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Cock-House at Fellsgarth

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<h3>Chapter Eighteen.</h3> <h4>Rollitt makes a Record for Fellsgarth.</h4> The Modern seniors had slept on soundly that morning, secure of their prey. The military operations of the preceding evening, although they resulted in the night of the besieged, had not tended to the glory of the besiegers. Indeed, when the door had at last been broken in and it was discovered that the birds had flown, a titter had gone round at the expense of Messrs Clapperton, Dangle, and Brinkman, which had been particularly riling to those gentlemen. When in the morning the birds were found to have flown once more, the position of the seniors became positively painful. Fullerton, as usual, did not salve the wound. “I should say—not that it matters much to me—that that scores another to the rebels,” said he. “How very naughty of them not to stay and be whopped, to be sure!” “The young cads!” growled Clapperton, who had the grace to be perfectly aware that he had been made ridiculous. “I don’t envy them when I get hold of them.” “No more do I,” said Fullerton, “with their door off its hinges. It will be very draughty.” “Do shut up. Why don’t you go and join the enemy at once, if you’re so fond of them?” said Dangle. “Well,” said Clapperton, “they will keep; but we must have it out with Corder now. It’s no use simply cutting him; he’ll have to be taught that he can’t defy the house for nothing. Go and tell him to come, Brinkman.” But Corder’s back was against the wall, literally and metaphorically. To Brinkman’s demand (almost the first voice he had heard speaking to him for a week) he returned a curt refusal. “Well, I’ll make you come,” said Brinkman. Whereupon Corder retreated behind his table and invited the interloper to begin. To dodge round and round a study table after a nimble boy is not a very dignified operation for a prefect, particularly when the object of his chase is a prefect too; and Brinkman presently abandoned the quest and went off, breathing threatenings and slaughter, for reinforcements. So did Corder. Less sensitive than his junior fellow-martyrs, he marched straight across to Yorke’s study. The captain was away, but in the adjoining room he found Fisher major and Denton, poring over their endless accounts. “You two,” said Corder, “you’re prefects. You’re wanted over on the other side to stop bullying.” “Who’s being bullied?” “I am. I’ve been cut dead for a week. I’m sick of it. Now they’re going to lick me. I’d take my chance against them one at a time, but I can’t tackle three of them.” “Is it for playing in the match?” “Yes, that and going to the meeting. Nothing else. I’d go to twenty a day, if I had the chance, to spite them.” “Who are bullying you?” “Clapperton, Brinkman, and Dangle, of course.” “I tell you what,” said Denton, “we couldn’t go over. We’ve no authority. But there’s nothing to prevent you staying here and letting them fetch you. Then we can interfere.” “All serene,” said Corder; “I hope they will come. I say, I wish you’d let me wait here and hear you fellows talk. I’ve not had a word spoken to me for a week. I can tell you it’s no joke. I laughed at it at first, and thought it would be nice rather than otherwise. But after two days, you chaps, it gets to be decidedly slow; you begin to wonder if it isn’t worth caving in. But that would be such a howling come down, when all you’ve done is to do what you had a right to do—or rather what you’re bound to do—play up for the School.” “And jolly well you played too,” said Usher. “It was a lucky turn. You know I was so awfully glad to be in the fifteen, and felt I could do anything. Of course the lucky thing was my getting past their forwards, and then—” And then Corder bunched into a delighted account of the never-to-be-forgotten match, during which the cloud passed away from his face, the light came back to his eyes, and the spirit into his voice. “What business have they to stop me,” said he, “or bully me for it?” “None. And Yorke, when he hears of it, will report it to the doctor.” “No, don’t let him do that. What’s the use? If I can stay here it’s all right.” An hour later, about the time that the young mountaineers were beginning to look out for their second wind on the lower slope, Dangle came across in a vicious temper. He had not come to look for Corder, the sight of whom in the sanctuary of a Classic study took him aback. “That’s where you’re sneaking, is it?” said he. “I’m not surprised.” “Not much need to sneak from you. It’s three against one I object to,” said Corder. “But if you like to fetch Clapperton and Brinkman over here, we can have it out comfortably now.” “You must think yourself uncommonly important if you suppose we’re going to trouble about an ass like you,” said Dangle. “I never once thought of you.” “What have you come for, then?” said Fisher. “Hadn’t you better wait till you’re invited before you come where you’re not wanted?” “I’ve come on club business, and I’ve a perfect right to come. You fellows, I hear, have taken it into your heads to dissolve the club.” “What of that? Why didn’t you come and vote against it if you didn’t like it?” “Thank you. It wasn’t quite good enough. What I want to know is, what is the treasurer going to do with the money? I suppose that’s hardly going to be treated as a perquisite for him?” Fisher major looked troubled. He had dreaded this awkward question for days. For the lost money was still missing. “You know it’s nothing of the kind.” “What are you going to do with it, then?” “That’s for the club to decide. If you’d come to the meeting you could have proposed something.” “It’s funny how sore you are about that precious hole-and-corner meeting of yours. How much is there on hand?” “You’ll know presently.” “I dare say—as soon as you’ve hit on a dodge for getting over that little deficiency of four or five pounds—eh?” Fisher major looked up in astonishment. How had the fellow heard about that? Dangle laughed. “You thought it was a snug little secret of your own, didn’t you? You’re mistaken. And you’re mistaken if you think we aren’t going to get at the bottom of it.” Fisher major rose to his feet. “Look here, Dangle,” said he; “do you mean to insinuate that I’ve taken the club money!” “I never said so.” “Or that I was going to cook the accounts so that it should not be known?” “I didn’t mean you were.” “Whom did you mean? Me?” said Denton. “No; I didn’t say anybody,” said Dangle, beginning to feel himself in a fix. “All I meant was, we want to know what’s become of the money?” “You don’t want to know more than I do,” said Fisher major. “I’d have handed over the money days ago, if I could only have found it.” “Do you suspect any one?” said Dangle. “Suspect? No. No one comes here that would be likely to take it.” “You leave it about, though. I’ve noticed that myself. Who’s your fag?” “As honest a man as you, every bit, and that’s saying a good deal for you,” retorted Fisher major, hotly. “Keep your temper. Who’s study is that next yours?” “That’s Yorke’s.” “No: on the other side.” “That’s Rollitt’s. I suppose you’re going to insinuate—” “Stop a bit,” said Dangle, suddenly, turning to close the door before he proceeded. “When did you first miss the money?” “You’re uncommonly interested in the accounts,” said Fisher; “if you want to know so much, it was ten days ago.” “I’m interested because I’ve an idea. When did you get in the subscriptions?” “They were all in a week before the first Rendlesham match, the match where you—” Fisher major stopped. Dangle took no notice of the broken taunt, and said— “Look here, Fisher. There’s no love lost between you and me, and it doesn’t affect me.” “Or me.” “For all that, I don’t care to see you or the clubs robbed without giving you a friendly hint.” “You’re very kind. Who is the culprit? The doctor?” “No; Rollitt. Stay,” said he, waving down the interruption, “I shouldn’t be fool enough to say it unless I was pretty sure. Tell me this, Fisher; when you go out and leave money about do you lock your door?” “No. We don’t have to do that this side.” “Did you ever see Rollitt in here?” “No.” “Do you know that on the first half-holiday this term Rollitt nearly came to grief on the river?” “What on earth has that to do with it?” “Everything. You heard of it? Your young brother was with him, of course. And you heard that he lost Widow Wisdom’s boat over the falls.” “Yes,” said Fisher, suddenly beginning to see the drift of the cross-examination. “And you heard that the very next day he bought her a new one for five pounds?” “Yes, I did; but whatever right have you to connect that with the missing money?” “Wait a bit. You were away all that afternoon, weren’t you!” “Yes.” “I wasn’t. I happened to come over to look for you, and found you were out. The only fellow I met in the house was Rollitt. He’d just got back, and I met him at the door of this room. There, you can make what you like of it. Even a Classic knows what twice two makes.” And he turned on his heel and left the room. “There’s goes a thoroughbred cad for you,” said Denton. “I don’t know how we came to let him go without a kicking,” said Fisher. “Shall I call to him to come back?” asked Corder. “Of course,” said Fisher major, “it is a curious coincidence about Rollitt. But I never thought of connecting the two things together before.” “No. It’s utter guesswork on Dangle’s part.” “If it comes to that,” said Corder, “if Dangle was over here that afternoon, why shouldn’t he have collared it as well as Rollitt?” “He has any amount of money. He’s not hard up, like Rollitt.” “All I can say is,” said Denton, “I wish that cad had kept his suspicions to himself.” The object of these suspicions, meanwhile, blissfully unconscious of the interest with which he was being remembered at Fellsgarth, was utilising his holiday in the prosecution of his favourite sport. This time he did not fish from a boat, nor did he affect the upper stream. He tried the lower reach; and not very successfully. For he had never been able to replace the tackle lost on the eventful afternoon when Widow Wisdom’s boat had gone over the falls. He had his fly-book still, and had come across an old reel which, fitted to a makeshift rod with common twine, had to do duty until he could afford a regular new turnout. It was better than nothing, but the fish seemed somehow to get wind of the fact that they were not being treated with proper respect, and refused to have more to do than they could help with irregular-looking apparatus. Rollitt put up with their unreasonableness for a long time that morning and afternoon. With infinite patience he tried one fly after another, and either bank in turn. He gave them a chance of being hooked under the falls, or right down on the flats by the lake. But it was no go. They wouldn’t be tempted. At last, as it was growing dusk, he became conscious that it had been raining fast for half an hour, and that he was wet through. He looked up and saw a grim pall of wet lying over the lake and all up the side of Hawk’s Pike, of which only the lower slope was distinguishable through the mist. It was not a promising evening; and Rollitt, now he came to think of it, might as well go back to Fellsgarth as stand about here. So he collected his tackle and turned homeward. His path from the lake brought him across the track which leads round to the back of the mountain; and he was just turning in here when he heard what sounded like a halloo on the hill-side. It was probably only a shepherd calling his dog, but he waited to make sure. Yes, it was a shout, but it sounded more like a sheep than a man. Rollitt shouted back. A quick response came, and presently out of the mist a shadowy form emerged running down the slope, hopping over the boulders, and making for the lane. A minute more and Wally presented himself. “Hullo, is that you, Rollitt? I thought I was lost. I say, have you seen the others?” Rollitt shook his head. “Whew! I made sure they’d come down. I say, what a go if they’re lost up there, a night like this?” Rollitt looked up at the dim mountain-side and nodded again. “I thought I was on a path, you know, and hallooed to them. They didn’t hear, so I went back for them, and—so we’ve missed.” “Who!” said Rollitt. “Do you know my young brother Percy, a Modern kid? He was one, and all our lot, you know, D’Arcy and Ashby and Fisher minor and—” “Fisher minor,” said Rollitt, suddenly becoming interested; “up there?” “Yes—he’s the lame horse of the party—not up to it. What’s up, I say?” Rollitt had suddenly deposited his rod under the wall, and quitting the path was beginning to strike up the base of the hill. “Go, and bring guides,” he growled. “You’ll get lost, to a dead certainty. I say, can’t I come too?” said the boy, looking very miserable. “No. Fetch guides. Come with them. Quick.” There were no guides to be had nearer than Penchurch, four miles off, and Wally, very cold and wet and hungry and footsore, with a big load on his heart as he thought of Percy, pulled himself together with an effort and stumped off. Rollitt strode on up the slope in the gathering night. Cold and weather mattered little to him, still less did danger. But Fisher minor mattered very much. For Percy or any of the rest he might probably have stayed where he was; but for the one boy in Fellsgarth he oared about he would cheerfully go over a precipice. Every now and again he stood still and shouted. But in the wind and rain it was impossible to say if any one heard him or called again. After an hour or more he found himself on the first ridge, where for a few yards the ground is level before it rises again. Here he called again, once or twice. Once there came, as he thought, a faint distant whistle, but by no manner of calling could he get it to come again. He started off in the direction from which it seemed to come, calling all the way, but never a voice came out of the darkness. For a couple of hours he doggedly haunted the place, loth to leave it while a chance remained. Then he gave it up, and started once more up the steep slope. He looked at his watch by the light of a match. It was eleven o’clock. He shuddered, but not with the cold, and went on. Something—who could say what?—told him that he must go higher yet. Once last year, in company with Wisdom, he had been as far as the upper bog, and had wanted to go to the top. But Wisdom had dissuaded him. Now, even in the darkness the ground seemed familiar, and he tramped on up the swampy steep till presently he found himself near the sound of rushing water at the foot of the great ravine. The stream had grown so strong since the afternoon that to shout against it was more hopeless than ever. Yet Rollitt shouted. Had a voice replied, he felt sure he could have heard it. But none did. Up the steep ravine he went, finding the going easier than through the spongy swamps below. About half-way up, just where the juniors ten hours ago had decided to turn back, as he looked up, he saw what seemed like clear sky through a frame in the mist. Was it clearing after all? Yes. The higher he got the more the mist broke up into fleeting clouds, which swept aside every few moments and let in a dim glimmer of moonlight on the scene. At the top of the ravine he shouted again; but all was still. Even the wind was dying down, and the rain fell with a deadened sob at his feet. Three o’clock! Wisdom had told him, the day they had been up there, that the top was only three-quarters of an hour beyond where he stood. Something still cried “Excelsior” within him, and without halting longer than to satisfy himself by another shout, he started on. How he achieved that tremendous climb he could never say. The clouds had rolled off, and the moonlight lit up the rocks almost like day. Never once did he pull up or flag in his ascent. He even ceased to shout. Presently there loomed before him, gleaming in the moonlight, the cairn. For the first time in its annals, a Fellsgarth boy had got to the top of Hawk’s Pike. But, so far from elation at the glory of the achievement, Rollitt uttered a groan of dismay when he looked round and found no one there after all. That he would find Fisher minor there he had never doubted; and now—all this had been time lost. Without waiting to heed the glorious moonlight prospect over lake and hill, he turned almost savagely, and scrambled down the crags. It was perilous work—more perilous than the scramble up. But Rollitt did not think of danger, and therefore perhaps did not meet it. In half an hour he was down on the bog—and in an hour after, just as a faint break in the east gave warning that the night was gone, he stood bruised and panting at the foot of the gorge on the second ridge. He was too dispirited to shout now. It had not been given to him after all to rescue his friend. He would have done better if he had never— There was a big boulder just ahead, poised almost miraculously on its edge, on the sloping hill-side. It looked as if a moderate blast of wind would send it headlong to the bottom. But it had stood there for centuries, a shelter for sheep in winter from the snow and hail. What made Rollitt bound now in the direction of this rock, like a man shot? Surely not to admire a natural curiosity, or to seek shelter under its wing. No. He had found that his quest after all had not been in vain. There, curled up under the overhanging rock, lying one almost across the other for warmth, with cheek touching cheek, and Ashby’s coat covering both, were Fisher minor and his chum—not dead, but sleeping soundly! <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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