CHAPTER VII
THE CALAMITOUS CRIPPLES
Jack looked out of the window. Then he gurgled.
"By the Brass-eyed bull!" he exclaimed. "Look here, just cast your optic in this direction, old fellow. That's all, old man—just a look!"
From the quadrangle below them came the blare of bugles, and the gaps were filled up by a miscellaneous din emanating from tins, whistles, combs and paper. Billy hurried over, and the two chums leaned from their window in astonishment.
"A giddy procession," murmured Billy.
It was; but a procession of the kind rarely seen outside of a circus. There were about forty boys in the show; and every one of them was attired as a cripple of the most dilapidated kind. They all looked as if they had been rolled upon by a steam-roller, and then passed through a chaff-cutter. Bandages enwrapped their heads, and their arms and legs appeared to be broken in numerous places. Many carried crutches, and an odd effect was given by one humorist who elected to appear on stilts, which were liberally bandaged. Two buglers headed the procession; and most of the others had instruments of some sort or other. At arranged intervals they gave vent to sepulchral groans. In the van was a tattered banner, bearing the words, "The Calamitous Cripples. Break your leg and join."
"What is it?" asked the mystified Jack. "What's the giddy wheeze?"
Billy Faraday was far too absorbed in watching the amazing spectacle to answer him, and Jack's question lapsed. The procession drew nearer and nearer, and the noise was ear-splitting. The Cripples drew themselves up before the window of Study 9, and Jack was moved to call out, "Lovely! Is it the National Anthem or Alexander's Ragtime Band? I never could tell the difference."
His shaft of wit, however, went almost unnoticed in the general uproar, and Billy Faraday grasped a more cutting form of witticism; he got a handful of pennies and half-pennies, and threw them one at a time to the serenading party below.
Cummles, hammering at a tin drum with zest, received one of the coins full on the bridge of the nose, and it broke short his performance. He held up his hand, and with a final crash of sound the Cripples completed their selection.
"Know," roared Cummles at the top of his voice, "that a new Society has been formed, called the Calamitous Cripples! We let everybody join—the more the merrier! And our object is—" He turned to his supporters for the rest.
"—death to the Crees!" roared the crowd, in disconcerting chorus.
So this was the strength of the new society—it was a rival show to the Crees! Jack realized that Cummles was getting his own back for his rejection and disgrace at the last Cree meeting, and he whistled softly. But Cummles was speaking again.
"We therefore begin on the Chief Cree!" he yelled, and as at a given signal all the Cripples raised their hands, and sent a volley of hard, tightly-rolled paper balls at Jack and Billy as they stood open-mouthed at the window.
The fusillade took the two Crees by surprise, and Jack for the moment did not know what to do; but he soon settled that question, and with Billy jumped out of the window, and rushed the banner of the Calamitous Cripples. It was flagrantly against rules to jump out of the window at all, and soon a free fight was taking place around the banner of the Cripples.
"To it, Crees!" yelled Jack, wrestling furiously with one of the banner supporters. Someone had grasped his leg, and he could not keep upright much longer; sooner or later he would have to go down.
"Ouch!" Down he went, and down went half a dozen others in a panting, scrambling, tossing mass.
There was wild disorder for lively minutes, but force of numbers gave victory to the Cripples, who rescued their tattered banner and scampered away with it. Jack stood looking after them with fire in his eye.
"Jingo," he observed to Billy Faraday, "but I can see some immense japes this term, with the Crees and the Cripples. What do you think?"
"We've got to score on them," said Billy emphatically, "and score right away. Watch us notch ahead."
Jack nodded meaningly; then, as someone touched him on the arm, he wheeled round. It was Septimus Patch, and the schoolboy detective's eyes were shining. He was plainly full of some scheme or other.
"Comrades!" he said. "Don't waste your time here—I've got the best idea out for the discovery of the fellow that's giving Daw a hand."
"What are you going to do—advertise?"
Patch smiled tolerantly. "Daw—Doctor Daw, as you call him—said that this chap, whoever he is, is keeping an eye on Billy here?"
"That's so."
"Well, why shouldn't we—" he looked around to make certain that they were not overheard, "—why shouldn't we lead the fellow out on a false scent?"
"Meaning?"
"Sort of red herring business, you know. The three of us could sneak out before call-over and make it appear as if we were going to hide the Star somewhere out in the bush. If there is anyone on the watch, it's the Commonwealth Bank to a peanut that he'll slink out after us."
"Good word—slink," said Jack approvingly. "Yes, Patchie, the idea's not so dusty. We've got time. We could lie in ambush for the beggar and catch him red-handed."
"Better leave him alone—just make certain who he is," warned Septimus, polishing his great horn-rimmed glasses. "You see, if we just lie low and say nuffin, like Brer Rabbit, the spy won't know that we're fly to his little game."
"Good for you, Picklock Holmes," said Jack. "You mean, he'll think that he's working quite safely, unknown to anyone, and all the time we know, and are pulling his leg so much that he'll need a boat-hook to take his boots off."
"Prezactly, comrade," returned Septimus, chaffingly. "Your brain is bucking up lately, isn't it? We never know what we can do till we try, do we? However, to the bright, brisk business! You"—turning to Billy Faraday—"you slip up into the study and pretend to bring something out with you—we'll watch here."
"We're the giddy conspirators, old boy," said Jack. "Get a move on—we haven't any too much time."
In a few minutes the three boys had set out from the school, striking into the thick belt of scrub-lands that lay towards the north. They pressed forward for a good ten minutes, and at the end of that time Billy strode on alone, making as much noise as he could, while Jack and the amateur detective crouched behind the undergrowth, to watch closely for any follower.
Billy's footsteps died away, and there came only the faint sound of his passage through the scrub; then that in turn faded till it was almost inaudible.
"'Fraid we've drawn blank, old boy," said Jack in a low whisper. "Can't hear anything, can you?"
"Wait," was all that Patch had for answer; he had his head cocked to one side in a listening attitude, and all at once he raised a finger for silence.
During a tense ten seconds he listened, Jack scarcely taking breath, and then the detective nodded as one who had satisfied himself.
"Get down," he whispered; "somebody coming."
Sure enough, almost at once came the sound of footsteps; and Jack, peering through the interstices of a wall of greenery, could barely restrain a gasp as he saw a tall, pasty-faced, weedy youth strolling negligently along the faint path that Billy Faraday had followed, and, although he wore the college cap of blue and gold, he was smoking an expensive brand of cigarette.
In dead silence the two watched him pass their field of vision, and then he, too, was swallowed up in the bush.
Jack turned to Patch with a criss-cross mark of puzzlement creasing his eyebrows. "Now, what do you make of that?" he asked softly. "That's Redisham, and the dirty slacker's smoking at that. But is he following Billy or not?"
"Or is it only coincidence that he comes from Victoria?" asked Septimus in the same discreet voice. "Very funny, isn't it?"
"Now, you know what sort of a fellow Redisham is," went on Jack. "He's just the sort that'd have gambling debts, and all that, although his father's got piles of cash, they say. Question is, is he clever enough to be used as a tool?"
"Comrade, I don't know," admitted Septimus, slowly shaking his head. "It's often these foolish-looking fellows that turn out pretty cunning in the long run. All the same, Redisham—the man's an ass, a weak-minded ass with an eye for 'loud' dress, and—"
"—and no eye for catching a cricket ball, or any sort of sport, except betting—if you can call that sport," Jack snorted. "Little Montague Redisham isn't the sneak in this case, I fancy."
"Well, then, what's he doing?" countered the amateur detective, with index finger marking his point. "It looks jolly fishy, doesn't it?"
"Might have come out to smoke that rotten cigarette of his."
"I thought of that, but the coincidence of the time, and the direction of his outing, is hard to get over. Anyhow, we'll find out, we'll find out—don't worry."
They got out of their cramping positions behind the undergrowth and stepped out into the little glade. Barely had they done so when there came a loud cry from some distance ahead—and Jack knew the voice as well as his own.
It was Billy's voice.
"Help—help!"
Jack jumped about a foot in the air, and shot a sharp glance at Septimus Patch. "Jiminy!" he said, quickly, "that's old Billy—wonder what's up? Here—after him."
Symonds and Patch put their heads down and ran. Heedless of the undergrowth that set traps for their feet and that tore at them in the shape of thorn-bushes, they charged madly forward, and all at once Jack stopped and picked something up from the ground.
"Here—look at this!" It was Billy's cap, with the Deepwater College badge in the front of it; and Patch pulled up and glanced keenly at the ground with sharp eyes.
"A struggle—see?" he panted, pointing to the way the bracken had been tossed about and the turf trampled by heavy heels. "A struggle, and then—then—what happened?"
"Don't say he's been knocked on the head and dragged off," groaned Jack, looking about him helplessly. "Here, Patchie, have a look at these marks—what are they?"
"Good—good," observed Patch, scanning them closely. "See, Billy got away and ran for it—the other chap after him. See how the big, heavy print is stamped over that other? They were running, the both of them—and—"
"Come on," said Jack curtly; and the two of them tore off once more, stopping to pick up the trail every now and then until they were startled by a loud, frenzied crashing through the brushes.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Patch, stopping; and into their arms, almost, Billy Faraday staggered, hatless and dishevelled. He was panting heavily, and seemed almost done; a sharp twig had scratched his cheek badly, for it was bleeding.
"Billy—you're all right?" demanded his chum, seizing him by the arm.
Before Billy could pant out an answer, another fellow came up at a run, and halted, half-hidden in the scrub, at the sight of the two who now reinforced the fugitive. His cap, pulled down over his eyes, hid his face pretty well; but Jack knew at once that it was Tiger Humbolt who stood staring at them.
It was Septimus Patch who decided the next move.
"After him—I've got a gun!" he yelled at the top of his voice; and Humbolt started and then, wheeling about, vanished into the thick bush at a run. He knew that Billy had fired a revolver at him during his attempted escape with the handbag, and he was disposed to take Patch's cry at its face value. As Patch had intended, of course; for he did not attempt to give chase. Instead, he glanced at his watch.
"Ten minutes to call-over," he said; "we'd better get back."
On the way back to the college Billy explained that he had been standing in a thicket when Humbolt had jumped on him from behind and carried him to the ground. After a struggle he had broken free and run for his life.
"I doubled on my tracks," he concluded, "and came back again, when I ran into you. That's all—lucky it wasn't worse."
"And did you see Monty Redisham?" asked Patch.
"Redisham—that rich blighter in the Sixth? The prefect?"
"The slacker," said Jack trenchantly. He went on to explain how Redisham had come into the mystery, and Billy said that the plot was now thicker than ever.
"I can't make it out," he said, thoughtfully, dabbing his scratched cheek with his handkerchief. "No, I didn't see the brute at all. He was following me, you say?"
"Looked like it, comrade," said Patch, "but then we can't say for certain. I'll have to give the matter some thought," he went on, with a resumption of his light-hearted manner.
"Another thing requiring some thought," put in Jack, "is, how are we going to score off those Cripple lunatics? We want to shake them up pretty suddenly, you know. I think we'll call a special meeting of the Crees in our study to-night, and we'll think up something really smart."
When the Crees had assembled, managing in some inexplicable manner to cram themselves into Study 9, Jack was delighted to learn that one of the fellows was ready with a plan.
"Chief Black Feather," he said, in the approved style of address, "may I suggest a scheme for the downfall of those scoundrel palefaces—I mean Cripples?"
"Of course," said Jack at once. "In fact, I was going to ask you fellows to come to light with some such idea. Spring the giddy wheeze, mon brave French," he explained grandly, "very hard."
"Well," said the Cree, "the bright idea is this. I happen to have heard that the Cripples are holding a meeting to-morrow afternoon—they've got one of the classrooms on the north wing for the purpose. Now, I happen to know that up in the ceiling over that wing there are several bags of sawdust—been stored there for ages, and I think the Head's forgotten all about them. Now, it's a shame to waste them, and there's a nice big man-hole in the classroom, and—"
"I think we see the rest!" said Jack with a laugh. "Which classroom are they in?"
"The end one—the drawing-room, next to the extra French set."
"Good—nominations for four fellows to carry out the scheme? I'll make one myself."
Three others were accordingly chosen to deluge the Cripples' meeting with sawdust, and on the following afternoon the conspirators gained access to the space between the ceiling and roof. A busy meeting of the Cripples, with closed doors and windows, was in progress; and there was going to be no mistake whatever about the disorder and surprise that would follow the avalanche of sawdust.
"The jape of the century!" averred Jack Symonds in a low whisper. "What about the cover for the man-hole? Have you got it?"
"Yes, she lifts pretty easily, but I won't pull her right out, or they'll be ready for us. Now, how are we going to open fire?"
"Wait a second." Jack took a swift look round at his assistants, flashing the electric torch that he had brought with him. "I've got it. We'll each take a bag, and as soon as Martin whips the cover off the trap, I'll let fly—then you, and you next, and Martin last. See? That'll give him time to grab his bag after taking the cover off. All ready?"
"Let her go, Gallagher," murmured the Crees, lifting the big, open-mouthed bags; and at a word from Jack, Big Martin whisked the cover off the man-hole. A square of light opened in the dark floor beneath them, and there came the murmur of voices from the aperture.
That was all that the Crees had time to take in, for the next moment Jack had tipped the great bag forward, and the sawdust gushed out in a stream. The two other bags followed, and Martin finished the good work with his contribution, to the dismay obtaining in the room below.
Jack leaned forward, convulsed with laughter, and cast a glance down into the room; then his face lost its smile, and his jaw dropped.
"Hokey!" he said. "Now we've done it!"
"Why? What?" asked the others, pressing forward.
"We lifted the wrong trap," murmured Jack in a voice of horror. "That's Monsieur Anastasie and the extra French set!"