CHAPTER XII
BILLY WALKS IN HIS SLEEP
Redisham did not pause a moment. He flung himself forward, grasped the amazed master round the waist, and held on with all his strength.
"Oh, save me!" he gasped. "Hurry up, sir! Take me away—before they come back!"
"What—what?" muttered the master, fully convinced that Redisham had gone off his head. "What do you mean?"
"The bandits, the bandits!" babbled Redisham. "They said they'd come back—"
"Come back?" queried the dazed master. "The bandits? Let me go! I don't understand—"
"Oh, hurry up, hurry up," murmured Monty, in an agony of apprehension. "They've got pistols, and everything, and they'll get ten pounds for you if they catch you. It's awful! Come back to the school, sir—hurry!"
"Back to the school? Redisham, wake up! You must be dreaming—we're at the school now, and I want to know what you're doing in the boot-room at this time of night."
"You—what?" asked Monty Redisham, putting his hand to his head and staring round wildly. "Are we at the College?"
"Of course we are! Where else did you think you were?"
"But I thought—I thought," gasped Redisham, still failing to understand. "Then they didn't kidnap me?"
"No, no; of course they didn't."
"And they won't write for a ransom?"
"No—you've been having a nightmare, boy. Overeating, and reading novels! Come, get back to bed at once."
Hardly knowing whether he was standing on his head or his heels, Redisham was conducted back to his dormitory, where he undressed and got into bed. There, for the first time, it began to dawn upon him that he had been the victim of a practical joke. Hot waves of anger swept over him at the recollection. He had made a complete fool of himself.
"Dash it all," he muttered savagely, "what an ass I was! Ten to one it was those confounded Crees—got me outside the gym, carted me about, and took me into the boot-room. Well, this beats the band!"
He nearly choked with fury at the thought of his ignominious treatment.
"Wonder how they knew?" he went on. "Must have heard Daw—or perhaps it wasn't Daw at all! I see it all now! Thought at the time Daw was speaking rather strangely.... Jove!" he muttered, as another aspect of the case struck him, "some beggars must know ... about Daw and me! Symonds and Faraday and, and—oh, what a night!"
He pulled the sheets over his head with a groan, and tried to sleep.
As for Jack, he was in immense feather over the business. Not only had they satisfied themselves that Redisham knew nothing about the missing Star, but the four pals had also had the time of their lives. Those of the Crees who had had a hand in the tormenting of Redisham were all agreed that the jape was the boldest on record, and the tale, as passed on in an elaborated form, brought a chain of chuckles from everybody in Salmon's. And even at that Redisham was lucky; they knew nothing of his discovery by Mr. Glenister. All things considered, it was wiser to keep silence.
"I say, Jack," said Fane the next afternoon, "do you see by the paper that Harry Nelson is coming down to Windsor?"
"Nelson, the light-weight champion?"
"Yes. He's going to box an exhibition with some fellow or other at the opening of the new Sports Club up there. Look here—it's all in this," he added, throwing the paper across.
Jack read in silence for a few minutes. Nelson, the Australian champion, was going to pay a visit to Windsor, a large mining centre some ten miles north of Deepwater Bay. The exhibition was timed to come off that night.
"Nelson's real first-class, I've heard," said Jack.
"Yes, that's what they say about him," agreed Fane. "I say, how would it be to slip out to-night and see him?"
"If we—"
"The roads are pretty decent, and we could get on our grids all right—it shouldn't take more than an hour to reach there, at the outside."
Jack was silent. The proposition appealed to him greatly. "I've a good mind to come," he said at last. "Of course, there's the risk—"
"I know; but there's not much risk, after all—and it's worth it."
"Yes; it's worth while seeing Nelson.... All right, then, count me in. How about Billy or Patchie?"
Fane shook his head. "I doubt whether they'd want to come. In any case four fellows missing from the dormitory would be a bit over the odds—it wouldn't take much to get us pinched."
"You're right. Well, don't forget."
And they might have been seen speeding over the dark road to Windsor, later on, on their bicycles. They arrived in the town just before the performance was due to start, and got seats close up, near the stage, which had been converted into a ring.
All around them there was the noise of the crowded audience. Jack and Fane sat down guiltily, wearing plain tweed caps in the place of their college caps, but full of excitement. There was not long to wait.
"Gen'l'men!" shouted the announcer hoarsely; "Harry Nelson, light-weight champeen of Orstralyer!"
Nelson smiled and bowed. He had a square, alert-looking face and bright eyes.
The champion had brought his own sparring-partner, and shortly his robe was slung off, and he got to work. Jack and Fane whistled with admiration at the man's magnificent physique. It seemed incredible that such strength could be packed away in so small a parcel, for he was no more than five inches over the five-foot mark.
The spar was a brilliant one, as Nelson had opportunities for display that a serious contest would not have afforded him. Jack and Fane sat entranced at the show, watching the fast little fellow dancing about the ring as lightly as a feather. They were sorry when the bout came to an end. Nelson remained in his corner, and presently the announcer came forward with a surprise to spring on the house.
"I have much pleasure in stating," he said, "that Nelson will box four rounds with any man under eleven stone in the audience. If anyone can last the full four rounds, the management will present him with five pounds!"
"Hold me back!" said Jack, pretending to struggle towards the aisle, but taking care not to be successful.
"Hullo!" said Fane, suddenly. "Somebody giving it a flutter!"
Jack looked across the crowded house, and as the challenger gained the stage he let out a gasp of astonishment. For the man was none other than Humbolt, the intimate of Doctor Daw, and the colleague of the mysterious Lazare!
Jack remembered, now, that when he had first seen the fellow he had marked him down as an ex-pugilist. What sort of a showing would he make? Humbolt bent and whispered mysteriously in the announcer's ear.
"Gen'l'men!" cried the announcer, placing his hand upon the head of the grinning Tiger, "Doctor Daw—Doctor Daw!"
"Go on, Doc!" yelled some irrepressible from the back of the hall.
Jack was choking with laughter. The dour Humbolt must have a sense of humour after all, he thought, thus to assume the name of his colleague as a nom-de-guerre. The mental picture of the oily, shifty Daw in a boxing-ring caused Jack inward convulsions, which he had only just overcome when the gong went for the first round.
"Doctor Daw," in trousers and singlet, met a very different Nelson from the pretty sparrer of a few minutes ago. The light-weight champion went for his man in deadly earnest, and the sound of blows filled the hall. But Humbolt was no fool—far from it. He saw that Nelson was taking him cheaply, and waited his chance. He was badly knocked about for two rounds, or so it seemed from the audience. In reality he was taking any amount of punches on gloves or forearms.
In the third round a startling diversion occurred. Nelson was hammering his man in fine style, when suddenly "Doctor Daw" stepped forward with his right foot and slid his left back, thus reversing his feet. Then his left glove shot into the champion's unguarded body, and his right shoulder seemed to jerk back with the venom and force of the blow.
Down went Nelson amid a startled roar—and stayed down. Humbolt grinned widely, and strolled back to his corner. The champion was palpably knocked out, and with one of the neatest "plexus" hits that any man present had seen.
As soon as the light-weight champion had recovered his wind, he made a hurried exit. He was not staying to tackle any more dark horses of this stamp. And Humbolt was presented with the five-pound note in full view of the audience.
"By jove, that was neat!" said Fane. "Nelson took the fellow far too cheaply—and, of course, 'Doctor Daw' was heavier. All the same—"
"You're right, laddie," said a venerable-looking old man sitting on Jack's left. "Nelson took that fellow too cheaply and I'll bet he didn't know who he was, or—"
"Why? Who was it?"
"Nobody here knows, seemingly," returned the white-bearded man, "but that was Jim Camp, who used to be light-weight champion about twenty years ago. That hit was his famous 'shift'—he knocked out scores of opponents with it, and then left the game suddenly—I don't know why. At any rate, it was believed that he'd gone to America. I've been puzzling ever since he started who he was—and I'm sure now, after seeing that old 'shift' again."
"Jove, that's interesting," said Jack. "Do you know whether 'Jim Camp' was his real name?"
"No, it wasn't his right name. I've forgotten what his right name was—something foreign, or foreign-sounding—"
"Not Humbolt?" suggested Jack gently.
"Humbolt! Bless my soul, I believe you're right! A funny fellow he was, too—not altogether straight out of the ring, they used to say. Of course, I don't know.... And he was always terribly afraid of snakes. One time he had a contest with a fellow who knew all about this snake business, and the cunning dodger actually came in with a belt made out of snake-skin—one of these big cobras, you know, with large markings that you could see a mile off.
"The buckle of the belt was a snake's-head design with the tail in its mouth, and it fairly gave Jim Camp the shivers. He fought about three rounds, and then his towel came in. He couldn't get near the thing, you see. Funny, isn't it, how we're all scared of some silly thing like that? Jim, they said, always made it an article in his agreements after that that the belt should be of plain design, with no snaky fancy-work on it, and so the trick wasn't tried again."
The veteran smiled at his memories, and the boys, finding it was rather late, decided to go. They did not care to stop for the rest of the programme, which was a twenty-round contest; and, getting their bicycles back from the shop, made off towards Deepwater.
They arrived safely, and without detection.
"What a term this has been," murmured Jack, "all flittings out and in, night and day. Rummy, isn't it?"
They entered the school by an accessible window, and made their way along the silent corridors. As they passed through, Fane gripped Jack's arm tightly.
"Jack!" he said. "What's that?"
In a moment his question had answered itself. "That" was the shadowy figure of a boy in his pyjamas; and as he passed a moonlit window they saw that it was Billy Faraday. They saw also, that he was sleep-walking, and that he carried the Black Star in his hand ... then out of the shadows a dark figure leapt upon the sleeping boy and flung him to the ground.