till long afterwards. The aunt was cross-examined by the police; but she knew nothing, and cared less, as Brown said, for he cross-examined her also. All she could say was that "Turbot" had gone out early, and not come home in time for church, as she naturally expected a boy brought up at Merivale to do. Which was one in the eye for Merivale. As for the guardian, he offered a reward of ten pounds for the recovery of "Turbot," and no more, which showed the market value of "Turbot" in that guardian's opinion.

The only person who really worried was the Doctor, and I believe he didn't leave a stone unturned to rout up "Turbot." But all in vain. He had entirely disappeared, and being so ordinary in appearance, without any distinguishing marks, he simply "vanished into the void," as Tracey said, and we sold his cricket bat at auction, and one or two other things of slight value which we found in his school locker. But a portrait of his mother we did not sell, and I gave it to the Doctor, who sent it to the aunt, who was much obliged for it, and wrote to old Dunston with great thanks, and said she would keep it until the happy day when "Turbot" turned up out of the void again. And that, I believe, made the Doctor more suspicious than ever, for he always believed that Miss Mason knew more about the "Turbot" than she pretended. In fact, he told Mr. Fortescue that she was prevaricating, and Fortescue said it looked as though she might be. As a matter of fact, Fortescue had his own theory about "Turbot," and though he never told anybody what it was till afterwards, then he told everybody because he proved to be perfectly right.

This was that Fortescue, who wrote such splendid War poetry, but was prevented from enlisting unfortunately by an illness of the aorta, which is part of the heart, and, when enlarged, is fearfully dangerous. But while he taught at Merivale, his soul was entirely in the War, and in his spare time he did good work, chiefly at the Red Cross Hospital in the town, where fifty wounded men were always on hand. When they got well, they went and others came; and sometimes, when the War slacked off, the numbers sank to thirty-two, or even thirty, and then, when it burst out more fiercely, they quickly rose to fifty again.

Milly Dunston was one of the workers there, but only for swank and the sake of the uniform. I believe she peeled onions and shelled peas, and cut up meat and so on in the kitchen; and sometimes she was allowed to go and see the wounded; but I never heard that they cared much for her until they knew she worked in the kitchen. Then they took interest in her, because she could tell them what they were going to have for supper that night, and what they were going to have for dinner next day, which, naturally, are things very important to the mind of a wounded hero.

Mr. Fortescue was well liked at the hospital, and took many cigarettes there, also books suited to the Tommies, and he got to be so popular that there was a fair fight for him; and if he favoured one ward, and didn't go into the other for half the time, the other ward got vexed about it, for Tommy has a jealous nature in some ways, though so heroic in the field.

Then there came rather a bad cot case called Ted Marmaduke, and as soon as he arrived, he sent a special message to the school for me and for Fortescue; and Fortescue went to see him.

Of course, this happened long after I had left Merivale, and it was, in fact, my brother who wrote to me about it; for after six months at Woolwich, owing to luck and the War, and so on, I got a commission in the Royal Engineers, and went to France. And there I heard from Travers minor about the chap who wanted to see Fortescue. He had been wounded in the cheek and also in the leg, and his face was almost hidden; but his eyes were all right, and what was Fortescue's amazement to see the eyes of Ted Marmaduke goggle in the old familiar way the moment he came to his bedside. For there lay the "Turbot," and fearing that he was going to die, he had determined to tell somebody the truth, and not die anonymously, so to speak. And when he found he was at Merivale, of all places, naturally he thought of Fortescue and me. But I was gone to do my bit, so Fortescue went, and heard the true story of the wily "Turbot."

He could only tell it in pieces, because it hurt him awfully to talk, and, in fact, he wasn't allowed to talk much at a time. But what happened was this. He had gone to the aunt for his birthday, and told her in secret that he hated Merivale worse than ever, and was ashamed to be there, with a moustache and everything; and she was a very martial and fine woman, and entirely agreed with him. She had told him that he was just the sort they wanted in the Army, and that though he could not distinguish himself at school, that was nothing at such a time, and she felt positive that he would jolly soon distinguish himself in the Army, and do things at the Front that would make Merivale fairly squirm to remember how it had treated him. And such was the aunt's warlike instinct that when he reminded her he was only seventeen, she scorned him for remembering it. "Go to the recruiting people," she said, "on your seventeenth birthday, which is to-morrow, and when they ask you how old you are, say you'll be eighteen on your next birthday, which will be true." And he gladly did so. But the aunt was fearfully crafty as well as warlike, for when "Turbot" decided to go off and enlist at Plymouth under his own name, she pointed out that he would instantly be traced by Dr. Dunston, and ignominiously dragged back out of the Army to Merivale. So she advised him to take a train to the North of England, and enlist up there, which he did do. And he changed his name to Ted Marmaduke, and the enlisting people in the North never smelt a rat, and were quite agreeable to take him when he said he would be eighteen next birthday. And such was the fine strategy of the aunt that she expressly made "Turbot" promise not to write a line to her till he was under orders for the Front. Therefore, when she was asked if she knew where he was, she could honestly say she didn't.

Of course, long before he came back wounded, he was entirely forgotten at Merivale, and when Fortescue discovered him in our Red Cross Hospital, and then confessed that he had always believed this was what "Turbot" had really done, the excitement became great, and many of the chaps asked to be allowed to go and see him, and some were allowed to do so.

But it was not till the "Turbot" had recovered, and was going back to fight, that Dr. Dunston forgave him; and he never forgave the aunt.

Yet that amazing aunt was more than a fine strategist; she was a prophet also, for Fortescue found out in the papers that Ted Marmaduke, of the 3rd Yorkshires, was promoted a sergeant, and had won the D.C.M. for splendid bravery in Gallipoli, just as his aunt had always prophesied he would. Of course, she came to see him at the hospital, but she didn't come to Merivale.

When he got nearly right, the old "Turbot" took tea at Merivale, and the Doctor let the past bury the past, as they say, and made a speech, and hoped that the chaps would follow "Turbot's" lead in certain directions, though not in all. But privately to the "Turbot" he said more than this. In fact, he dug up the past again, and reminded "Turbot" that he should not do evil that good may come.

And "Turbot" quite saw this, and said he never would again.

Then he went back to the wars once more, and had good luck, I'm glad to say, and before he'd been a soldier eighteen months, he got his commission. For though such a mug at school, the military instinct was in him all the time, and the War naturally brought it out. When he became Lieutenant Bradwell, his guardian tried to make friends again; but he scorned him, as well he might, though no doubt he will always be friendly with his crafty aunt, for you may say that he owed pretty well everything to her masterly mind.

CORNWALLIS AND ME AND FATE

Dr. Dunston was always awfully great on the classic idea of Fate. He made millions of efforts to make us understand it, but failed. Blades said he understood it, and so did Abbott, and, of course, the Sixth said they did. But they always pretend to understand everything, including the War. Fate is the same as Greek tragedy, and a very difficult subject indeed.

Anyway, Cornwallis and me couldn't understand Fate, or how it worked exactly, until that far-famous whole holiday and the remarkable adventure which made Cornwallis and me blaze out into great fame, though only for a short while. As long as it lasted, however, the fame was wonderful; for the sudden, curious result of being somebody, after you have for many years been nobody, not only leaves its mark on your own character, but quite changes the opinion of other people about you, and also the way they behave to you. Enemies slack off and even offer to become friends, and people who have been your friends when you were nobody, redouble in their affection, and even get a sort of feeble fame themselves, owing to being able to approach you as a matter of course and not as a favour.

All this happened to Cornwallis and me; and though fame is said to have a very bad effect on some people, and make them get above themselves, like the Germans and Austrians, for instance, in our case, though dazzling in its way, the fame died out almost as quickly as it sprang up. In fact, to show you what people are, and what envy may do, just as Cornwallis and me began to sink back into our usual obscurity in the Lower Third, some beasts, such as Pegram and the master, Brown, said in public that the whole excitement was a mild attack of hysteria and utter footle, and that neither Cornwallis nor me had done anything but make little asses of ourselves, and that it was all pure luck and not fame at all.

But, anyway, the adventure did this for Cornwallis and also for me--it explained what the Doctor really meant by Fate; and afterwards we were always tremendously keen about Fate, and spoke well of it, though before, it had, if anything, rather bored us, because, at the age of ten, your fate is generally so far off. Until the great adventure I can't honestly say I had seen Fate bothering about Cornwallis, and he had never seen it bothering in the least about me; but afterwards, having, as you may say, got thoroughly to understand its ways, and its special interest in us on a very important occasion--in fact, what you might call a matter of life and death--we always felt a sharp interest in it, and often noticed little marks of Fate at work both in school and out--sometimes for us and sometimes for other people. Not, of course, always for us, because, as Cornwallis said, and I agreed, we weren't everybody, and when it came to prizes and getting into "elevens," and other advantages, Fate undoubtedly favoured various chaps far more than us. But as I pointed out to Cornwallis, after saving our lives in a very ingenious and unexpected way, no doubt it had done enough for us for some years, and intended to give us a rest. We both saw the fairness of this, and did not complain in the least at our rather bad failures in the Lower Third afterwards. But, curiously enough, Dr. Dunston, though so well up in Greek tragedy and the ways of Fate as a rule, missed this, and said our reports were a scandal and a source of the utmost discomfort to him, and far from showing our gratitude to Fate as we ought to have shown it after the terrible affair of "Foster Day."

"Foster Day" was an important day at Merivale. It arose from the mists of antiquity, as they say, because among the first pupils old Dunston ever had, when he started Merivale, was a chap called Foster. He was very rich, and his father lived at Daleham, on the sea coast, and had a mansion and thousands of acres of land running down to the sea. This Foster seems to have liked the Doctor, and been a great success at Merivale; and his rich father evidently liked the Doctor, too, and so, when young Foster had the bad luck to fall for his country in the Boer War, the rich father Foster built a beautiful and precious chapel to his memory at Daleham, and had his soldier son carved in pure marble and put in the chapel. It was known as a memorial chapel, and simply couldn't be beaten in its way. And, not content with doing this, the rich father arranged with Dunston that fifty boys from Merivale should once every year come to a service in this chapel, and, after the service was over, be entertained in his grounds and on the sea-shore with games and luscious foods. The Doctor fell in with this excellent plan readily, and now for some years, on the seventh day of July, which was the day the splendid young soldier Foster had fallen, fifty chaps from Merivale drove over in brakes to Daleham and attended the memorial service, and sang a hymn, and afterwards enjoyed themselves in the spacious grounds and on the beach. For though not actually belonging to the rich old Foster, the beach finished off his estates, and so he had a special sort of right to it, and had built a boat-house, where he kept a steam launch and other vessels.

The day came round as usual, and, by rather exceptional luck, Cornwallis and myself got into the fifty, for nobody was barred, and it was always arranged that a certain number of chaps from the lower school should join the giddy throng. So we went in white flannels and the school blazers, little knowing what lay before us.

The day was slightly clouded by the fact that Brown was the master who took us, for Brown loves to display his power before strangers, and make us look as small as possible in order that he may shine. But the great Mr. Foster--though what he had done that was great I don't know--saw through Brown with ease, and told him we must do what we liked, and have a good time in every way--not, in fact, hampered by Brown.

After the service in the chapel, where some good singing was done by us, and a clergyman preached a rather longish sermon on duty and so on, the solemn business of the day began, and we had an ample meal. When I tell you that there were enough raspberries and cream for all, I need add no more. If all those raspberries had been put in one pile, we should have had "no small part of a mountain," as Virgil so truly says.

The great thing after dinner was to go and bathe and ramble on the shore. This was the time that Brown could be most easily escaped, and as he had to keep his attention on the chaps who went swimming, those who did not were able to enjoy themselves in various interesting ways.

The tide was out, and, by a little dodging behind rocks, Cornwallis and me, who did not bathe, were able gradually, as it were, to slip out of the danger zone; which we did do. A magnificent and interesting beach spread out before us, and we decided to explore it. So we retreated fast for some distance till a cliff jutted out and entirely concealed us, and then we went slower and explored as we went. Cornwallis had a watch, and as there was no serious work on hand till tea at five o'clock, we had more than two hours.

We did some natural history, and found small pools full of marine wonders, such as sea anemones and blenny fish, which in skilled hands can be made as tame as white mice, and can live out of the sea between tides. We also collected shells, and, much to my amusement, I collected one shell which I thought was empty, until I felt a gentle crawling in my trousers pocket, and discovered that a hermit crab lived in the shell, and was frantically trying to escape. This, of course, I allowed him to do, and no doubt he is puzzling to this day about what happened to upset his usual life.

On we went, and then the beach got narrower, and I said it was natural, but Cornwallis thought not. He thought the tide was coming in, which would account for the increasing narrowness of the beach.

I said:

"In that case, Cornwallis, we had better go back, because you can see, by the marks on the cliffs, that the tide will come here in large quantities, and, in fact, the water will be jolly deep."

And Cornwallis said he supposed it would. The time also was getting on, and we found it was past four. But, of course, we meant getting back fast, with an occasional run, and had allowed half the time to get back that we allowed to go out.

We were just turning, after going a few hundred yards farther, when a most interesting thing appeared. The cliffs hung over rather, and were made of red sandstone, and very steep; but ahead of us was a ledge of rock half-way up the cliff, and on it a mysterious little house made of bits of old boat and painted with tar. It was extraordinary to see such a thing in such a lonely spot, and Cornwallis, who is rather suspicious, owing to the War and being a Boy Scout, wondered if it was all right. Because, if you are once a Boy Scout, as Travers minor pointed out, you are always a Boy Scout, and though you may not be scouting in a professional sort of way, yet, if anything peculiar happens, or you get a chance of doing good to the country, you must instantly look into it.

So Cornwallis decided to go and examine this queer shed, and I went with him. The door was open, but we saw no signs of life. It was a solid building made of heavy timbers, and there was a padlock on the door. Inside was a pleasant smell of tar and cobbler's wax and fish. It seemed to belong to a mariner of some sort; but, on the other hand, what mariner could possibly want to make his house in such a weird spot? There was no bed or washing basin or chest of drawers, to show that the stranger lived here, but there were many interesting things, including a lobster-pot, a telescope, and a large lantern of the sort used on board ship.

I saw nothing peculiarly suspicious, but Cornwallis did. From the first he took rather a serious view of it, and when he found a green tin full of petrol, his face went white, and he said it was Fate.

I said:

"What the dickens do you mean, Cornwallis?"

And he said:

"I mean, Towler, that this is the hiding-place of a German spy. There's a telescope with which he picks up periscopes, and there's a lamp, with which he signals to the submarines by night, and there's the petrol he takes to them to replenish their tanks. And this shows the Doctor was right: you can get Fate in real life as well as Greek tragedies."

And I said:

"But the prawn-nets and fishing-lines and corks and paint, and so on?"

And he said:

"These things are merely blinds to distract the eye from the others."

So I said:

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

And he said:

"I am going straight back, and after tea, or even before, I shall tell the great Mr. Foster there is a pro-German traitor under his cliff, and offer to show him the way to the spot."

"I'll help," I said. "But the thing is to be careful, and surprise the spy at his work."

Just as I said these words, curiously enough, the spy surprised us, and we found ourselves in a position that wanted enormous presence of mind. Suddenly we heard the sound of heavy feet outside, and as there was only one way up to the hut, it was clear we could not escape without being seen. And if seen, of course, our object was lost, for the spy would make a bolt of it.

The question was where to hide, and, by the best possible luck, there was a chance to do so. A big tarpaulin hung on a nail on the side of the hut, and it was of great size, and came nearly to the ground, while at its feet was a seaman's box. Owing to the fortunate smallness of Cornwallis and me, there was ample room for concealment behind the tarpaulin, and our feet were hidden by the box. So we got behind it and hardly dared to breathe, though, just before the traitor came in, Cornwallis had time to whisper to me:

"If he's come for his tarpaulin coat, we're done for, and he'll very likely kill us!"

And I whispered to him:

"Be hopeful. Fate may be on our side, and it's not the weather for a tarpaulin coat, anyway."

Then the spy came in, and though I was not able to see him, Cornwallis, by a lucky chance, got a buttonhole of the coat level with his eye, and saw the fearful spectacle of the spy.

He was a dreadful object, with wickedness fairly stamped on him, so Cornwallis said afterwards. He was a big man with humpbacked shoulders and a cocoanut-like head, far too small for his body and legs. He was grey, and had a shaggy beard and a wide mouth that showed his teeth. These were broken and black. His nose was flat and small, and his eyes rolled in his head as he looked round his hut. They were black and ferocious to a most savage extent. He kept making a snorting sound, which was his manner of breathing. He wore dirty white trousers and a jersey, and upon his feet were dirty canvas shoes. He had no hat, and he didn't look the sort of person that Fate would be interested in. But you never know. He suspected nothing, and had not seen us come in, which was the great fear in my mind.

The creature did not stop long, yet long enough to give himself away for ever as a spy, for he took one of the green tins of petrol, and then, saying some English swear words to himself of the worst kind, went out and slammed the door behind him. We nearly shouted with joy, but a moment later our joy was changed into the most terrible sorrow, because the spy fastened the door behind him. We heard a chain rattle and a padlock click, so there we were, entirely at the mercy of a creature evidently quite dead to pity in every way. This was, of course, Fate again, as Cornwallis pointed out.

There was a window about a foot square high up in the roof of the hut, and when the spy shut the door and locked us in, everything became dark excepting for the light from this narrow window. Therefore, when we were sure our enemy had gone, and there was not a sound outside, I got on to a table, and Cornwallis climbed on my back, from which he was able to look out through the window. Luckily it faced the sea, and Cornwallis reported that the sea had come a great deal nearer, and that the spy was only about fifty yards off. He stood on a sort of pier of rocks, and was pulling in a rope to which was attached a small motor-boat.

Then naturally I wanted to get on Cornwallis's shoulders, but he told me not to move for a moment. Then he said that the spy had got into the boat and was evidently going to sea. And then he said he had gone.

I next climbed on to Cornwallis, and so proved the truth of his words, for I distinctly saw the motor-boat speed off with the spy in it. I also saw that the tide had come in, and soon it was actually beating against the rocks twenty-five feet or so below us.

When the motor-boat had disappeared in a westerly direction, Cornwallis and me got down off the table and considered what we ought to do.

"The first thing is to make every possible effort to escape at any cost," I said. But he said that he had already thought of that, and felt pretty certain it was beyond our power. The window seemed the only hopeful place; but it was made not to open, and the glass was thick, and Cornwallis said we couldn't have got through the hole, even if there had been no glass. But I said:

"It is well known, Cornwallis, that if a man can get his head through a hole, he can get his body through."

And he said:

"It isn't well known at all. You might because you have got a head like a tadpole, but I couldn't."

I said I was sure I had read it somewhere, but, anyway, it didn't matter. We examined the hut thoroughly, and found it was only too well and solidly made. We were utter prisoners, in fact, and, owing to the spy not knowing it, might very likely be left to die of starvation. He might even have gone to join a submarine, and never come back.

"Perhaps he does know we are here all the time," said Cornwallis. "Perhaps he spotted us, and pretended he didn't. In that case he may have locked us in deliberately to starve us, not caring to waste a shot on us."

This thought depressed us a good deal, and presently the sun sank and the light began to fade, and a seagull that settled outside on the roof uttered a melancholy and doleful squawk.

Of course, we were far from despairing yet, and Cornwallis made a cheerful remark, and reminded me that if we had eaten our last meal on earth, at any rate it was a jolly good one.

And I said:

"There may be food concealed here, for that matter. We'd better have a good hunt, and look into every hole and corner before it is dark."

This we did without success. There were many strange things there, including pieces of wreckage, a bit of an old ship's steering-wheel, and a brass bell with a ship's name on it; but there was nothing eatable excepting some fish to bait a lobster-pot; and the fish hadn't been caught yesterday, and we had by no means reached the stage of exhaustion in which we could regard it as food.

Cornwallis said:

"As a matter of fact, our great enemy will be thirst. I am frightfully thirsty already, for that matter."

And I said:

"So am I, now you mention it."

As the light died away, we held a sort of a council, and tried to decide what exactly was our duty--to England firstly, and to ourselves secondly. We talked a good deal, until our voices grew queer to ourselves, and it all came back to the same simple fact--our duty was to get out, and we couldn't.

Then I had the best idea that had yet come to us.

I said:

"As we can't get out, we must try and get somebody in the outer world to let us out. The only question is, shall we attract anybody but the spy if we raise an alarm?"

Cornwallis said of course that was the question; but it didn't matter, because we couldn't raise an alarm.

I said:

"If we howl steadily together once every sixty seconds by your watch, like a minute-gun at sea, somebody is bound to hear sooner or later."

And he said:

"Far from it, Towler. We shall only tire ourselves out, and get hungry, as well as thirsty, for no good. Our voices wouldn't go any distance through these solid walls, and, even if they did, we are evidently in a frightfully lonely and secluded place, miles and miles from civilization, else the spy wouldn't have chosen it for his operations."

I admitted this, but we did try a yell or two. The result was feeble, and I myself said that if any belated traveller heard it, he would only murmur a prayer and cross himself, and hurry on, like they do in books. Then Cornwallis decided to break the window. He didn't know why exactly, but he felt he wanted to be up and doing in a sort of way. Besides, it was beastly fuggy in the spy's den; so we broke the window with a boat-hook, and I got on the shoulders of Cornwallis and had a good yell through it; but no answer came.

Then another idea struck me, and it was undoubtedly this idea that saved the situation. We got the old ship's bell and hung it up on a rope as near the window as possible, and hammered it with the boat-hook, taking turns of five minutes each.

This created an immense volume of sound, and though, of course, it was more--far more--likely to bring the spy back than anybody else, we had now reached a pitch of despair, and would have even welcomed the spy in a sort of way. Cornwallis from time to time still worried about our duty, but I had long passed that, for it was nine o'clock. So at last I told him to shut up and hit the bell harder.

It was now quite dark, and from time to time heavy drops of rain fell through the window. The sea-going lamp would have been very useful now, for we might have signalled with it; but though there was an oil-lamp in it, we had no matches, and it was therefore useless.

Then, in a lull, when I was handing over the boat-hook to Cornwallis, whose turn it was to hammer the bell, we distinctly heard the stealthy sound of the motor-boat returning, and Cornwallis, mounting my shoulders, and nearly breaking my neck in his excitement, reported a red light below.

Then he heard several harsh voices.

Cornwallis said:

"We are now probably done for, Towler. The spy has evidently been to a submarine, and he's heard the bell, and you can pretty easily guess what submarine Germans will do to us. In fact, our Fate is right bang off."

I said:

"Surely they wouldn't kill two kids like us?"

And he said:

"Killing kids is their chief sport. They can't be too young--from babies upward."

So it looked pretty putrid in every way, and it wouldn't be true, and it wouldn't be believed, if I said Cornwallis and me weren't in the funk of our lives.

But the awful moments didn't last long, for, almost before the padlock was undone, what should we hear but the well known yelp of Brown!

Our first thought was that the crew of a German submarine had also got Brown; but even in our present condition we felt that was too mad. All the same, when he actually appeared, with two other men and the spy, he looked such a ghastly object, and was so white and wild, that it seemed clear that he was in a mess of some kind.

What he said when we both appeared in the lantern light was:

"Thank God!"

For the first and last time in his life he was apparently glad to see us. But after this expression of joy, he instantly became beastly, and, in fact, so much so, that a man behind him, who did not fear him, told him not to talk so roughly to us at such a moment.

This man turned out to be no less a man than the great Mr. Foster himself, and he explained to us that we had put everybody to frightful anxiety and distress, and that, in fact, he had feared the worst.

This much surprised us, and what surprised us still more was Mr. Foster's attitude to the spy, for he called him "Joe," and treated him in a most friendly manner.

We all went back to the motor-boat, and while it tore away to the landing-place under Mr. Foster's beach, we told our story. During this narrative, which was listened to very carefully, the man called Joe made several remarks of a familiar nature, which showed he was not in the least afraid of anybody, and we found out later that he was an old and trusted servant of Mr. Foster's, who lived at Daleham, and who managed Mr. Foster's motorboat, and caught lobsters for him and fish of many kinds, and was, in fact, a sort of family friend of long standing. It was admitted, however, that Joe was very queer to look at, and also odd in his ways. This arose entirely from his peculiar Fate, because Fate had had a dash at him too, and when a young man, he had once gone out fishing, and returned to find that during his absence his wife had run away for ever with another mariner. This was such a surprise to him that it had quite turned his head for a time, and, in fact, he had been odd ever since.

Having told our tale, we ventured to ask why everybody had feared the worst, and Mr. Foster explained the situation, and showed what a splendid and remarkable bit of work Fate had really done for Cornwallis and me.

He said:

"What did you intend to do when you left Joe's hut?"

And I said:

"We were going to tear back along the beach, sir, and give the alarm, because we thought he was a pro-German spy."

Joe gurgled at this, but did not condescend to answer.

"And do you know what would have happened in that case?" asked Mr. Foster.

"You would have explained to us that we were on a false scent, sir," said Cornwallis.

"No, my child, I should not," answered Mr. Foster, "for the very good reason that I should never have seen either of you again alive. Nor would anybody else. If you had started to go back by the beach, you would both have been overtaken by the tide and most certainly been drowned."

"Crikey!" said Cornwallis under his breath to me.

"Yes," continued the good and great Mr. Foster, "if Joe here, quite ignorant of the fact that you were trespassing in his store shed, had not turned the key upon you both, you would neither of you be alive to tell your story now."

Somehow we never thought we were trespassing, but doing our duty to England. It just shows how different a thing looks from different points of view.

"You ought to be very thankful," said Mr. Foster, "and I hope this terrible experience will leave its mark in your hearts, my boys. You have been spared a sad and untimely death, and I trust that the memory of this night will help you both to justify your existence in time to come."

We said we trusted it would.

Then Brown, of course, put in his oar.

"And if you had used your eyes, Towler and Cornwallis, as I have tried so often to make you," he squeaked, "you would have seen a notice on the cliff warning people not to go beyond a certain point, as the tides were very dangerous."

"We were studying the wonders of Nature, sir," I answered, in rather a sublime tone of voice, because this was no time for sitting on Cornwallis and me. And just then the motor-boat came to shore, and it was found that we could catch the last train back to Daleham. So we caught it. Of course, all the other chaps had gone back in the brakes ages ago.

Mr. Foster blessed us, before the train started, in a very affectionate and gentlemanly way; but Brown did not bless us on the journey back. In fact, he said that he should advise the Doctor to flog us. We preserved a dignified silence. He couldn't send a telegram on in advance, as the office was shut, and therefore, when we arrived at Merivale, it was rather triumphant in a way, and the news of our safe return created a great sensation. In the excitement, food for us was overlooked entirely, until Cornwallis told the matron we had had nothing to eat since dinner. Food was then provided. The Doctor said very little until the following day, and then he told the whole story to the school after morning prayers; and not until we heard it from him did we realize what a good yarn it really was.

But nothing was done against us, much to Brown's disappointment, and from the way he hated Cornwallis and me afterwards, I believe he got ragged in private for not keeping his eye on us.

We wrote a very sporting letter to Mr. Foster, and said we should not forget his great kindness as long as we lived; and we also wrote home and scared up ten pounds for Joe, because he had locked us up and saved our lives. It was an enormous lot of money, and far beyond what we expected. My father sent five, and the mother of Cornwallis also sent five; and Cornwallis truly said it showed that my father and his mother mast think much more highly of our lives than they had ever led us to believe.

In fact, so excited was the mother of Cornwallis about it that she couldn't wait till the end of the term, but had to come and see him and kiss him, and realize that he was still all there. But my father waited till the end of the term for me.

He is rather a hard sort of man, compared to such a man as Mr. Foster, for instance; and when I did go home and explained all about what Fate had done, he said he hoped that I would not give Fate cause to regret it--at any rate, during the summer holidays.

FOR THE RED CROSS

Of course, being for the Red Cross, we were jolly well paid for all our trouble by knowing what a tremendous lift we had given the Red Cross in general; but somehow we felt that, if anything, too much was made of the wonderful result, and too little of us, who had done it.

Because, you see, if a chap in the trenches covers himself with glory, as they so often do, it is noted down to the chap's credit, and he gets a D.C.M., or D.S.O., or a V.C.; but in our case, as Tracey rather neatly put it, we weren't so much as mentioned in dispatches, and the bitter irony was that Merivale fairly rung with the fame of Dr. Dunston, whereas the truth was that we did everything, and Dunston, far from urging us on, really threw cold water on the whole show, and, up to the last moment, feared we were in for a grisly failure, instead of a most extraordinary success.

There was a good deal of difference of opinion afterwards as to who sprang the idea, and, on the whole, I don't think any one chap could take the credit. It was too big a thing for one chap's mind, and you might say nearly everybody in the Fifth and Sixth had a hand in it. It grew and grew till it reached the stage of asking Dr. Dunston; and after he had conferred with Brown and Fortescue and old Peacock, he reluctantly agreed; and then it grew by leaps and bounds till it became the wonderful thing it was.

The idea was to give an entertainment for the funds of the Red Cross, and Blades believed it would be a better and finer entertainment if we did it absolutely on our own, without any help from the masters whatever. A few faint-hearted chaps thought not; but they were overruled, for, as Briggs pointed out, there was no entertaining power whatever in the masters. The only one who would have been any good in that way was Hutchings, who sang remarkably well in a bass voice of great depth; but he was at the War, and none of the others had any gift that could lure a paying audience. No doubt they might have tried, but, as Tracey said, you couldn't ask people to pay good money just for the doubtful pleasure of seeing them trying. So it was settled that as there was a great deal of mixed power of amusing an audience in the school, we could do it without any assistance; and Fortescue supported this, and advised the Doctor that we should be given a free hand; but Peacock, of all people, doubted, and Brown, who wanted to shine himself in some way, thought we ought to have him and Fortescue to give a backbone to the show. What he was prepared to do, by way of backbone, we didn't ask; what he did do, when the time came, was to show the people to their seats, and his evening-dress, which we had not seen before, was worth all the money, if not more.

Anyway, Fortescue got the Doctor to let us do everything without help, and the end justified the means, as Saunders very truly said, though at one time it rather looked as if it might not.

It was announced in public that the scholars of Merivale were going to give an entertainment for the Red Cross before Christmas breaking up, and, when all was decided, we had two clear months for the preparations. Owing to the War and one thing and another, we didn't have much football that term, and the show got to be the great idea in everybody's mind--so much so, in fact, that owing to an utter breakdown in geography in the Lower Fourth, there was a threat from headquarters that the whole thing would be knocked on the head if the work was going to suffer.

So we gave the Lower Fourth some advice on the subject, and told them not one of them should do anything if they didn't buck up.

Of course, the great problem was, who should be in the show and who should not. That was a question for the Sixth, and it proved a very difficult problem, because there were immense stores of talent at Merivale, and some of the chaps best fitted to entertain a paying audience by their great gifts absolutely refused to appear; whereas, strangely enough, others, quite useless in every way, were death on appearing. We even had one or two letters from mothers, written to "The Committee of the Merivale Concert," fairly grovelling to us to let their sons do something. Of course, we ignored these, though Pegram, with his usual strategy, advised us to give young Tudor a show of some sort, because his mother and father were worth many thousands, and would doubtless buy dozens of front seats if Tudor did anything publicly.

So in one item of the performance, which was a scene from "The Merchant of Venice," we let Tudor and certain other kids come on in the crowd. We also let Cornwallis and Towler sing a duet--not so much because it was a thing to pay to hear, but because of their great adventure on Foster Day, when by a fluke they weren't drowned, and so possessed a passing interest in Merivale.

The programme needed a fearful lot of thought, and we altered it many times. The first programme would have taken about three days to get through, and Tracey said, as it wasn't a Wagner Cycle, we'd better try and cram the show into three hours; and Briggs said there would be encores, which must be allowed for; and I remembered that there must be an interval, because on these occasions women want something to drink about half-way through, and men want both to drink and smoke also. And if they are prevented from doing these things, they often turn against the performance, and the last state of that show is worse than the first.