Sudden as had been the accident, unexpectedly as it had swooped upon them, Billy Faraday had time to yell, at the top of his voice, a direction to the four others with him.
"Get ashore!" he cried; and had no time for more. He soused under the chilling flood; he went down and down, and finally, struggling, fighting for the surface, his head emerged, and he saw four other dark spots bobbing on the white, wind-whipped seas.
His advice had been sound. The island was comparatively close, and although the boat might be still afloat, if upside down, the shore offered the better chance of security. He struck out, and had the satisfaction of seeing the others do the same.
In point of fact, Patch could not swim more than a few strokes, and Jack was well aware of it. The two pals, who were always quarrelling in friendly fashion, were thrown out together, and Jack saw Septimus, after one or two wild strokes, vanish beneath the seas. He turned, and, rolling over on the surface, dived as cleanly as any Arab boy who plunges for pennies. He had been so quick that his hand caught at Patch's clothing, and in a moment he was hauling his chum to the surface. Arrived there, he made ready to swim ashore.
It was heavy going, for they were both in their clothes, and Jack was intensely grateful when a dark form slid over the waters and he recognized the overturned boat. With great difficulty he hauled Patch across the keel, where the young inventor hung on limply.
Shortly afterwards they felt the crunch of sand beneath the substance of the boat, and Jack knew that they were safe at last. Three drenched forms darted up and dragged the boat and its occupants ashore.
"I'd forgotten Patch was no swimmer," said Billy; "but we're safe enough now, thank goodness—this is Dog-face."
"Look here—there's an oar in the boat," said Jack. "We'll be able to scull back, at any rate, when the sea goes down."
"Better—one washed ashore before you came," said Billy. "We'll be able to row! But I'm thinking of how they'll be worrying about us back at Coll."
"Can't be helped, old fellow. Jingo, this wind's cutting!" He shivered. "I'm wet through—isn't there a place where we can shelter a bit?"
"We can look," returned Billy; and presently they set off to explore the island. All at once Jack stooped and picked up a jam-tin.
"Hullo!" he said. "Here's a jam-tin—wonder who was the tripper? Fairly recent, too—the jam's still fresh in the bottom."
"Show me, comrade," said Patch, taking the tin and peering into it, his detective instincts aroused. He glanced round him. "It's a funny thing," he went on, "but I can smell something burning—the smell of smoke. Any of you notice it?"
"No," answered Billy slowly. "Where's it coming from, then? Surely not from shore."
"Unless the old Coll's on fire," suggested Jack with a grin.
"No—I thought ... I say, comrade, look at this—there's a giddy old cave here!"
"Where?" asked Jack, pushing forward.
"There—underneath that clump of bush. I can see the opening quite plainly, and if the smoke's not coming out of there I'll eat my hat."
Leaping up, the schoolboy detective pushed aside the screen of bushes, and the opening to a cave lay disclosed. Patch ducked his head and made as if to enter, but Jack's voice arrested him in the cave's mouth.
"Hold hard, Patchie!"
"What's the matter?"
"If the smoke's coming out of there, then it's odds on that somebody's living in there. And they mightn't like you to butt in."
"Well, comrade, I'm cold and wet—surely they wouldn't refuse to let me come in and dry myself a bit?" He bent forward and yelled down into the opening. "Hullo, there! Anyone at home?"
There was no answer; he repeated the call.
"You see," he said to Jack, "there's nobody there. I'm going in, anyway. Coming?"
The five of them made their way through the narrow orifice which gave access to a cave of larger dimensions than they had expected. It was so dark that very little of the interior could be distinguished; the place smelt of tobacco, and there was a dying, smoky fire, which they could not fan into a blaze. Jack stumbled over a pile of bracken and a blanket.
"It seems to me that somebody's been here recently," he said. "In fact, they may get back at any moment."
"Not in this sea," returned Billy Faraday.
"All the same, it's probably a dirty old tramp, who'll hit the roof if he finds us here. I vote we get out—it's not very salubrious."
They returned to the beach, and sat down to watch the gradual subsidence of the storm. When Billy judged that the sea had gone down sufficiently, they put off and rowed for the College, which they reached about ten o'clock, under the fitful light of a moon that the clouds obscured from time to time. There was, they found, a good deal of high excitement at the school. During the storm, which had been quite exceptionally severe, the boys in the boat had been lost sight of, as it was impossible to see where they had gone; one moment, the telescope held them in plain view from the College—then, briefly afterwards, the blinding rain had sheeted down to conceal them entirely.
And, as their absence grew more and more protracted, the anxiety of boys and masters both had been very considerable.
Great was their satisfaction and relief when the storm-tossed boat came up to the jetty; Silver and a number of other seniors, who had been scouring the troubled waters in a launch, gave a cheer and helped them ashore.
Even old Salmon showed that there was a human being behind the dry pedagogic mask that he wore. "I'm glad you're safe, boys," he said, shaking them by the hand.
"Thank you, sir," answered Billy Faraday. "The storm came down very suddenly—we'd simply no chance of getting back. We were swamped, as it was. I'm afraid we broke bounds for once—we landed on Dog-face. Luckily, the boat and a couple of oars came ashore with us."
They were hurried up to the school, where they changed and imbibed generously of hot coffee, while a few privileged seniors and masters listened to the tale of their perilous trip. After which they went to their dormitory and to bed.
Jack Symonds lay awake long after the regular breathing of his companions indicated sleep. He was staring intently at an invisible ceiling, and remained so for quite a long time. He was ruminating over the various excitements of the day, and his mind seemed to dwell, for no apparent reason, on one detached incident—the discovery of that dark, smelly cave on Dog-face.
Somehow, his fancy was intrigued by the thought of that cave. He could not help feeling that there was some significance attached to it; he was aware that there was something—
"Jiminy!" The exclamation came so loudly, so sharply, that he feared he might have roused some of his pals. But they slumbered on. Two fellows were snoring on different notes, and their snores quarrelled comically; somebody groaned and turned over in his sleep; no other sounds could be heard.
Jack resumed his thoughts; that exclamation had betokened a discovery—light, in fact, was dawning on his mind. Now he could see what he had been thinking of. Ah! Of course ... Humbolt.
Was it a fact, he wondered, that "Tiger" was the occupant of the cave? The man, he knew, was lurking in the vicinity somewhere—what was more natural than that he should have selected the unknown hole, hidden away on deserted Dog-face, as his place of concealment?
"I wonder!" said Jack to himself. The idea seemed to hold water. Humbolt hiding on Dog-face! A little startling, but quite likely. Jack smiled grimly at the thought that, if his suspicions were correct, it was fortunate that Tiger had not found the intruders in possession of the lair. "Might have turned nasty," he murmured.
"Or, perhaps, it is only an old tramp ..." reflected the boy, turning over, and yielding himself to sleep.
In the morning Jack awoke, conscious of having forgotten something. Not the Humbolt suspicion—that could wait. Then he remembered. To-day was Friday—the great day fixed by the Cripples for the downfall of the Crees.
"Jingo," said Jack, "I'd nearly forgotten. Patchie, you old impostor, what about the bean-feast to-night?"
"Bean-feast, comrade?"
"Certainly. Aren't you going to the great banquet, spread or luncheon, that the Crees are giving in the old Science room?"
"Comrade, it had escaped my mind for the moment. However, I believe I am right in saying that all is in readiness for knocking the stuffing out of the despicable Cripples?"
"That's so, my genial old lunatic! And how progresses the Busy Bee—that organ of wit and learning?"
Patch smiled, and indicated a pile of printed sheets that lay on the study table. "Those," he said, "are the inside pages—we're having eight pages in all. The remaining four pages will not go to press until—"
"Exactly," chimed in Jack. "Until—what?" And, winking at his pal, he laughed heartily.
"It occurs to me, comrade, that we could make a bit of capital out of the adventure of yesterday—what? Written up in terse, vivid style by our friend Billy, it should form a regular scoop for the Busy Bee."
"Of course—write it up as much as you like, but don't get too personal. I refer to our youthful pranks in the boat. Won't do to have Lower School getting a false notion of their seniors!"
And Jack, who cared nothing at all for his dignity as a member of the Fifth, grinned widely.
Nothing of particular importance happened during the day. Perhaps that was because all minds, Cripples and Crees alike, were looking forward to the night. The Cripples were looking forward to the downfall and abasement of the Crees. But the Crees, curiously enough, were expecting the same thing about the Cripples. And with more reason.
Cummles and his gang concealed themselves in the shadow of an ivy-clad wall in close proximity to the old Science classroom, which, for some reason or other, was at the present time quite unused.
They had not long to wait. In twos and threes the Crees came slinking through the darkness, to avoid possible detection at the hand of any master who might happen to be passing. The little parties vanished into the old Science room, whence arose, in the course of a few minutes, the murmur of talk.
"Got them beautifully," whispered Cummles, overjoyed at the success of his plan. "They're waiting for Symonds and the other heads, but they'll wait a long time."
Jack, who with Billy Faraday and Patch, was hidden on the other side of the wall, could not help smiling at the misplaced confidence of the fellow. But the three of them remained quiet, and awaited further developments.
These came, but only after an uneasy quarter of an hour. One of the Cripples had locked the door, and the sulphuretted hydrogen had been duly released, but no wails or lamentations issued from the old Science room.
On the contrary, the place was as still as the grave.
"They're keeping jolly quiet," whispered one of Cummles's lieutenants to his leader.
"Y-e-s," agreed Cummles, inwardly a bit chagrined to think that the Crees were taking their medicine so quietly. Then suspicion smote him. "I say," he murmured, "we'll just open the door and see what's happened. Seems to me that gas might have laid them all out, or something. Be funny if—"
Moving silently forward, the Cripples approached the door, and stood there in perfect silence—a silence matched only by that on the other side of the door.
"Well!" said Cummles, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, and whipping open the door. The disagreeable smell from the bottles came to their noses, and one or two drew back.
It was just at that moment that one of the fellows at the rear sang out, in a loud, yet guarded voice: "Look out, you chaps—here's old Salmon."
A dark figure was certainly approaching from the direction of the school buildings, and it looked as if the Cripples were cornered. But necessity drove them; and, led by Cummles himself, they all bolted into the classroom and closed the door.
It would have caused them a trifle of concern had they known that the figure was merely that of Jack Symonds; and that the supposed Cripple who had given the alarm was none other than Faraday himself. Billy had, as a matter of fact, joined the band in the shadows, and the rest had been easy. In the darkness he had escaped recognition; and the trick played by the Crees worked with smooth certainty.
Now, indeed, the tables were turned with a vengeance. The Crees, forewarned, had merely passed through the room and had made their exit by a window, which they were careful to close and shutter up behind them.
During the time of their supposed tortures, they had been quietly awaiting events elsewhere; and now the Cripples were securely captured. Billy Faraday sprang forward and turned the key that Cummles had carelessly left in the door; and he laughed quietly in the darkness.
"We've got them by their giddy wool, what?" he chuckled. "Ever see anything so neat?"
"We've done them brown," was Jack's opinion. Bending forward, he yelled through the keyhole: "Cripples ahoy! This is our dirty r-revenge!"
Cummles had realized as much when he found the room void of its supposed inmates.
"Let us out, you scugs!" he spluttered, half-choking with the abominable odours of which the room now fairly reeked.
"Nice and comfy in there?" demanded Jack. "Air a little close, perhaps!"
"Wait till next time, you Hottentot!" was the ungentlemanly retort.
The Crees had gathered round, and were enjoying the joke immensely. "Do you like snuff?" inquired Jack pleasantly.
"You—you—" choked Cummles, horrified. He knew that large bags of snuff were fixed in the rafters, and that a twitch cord that led outside would tip them up. He was unaware how Jack had come to know of the existence of the snuff, but it was evident that Jack did know—and, what was more, intended to use it.
"Easy on, Symonds!"
"Snuff said!" joked Jack in reply, and gave a pull to the cord that retained the snuff in position.
"I say, this is—arrh! atchoo! This is—hum-hum-atchoo! atchoo!—a bit thick—at-choo! at-choo!"
"Symonds, you beas—'-choo!"
A volley of sneezes threatened to lift the roof off. The Cripples were ready to die with sneezing and breathing the foul gases that pervaded the place, but Jack had not finished yet.
"I say—want to come out?" he inquired.
"Yes—shoo! Arr-rum! At-choo! Quickly, let us—at-choo!—out!"
"Well, listen," dictated the calm voice. "You must all go down on your knees and humbly beg to be let out—get that?"
"Yeshoo! Yes! Hurry up! Atchoo! Hishoo!"
"If I open the door and find you another way," insisted Jack, "I'll keep you here for another ten minutes!"
"All right! Hishoo! At-choo!"
"Right! All down on your knees?"
"Yes."
"Look up and look pretty," urged Jack, flinging open the door. The Cripples were heartily sick of their confinement in that room of terrors. They were all kneeling, to a man, with running eyes and moist noses and contorted faces, begging for deliverance.
"Now, that flare—sharp!" rapped out Jack; and as he said the words an immense flare of light, blindingly white, threw the whole room and its suffering occupants into being. The Cripples, too surprised to move, remained in their attitudes of meek supplication, and Jack Symonds laughed outright at the mere sight of them.
Patch, though, was directing the lens of a big stand-camera on the scene, while Billy Faraday held aloft the flare.
"Thank you, gentlemen!" said Jack crisply, as the flare faded. The surprise of the Cripples gave place to anger—they were furious, realizing that they had meekly sat—or rather kneeled—for their photographs.
"Get 'em—hishoo!" cried Cummles; but as he dashed forward Jack and the others whipped up the camera and made off. They did not care about standing there and listening to the polite conversation of the Cripples.
As for the latter, they were a sadly disgruntled lot as they sneaked back to their dormitories, muttering threats of murder and sudden death against the victorious Crees.