One of the cricket features of the Deepwater College year, although it was no part of the school competitions, was the traditional match against Windsor, which was held in the mining town about the end of the season.
The cricketers of Windsor were keen, and generally managed to make a decent struggle. Last year, in fact, they had beaten Deepwater; and the collegers were burning to avenge that defeat this time. But, as sometimes happens, there was a dearth of good cricketers at the College—their team was lacking the one or two brilliant players that pull a side out of the ruck.
"All mediocrities, every man Jack of 'em," said Martin, the captain of cricket at Deepwater. "If they all played on their top form, we'd scratch up an average score. But the worst of the beggars is, they're so jolly unreliable. Might make a good hatful of runs one day, and a blob the next."
Silver, who was a fair bat when he got really set, nodded in gloomy sympathy. "And this year we want a Trumper so badly," he replied. "Remember the way the townies jeered at us last time? And they didn't beat us by much. This year, it seems to me, matters will be worse. Why, if London, or Scott, or any of our green men get the barracking really warmly, then they'll just crumple up. Almost puts me off my play, and I'm an old bird. Martin, old chap, it looks bad."
"Well, better luck next time," said Martin.
Screw, the third selector of the team, a player from Cooper's House, sighed and cast his eye over the team-list, which, scribbled hastily in pencil lay on the study table before them. "This is an inclusive team—not an exclusive," he remarked, tapping his teeth with his pencil. "What about Faraday—is he worth his place?"
Silver considered. "Well," he answered, at length, "that fellow's a bit of a puzzle. One match he's a rattling good player, and the next he's a hopeless duffer. I suppose, though, he'd better go in. He's a good sort."
"Not that we want them because they're good sorts," said Screw sharply. "I've more than one decent bat over in Cooper's, and only I happen to have seen Faraday—"
"Oh, there's no question, when he's in top form," said Martin. "Look here, we've got the thing practically settled. What about drafting that notice out and getting it on the board? Turn the blighters out for practice—we've simply got to make some sort of a show."
When the Saturday appointed for the match came round, the show that the Deepwater fellows made was, as Silver said, "rather contemptible."
The Windsor team, electing to go to the wickets, knocked up a breezy 276—then came the great debacle. The School, despite its strenuous efforts, scraped together a mere 95.
"If only we'd topped the century!" groaned Billy Faraday, at the end of the first day's play, as it was a two days' match. "It mightn't have looked so bad, then. But now—!"
"We've got to pull up—that's the only thing," came the answer of Martin, across the luncheon-table. "Slog for all we're worth when we get in next time—and chance it. But, first of all, we'll have to shake up our dreadfully crook bowling. Of all the feeble lobs, those of Screw's were the feeblest and the lobbiest I ever saw."
"Here," protested Screw. "Here, I say—"
"Don't argue, Screwdriver, old boy! You know you were just absolutely off—"
"Well, you needn't—"
"No, but I choose to. I want to wake you up—to rouse you into something remotely resembling form! Mind, you're not the only one. I was worse myself. Only it's never any good relying on me."
"Rats," said Screw politely. He knew very well that when Martin assumed this flippant mood he was liable to do damage to someone or something. When Martin declared that it was no use to rely on him he meant that he was out to perform wonders. But as he led his team out into the field next day and gave the ball to Screw for the opening over of the second innings, his dogged chin was stuck out defiantly.
"Now, Screwdriver! This is a ball—for bowling with, not for serving up to the batsmen in suitable form for boundary hits. See whether you can hit the wicket. The wicket's the three little sticks with bits of wood called bails—"
"Gimme the ball," said Screw sharply; and Martin looked to see how the first ball of the innings would turn out.
Screw, with his mettle roused by Martin's chaff, took a short run and fired down a perfectly horrible delivery, that whizzed off the pitch and went a foot over the batsman's head. The next ball the batsman fumbled, and jerked out to cover. Martin watched for the next ball....
Then he gasped, and uttered a short exclamation of delight. The third ball had flicked the middle stump clean out of the ground!
"That's the stuff, Screwdriver! Up guards, and at 'em."
The next batsman took his stand with respectful attitude. The man who had just been dismissed was one of their star players, and the manner of his downfall was not altogether encouraging. Still—
He played his first couple of strokes very cautiously, then, when the last ball of the over was delivered, jumped out and smashed it to the boundary, four feet over the head of long-on. It was a great drive, and the town supporters yelled with pleasure.
Soon the home team were playing steadily, and had almost forgotten their inauspicious start. Confidence grew; there came out one Swan, a mighty thumper, who treated the bowling with arrogance. He was a big fellow, with the muscles of a giant, and the way he banged the unfortunate leather in the first over he received was horrible to behold.
The comments, audibly hurled from the onlookers, were not calculated to set the School team at their ease. When Screw went on to bowl there were alarming groans, for the luckless Cooper's House fellow, since his initial success, had descended rapidly from good bowling to mediocre, and from mediocre to shocking.
Martin's jaw projected more than ever, and he persisted with his bowling changes, but it was evident that he was getting no good out of them. About the only man in the team who hadn't bowled was Faraday, and when the skipper called him over he accepted the ball with no small qualms.
"I'm no Gregory, you know," said Billy deprecatingly.
"No matter—surely you're as good as any of the other chumps!" said Martin.
"A desperate move," commented Billy, walking back to begin his run.
He sent his first few balls so disgracefully wide as to evoke a storm of jeers from the town supporters, who, it must be confessed, had no scruples of sportsmanship to hold them in check.
With Billy, this sort of treatment meant that he would really wake up and show what he was made of. He raged inwardly, but he seemed perfectly calm as he strolled back from the crease, his leisurely gait drawing more comment from the crowd.
"What price Algernon?"
"Look out—he's going to bowl!"
"Don't hurry—all day yet!"
Billy was one of those fellows who are seldom disconcerted by chaff such as that. But he was stung; and showed it by the deadly intent he put into his next ball, which hissed furiously for the wicket in dismaying fashion. But the leviathan of the Windsor team whirled his bat and smote the ball generously.
Mid-on was in two minds about the ball. It was coming to him very fast, and would probably hurt severely if he stopped it. On the other hand, it was a catch—of a sort. He had not decided whether to try for it or leave it—which is a detestable state of mind for any fieldsman—when it was upon him. He made a belated, miserable attempt—and missed by feet.
Instantly the scorn of the townsmen was poured out upon him.
"Butter-fingers!"
"Get a bag!"
"Mind you don't get hurt, Percy!" piped an impudent treble, and mid-on blushed to the roots of his hair.
"The scugs!" muttered Billy savagely. He was feeling just about fed-up with the whole business, and the total lack of sportsmanship on the part of the crowd annoyed him intensely. At the same time, he showed no signs, but merely put all he knew into his bowling.
He sent along a fine delivery with his very next ball—and almost fainted with astonishment. The slogger, Swan, had almost missed the ball—and it was tipped fairly into the hands of Screw at short-leg. Screw held the ball and remained staring at it as if hypnotized. Swan opened his mouth, shut it abruptly, and stalked off the field.
"Good man!" yelled Martin. The crowd was silent, for they had been enjoying the slogging of Swan, and this fluke catch was not a satisfying way of getting a man out.
As for Billy, his determination was doubled. He got the next man, to his own intense surprise, before he was really set; and the score was beginning to assume a reasonable aspect—four men for thirty-nine runs.
Martin's hopes of victory began to soar, and the amazing Billy, in successive overs, whipped over two wickets for eight runs.
"Where on earth have you been living, all this time," demanded Martin of Billy, during a change-over. "Talk about hiding your giddy light under a bushel! Demon bowler, eh? Why, you'd give Spofforth fits! Keep it up, old chap, and I'll stand you the best feed you ever clapped eyes on."
Billy grinned. "This is my day out," he said in reply. As a matter of fact, he had become worked up by the treatment of the School by the onlookers, and the desperate state of the match. It was his way, in matters of pressing importance, to rise to the occasion; and no one could gain-say that he was doing so now. Martin put him on again.
When Windsor went out, in their second innings, for a mere fifty-two runs, the spectators could hardly credit their eyes. Why, they had expected a rattling fine inning from the first five men, and then a "declaration." This was most unusual! After all, there might be something left in the School side yet—it would all depend upon how they would bat.
It was early evident that the school were out to win the match by dogged run-getting. Martin and Silver played a careful partnership, taking no chances, until Silver obtained the confidence which he had so disastrously lacked in the first innings.
Once there, really "set," Silver looked round and began to play a faster and more open game. The Windsor team were sent scurrying all over the field, chasing the leather; and the score of Deepwater College rose notch by notch.
All the same, there was a considerable discrepancy still between the scores, and both sides were now striving with all their skill for a win. Doggedly as the School batted, sneaking every run that could possibly be sneaked, the Windsor team battered with an equal doggedness at their defences.
No longer, now, did the derisive comments come from the crowd. The finish had the appearance of being exciting—very much so; and flippancy was forgotten. Instead, roars of cheering greeted especially adroit moves from either side; any partisanship previously allowed to show was now lost in the expectation of a hard-fought finish.
Martin went out, with a useful score, and Screw came in. Screw was, generally speaking a rather weak sort of bowler, but as a batsman, the only word that aptly describes him is "furious." There was method in his dashing, wild-seeming attack, though; and his lively innings for thirty runs tickled the crowd immensely. He received an ovation from the town's supporters, and grinned happily.
"They didn't care for my bowling," he remarked to Billy Faraday, "but my innings seemed to please them."
"Rather! I say, isn't old Silver knocking up a score? He's sixty-four now, and once he's set he's liable to stay there for ever."
"That's Silver's way. It wouldn't surprise me to see him rake in a century. Now he's in the mood, and has his eye in, the bowlers can't shift him!"
"And if we've any sort of luck—"
"—we ought to win," completed Screw, with a twinkle of pleasure in his eye. "Jove—there's another boundary; go on, Silver! Silver!"
When Billy's turn came to bat, he felt distinctly nervous. He had had such incredible luck with his bowling that it was far too much to expect that his batting would be of the same fortunate brand.
He was second-last man, and a dozen runs were yet required to win. Martin could hardly contain himself as he watched the bowler's run up to the crease. By luck, or skill, or both, the School had almost pulled the fat out of the fire—and it would be tantalizing if they were to fail now—within sight of victory.
Martin held his breath as the ball was delivered. None knew better than he that Faraday was nervous—he could see it in the batsman's stand, his whole attitude. Martin stood and looked ... and then executed a wild leap of excitement.
"Oh, good man! Good man!"
"Hit like a Trumper, sir!"
It was a splendid carpet-drive to the boundary, and it clicked against the railings with a sound that could be heard all over the field. Martin simply gasped. If only those two men could knock up a dozen between them, then—!
"Then," he yelled, slapping Screw on the back, "then we win—we win!"
Screw was equally excited, and the two of them could scarcely wait for the ball to be bowled. That first drive had done Faraday good—immense good. It had cooled him and steadied him. He set out in earnest to notch those few runs necessary for victory. He played with judgment that sent Martin into ecstasies—played with judgment that baffled the fieldsmen, eager as they were, and ready as they were to make him pay for the slightest mistake.
"Oh, boy! That's done it!" roared the School team, as Billy lifted the ball into the outfield, and the score of Windsor was overtaken. The two scores stood level—dead level. The bowler looked grim, and compressed his lips. Couldn't he somehow flatten this batsman with his next ball: Wasn't it possible to make it a drawn game, even at this stage?
It wasn't. Billy snicked the ball past square-leg, and ran it for two.
"Good-oh, the Billy-boy!"
"Oh, you little pearl!" burbled Screw, almost speechless with joy.
The match was won—and by more than a margin. Billy and the last man knocked up twenty-eight runs between them, and of which Billy made twenty. Windsor found themselves up against a most unlooked-for defeat.
It was almost dark when the youngsters had changed and were ready for the char-à-banc which would carry them back to Deepwater.
"Well, we did it!" said Martin to Silver, as they sat in the vehicle. "We did it, old boy!"
"And young Faraday's come on wonderfully," returned Silver. "Where is he, by the way? Seems to me all the others are here now. What's keeping him?"
But Billy would have found a good deal of trouble in returning to the char-à-banc. After he had dressed, he was met at the door by a grimy-looking youngster, who, however, said that a friend of Billy's wished to see him.
"He's an old bloke," said the youth, and Billy wondered who the dickens it could be. Some obscure acquaintance, he imagined, who would talk rot about how finely he had played....
A motor-car was waiting in the gloom at the back of the pavilion, and after the glare of her headlights Billy found it difficult to recognize the man in the tonneau. He came forward questioningly.
"My dear boy, how are you?" said a strange voice.
"I'm afraid—" began Billy, and then gasped. For the man bent suddenly forward and gripped him fiercely by the throat!
Billy had no time to cry out, no time to call for help, even if the surprise of the moment had permitted. The clutch on his throat was the tightest and the strongest he had ever experienced; he was dragged ruthlessly forward till his chin met the side of the car, and at the same time a rag that smelt of some strange chemical was forced against his nostrils. He tried hard not to breathe, but the breath came, and with it giddiness—and darkness.
It had been chloroform—that was the word that his whole brain shouted, and it accompanied his nightmarish swoop into insensibility.
Back in the char-à-banc his companions were becoming a trifle impatient.
"Did any of you see where Billy got to?" asked Silver.
One of them knew—said that he had seen Billy speaking to the grimy youth at the door, but had thought no more about it.
"It's a funny thing—cut back and see whether he's in the dressing-room," said Silver.
But no; Faraday was not there—nor, indeed, anywhere in the neighbourhood. The team spent a fruitless half-hour in the search, and concluded that Billy must, for some strange reason or other, have gone back to Deepwater alone.
"Perhaps he met a friend who gave him a lift," suggested Martin. "But it's funny he didn't let us know."
"I believe Billy comes from Victoria, though," said Silver thoughtfully. "Would a friend of his be hanging around this place? Perhaps ... anyhow, we'll wait for a bit."
They waited, but as Billy did not show up within another quarter of an hour, they concluded that he had unaccountably gone on his own; and they set out for the College with some misgivings, but hoping that there was nothing wrong....
But before we follow them back to Deepwater it will be well if we turn back the hands of the clock a matter of some twelve hours, and glance at what had been taking place there.
In the first place, there had been a considerable sensation early in the morning, when a notice went up on the Salmon's House board; a notice that attracted a noisy, mystified, questioning crowd of juniors and seniors alike.
Be it known that a new publication entitled the "BUSY BEE," will be published this day, SATURDAY, and will be on Sale at Study No. 9, Salmon's House—Price ONE PENNY. Negotiable VALUE in the shape of stamps, cricket-bats, chewing gum, suspension-bridges, etc., etc., will NOT be accepted.
IMPORTANT!—No Free List.
The "BUSY BEE" is a real live-wire, top-notch, rip-roaring, and snorting good paper—you simply cannot afford to miss it!
HOP IN NOW FOR YOUR CUT!
Magnificent Illustrations—
Astounding Articles—
Criticism that Stings—
Red-hot Revelations—
Libel by the Armful—
Look for the Pink Label!
SEP. PATCH,
Printer and Publisher.
This was the flaring notice, executed in giant capitals, and with lavish expenditure of red and green inks, and the comment it provoked was considerable. Curious seniors and excited fags marched in a body to Study No. 9, and found the genial Patch, his sleeves rolled up, standing behind an improvised counter—he had moved the study table into the doorway. On the table stood a stack of printed papers.
"What's this rot about a paper?" demanded one of the fellows.
"Pay your penny, comrade," urged Patch blandly, "and see for yourself! I thank you."
Once started, the demand for papers was extensive, especially as the purchasers evinced great interest in the contents of the Busy Bee. Within a few minutes the stack on the table had diminished by half. In all parts of the House fellows were studying the papers with amused expressions.
All at once there was a sound as of an enraged dinosaurus, and Cummles strode angrily along the corridor.
"Where's Patch?" he yelled.
"Here, comrade! What do you require? Have you a spare penny? Then I would suggest—"
"Suggest be jiggered! This is what I've come about." He lugged a copy of the Busy Bee out of his pocket, and held it about two inches from Patch's nose. "See that—that!"
He pointed with his finger. "That" was a reproduced photograph, covering half a page of the paper; and it depicted that humiliating scene on the night—now a week back—when the Cripples had been photographed in the old Science room.
The thing was horrible in its deadly distinctness. Against a dark background the white, piteous faces of the Cripples, distorted with sneezings, dipping into handkerchiefs, in every phase of distress, showed as plainly as a lantern-picture.
Patch looked at it and laughed with immense heartiness.
"Ha, ha, ha!" he chuckled. "Yes, very funny indeed! Screamingly funny! I'm so glad you noticed it—one of the features of the issue!"
"Funny, you goggle-eyed idiot!" roared Cummles. "Funny! You call that—" he choked, "funny?"
"Why, of course! Don't you think—"
"Look here," interrupted Cummles, "it's like your thundering cheek to print that photo, and you're not going to sell any more of your burbling papers!"
"No?" queried Patch politely. "Well, well! It's a lovely day, isn't it?"
"Bother the day! Look here—look here—"
He was quite speechless by now, and he made a sudden dart at the pile of papers, with the evident intention of seizing the lot.
"What are you up to now, Cummles?" asked a quiet voice. It was the voice of Fane; and the bully-killer himself stepped from the interior of Study 9 across to the counter.
"I'll soon show you what I'm up to!" said Cummles, too heated to avoid a possible row with the youngster who had thrashed him early in the term.
"Well, I'm sorry to interfere in your amusing little games," returned Fane evenly. "But it happens, old tomato, that we don't want you in here. Hook it!"
"Hook it?" repeated Cummles furiously.
"Yes—hook it, scoot, buzz off, vamoose!"
"And mind the step," added Patch thoughtfully.
Cummles gave a sort of howl. He dived forward, seeking to upset the counter by lifting a table-leg; but Fane, vaulting over the obstruction, landed heavily on his back and bowled him over with no ceremony at all.
"Ow! Oof!" howled the bully. "Gerroff! Lemme get up!"
"Dear me—I didn't notice you there," said Fane sweetly. "Dropped something?"
Cummles, his face as black as thunder, jumped up and faced his tormentor in a furious rage. He drew back his right arm, as if to swing for the other's face.... Fane eyed him calmly.
At last, "All right—we'll see!" fumed the bully with sharp realization that he did not care to come to blows with the bully-killer. Those small, hard, knuckly fists of Fane's were too damaging to be rashly invited. "We'll see!"
And Cummles made the best of a bad scene by striding off without another glance at anyone.
The Busy Bee had made a sensation, there was no doubt. The reproduced photograph of the Cripples, labelled "The Martyrs' Meeting: Cummles and Co., and their Ju-Ju," together with the satirical article that accompanied it, was a journalistic "boom" of the first water. And Cummles and Co. raged impotently. They could not prevent the sale of the Busy Bee, and the whole school was presently laughing at them.
Having sold all the copies that had been printed, Patch and the others set about their amusement for the day, which the cheerful Septimus intended to celebrate in a way all his own.
He had persuaded Jack to give him a hand with one of his inventions, and Jack, having nothing in particular to do, had consented.
All that afternoon Jack slaved in the workshop, surrounded by levers and wheels, steel bars and cranks. On his glumly remarking that they were the two biggest cranks, Septimus cheerfully replied, "Speak for yourself, old Sport. And when I've sold this invention for a million, I'll remember that the ox was worthy of his hire."
Jack groaned.
It was not until the cricketing team had returned that they came back to the house. Arrived there, Jack learned that Billy Faraday had not come back with the others.
"No," he told Silver, "he's not been back, I'm pretty sure. I wonder—"
He bit his lip and frowned. Was it altogether possible that Billy had fallen foul of Lazare and his gang? It seemed a trifle ridiculous, but—
Just then a fag entered the room, carrying a letter in his hand.
"For you, Symonds," he said.
"Ha!" said Jack. "This is probably from Billy, and will explain. How did you come by it, youngster?"
"A fellow on a bicycle was passing the gate, and he gave it to me. Said it was for you, and I brought it along."
"Oh, thanks. You can cut now." He looked at the address—his name, in pencil. Then he ripped the envelope open. He pulled out a thin sheet of paper, like a leaf from a pocket-book. He looked on it with growing amazement, that was replaced by an expression of horror.
"Jove—they've got him!" he said, hoarsely.
"Got him?" repeated Silver. "What do you mean?"
For answer, Jack passed over the sheet of paper.
"Faraday is held a prisoner," it ran, "and says the Black Star is with you. Keep this to yourself, and meet me, with the Star to-morrow night, nine o'clock, at Day's Corner. Attempt no treachery, or it will be the worse for your friend—and yourself. It is the only way. Your failure to turn up as stated or any trickery will be the end of Faraday.—LAZARE."
"Whew! Is this a joke?" asked Silver. "And who the dickens is Lazare?"
But Jack did not answer him. He stared at Silver as if he were not there, and his face had gone perfectly white.