The Gold Bat, P. G. Wodehouse [inspirational books for students .TXT] 📗

of a disturbance.  O’Hara and he were going up to Aldershot at the end of the term, to try and bring back the light and middle-weight medals respectively.  Moriarty had won the light-weight in the previous year, but, by reason of putting on a stone since the competition, was now no longer eligible for that class.  O’Hara had not been up before, but the Wrykyn instructor, a good judge of pugilistic form, was of opinion that he ought to stand an excellent chance.  As the prize-fighter in Rodney Stone says, “When you get a good Irishman, you can’t better ’em, but they’re dreadful ’asty.”  O’Hara was attending the gymnasium every night, in order to learn to curb his “dreadful ’astiness”, and acquire skill in its place.

“I wonder if Trevor would be any good in a row,” said Moriarty.

“He can’t box,” said O’Hara, “but he’d go on till he was killed entirely.  I say, I’m getting rather tired of sitting here, aren’t you?  Let’s go to the other end of the passage and have some cricket.”

So, having unearthed a piece of wood from the debris at the top of the cupboard, and rolled a handkerchief into a ball, they adjourned.

Recalling the stirring events of six years back, when the League had first been started, O’Hara remembered that the members of that enterprising society had been wont to hold meetings in a secluded spot, where it was unlikely that they would be disturbed.  It seemed to him that the first thing he ought to do, if he wanted to make their nearer acquaintance now, was to find their present rendezvous.  They must have one.  They would never run the risk involved in holding mass-meetings in one another’s studies.  On the last occasion, it had been an old quarry away out on the downs.  This had been proved by the not-to-be-shaken testimony of three school-house fags, who had wandered out one half-holiday with the unconcealed intention of finding the League’s place of meeting.  Unfortunately for them, they had found it.  They were going down the path that led to the quarry before-mentioned, when they were unexpectedly seized, blindfolded, and carried off.  An impromptu court-martial was held—­in whispers—­and the three explorers forthwith received the most spirited “touching-up” they had ever experienced.  Afterwards they were released, and returned to their house with their zeal for detection quite quenched.  The episode had created a good deal of excitement in the school at the time.

On three successive afternoons, O’Hara and Moriarty scoured the downs, and on each occasion they drew blank.  On the fourth day, just before lock-up, O’Hara, who had been to tea with Gregson, of Day’s, was going over to the gymnasium to keep a pugilistic appointment with Moriarty, when somebody ran swiftly past him in the direction of the boarding-houses.  It was almost dark, for the days were still short, and he did not recognise the runner.  But it puzzled him a little to think where he had sprung from.  O’Hara was walking quite close to the wall of the College buildings, and the runner had passed between it and him.  And he had not heard his footsteps.  Then he understood, and his pulse quickened as he felt that he was on the track.  Beneath the block was a large sort of cellar-basement.  It was used as a store-room for chairs, and was never opened except when prize-day or some similar event occurred, when the chairs were needed.  It was supposed to be locked at other times, but never was.  The door was just by the spot where he was standing.  As he stood there, half-a-dozen other vague forms dashed past him in a knot.  One of them almost brushed against him.  For a moment he thought of stopping him, but decided not to.  He could wait.

On the following afternoon he slipped down into the basement soon after school.  It was as black as pitch in the cellar.  He took up a position near the door.

It seemed hours before anything happened.  He was, indeed, almost giving up the thing as a bad job, when a ray of light cut through the blackness in front of him, and somebody slipped through the door.  The next moment, a second form appeared dimly, and then the light was shut off again.

O’Hara could hear them groping their way past him.  He waited no longer.  It is difficult to tell where sound comes from in the dark.  He plunged forward at a venture.  His hand, swinging round in a semicircle, met something which felt like a shoulder.  He slipped his grasp down to the arm, and clutched it with all the force at his disposal.

IX MAINLY ABOUT FERRETS

“Ow!” exclaimed the captive, with no uncertain voice.  “Let go, you ass, you’re hurting.”

The voice was a treble voice.  This surprised O’Hara.  It looked very much as if he had put up the wrong bird.  From the dimensions of the arm which he was holding, his prisoner seemed to be of tender years.

“Let go, Harvey, you idiot.  I shall kick.”

Before the threat could be put into execution, O’Hara, who had been fumbling all this while in his pocket for a match, found one loose, and struck a light.  The features of the owner of the arm—­he was still holding it—­were lit up for a moment.

“Why, it’s young Renford!” he exclaimed.  “What are you doing down here?”

Renford, however, continued to pursue the topic of his arm, and the effect that the vice-like grip of the Irishman had had upon it.

“You’ve nearly broken it,” he said, complainingly.

“I’m sorry.  I mistook you for somebody else.  Who’s that with you?”

“It’s me,” said an ungrammatical voice.

“Who’s me?”

“Harvey.”

At this point a soft yellow light lit up the more immediate neighbourhood.  Harvey had brought a bicycle lamp into action.

“That’s more like it,” said Renford.  “Look here, O’Hara, you won’t split, will you?”

“I’m not an informer by profession, thanks,” said O’Hara.

“Oh, I know it’s all right, really, but you can’t be too careful, because one isn’t allowed down here, and there’d be a beastly row if it got out about our being down here.”

“And they would be cobbed,” put in Harvey.

“Who are they?” asked O’Hara.

“Ferrets.  Like to have a look at them?”

“Ferrets!”

“Yes.  Harvey brought back a couple at the beginning of term.  Ripping little beasts.  We couldn’t keep them in the house, as they’d have got dropped on in a second, so we had to think of somewhere else, and thought why not keep them down here?”

“Why, indeed?” said O’Hara.  “Do ye find they like it?”

“Oh, they don’t mind,” said Harvey.  “We feed ’em twice a day.  Once before breakfast—­we take it in turns to get up early—­and once directly after school.  And on half-holidays and Sundays we take them out on to the downs.”

“What for?”

“Why, rabbits, of course.  Renford brought back a saloon-pistol with him.  We keep it locked up in a box—­don’t tell any one.”

“And what do ye do with the rabbits?”

“We pot at them as they come out of the holes.”

“Yes, but when ye hit ’em?”

“Oh,” said Renford, with some reluctance, “we haven’t exactly hit any yet.”

“We’ve got jolly near, though, lots of times,” said Harvey.  “Last Saturday I swear I wasn’t more than a quarter of an inch off one of them.  If it had been a decent-sized rabbit, I should have plugged it middle stump; only it was a small one, so I missed.  But come and see them.  We keep ’em right at the other end of the place, in case anybody comes in.”

“Have you ever seen anybody down here?” asked O’Hara.

“Once,” said Renford.  “Half-a-dozen chaps came down here once while we were feeding the ferrets.  We waited till they’d got well in, then we nipped out quietly.  They didn’t see us.”

“Did you see who they were?”

“No.  It was too dark.  Here they are.  Rummy old crib this, isn’t it?  Look out for your shins on the chairs.  Switch on the light, Harvey.  There, aren’t they rippers?  Quite tame, too.  They know us quite well.  They know they’re going to be fed, too.  Hullo, Sir Nigel!  This is Sir Nigel.  Out of the ‘White Company’, you know.  Don’t let him nip your fingers.  This other one’s Sherlock Holmes.”

“Cats-s-s—­s!!” said O’Hara.  He had a sort of idea that that was the right thing to say to any animal that could chase and bite.

Renford was delighted to be able to show his ferrets off to so distinguished a visitor.

“What were you down here about?” inquired Harvey, when the little animals had had their meal, and had retired once more into private life.

O’Hara had expected this question, but he did not quite know what answer to give.  Perhaps, on the whole, he thought, it would be best to tell them the real reason.  If he refused to explain, their curiosity would be roused, which would be fatal.  And to give any reason except the true one called for a display of impromptu invention of which he was not capable.  Besides, they would not be likely to give away his secret while he held this one of theirs connected with the ferrets.  He explained the situation briefly, and swore them to silence on the subject.

Renford’s comment was brief.

“By Jove!” he observed.

Harvey went more deeply into the question.

“What makes you think they meet down here?” he asked.

“I saw some fellows cutting out of here last night.  And you say ye’ve seen them here, too.  I don’t see what object they could have down here if they weren’t the League holding a meeting.  I don’t see what else a chap would be after.”

“He might be keeping ferrets,” hazarded Renford.

“The whole school doesn’t keep ferrets,” said O’Hara.  “You’re unique in that way.  No, it must be the League, an’ I mean to wait here till they come.”

“Not all night?” asked Harvey.  He had a great respect for O’Hara, whose reputation in the school for out-of-the-way doings was considerable.  In the bright lexicon of O’Hara he believed there to be no such word as “impossible.”

“No,” said O’Hara, “but till lock-up.  You two had better cut now.”

“Yes, I think we’d better,” said Harvey.

“And don’t ye breathe a word about this to a soul”—­a warning which extracted fervent promises of silence from both youths.

“This,” said Harvey, as they emerged on to the gravel, “is something like.  I’m jolly glad we’re in it.”

“Rather.  Do you think O’Hara will catch them?”

“He must if he waits down there long enough.  They’re certain to come again.  Don’t you wish you’d been here when the League was on before?”

“I should think I did.  Race you over to the shop.  I want to get something before it shuts.”

“Right ho!” And they disappeared.

O’Hara waited where he was till six struck from the clock-tower, followed by the sound of the bell as it rang for lock-up.  Then he picked his way carefully through the groves of chairs, barking his shins now and then on their out-turned legs, and, pushing open the door, went out into the open air.  It felt very fresh and pleasant after the brand of atmosphere supplied in the vault.  He then ran over to the gymnasium to meet Moriarty, feeling a little disgusted at the lack of success that had attended his detective efforts up to the present.  So far he had nothing to show for his trouble except a good deal of dust on his clothes, and a dirty collar, but he was full of determination.  He could play a waiting game.

It was a pity, as it happened, that O’Hara left the vault when he did.  Five minutes after he had gone, six shadowy forms made their way silently and in single file through the doorway of the vault, which they closed carefully behind them.  The fact that it was after lock-up was of small consequence.  A good deal of latitude in that way was allowed at Wrykyn.  It was the custom to go out, after the bell had sounded, to visit the gymnasium.  In the winter and Easter terms, the gymnasium became a sort of social club.  People went there with a very small intention of doing gymnastics.  They went to lounge about, talking to cronies, in front of the two huge stoves which warmed the place.  Occasionally, as a concession to the look of the thing, they would do an easy exercise or two on the horse or parallels, but, for the most part, they preferred the rôle of spectator.  There was plenty to see.  In one corner O’Hara and Moriarty would be sparring their nightly six rounds (in two batches of three rounds each).  In another, Drummond, who was going up to Aldershot as a feather-weight, would be putting in a little practice with the instructor.  On the apparatus, the members of the gymnastic six, including the two experts who were to carry the school colours to Aldershot in the spring, would be performing their usual marvels.  It was worth dropping into the gymnasium of an evening.  In no other place in the school were so many sights to be seen.

When you were surfeited with sightseeing, you went off to your house.  And this was where the peculiar beauty of the gymnasium system came in.  You went up to any master who happened to be there—­there was always one at least—­and observed in suave accents, “Please, sir, can I have a paper?” Whereupon, he, taking a scrap of paper, would write upon it, “J.  O. Jones (or A. B. Smith or C. D. Robinson) left gymnasium at such-and-such a time”.  And, by presenting this to