This was splendid! Danny turned round and fixed his eyes on the old man’s face. “Tell us, tell us,” he whispered.
. . . . . . . .
“I was born in this here village,” he said, “and here I married a lass. And here my son was born. And ’twas on his first Christmas he fell ill of the croup. Very near death he was, and my wife begged me to run fast as I could to fetch the doctor. The shortest way was through this here wood, and though I was afeared something terrible of the little people as might come after me in the dark, still for love of the boy I came this way.
“’Twas moonlight, and, as I reached the end of the wood, just about outside of this house, I breathed again with relief. But too soon—for when I got to the Druids’ Oak (you know it, for sure—that big old oak, the last of the wood), I saw a hobgoblin.”
The old man made an impressive pause.
Danny was gazing at him, round-eyed. “What was it like?” he said.
“’Twas dressed all in a black cloak, with a hood over its head, and it had a great bag on its back. It was up in the Druids’ Oak, and just before I got to it, it dropped to the ground, light as a feather, and ran quickly into the shadows. I was half mad with fear, and, calling on the saints to protect me, I ran and never stopped till I reached the doctor’s house. That story is true, by all that’s holy. I swear ’tis true.”
“How big was the hobgoblin?” asked Danny.
“Near as big as you,” said the old man. “I thought they was smaller, so it frightened me the more.
“I told the story to one and another in the village, and some laughed at me, but one or two, very solemn-like, told me they had seen that hobgoblin, too. They said that ’twas very lucky to see it, but one must not talk of it to any man. One man told me that the next day he went by daylight past the same tree, and in the snow found a gold piece, which was just what he was sorely needing. He was sure ’twas the hobgoblin had put it there for him. And sure enough, my baby was cured from croup from that time.”
“Do you think the hobgoblin still lives in the oak?” asked Danny, “and still comes out on Christmas Eve.”
“Yes,” said the ancient stranger, “hobgoblins live for five hundred years. This one is still in the oak as likely as not. And they used to say he always comes out on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh,” cried Danny. “I wish I could see him! Perhaps he would bring luck to Uncle Bill.”
The great log fire was beginning to burn low. The ancient stranger was beginning to nod. The church clock struck ten through the stillness of the clear night, while the earth slept beneath its counterpane of snow.
“Time to turn in,” said Bill. He took the aged stranger and led him to the little room that would have been Danny’s, but which Danny had insisted should be given to the stranger, saying he could sleep very well on the rabbit-skin rug before the fire.
“I think I shall go and look for the hobgoblin,” said Danny.
“’Tis foolishness you are talking, child,” said Bridget. “There do be no hobgoblins in this country. If you must be afther getting good luck for me and your oncle, go to midnight Mass and pray for us! ’Tis more likely ye will get what ye do be wantin’ there than from hobgoblins.”
. . . . . . . .
But when all was still and the stranger was snoring, and the line of yellow light under Bill and Bridget’s door had vanished, Danny got softly up from the skin before the fire, and put on his cap and coat and muffler, took down a lantern from the wall, and put a box of matches in his pocket. Then he unbarred the door, and let himself out into the snowy night. A few minutes later he was standing in the shadows, gazing with awe and expectation at the Druids’ Oak, where it stood, gnarled and ancient, in the moonlight.
For some time he stood there watching, but it was very cold, and he grew impatient. Walking with silent steps over the snow, he went up to the tree, and laid his hand on the rough, knobbly trunk. The night was perfectly still, the moon shone steady and white, and at that moment the church clock struck eleven, slowly and clearly. Danny shuddered. This was the hour for ghosts and hobgoblins to prowl. The next hour—twelve to one o’clock—would be the holy hour, when we remember the birth of the Divine Babe.
The last stroke of eleven had scarcely died away when there was a scraping, scrabbling sound from the very heart of the oak, seemingly coming from beneath Danny’s hand. He started, and his heart seemed to miss a beat, and then race on. Something within him seemed to say “Run, run,” and his legs almost obeyed, but his will was stronger than his instinct, and remembering that he was a Cub and must not give in to himself, he stood his ground, only drawing a little into the shadow. He watched the tree intently—was he at last to see a hobgoblin?
Something black moved in the stumpy branches, at the top of the thick, low trunk. Then with a hoot, a great owl floated out, on soft, silent wings, and flew swiftly away into the shadows.
Danny breathed hard. For a while he did not move; then, giving way once more to his impatience, he went up to the tree.
It was curious that the scraping sound should have seemed to come from the very heart of the trunk; it must be a hollow tree, he told himself. Then that was where the hobgoblin lived. Perhaps he had changed himself into an owl, and flown away on his midnight adventures! An idea suddenly struck Danny. He would climb the tree, and see if it was possible to get down into its hollow inside. He would then find the home of the hobgoblin, and perhaps the mysterious door into fairy-land! He lit his lantern and hooked it on a branch; then climbed up by the knots which seemed to form little steps.
Yes, sure enough the tree was hollow. There was a hole down into its inside just big enough for a boy to squeeze through. Danny tied a piece of string to his lantern, and let it down through the hole. Carefully he lowered it until at last it rested on the ground. Then he peered down. To his amazement he found that a little ladder led down the inside of the tree!
Without a moment’s hesitation he descended the ladder. The tree was like a tiny round room inside, and in the floor at his feet was a hole with a little, narrow staircase leading down.
Danny pinched himself. Was he dreaming? No, he was certainly awake. Could this really be the way into fairy-land? He had only half believed in the hobgoblin all the time. But now he began to think it must really all be true.
Taking up his lantern, he carefully descended the steps, one by one—there were ten of them—and found himself in a little kind of grotto. The walls were of earth and full of gnarled tree roots. The grotto was empty, except for a rough wooden chest that looked as if it had been made by someone who was not a very good carpenter.
With trembling hands Danny raised the lid and looked in. A number of large leather bags were ranged, side by side, at the bottom, and among them was a stout leather book. Breathing hard, Danny lifted out one of the bags. It was very heavy. He placed it on the floor and it chinked. Then he untied the string, and put his hand in. It was a fistful of glittering coins that he drew forth!
Suddenly it all flashed into his mind. The miser and his hidden money—this must have been his hiding-place! Where the hobgoblin came in he did not know or care. All that mattered was that he had found the hidden treasure that belonged to Uncle Bill, and would make him a rich man. One by one Danny lifted out the leather bags. “There must be thousands of pounds there,” he told himself. The sovereigns were funny looking ones, with the head of Queen Victoria when quite young on them.
Last of all he took out the fat, leather book. Then, very carefully, he managed to hoist one bag after another up the tree, and dump it down on the snow. At last he climbed down himself.
Very softly he carried his treasure into the cottage. Looking for somewhere to put the bags, an idea struck him and he hung them in a row on the nails in the high mantelshelf, over the great open hearth. How pleased Uncle Bill would be: what a wonderful Christmas surprise!
And with that thought it struck Danny how good it was of God to have let him find the missing money for his uncle. He glanced at the clock. A quarter to twelve it said. Aunt Bridget had said he should go to midnight Mass and pray for their luck to come back. Now he could do better than that, he could go and thank God for having given it back!
Putting on his cap once more, he hurried out along the snowy path, and turned into the warm, lighted church. Never had he thanked God so fervently for anything. But soon he forgot all about the money, in the wonderful sense of Christmas morning, and the new realization of the Little Christ born to be the Brother and the Saviour of men.
Very sleepily he stumbled home, and curled up on the rug before the red glow of smouldering logs.
. . . . . . . .
“How soundly he sleeps,” said Uncle Bill, the next morning as he lighted the lamp and bent over Danny. Bridget laughed, and shook him by the shoulders. Danny opened his eyes and sat up. His first thought was to look up at the mantelpiece. Yes, there hung the bags.
“Thank God,” he said, “I was afraid it was a dream.”
Bill and Bridget looked up too. “What are they?” said Bill, a puzzled expression on his face, “plum puddings?”
Danny laughed. “No, no,” he said. “Look!”
He unhooked a bag, and shook out the shining contents on to the rabbit skin rug. The sovereigns gleamed and glinted in the lamplight. Bill and Bridget stood speechless. Then Danny explained all that had happened.
At last they examined the book.
It was inscribed at the beginning with the miser’s name, in a little crabbed handwriting. And there were entries made every Christmas Eve, beginning with Christmas, 1830. Each Christmas there was a larger sum to record, until at last in 1898 was entered £3,100.
“And it’s all yours, uncle,” said Danny, smacking Bill on the back.
Bill’s heart was too full to speak, at first; but Bridget had plenty to say—all that they would do with it—all that this would mean for the boy’s future and their old age.
. . . . . . . .
The stranger joined them at breakfast.
“Didn’t I tell you he was Father Christmas or a Holy Angel?” said Bridget. “See what he has brought us.”
“Nay, ’tis the lad,” said the ancient stranger. “I said ’e was a fairy. Or, maybe, ’twas the hobgoblin—he always brings luck; and the owl who flew out of the tree was him, as likely as not.”
Bill was a pious man, not given to belief in such things.
“No,” he said, “’twas the Holy Child, bringing us a Christmas gift, for love of the boy here, who was willing to give up his happy Christmas at home to come and cheer up his poor old uncle.”
“And to give his bed to an old, lonely stranger,” added the old man.
Danny flushed. “No, no,” he said, “it wasn’t for my sake. But I do think uncle is right about it being a Christmas present. I went to midnight Mass to thank for it.” Aunt Bridget kissed him for the twentieth time, and Bill cleared his throat, which seemed rather husky.
“But what about the hobgoblin, really?” said Danny. “Grandad, here, swears he saw him; and you see it was true about the Druids’ Oak being a wonderful tree.”
Bill went to a big press in the corner of the room.
“I think I know who the hobgoblin was. Come here, son,” he added.
Danny went to him, and behind the door of the cupboard Uncle Bill arrayed him in an old black cloak and hood. “Now, hang a bag over your shoulder, and hurry across the room, bent-up like, and see if grandad don’t think he’s seeing his hobgoblin again,” he said.
Danny obeyed, and the old man started up. “’Tis him, ’tis him!” he said, “the very same.”
They all laughed.
“My father,” said Bill, “was a very small, thin, little old man, not much bigger than Danny. ’Twas him you saw, fetching back his money on Christmas Eve to count it, and enter it in his book.”
The old man was nodding his head slowly.
“So, after all I’ve never seen a hobgoblin,” he said. “I’m eighty year old—I shall die afore I get another chance.”
“Never mind, grandad,” said Bridget, “ye’ll be afther seeing the Angels then, so it’ll be all right.”
The glorious day had come at last—the day when Harry and his mother and little sister were to start on their journey to Switzerland. They were going out for the whole winter, and Harry was frightfully excited about it. Fancy being up 7,000 feet in the mountains, and seeing nothing but snow, snow, snow, everywhere! And being able to toboggan and skate and ski all day! And then the journey—to cross the Channel, and then go in a train all day and all night!
The day had come, and Harry was safely in the train on his way to Folkestone. Crossing the Channel was great fun. It was rather rough, and all the old ladies sat tight in red wooden chairs, tucked up in stuffy old rugs. They got greener and greener and looked very unhappy. But Harry and his little sister went up on the top deck and ran about and enjoyed themselves hugely. It was very hard to walk straight, because the ship rolled from one side to the other, and you felt just as a fly on the wall must feel, clinging on with the soles of your feet.
At last the white cliffs of Dover disappeared, and there was nothing to be seen but sea and sky and half a dozen seagulls following the ship. And then a faint line showed on the horizon ahead, and it was the coast of France! Harry and his sister gazed at it, and thought to themselves that it was the first time in their lives they had seen a foreign country.
At last the boat steamed into the harbour at Boulogne. Crowds of funny old French porters came bustling on board. They were dressed in loose blue blouses, and they all talked in French and wrangled with each other and the passengers, as if they were very angry. But they weren’t really—it was only their French way. Harry’s mother managed to get hold of one, and he collected all her bags and suit cases and strapped them together on a long strap, and hung them over his shoulder. Harry thought to himself that he had never seen one man carry so many things before. He barged along through the crowd, shouting most rudely to make people get out of his way. He took all the things to a place called thedouane—an awful place full of cross officials, who opened the boxes and pulled things about.
“What awful cheek!” said Harry. But his mother explained it was the Customs.
“A rotten custom, I call it, to pry about in a lady’s private luggage,” said Harry. So his mother explained it was the duty of the Customs officers to see that certain things like food and jewellery and tobacco were not taken into the country without duty being paid on them. When the luggage had all been packed up once again the old French porter, who walked just like a crab, went crawling off with his load to the train. It was a funny train—very high: or, rather, the platform was very low. At last they were all settled in, and in about half an hour they started.
Of course Harry and his sister looked out of the window all the way. It was so exciting to see France. That was before the days of the War, and the little villages were still peaceful and happy, and the rows of stunted willow trees stood along the straight, flat roads for miles and miles, like silent sentinels.
On, on rushed the train. At tea time it was great fun walking along the little wobbly passages to the dining-car. Then again for supper. By that time Harry and his sister were very sleepy. So his mother rang a bell, and a man came along and pressed a button and performed a conjuring trick by which the seats were turned into little white beds, with sheets and blankets and pillows all complete. He did another conjuring trick, and a little bunk was produced from the wall, and Harry found his bed all ready, a few feet above his sister’s.
“When you wake up in the morning we shall be in Switzerland,” said his mother.
They slept beautifully. But every now and then they woke up to find the train still rushing on, on, on, in the darkness. Sometimes it rushed into a station and pulled up. It seemed to Harry that the engine heaved a heavy sigh. Then it started on again. It was nearly six when Harry’s mother woke them up and told them to dress quickly, because soon they would be at Bâle. So they did; and when the train stopped they got out.
They found themselves in a huge station, and it was very cold. Their mother got hold of a porter, and they went along to a big refreshment room, where they had their first Swiss breakfast—coffee and funny little rolls, like half-moons, and honey.
After some time they got into another train, and travelled on until at last, by the afternoon, they had got into the real, snowy part of Switzerland.
Harry had never seen so much snow. But his mother said it would be even more wonderful when they got right up among the mountains to St. Moritz.
At a place called Chur they changed into a funny little train that began slowly plodding up the mountain passes.
Here the snow was wonderful. It lay a yard thick on the mountainside, and was inches thick on the branches of the fir-trees. The train went through many tunnels, and over high, high viaducts; and sometimes the corners were so sharp that you could look out of the window and see the tail of your own train coming round the last curve! The air was so crisp that it seemed to give you new life, and you longed to be out snowballing or doing something active.
The sun went down behind the great white Alps, and the snow began to look a bright bluish purple in the dusk. And before long it was quite dark.
“We shall soon be there, now,” said Harry’s mother.
After stopping at several little stations the train steamed into St. Moritz at last, and everybody got out.
As they stepped out of the station it was like walking into fairy-land. Snow, snow, everywhere—snow roads, with sleighs on them, drawn by horses with jingling bells on their harness. Through the clear, still blue night, shimmered and glittered a thousand little points of light from the many, many windows of all the big hotels, and from the little windows of the chalets, clinging to the hillside, or crowding down on the edge of the great frozen lake. Above, the stars shone larger and brighter than Harry had ever seen them before.
It was freezing hard, but somehow no one seemed to feel cold. Everybody was dressed in woolly garments—white sweaters and coloured mufflers and woolly caps. And everybody seemed to be laughing. Some were pulling toboggans home, others carrying skates, or shouldering their skis. Harry and his little sister began to laugh, too, and ran out on the snow. But soon they fell down, and found out that they must be careful how they walked until they had spiky nails fixed in their boots.
They were to stay in a lovely, big hotel, up the hill. Jumping into an open sleigh, they drove briskly along, gliding smoothly over the snow, their bells making a merry jingle on the frosty air.
That night they slept very soundly, and the next morning they hastened to look out of the window. All was a dazzling white, and the sky was bluer than they had imagined it could be. They dressed quickly in woolly clothes, and put on rubber boots, called “gouties” to stop them slipping; and as soon as they had breakfasted, they went out, and down the little village street.
Tobogganing was the one thing in the world Harry wanted to do. He had already made friends with some very nice boys at the Kulm Hotel, who told him it was the best sport going. So his mother hired a toboggan for him, and he went down to the village run, where he found his friends. They soon showed him how to do it.
The run was like a long curly path, made of hard snow and ice, and very steep. If you wanted to go really fast you took a run, pushed off your toboggan with a final kick, and threw yourself flat on your tummy upon it. As you rushed along you shouted to make everybody clear out of your light.
Harry had a few falls at first, of course, and got a few scrapes and bruises; but every day he would go at it, until, before long, he became the fastest “rider” on the run, and people would clear out of his way pretty quick when they heard him coming.
One day some men he knew at the hotel said he tobogganed so well that they would take him with them on a real, proper toboggan run, all made of ice, called the Dimson Run. Harry was delighted. Tobogganing, here, really was some sport, and rather dangerous too, for the run was very steep, and you went at a tremendous rate. Though he was the youngest rider on the run, he won a silver cup in one of the races!
It was during Harry’s last week at St. Moritz that a great adventure befell him.
His best pal at the Kulm Hotel was his uncle, a very cheery young man, much admired by everyone, for he was the champion of the Cresta Run—the greatest toboggan run in the world. Tobogganing on the Cresta is serious work. Not very many people belong to the Cresta Club, and are allowed to do it. The run is wonderfully made. It is nearly a mile long, and full of dips and twists and turns. It is all made of the smoothest, most shining ice; and the riders, lying face downwards on their heavy, steel toboggans, go down at the speed of an express train. The smallest mistake in leaning the wrong way, or taking a corner too fast, and they would be thrown over the banks, and perhaps killed! To round the corners at such a high speed they have to run round right up on the curved wall of ice, which is made the right shape on purpose. These corners are given different names. The two biggest banks, on a part of the run which looks like a big “S,” are called “Battledore” and “Shuttlecock,” because the rider seems to be thrown across from one bank to the other, rather like a shuttlecock in the game. If they are not very careful, “Battledore” throws them right out over the side, and they fall down about twelve feet into a pile of snow! There are very exciting races on the Cresta. The biggest one is called the Grand National. Crowds and crowds of people come to watch it, and the winner is quite a hero.
When Harry was not tobogganing himself on the smaller runs, his great delight was to come and watch Uncle Hugh practising. He would watch him pass like a flash, his runners making a roaring sound on the ice. Then he would ask the timekeeper how many seconds Uncle Hugh had taken—for each rider is “timed” each time he goes down, to the tenth of a second—and he would run down and tell Uncle Hugh his time (fifty-nine seconds, perhaps), and walk up with him, while an old Italian followed behind, pulling up his “bus” as he called his toboggan.
At last the great day of the Grand National had come. Harry, standing in a huge crowd, watched the different riders tear past. Oh, how he hoped Uncle Hugh would win! The riders had to go down three times. Each time one got to the bottom a man with a megaphone (or speaking trumpet) called out his time. They had all gone down three times, and the great moment came for the winner to be called out. Harry’s heart beat fast. Hooray! It was Uncle Hugh. He felt very proud to be the nephew of the hero; and he rushed down the snowy path to meet him. It was then that he suddenly felt quite sure that if only he were allowed to,hecould ride the Cresta!
That evening, in the hotel, he asked Uncle Hugh if he would get leave for him to go down just once. Hugh laughed kindly.
“You’re too young, kid,” he said. “Why you’re only twelve! It’s not very easy, you know. You’d probably have a bad crash and kill yourself.”
Some people standing near had heard. They burst out laughing.
“Do you hear that?” said one of the ladies, “Harry thinks he can ride the Cresta on the strength of his uncle having won the Grand National!”
Everyone laughed, and poor Harry blushed to the roots of his hair. He said nothing, for he knew hecouldride the Cresta, if only they would give him the chance, and he determined, inside, that hewouldmanage to go down, somehow, and show them he could.
The next day a small friend of his, Phil, told him something that filled him with delight. The Cresta was closed for that season, for one of the banks was considered too weak, and it would be impossible to rebuild it, for the thaw was beginning to set in. This meant that all the bars would be taken away, and the run left to thaw, and that all the little boys from the village would come and slide about on it, and soon spoil its beautiful, smooth surface. It also meant that there was now nothing to stop any one who liked taking a toboggan, and going down the whole course!
“I’ll tell you a secret, Phil,” said Harry. “To-morrow morning, before any one is up, I am going to go down the Cresta from the top. You can come with me, and we’ll get Dick and Reggie to come too, as witnesses to prove I can do it, and teach those rotters not to laugh.”
Phil was delighted at the prowess of his friend. “What if you get killed?” he said.
“Oh, then it will prove that I couldn’t do it, and they were right!” said Harry.
At 8.30 the next morning, just as the sun peeped over the snowy mountains, Harry, with knee and elbow pads, and “rakes” (or spikes) fixed on his toes, crept out, dragging a heavy toboggan. He was followed by his three friends. They walked down by the run first. Every bar had been taken away, it was clear and free.
“Now for it!” said Harry, as he stood at the top, his heart beating fast with excitement. Lying flat on his toboggan, he slid off down the first incline, down towards the steep and sudden dip called “Church Leap.”
At this moment his friends saw a tall figure walking down the path by the run, away by the big corners known as “Battledore” and “Shuttlecock.” In a moment they recognized him by his orange scarf—it was Uncle Hugh! He had stopped, for he had heard the rush of a toboggan on the run. What would he say when he saw it was Harry? But even as they saw him stop, they saw something else that made their blood run cold!
At the place where the run cuts across the road, and is usually guarded by a man with a red flag to keep people from crossing, a wood sleigh suddenly appeared. It advanced slowly and drew up, the horse standing straight across the run. Once a rider has started down the Cresta Run there is no way of stopping—he must rush on at sixty miles an hour! The three boys’ hearts seemed to stop with terror. Hugh was standing still, his eyes fixed on the place.
And what of Harry? Long as this takes to tell, it was all a matter of less than a minute. Harry had rushed in a glorious, thrilling whirl down most of the run—the worst was over. He was now on the long steepstraight, and there were only small corners to get round. The cold air seemed to whistle in his face and make his eyes stream, for he was travelling at a very high speed. And then—then he saw the terrible sight. A horse and sleigh was standing across the run!
There were only a few seconds to think what to do as he flew onwards. But Harry did not lose his head. At one glance he had noticed that thehorseand not thesleighwas across the run. The driver was round at the back, fixing up a log that had slipped. Lying very flat, and guiding himself straight as an arrow, Harry kept his course, and passed like a flash beneath the horse, between his four great legs! He was safe!
The three boys, watching from the top, threw their caps in the air, and cheered and laughed for joy! Hugh, standing by “Shuttlecock,” his teeth clenched, gave a sigh of relief. “Thank God!” he said. “Thank God! He’s a sporting kid, right enough, and he’s got some wits to have done that—it was his only chance!”
No one at the hotel laughed when they heard the story. Harry was thoroughly scolded, of course. But everyone looked at him with admiration. “Some day he’ll be the champion on the Cresta,” said an old Colonel, who had won the Grand National many years ago.
Wolf Cub Pat Shannon awoke with a start, and sat up in bed. He had been far away in the glorious land of dreams, driving a Rolls-Royce motor car. It must have been the happy week he had spent since Christmas, riding on his scooter, that had made him dream this, for his Uncle Patrick had brought him a scooter from London for a Christmas present. It was a real beauty, with solid rubber tires and nice big wheels, and it had cost 7s. 6d.! Pat had learned to get up a tremendous speed upon it.
“Shure, it’s a danger ye are to the pedestrians!” his uncle had said one day, on meeting him rushing down the street of the little Irish town where he lived. Pat had not a notion what apedestrianwas; all he knew was that it made his uncle buy him a real bicycle bell and screw it on the handle of his scooter!
Now he had been suddenly roused from his dreams. He sat up in the darkness and listened. Yes, it was his mother’s voice. She was sitting up, he knew, with baby, who had bronchitis. He was the only man in the house, his father being at the front with his regiment, the Royal Irish Fusiliers. He had wanted to sit up, but his mother had told him to go to bed, and she would call if she wanted help. Now he heard her.
“Pat—Pat—Patrick Michael!” Her voice seemed somehow frightened.
“Yes, mother!” he called, scrambling out of bed. In a moment he was pattering down to the kitchen, barefooted, in his little nightshirt.
“Pat,” said his mother, “Baby’s very ill, he is. He’s after takin’ a sudden turn for the worse. I must have the doctor this minute, or it’s dead he’ll be before morning.”
“Right, mother,” said Pat in a business-like way. “If the doctor is at his house, I’ll have him here in half an hour!”
He ran upstairs again. In three minutes he was back dressed and searching in the back kitchen for his scooter.
“What d’you be after fetchin’, dearie?” said his mother. “Sure, an’ you aren’t goin’ to take out yer scooter this dark night?”
“Yes, mother,” said Pat. “It’s as fast as a motor bike, I can be goin’ on my scooter. I shall be down the hill at the doctor’s house in ten minutes from now.”
Softly he let himself out, and set off down the lonely road. There was a small moon, and he knew every inch of the way.
It was all down hill to the doctor’s house. The road was smooth and quite empty. Pat got up a great speed. It was glorious! The night air rushed past him.
He reached the bottom of the first hill. There was rather a lonely piece of road to go along, here. At the end of it stood a great house, with a high wall round it. The owner of the house had been away from it for many years. Only a very old caretaker lived in it.
People said it was full of treasures and great wealth—jewels and silver plate, priceless china and beautiful pictures. The shutters were always closed, and many were the tales about it.
Pat’s heart beat rather fast as he reached the wall. Great black trees grew in the garden and stretched their branches like great hands over it.
All the stories he had ever heard of ghosts and banshees and the “little people” came into his head. He half wished he hadn’t come. The shadows were so very black, and all was so still. There was no one about, and not the faintest sound to be heard.
“A Cub does not give in to himself.” The words of the Cub Law suddenly came into his head. He felt the little brass badge in his buttonhole, and it gave him courage. With a kick he sent his scooter on, and passed out of the moonlight into the shadow of the trees.
Hullo! what was that sound? A noise of breaking glass and splintering wood, as if someone had jumped through a window—running feet in the garden—a hoarse shout—now a long, shrill blast from a policeman’s whistle—more running behind the wall—then the sound of another policeman running down the road to the help of his comrade!
Pat forgot his fears. Here was a real adventure!
Then, suddenly, just ahead, a dark figure appeared in the moonlight, crouching on the top of the wall. A moment later the policeman had dashed up. Like a tiger springing on his prey, the man leapt down on him, knocking him flat, and then began running down the hill at top speed.
A second policeman had come up, and, seeing the running figure, made after him. But it was a hopeless chase. The man had had a good start, and he was a swift runner. Besides, the policeman was rather fat.
Suddenly a thought flashed into Pat’s mind, and his heart grew big with courage. He would help the policeman in his work—that would besomegood turn!
Placing his right foot firmly on his scooter, he kicked off violently with his left. In a moment he was shooting like a flash down the steep hill. It was a dangerous job. He squatted down and balanced carefully. He had never been at such a speed in his life.
In half a minute he had overtaken the policeman. The man, hearing the following footsteps flagging, had reduced his speed a little. Pat’s rubber wheels made no sound on the smooth road. Nearer and nearer he drew to the flying thief. Now he was very near. He set his teeth and steered his scooter straight for the man.
Crash!The scooter and its small rider had hurled themselves against his legs. With a yell of terror and pain the great figure crashed to the ground, Pat on top of it, the scooter flying out into the road. Without a moment’s hesitation he scrambled free of the man’s legs, and sat with all his weight on the furious burglar’s head. The man struggled violently, but one of his arms was caught under him, and Pat was bending the other back in a most painful position. Before long the policeman was up, and had the prisoner handcuffed.
Pat felt as if he were one great bruise all over! Blood was streaming from a cut on his chin, where it had come into violent contact with the burglar’s boot. But his first thought was for baby and the doctor. Picking up his scooter, he did not wait for a word from the policeman, but dashed on down the hill.
Half an hour later Dr. Byrne was up at the cottage in his car, with Pat and his scooter on the seat beside him. Of course the cut on the chin had to be explained. And, when baby was fixed up, it was stitched and bandaged. The next day Dr. Byrne drove his small patient to the Police Court.
“Crash! The scooter and its small rider had hurled themselves against the burglar’s legs”
“Crash! The scooter and its small rider had hurled themselves against the burglar’s legs”
Ten pounds reward! Why, the very excitement of the adventure would have been enough reward in itself! But, all the same, it’s rather jolly to have £10 of your very own, earned by your own pluck and the help of your scooter!
Eric Stone lived in Westminster with his aunt, for he had no mother or father. He belonged to a Westminster Pack, but he spent all his holidays at his grandfather’s house—a lovely old castle in Wales. Its weather-beaten walls reached out very near to the craggy cliffs, where the sea dashed up, white and foamy. Of course Eric longed for his holidays, and one day it struck him how jolly it would be to take three of the other Cubs with him. So he got leave from his grandfather, Sir David Stone, and then he invited the boys. He did not choose the ones he liked best, but the three chaps who would be likely to have the dullest holiday, and no fun at Christmas. That is how Donald Ford, number six of the Whites, came to have the strange adventure this story is about.
. . . . . . . .
It was Christmas Eve. The four Cubs had decorated the castle with holly and mistletoe. Now they were curled up on the great bearskin rug in the hall, before a blazing log fire. The dark winter afternoon had closed in, but the lamps were not yet lighted. Everything looked very mysterious; the fire-light danced in the dark corners, gleaming on the shining suits of armour and oak-panelled walls.
“Tell us a ghost story,” said one of the Cubs. So Eric told them all the stories he knew about the castle, and the knights who had lived in it hundreds of years ago. “And now,” he said, “I’ll tell you something which is not just a story, but is quite true. Somewhere in this castle there is asecret room. You know in olden days people used to hide in secret rooms, away from their enemies. Well, there’s one here, and it was always kept very secret: only the head of the family knew where it was. It opened by a spring, hidden in the oak panelling. But now nobody knows where it is; the secret has been quite lost for four hundred years, because they found it was very, very unlucky for any one to open the door or go in; it always meant a tragedy, or great shame on the family. I should love to find the room and so would grandfather. Of course it’s all rot about its being unlucky.”
“Oh,” cried the Cubs, “how awfully exciting! Do let’s hunt for it.”
“Yes,” agreed Eric, “we will, to-morrow. There’s one side of the castle we don’t use, because it is unsafe and may fall to ruins any day. The servants say that’s where the secret room is. They wouldn’t go there after dark for anything. In fact they say they hear footsteps there in the night.”
At this moment there were steps in the hall and voices, and Eric’s grandfather came in accompanied by his adopted son, William Mendel, a gloomy-looking man. Sir David Stone was a tall, soldierly looking old man, and devoted to Eric, for Eric’s father (his only son) had been killed in the War. William Mendel was the son of a very old friend of his, who had died when William was quite a boy. Eric and the Cubs disliked “Uncle William,” for he never lost an opportunity of snubbing them. They called him “the Professor” behind his back. He had rather long black hair, and a sullen, yellowish face. He wore large, round spectacles, and stooped badly. He had a nasty habit of peering about him in a suspicious manner.
“Hullo, kiddies!” said old Sir David, “what are you all doing in the dark?”
“I’ve been telling them about the secret room, grandfather,” said Eric; “to-morrow we are going to have a hunt for it.”
Sir David laughed. “All right,” he said, “and a golden sovereign for the one who finds it—that’s a bargain.”
The Cubs were delighted.
But Uncle William was looking very cross. “I shouldn’t have thought you would have wanted to find the secret room, Eric,” he said with a sneer. “You know it is haunted, and brings trouble to whoever finds it.”
Old Sir David turned in surprise. “My dear William,” he said, “you don’t mean to say you believe in that old wives’ tale?”
William Mendel laughed an ugly laugh. “Do you take me for a fool, father?” he said. “I was only trying to frighten the children from going to the left wing of the castle. You know how exceedingly dangerous it is.”
“I don’t believe it’s dangerous,” said Sir David.
“Well, sir,” retorted William, “there will be an accident one day if you let people walk about in those rickety passages.”
Sir David shrugged his shoulders. It was not the first argument he had had with his adopted son about the left wing of the castle.