[image]"HE STAGGERED BACKWARD, AND THE PISTOL WAS KNOCKED FROM HIS HAND."But Maximilien Rod was at his heels. Stumbling over him, the cook plunged head foremost among the boxes, only his fall saving him from Armstrong's club. Immediately behind him dashed the tall Pole. Having no time to swing his cudgel, Armstrong jabbed at him, and catching him under the chin sent him reeling against the doorpost. Meanwhile Mr. Pratt had disengaged himself from the obstructing press and regained his pistol, just as Rush and his big comrade of the island forged through the opening. The Pole had sprung to his feet with catlike agility. A revolver cracked. Mr. Pratt recoiled, rapidly changed his pistol from the right hand to the left, and fired.There was a sudden lull. Rush and the Finn had slipped back out of harm's way. Through the smoke Armstrong saw two men on the floor--the chauffeur whom he had felled, and the Pole, victim to Mr. Pratt's pistol."Back to the stairs!" murmured the old gentleman. He tottered."Are you hit, sir?" cried Armstrong, darting to his support."Yes. Leave me and hold the stairs."At this moment the entrance was darkened by the forms of the remaining members of the attacking party, Rush and the Finn, urged forward by Gradoff and his friends. Armstrong, holding Mr. Pratt, felt that the game was up. But now came Percy leaping down the winding stairs. Into the room he dashed, carrying a long bar of iron. Taking in the situation at a glance, he flung himself at the foremost intruders. Rush doubled up under his vehement onslaught; Sibelius recoiled upon Gradoff; and the momentary check gave Armstrong time to haul Mr. Pratt out of the light to the foot of the dark stairway. Swiftly withdrawing from the heap of wreckage, Percy had barely joined them and helped to draw his uncle up a few steps to the protection of the curving wall, when four pistols cracked, and chips of stone fell clattering upon the stairs.Immediately afterwards a burly arm and shoulder showed itself in the round of the wall. Quick as thought Percy lunged with his iron bar and jabbed the intruder just below the elbow. The man threw out a hoarse, savage cry, and disappeared. For a brief space there was silence; then came the noise of heavy feet kicking aside the debris in the room below, and rushing towards the stairway."Leave me," said Mr. Pratt again, sitting on one of the steps.Armstrong sprang down, and darting in front of Percy, came face to face with one of the strangers, who was rounding the corner, brandishing a pistol. Unprepared, apparently, for sudden counter-attack, and incommoded by the right-hand twist of the narrow staircase, the man let slip his momentary chance of firing point-blank, but had enough presence of mind to dodge the blow Armstrong aimed at him. If there had been room for two abreast on the stairs it might have gone ill with Armstrong then; he staggered forward and thrust his hands against the wall to save himself from falling. Behind him, however, Percy had swiftly taken his cue. With his extemporised pike he caught the stranger in the middle. The man recoiled upon his companions in the rear. A storm of curses broke from them, but in a few moments the din subsided, and nothing was heard except the low voices of the enemy in consultation."Jolly good weapon," whispered Armstrong, indicating the iron bar. "Where did you get it?""Wrenched it off my uncle's bedstead," replied Percy."Any more?""One.""Well, leave me this and go and get it, old chap. It's more useful than the club.""Is there time?""I think so. They won't know quite what to do. But hurry up. I'll look after your uncle--give him first aid. He ought to go upstairs; by the time you're down again I'll have him ready to move.""Much hurt, Uncle?" asked Pratt, bending down."A furrow ploughed in my forearm; nothing vital. Perhaps one of you will bind up the wound for me.""I'll do that, sir," said Armstrong. "Cut away, Percy."CHAPTER XXIVA LEVY EN MASSETo lie on one's back, bitted like a horse, trussed like a chicken, with flies and midges disporting themselves, unchecked, about one's features, and ants making adventurous journeys among one's clothes, is a situation that, to say the least of it, puts a strain upon a man's patience and equanimity. It is not greatly eased by the liberty of his eyes when their range is limited by dense overhanging foliage, which stirs in the breeze, opening tantalising glimpses of a sunbright sky.On his turfy couch Warrender lay, groaning inwardly, cursing himself for delaying his errand, and Fate for bringing his enemies just then upon the scene; vexing his soul with visions of his companions caught unawares, and of Mr. Pratt still chained to his post; blaming himself, with the insight of the afflicted, for having countenanced a scheme that usurped the functions of the officers of the law. A fly feasted on his nose; gnats buzzed in and out of his ears; ants chased one another over his neck and up his arms, causing him to feel one multitudinous and intricate itch.He had tried to wriggle himself free from his bonds, but Rush had not been poacher and fisher for nothing. Desisting from his vain struggles, he lay mumbling his gag, shaking his head like a tormented horse, and, as the minutes passed, sweating with alarm.Presently his straining ears caught the faint regular thud of oars turning in rowlocks. The sound drew nearer. He tried to shout, but was capable of nothing more than a gurgling grunt. The knowledge that a boat was rounding the southern end of the island set him a-throb with hope, anxiety, despair--for what should bring the oarsman to shore? If, indeed, he should land, what should draw him to this overgrown spot, or cause him to pry among the bushes? The sound began to recede; the boat was passing on down the river; his momentary hopefulness was crushed under the weight of disappointment.But after a little while his numb spirit was revivified by the sound of oars approaching again. He listened with throbbing eagerness. The movements were not now so regular; they were interrupted; presently they ceased altogether. Then he heard a rustle, and a slight thud as of some light-footed person jumping ashore. Again he tried to shout, but only the feeblest groan issued. All was silent. The new-comer, whoever it was, had seemingly not moved. But--was that not a cry?--a faint coo-ee, like an attenuated echo rather than a substantive sound. It came again, a little louder. After an interval, a third time, louder still. But there was no footstep, no rustling of branches, or swishing in trodden grass.Frenzied by the thought of some one standing within easy reach of him--some one, too, who was seeking, if not him, at any rate somebody--Warrender jerked his jaw until he succeeded in shifting a little the handkerchief knotted behind his poll; and, blowing out his cheeks, he fetched from the depth of his throat a note like the boom of a bull-frog. He heard--or was it fancy?--a muffled exclamation. Again he boomed. Then--surely he was not mistaken?--a light-toned voice, asking, with the breathless utterance of surprise, "Who is it?" He could but reply with his inarticulate bass note. Footsteps came towards him; then hesitated. He boomed encouragement."Where are you?"The words were scarcely above a whisper. Boom, boom! The swishing footsteps advanced, leaves clashed together, twigs snapped, and Warrender, feeling that his throat would crack and his cheeks burst, kept up his hollow note in moto continuo--accelerando--crescendo, as the hoped-for relief drew nearer.Presently, after what seemed an age, the foliage above his head was gently, timorously parted, and his eyes beheld amazement, concern, indignation in the face of Lilian Crawshay."Oh!" she exclaimed, pushing through the shrub. "What--why--oh, you poor thing!"She dropped on her knees, lifted his head, and swiftly untied the knot in the handkerchief."Thank you," he gasped."Who did it? What does it mean? But presently--presently. Your arms!"Turning, she sought to untie the knots. They were too firm, the rope too coarse, for her little fingers."My knife--coat pocket," murmured Warrender.In a trice she found the knife; even its keen blade she had to use as a saw before the bonds were severed. Warrender got up, stiffly. He stretched his aching arms, shook himself, stamped his feet."I can't thank you enough," he said, the words coming hoarsely through his parched lips."But who had the wickedness----? Never mind; tell me presently. What can I do? There is something--something terrible, I know. What can I do to help?""Will you row me to our camp? As we go, I shall be able to explain. My voice is coming back.""Yes, let us go. Let me help you."She took his arm, hurried him on his cramped legs to the skiff that lay half on the bank, and, hauling this into the water, assisted him to the stern thwart. Then she turned, ran a few steps to Rush's boat, and brought from it Warrender's cap."But for this----" she began. "Oh, it's too horrible!"Springing to her seat facing him, she unshipped the sculls and began to pull up stream."I rowed to your camp," she said. "My father gave me a message for you. I was surprised to find it deserted, and came down, thinking I might see some of you on the water. But there was no sign of you, and I was returning when I caught sight of the cap in Rush's boat. I wondered. I knew it belonged to one of you, and it surprised me to find it there. I got ashore. Did you hear me coo-ee? It was very soft; I hardly knew what to think."Warrender nodded."Then I heard that strange sound. I was a little frightened; but after a moment I thought it might be Mr. Pratt; he is funny sometimes. It was when you didn't answer that I thought something must be wrong, and--well, you know. I am so glad I didn't run away. How long had you been in that dreadful position?""I don't know--an age.""And was it Rush?""Yes. I must tell you. The foreigners at the Red House----""Oh, I guessed! Dear old Father was so mysterious. Did he tell you to keep it from me?""Well, yes, he did.""I knew it. Why does a man like to play the ostrich? I knew ages ago there was something strange happening, and we poor women creatures mustn't be startled, shocked. Daddy is an Early Victorian. Is it so very horrid?""It's a long story. D'you mind if I tell you later? I want you to land, if you will, at the camp, and go across to your house as quickly as possible, and ask Mr. Crawshay to bring every man he can muster, armed, to the tower in Mr. Pratt's grounds. One thing I had better tell you at once: the foreigners had Mr. Pratt a prisoner in the tower.""Good gracious! Mr. Ambrose Pratt?""Yes. Here we are. Please give my message at once. Mr. Crawshay will partly understand. Impress on him that speed is vital.""And you?""I am going to rush up to the village in the motor-boat.""But are you able?""Quite. The stiffness is wearing off. Tell Mr. Crawshay I am taking some men--all the able-bodied men I can collect--to the tower, and if he can somehow send a message to the nearest town for the police----""Yes; I understand. We've no telegraph or telephone in this benighted place, but it shall be done. You are quite sure you can manage alone? I don't think you are fit for much exertion, you know.""I'm quite all right," replied Warrender, smiling as he handed the girl ashore. "By the way, Pratt and Armstrong are in the tower. Will you tell Mr. Crawshay that? And speed is all important.""I'll run like a hare. Good-bye. I do hope----"She left her thought unsaid, and, gathering her skirt, fled across the field towards her home.Ten minutes afterwards, Warrender ran the motor-boat alongside the landing-stage, sprang ashore, and hurried up to the Ferry Inn. The door was open--it was the mid-day interval for refreshment--and he saw a good many familiar figures with their elbows on the bar, or tipping up the pots which Joe Rogers, in his shirt-sleeves, had drawn for them. His arrival precisely at this moment could not have happened more luckily. Rogers greeted him with a smile; Henery Drew and one or two others nodded and went on drinking. No one spoke; the countryman takes a minute or two to think of an opening."Rogers, my friends, I want your help," said Warrender. The rustics looked at him solemnly. He went on, not pausing to choose his words: "Those foreigners are forging Treasury notes in Mr. Pratt's tower. They have Mr. Pratt himself a prisoner there." Eyes widened; pots were suspended in mid course. "My chums have got in and are holding the place against them. I want every man of you to come with me and lend a hand. With your help we'll collar the whole gang. There's no time to lose."No one moved. Rogers stood staring, with his hand on the draw-pull. The others gaped."Don't you understand?" cried Warrender. "Mr. Pratt's in danger. They're desperate criminals--six or eight of them against three. You, Mr. Drew--you're a soldier. Rogers----""What have they done to my sister Molly?" shouted Rogers. "Neighbours all, do 'ee hear? Mr. Pratt, as we thought abroad--'od rabbit it all, come on!" He darted round the counter."Got a gun, Rogers?" asked Warrender."Ay, there's a fowling-piece in the parlour," cried the man, running back again."I've got one up along," said Drew. "Do 'ee say now! I'll fetch 'en.""Stay!" said Warrender. "There isn't time. You must bring what you can. Don't delay. Sticks, forks, spades--you've a mattock there," he added, addressing a man on the settle against the wall. "Bring it along. All of you bring what you can lay hands on. Mr. Drew, you're an active man. Run up into the village and collect all the men you can find, and take them up to the Red House by the road. Set a couple to guard the gate, lead the rest on to the tower. You others, borrow some garden tools from Rogers--or anything; and come with me. Here's Rogers." The innkeeper, minus his wig, came back with his fowling-piece. "You'll lend your tools?""Ay sure. In the shed, neighbours; you do know the way. My poor Molly!""I give you five minutes!" cried Warrender. "Come down to the ferry. I'll wait for you--five minutes only."He hurried out, followed by Rogers. The younger men among the rest, bestirring themselves at last, went round the inn into the garden. Within five minutes a group of seven, armed with hoe, rake, spade, mattock, fork, fowling-piece, and coal-hammer, was gathered on the landing-stage."Squeeze into the boat," said Warrender. "I'll run you down and land you opposite No Man's Island. You must pack tight."[image]"'SQUEEZE INTO THE BOAT.'"They crowded into the boat. Warrender opened the throttle. A shriek was heard, and Mrs. Rogers came flying out of the inn, flourishing her husband's wig."Joe, you gawkhammer, you've left your hair behind.""Make it into a stew and be jowned to it!" shouted Rogers, as the boat hummed away.Landing on the bank opposite the cottage, the party hurried through the plantation, Warrender taking the lead."No talking, men," he said.They emerged into the park. The tower came in sight. From the roof a dense column of brown smoke rose straight into the still air. Rogers groaned."God send we be in time!" he murmured, as he pounded heavily along.CHAPTER XXVSQUARING ACCOUNTSArmstrong profited by the enemy's first check to bind his handkerchief round Mr. Pratt's arm."Hadn't you better go upstairs, sir, out of harm's way?" he asked."Call myself a casualty and slink to the rear? No, thank you, my lad. Not while I can stand and use my left arm. We must hold our ground here at all costs.""Here, sir?""Yes. They must not drive us beyond the first floor. No doubt they have released the man you tied up, and the fact that they still attack us shows there is something upstairs they don't want to leave.""I saw some tin cases in the room above.""Filled with forged notes, beyond doubt. But what's this? Do you smell burning?""Smoke--wood smoke. D'you hear the crackling? They have fired the tower.""Not they. They won't burn their notes. They want to drive us above. It is very ingenious--and very unpleasant."The pungent smoke from burning wood rolled up the staircase in ever-increasing volume. Percy came running down, carrying, not an iron bar, but an assegai taken from the wall of the top room."Didn't notice it before," he said."Run up again and open the door to the roof," said his uncle. "We may as well stave off asphyxia as long as we can."Armstrong caught sight of a head peering up from the round of the wall below. He raised his hand suddenly as if to fire. The head disappeared."Spying to see if we have gone," chuckled Mr. Pratt.With the opening of the door above, the smoke rose more rapidly. Mr. Pratt coughed."I have the misfortune to be a trifle asthmatical," he said. "It is very unpleasant.""May as well cough, too. It will encourage 'em," said Armstrong, with a grim smile. "Percy, you can manage a churchyard cough."They both coughed, at first deliberately, but as the smoke thickened, involuntarily.Suddenly there was a rush of feet below. Armstrong bent forward, thrusting out his iron bar; but the foremost of the assailants, the Swede, seemed to have expected the move, for he slipped aside, bent almost double, crying to his comrade behind him, and sprang towards Percy. The boy, having just run downstairs and only at that moment caught up the assegai, was a little late with his lunge. Jensen seized the head of the weapon and tugged at it, forcing Percy down a step or two. To save himself, Percy let go; the Swede staggered backward against Radewski, who was in the act of discharging his revolver at Armstrong. The jostling of the man's arm spoilt his aim, and the bullet, which, fired point-blank, would probably have found its billet in Armstrong's breast, struck him on the right shoulder and spun him half round. Mr. Pratt had hitherto been unable to use his pistol for fear of hitting one or other of the boys; but now, seeing that both were for the moment at a disadvantage, he dashed between them, fired with his left hand at the Pole, only two steps below, and sent him rolling down the stairs with a shot in his groin.But the enemy were not this time to be denied. Jensen, inspired with lust of vengeance, had quickly recovered his footing. Immediately below him Rod and Sibelius, pointing their revolvers, only awaited an opportunity of firing as soon as there was no risk of hitting their own comrade. Mr. Pratt, who was weaker than he knew, had just pulled his trigger without effect; either the chamber was empty or something had jammed. Armstrong, with a wound in the shoulder, was leaning, for the moment overcome with pain, against the wall of the staircase. Taking in the whole scene, Percy felt that all was over. His own weapon was gone; even if he should seize Armstrong's bar, single-handed he must soon be overpowered.At this crisis, by one of those tricks of the mind which no one can account for, he suddenly remembered the packet of pepper he had bought in the village, and one of the uses to which pepper could be put. It was still in his pocket. Snatching it out, he swiftly unfolded the top of the cone-shaped paper bag, and holding the bag by the screwed-up end, he scattered its contents upon the face of Jensen, just rounding the bend. With a howl of rage and pain the Swede recoiled on his comrades behind, driving them back upon the remainder of their party at the foot of the stairs. The volume of wood smoke had lessened when they started the attack; and now the cloud of pepper, floating down slowly upon the fumes, spread over the whole width of the staircase. A chorus of sneezes soared up--a chorus in many parts, from the shrill tenor of Prutti, the Italian chauffeur, to the resonant bass of the corpulent Swiss, Maximilien Rod. Gradoff's sneeze was distinguishable from Jensen's, and the two strangers performed a duet in sternutation. There were interludes of cursing and yelling; Rush's sense of humour appeared to be tickled, as well as his nostrils; for Pratt declared that he heard him guffawing between his sneezes. After all, Rush was an Englishman.The performers were still busy--the audience on the stairs was about to move a little higher up--when there came, from some spot without, a sound of cheers. Never was applause so unwelcome to a foreign band. With the sneezes now mingled cries of alarm, the noise of feet scuffling amid litter, a running to and fro. Percy, with a whoop of delight, dashed downstairs, picking up his assegai on the way. When he reached the room below, he was momentarily checked by a sneeze; then, through the clearing smoke, his streaming eyes beheld two figures struggling on the floor. A second glance distinguished them as Jensen and his old enemy, Henery Drew. The farmer was uppermost.[image]"THE FARMER WAS UPPERMOST.""Come and see fair play, Jack," Pratt shouted up the stairs to Armstrong, who had pulled himself together and was following him.From outside came fierce shouts, pistol shots, the clash of weapons. Pratt dashed out. Gradoff and his gang (all but Rush, who had surrendered at once) were sustaining an unequal struggle with the infuriated villagers who had closed upon them. On the one side Warrender, with Rogers and the rest, on the other the group of villagers collected by Drew--of whom the general dealer, smarting for his unpaid bill, had constituted himself the temporary leader in rivalry with Constable Hardstone--a body of some twenty determined men, who were perhaps a little breathless from haste. Not so with the others. As Samson lost his strength with his hair, so these international adventurers, desperate, courageous enough, holding life cheap, became as children under the debilitating pungency of pepper. A man cannot sneeze and fight. Some few shots were fired; a bullet grazed Rogers's shining skull; another struck out of Blevins's hand the mallet he carried; a third carried away the lobe of an ear from a young carter, who refused to leave the field until he had found it. Short, sharp, decisive, the battle ended in a general capitulation. Only one of the foreigners escaped; Gradoff, seeing that all was lost, kept his last bullet for himself.From the doorway Mr. Pratt had watched the pinioning of the prisoners. A cheer broke from his neighbours and tenants. And, just as a move towards the house was being made, Mr. Crawshay and two of his men, armed with shot-guns, came trotting across the sward."God bless you, Pratt, my dear fellow," cried the old gentleman, grasping his neighbour by the hand, and shaking it vigorously up and down.Mr. Pratt sneezed."And you, Crawshay," he said. "But try the other hand, my friend; my right arm bears an honourable wound."EPILOGUEIt was Saturday afternoon. The spacious lawn in front of Mr. Crawshay's house was spread with bamboo tables and deck-chairs. At the porch stood Mr. Crawshay and Mr. Ambrose Pratt side by side, smoking long cigars, chatting and laughing with the familiarity of old friends. Mr. Pratt's right arm was in a sling."It's time they came," said Mr. Crawshay, taking out his watch. He wore a large panama, and his suit of spotless ducks gave him a festal air."They're probably squabbling for precedence," said Mr. Pratt; "not on social grounds, but for modesty. It's an ordeal, you know, Crawshay; and when they see your rig, and that purple tie of yours, they'll be abashed.""What'll they say to the women, then?" returned Mr. Crawshay. "Upon my soul, Pratt, I think you are right to come in your old clothes; they'll feel more at home. It never occurred to me.""Oh, well, you're lord of the manor; I dare say you're right to look the part. But here they come, in a bunch. Mrs. Rogers is, perhaps, a shade ahead."Mr. Crawshay turned and called through the open door. His daughter, in a dainty confection of muslin and lace, and a straw hat trimmed with pink silk, came running out, followed by her mother, an impressive figure in blue, and our three campers, in flannels and blazers. Armstrong also had an arm in a sling.Grouped in front of the porch they awaited the coming of the party that had just entered the drive. Mrs. Rogers, in stiff black silk, and a wonderful bonnet, marched along a little in advance of her husband, hardly recognisable in his Sunday suit of blue serge and a bowler hat sitting uneasily on the back of his head. Samuel Blevins, the general dealer, had affected a long frock coat and a tall hat. Henery Drew, magnificent in a brown bowler and a suit of large-checked tweed, walked beside Hardstone, the constable, disguised in habiliments that might have become a prosperous plumber. The rest of the company, whose names we do not know, were alike in one respect; all had donned their "Sunday best." Every face, without exception, wore an air of deep solemnity.Mr. Crawshay took a step forward."Glad to see you, neighbours," he said, genially. "We are lucky in a fine afternoon."He shook hands with them individually, a greeting that inflicted on them various degrees of embarrassment, deepened by the smiling welcome of his wife and daughter. Mr. Pratt contented himself with a general salutation; it was not until the boys began to crack jokes with them that the prevailing gloom lightened."You didn't bring your sister, Rogers?" said Mr. Crawshay to the innkeeper."True, sir; she bain't come along.""She couldn't face 'ee, sir," added Mrs. Rogers. "I always did say as she was making a rod for her back, though never did I think Rod was such a downright wicked feller. And Henery Drew, as would have made her a good husband as far as husbands do go, and now he can't marry her without committing bigamy.""Well, well! We must hope for the best," said Mr. Crawshay. "Now, my friends, we're all here. Take your seats, and we'll have tea."The company seated themselves. Maids brought from the house trays filled with good things. Mrs. Crawshay poured out tea, and Lilian and the boys carried round the eatables. Under the influence of good cheer the villagers' stiffness wore off, and they began to descant upon the moving events of the past days. For the first time in its history the village had become a place of importance. Visitors had flocked to it from all parts; journalists with cameras had interviewed the actors in the drama, and expressed themselves very freely on Mr. Pratt's refusal to admit them to his grounds, and to pose for his photograph. His modesty in this respect was a standing puzzle to his humble neighbours. Mrs. Rogers, for instance, was extremely proud of the portrait of her husband that had appeared in the previous day's picture paper."The scar shows beautiful," she said, complacently."Dear me," said Mrs. Crawshay, with a discreet glance at Rogers's broad face, "I wasn't aware----""Take off your hat, Joe, and show the lady."Removing his hat, Rogers displayed a red furrow that ran across his shiny pate."What a narrow escape!" exclaimed Mrs. Crawshay."Ay sure, ma'am, 'twas so," said Mrs. Rogers. "And I'm certain a widow's cap wouldn't have suited me.""Well, Mrs. Rogers, you won't be so particular about Joe's wig after this," said Percy Pratt. "You see, if he'd worn his wig, his scalp wouldn't have been touched; think what millions of people have had the pleasure of admiring your husband, talking about his bravery, discussing the track of the bullet across his skull. No one wanted to take my photograph.""They took 'ee unbeknownst, then, becos there you be, next to Joe, with 'Pepper and Salt' printed underneath; very clever, I call it, Joe being once a sailor.""Oh, I say," exclaimed Pratt, "did they get the others too?""No, sir. Not as I think it a very good likeness. You've got your two eyes half shut, and your mouth is a very queer shape, like as if you was expecting of somebody to pop something in it--a drop of physic, maybe."The villagers looked merely interested, the others frankly amused. Pratt blushed."He must have caught you when you were singing a particularly sentimental song, old chap," said Warrender, smiling."That reminds me," said Mrs. Crawshay. "Do bring out your banjo, Mr. Pratt, and sing us something.""Wait a minute," said Mr. Crawshay. "Before we begin the--entertainment, shall I call it?--I want to say a word or two.""Hear, hear!" exclaimed Blevins. "'Tis what I call an event.""No heroics, for goodness' sake, Crawshay," murmured Mr. Pratt.Mr. Crawshay assumed the look of one determined not to be interfered with."I just want to say, neighbours," he proceeded, "how glad I am to see you all here this afternoon, in celebration of what Mr. Blevins rightly calls an event in the simple history of our little parish. You all had a part in the frustration of the most nefarious criminal conspiracy that has ever come within my long experience as a county magistrate. Thanks to the ingenuity and perseverance of my dear young friends, their refusal to be intimidated, their sleepless vigils and untiring watchfulness, the secrets of that criminal conspiracy were laid bare, my old friend and neighbour was rescued from a most distressing situation, and you, anticipating the slow operation of the law, but sanctioned by the presence among you of an officer of the law, were able to secure the apprehension of the whole band of criminals, who are now awaiting in the darkness of the county gaol the due reward of their deeds. Our village is to be congratulated on the visit of three young men, typical products of our renowned public school system, and on the public spirit of its own inhabitants, who, when the call for action came, forgetting all class distinctions, regardless of personal risk, braved the murderous weapons of unscrupulous villains, and nobly carried out the first duty of the patriotic citizen. I am speaking the mind of you all," the worthy magistrate went on, warming to his subject, "when I say that we shall long treasure the memory of our young friends, their high spirits, their unfailing cheerfulness under persecution, their courage and ingenuity; and it is a matter of regret that, yielding to paramount claims, the claims of parental affection, they are leaving us to-day. But it will please you all to hear that, in response to my invitation--I may say to my insistence--they have agreed to visit us again next year; and I understand from my old friend and neighbour, Mr. Pratt, that he intends to acquire No Man's Island, so long derelict, and restore the cottage as a holiday hostel for boys of our public schools."Here there were general cheers."Dear old Father!" whispered Lilian to the boys. "He gets so few chances of making a speech, and he does love it so.""I won't detain you longer," Mr. Crawshay went on. "No doubt Mr. Pratt would like to say a few words.""Hate it!" exclaimed Mr. Pratt. "One thing only. I've had a bad time. I deserved it. I was over-hasty. My old servants are scattered; if any of you know where they are, tell them to come to me. I'll reinstate them--if we can agree about wages."Under cover of the villagers' applause, Percy seized the opportunity of unbosoming himself to a select audience, his companions and Lilian Crawshay."Are we blushing, Miss Crawshay?" he asked. "I don't think we are, because, you see, we are supremely conscious of each other's merits. We really are benefactors, you know--public and private. Who would ever believe that the two old gentlemen were not long ago calling each other luna----""Now, Mr. Pratt," the girl interrupted."Well, X and Y then," rejoined Pratt. "It's undeniable, isn't it, that they're reconciled through us? And as for my uncle and me, we're quite pally; the old feud is healed, and before long I expect my father and Uncle Ambrose will kiss again with tears. Tennyson, you know. Anyway, it's been a ripping holiday, and----""Now, Mr. Pratt, we are all waiting," said Mrs. Crawshay, amiably.Pratt obediently went into the house, brought out his banjo, and trolled out ditties of the most sentimental order. Presently Warrender announced that it was time to go if they meant to reach Southampton before dark. The whole company trooped down to the bank with them, and watched them board the motor-boat, already loaded with their camp equipment. Last good-byes were said; Warrender opened the throttle; and as the boat panted down stream there came to the ears of the silent spectators the gentle strumming of the banjo, and Pratt's melodious tenor--"Our hearts were once divided,But now they beat as one;The clouds roll by across the sky,And yonder shines the sun."THE END*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKNO MAN'S ISLAND***
[image]"HE STAGGERED BACKWARD, AND THE PISTOL WAS KNOCKED FROM HIS HAND."
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"HE STAGGERED BACKWARD, AND THE PISTOL WAS KNOCKED FROM HIS HAND."
But Maximilien Rod was at his heels. Stumbling over him, the cook plunged head foremost among the boxes, only his fall saving him from Armstrong's club. Immediately behind him dashed the tall Pole. Having no time to swing his cudgel, Armstrong jabbed at him, and catching him under the chin sent him reeling against the doorpost. Meanwhile Mr. Pratt had disengaged himself from the obstructing press and regained his pistol, just as Rush and his big comrade of the island forged through the opening. The Pole had sprung to his feet with catlike agility. A revolver cracked. Mr. Pratt recoiled, rapidly changed his pistol from the right hand to the left, and fired.
There was a sudden lull. Rush and the Finn had slipped back out of harm's way. Through the smoke Armstrong saw two men on the floor--the chauffeur whom he had felled, and the Pole, victim to Mr. Pratt's pistol.
"Back to the stairs!" murmured the old gentleman. He tottered.
"Are you hit, sir?" cried Armstrong, darting to his support.
"Yes. Leave me and hold the stairs."
At this moment the entrance was darkened by the forms of the remaining members of the attacking party, Rush and the Finn, urged forward by Gradoff and his friends. Armstrong, holding Mr. Pratt, felt that the game was up. But now came Percy leaping down the winding stairs. Into the room he dashed, carrying a long bar of iron. Taking in the situation at a glance, he flung himself at the foremost intruders. Rush doubled up under his vehement onslaught; Sibelius recoiled upon Gradoff; and the momentary check gave Armstrong time to haul Mr. Pratt out of the light to the foot of the dark stairway. Swiftly withdrawing from the heap of wreckage, Percy had barely joined them and helped to draw his uncle up a few steps to the protection of the curving wall, when four pistols cracked, and chips of stone fell clattering upon the stairs.
Immediately afterwards a burly arm and shoulder showed itself in the round of the wall. Quick as thought Percy lunged with his iron bar and jabbed the intruder just below the elbow. The man threw out a hoarse, savage cry, and disappeared. For a brief space there was silence; then came the noise of heavy feet kicking aside the debris in the room below, and rushing towards the stairway.
"Leave me," said Mr. Pratt again, sitting on one of the steps.
Armstrong sprang down, and darting in front of Percy, came face to face with one of the strangers, who was rounding the corner, brandishing a pistol. Unprepared, apparently, for sudden counter-attack, and incommoded by the right-hand twist of the narrow staircase, the man let slip his momentary chance of firing point-blank, but had enough presence of mind to dodge the blow Armstrong aimed at him. If there had been room for two abreast on the stairs it might have gone ill with Armstrong then; he staggered forward and thrust his hands against the wall to save himself from falling. Behind him, however, Percy had swiftly taken his cue. With his extemporised pike he caught the stranger in the middle. The man recoiled upon his companions in the rear. A storm of curses broke from them, but in a few moments the din subsided, and nothing was heard except the low voices of the enemy in consultation.
"Jolly good weapon," whispered Armstrong, indicating the iron bar. "Where did you get it?"
"Wrenched it off my uncle's bedstead," replied Percy.
"Any more?"
"One."
"Well, leave me this and go and get it, old chap. It's more useful than the club."
"Is there time?"
"I think so. They won't know quite what to do. But hurry up. I'll look after your uncle--give him first aid. He ought to go upstairs; by the time you're down again I'll have him ready to move."
"Much hurt, Uncle?" asked Pratt, bending down.
"A furrow ploughed in my forearm; nothing vital. Perhaps one of you will bind up the wound for me."
"I'll do that, sir," said Armstrong. "Cut away, Percy."
CHAPTER XXIV
A LEVY EN MASSE
To lie on one's back, bitted like a horse, trussed like a chicken, with flies and midges disporting themselves, unchecked, about one's features, and ants making adventurous journeys among one's clothes, is a situation that, to say the least of it, puts a strain upon a man's patience and equanimity. It is not greatly eased by the liberty of his eyes when their range is limited by dense overhanging foliage, which stirs in the breeze, opening tantalising glimpses of a sunbright sky.
On his turfy couch Warrender lay, groaning inwardly, cursing himself for delaying his errand, and Fate for bringing his enemies just then upon the scene; vexing his soul with visions of his companions caught unawares, and of Mr. Pratt still chained to his post; blaming himself, with the insight of the afflicted, for having countenanced a scheme that usurped the functions of the officers of the law. A fly feasted on his nose; gnats buzzed in and out of his ears; ants chased one another over his neck and up his arms, causing him to feel one multitudinous and intricate itch.
He had tried to wriggle himself free from his bonds, but Rush had not been poacher and fisher for nothing. Desisting from his vain struggles, he lay mumbling his gag, shaking his head like a tormented horse, and, as the minutes passed, sweating with alarm.
Presently his straining ears caught the faint regular thud of oars turning in rowlocks. The sound drew nearer. He tried to shout, but was capable of nothing more than a gurgling grunt. The knowledge that a boat was rounding the southern end of the island set him a-throb with hope, anxiety, despair--for what should bring the oarsman to shore? If, indeed, he should land, what should draw him to this overgrown spot, or cause him to pry among the bushes? The sound began to recede; the boat was passing on down the river; his momentary hopefulness was crushed under the weight of disappointment.
But after a little while his numb spirit was revivified by the sound of oars approaching again. He listened with throbbing eagerness. The movements were not now so regular; they were interrupted; presently they ceased altogether. Then he heard a rustle, and a slight thud as of some light-footed person jumping ashore. Again he tried to shout, but only the feeblest groan issued. All was silent. The new-comer, whoever it was, had seemingly not moved. But--was that not a cry?--a faint coo-ee, like an attenuated echo rather than a substantive sound. It came again, a little louder. After an interval, a third time, louder still. But there was no footstep, no rustling of branches, or swishing in trodden grass.
Frenzied by the thought of some one standing within easy reach of him--some one, too, who was seeking, if not him, at any rate somebody--Warrender jerked his jaw until he succeeded in shifting a little the handkerchief knotted behind his poll; and, blowing out his cheeks, he fetched from the depth of his throat a note like the boom of a bull-frog. He heard--or was it fancy?--a muffled exclamation. Again he boomed. Then--surely he was not mistaken?--a light-toned voice, asking, with the breathless utterance of surprise, "Who is it?" He could but reply with his inarticulate bass note. Footsteps came towards him; then hesitated. He boomed encouragement.
"Where are you?"
The words were scarcely above a whisper. Boom, boom! The swishing footsteps advanced, leaves clashed together, twigs snapped, and Warrender, feeling that his throat would crack and his cheeks burst, kept up his hollow note in moto continuo--accelerando--crescendo, as the hoped-for relief drew nearer.
Presently, after what seemed an age, the foliage above his head was gently, timorously parted, and his eyes beheld amazement, concern, indignation in the face of Lilian Crawshay.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, pushing through the shrub. "What--why--oh, you poor thing!"
She dropped on her knees, lifted his head, and swiftly untied the knot in the handkerchief.
"Thank you," he gasped.
"Who did it? What does it mean? But presently--presently. Your arms!"
Turning, she sought to untie the knots. They were too firm, the rope too coarse, for her little fingers.
"My knife--coat pocket," murmured Warrender.
In a trice she found the knife; even its keen blade she had to use as a saw before the bonds were severed. Warrender got up, stiffly. He stretched his aching arms, shook himself, stamped his feet.
"I can't thank you enough," he said, the words coming hoarsely through his parched lips.
"But who had the wickedness----? Never mind; tell me presently. What can I do? There is something--something terrible, I know. What can I do to help?"
"Will you row me to our camp? As we go, I shall be able to explain. My voice is coming back."
"Yes, let us go. Let me help you."
She took his arm, hurried him on his cramped legs to the skiff that lay half on the bank, and, hauling this into the water, assisted him to the stern thwart. Then she turned, ran a few steps to Rush's boat, and brought from it Warrender's cap.
"But for this----" she began. "Oh, it's too horrible!"
Springing to her seat facing him, she unshipped the sculls and began to pull up stream.
"I rowed to your camp," she said. "My father gave me a message for you. I was surprised to find it deserted, and came down, thinking I might see some of you on the water. But there was no sign of you, and I was returning when I caught sight of the cap in Rush's boat. I wondered. I knew it belonged to one of you, and it surprised me to find it there. I got ashore. Did you hear me coo-ee? It was very soft; I hardly knew what to think."
Warrender nodded.
"Then I heard that strange sound. I was a little frightened; but after a moment I thought it might be Mr. Pratt; he is funny sometimes. It was when you didn't answer that I thought something must be wrong, and--well, you know. I am so glad I didn't run away. How long had you been in that dreadful position?"
"I don't know--an age."
"And was it Rush?"
"Yes. I must tell you. The foreigners at the Red House----"
"Oh, I guessed! Dear old Father was so mysterious. Did he tell you to keep it from me?"
"Well, yes, he did."
"I knew it. Why does a man like to play the ostrich? I knew ages ago there was something strange happening, and we poor women creatures mustn't be startled, shocked. Daddy is an Early Victorian. Is it so very horrid?"
"It's a long story. D'you mind if I tell you later? I want you to land, if you will, at the camp, and go across to your house as quickly as possible, and ask Mr. Crawshay to bring every man he can muster, armed, to the tower in Mr. Pratt's grounds. One thing I had better tell you at once: the foreigners had Mr. Pratt a prisoner in the tower."
"Good gracious! Mr. Ambrose Pratt?"
"Yes. Here we are. Please give my message at once. Mr. Crawshay will partly understand. Impress on him that speed is vital."
"And you?"
"I am going to rush up to the village in the motor-boat."
"But are you able?"
"Quite. The stiffness is wearing off. Tell Mr. Crawshay I am taking some men--all the able-bodied men I can collect--to the tower, and if he can somehow send a message to the nearest town for the police----"
"Yes; I understand. We've no telegraph or telephone in this benighted place, but it shall be done. You are quite sure you can manage alone? I don't think you are fit for much exertion, you know."
"I'm quite all right," replied Warrender, smiling as he handed the girl ashore. "By the way, Pratt and Armstrong are in the tower. Will you tell Mr. Crawshay that? And speed is all important."
"I'll run like a hare. Good-bye. I do hope----"
She left her thought unsaid, and, gathering her skirt, fled across the field towards her home.
Ten minutes afterwards, Warrender ran the motor-boat alongside the landing-stage, sprang ashore, and hurried up to the Ferry Inn. The door was open--it was the mid-day interval for refreshment--and he saw a good many familiar figures with their elbows on the bar, or tipping up the pots which Joe Rogers, in his shirt-sleeves, had drawn for them. His arrival precisely at this moment could not have happened more luckily. Rogers greeted him with a smile; Henery Drew and one or two others nodded and went on drinking. No one spoke; the countryman takes a minute or two to think of an opening.
"Rogers, my friends, I want your help," said Warrender. The rustics looked at him solemnly. He went on, not pausing to choose his words: "Those foreigners are forging Treasury notes in Mr. Pratt's tower. They have Mr. Pratt himself a prisoner there." Eyes widened; pots were suspended in mid course. "My chums have got in and are holding the place against them. I want every man of you to come with me and lend a hand. With your help we'll collar the whole gang. There's no time to lose."
No one moved. Rogers stood staring, with his hand on the draw-pull. The others gaped.
"Don't you understand?" cried Warrender. "Mr. Pratt's in danger. They're desperate criminals--six or eight of them against three. You, Mr. Drew--you're a soldier. Rogers----"
"What have they done to my sister Molly?" shouted Rogers. "Neighbours all, do 'ee hear? Mr. Pratt, as we thought abroad--'od rabbit it all, come on!" He darted round the counter.
"Got a gun, Rogers?" asked Warrender.
"Ay, there's a fowling-piece in the parlour," cried the man, running back again.
"I've got one up along," said Drew. "Do 'ee say now! I'll fetch 'en."
"Stay!" said Warrender. "There isn't time. You must bring what you can. Don't delay. Sticks, forks, spades--you've a mattock there," he added, addressing a man on the settle against the wall. "Bring it along. All of you bring what you can lay hands on. Mr. Drew, you're an active man. Run up into the village and collect all the men you can find, and take them up to the Red House by the road. Set a couple to guard the gate, lead the rest on to the tower. You others, borrow some garden tools from Rogers--or anything; and come with me. Here's Rogers." The innkeeper, minus his wig, came back with his fowling-piece. "You'll lend your tools?"
"Ay sure. In the shed, neighbours; you do know the way. My poor Molly!"
"I give you five minutes!" cried Warrender. "Come down to the ferry. I'll wait for you--five minutes only."
He hurried out, followed by Rogers. The younger men among the rest, bestirring themselves at last, went round the inn into the garden. Within five minutes a group of seven, armed with hoe, rake, spade, mattock, fork, fowling-piece, and coal-hammer, was gathered on the landing-stage.
"Squeeze into the boat," said Warrender. "I'll run you down and land you opposite No Man's Island. You must pack tight."
[image]"'SQUEEZE INTO THE BOAT.'"
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"'SQUEEZE INTO THE BOAT.'"
They crowded into the boat. Warrender opened the throttle. A shriek was heard, and Mrs. Rogers came flying out of the inn, flourishing her husband's wig.
"Joe, you gawkhammer, you've left your hair behind."
"Make it into a stew and be jowned to it!" shouted Rogers, as the boat hummed away.
Landing on the bank opposite the cottage, the party hurried through the plantation, Warrender taking the lead.
"No talking, men," he said.
They emerged into the park. The tower came in sight. From the roof a dense column of brown smoke rose straight into the still air. Rogers groaned.
"God send we be in time!" he murmured, as he pounded heavily along.
CHAPTER XXV
SQUARING ACCOUNTS
Armstrong profited by the enemy's first check to bind his handkerchief round Mr. Pratt's arm.
"Hadn't you better go upstairs, sir, out of harm's way?" he asked.
"Call myself a casualty and slink to the rear? No, thank you, my lad. Not while I can stand and use my left arm. We must hold our ground here at all costs."
"Here, sir?"
"Yes. They must not drive us beyond the first floor. No doubt they have released the man you tied up, and the fact that they still attack us shows there is something upstairs they don't want to leave."
"I saw some tin cases in the room above."
"Filled with forged notes, beyond doubt. But what's this? Do you smell burning?"
"Smoke--wood smoke. D'you hear the crackling? They have fired the tower."
"Not they. They won't burn their notes. They want to drive us above. It is very ingenious--and very unpleasant."
The pungent smoke from burning wood rolled up the staircase in ever-increasing volume. Percy came running down, carrying, not an iron bar, but an assegai taken from the wall of the top room.
"Didn't notice it before," he said.
"Run up again and open the door to the roof," said his uncle. "We may as well stave off asphyxia as long as we can."
Armstrong caught sight of a head peering up from the round of the wall below. He raised his hand suddenly as if to fire. The head disappeared.
"Spying to see if we have gone," chuckled Mr. Pratt.
With the opening of the door above, the smoke rose more rapidly. Mr. Pratt coughed.
"I have the misfortune to be a trifle asthmatical," he said. "It is very unpleasant."
"May as well cough, too. It will encourage 'em," said Armstrong, with a grim smile. "Percy, you can manage a churchyard cough."
They both coughed, at first deliberately, but as the smoke thickened, involuntarily.
Suddenly there was a rush of feet below. Armstrong bent forward, thrusting out his iron bar; but the foremost of the assailants, the Swede, seemed to have expected the move, for he slipped aside, bent almost double, crying to his comrade behind him, and sprang towards Percy. The boy, having just run downstairs and only at that moment caught up the assegai, was a little late with his lunge. Jensen seized the head of the weapon and tugged at it, forcing Percy down a step or two. To save himself, Percy let go; the Swede staggered backward against Radewski, who was in the act of discharging his revolver at Armstrong. The jostling of the man's arm spoilt his aim, and the bullet, which, fired point-blank, would probably have found its billet in Armstrong's breast, struck him on the right shoulder and spun him half round. Mr. Pratt had hitherto been unable to use his pistol for fear of hitting one or other of the boys; but now, seeing that both were for the moment at a disadvantage, he dashed between them, fired with his left hand at the Pole, only two steps below, and sent him rolling down the stairs with a shot in his groin.
But the enemy were not this time to be denied. Jensen, inspired with lust of vengeance, had quickly recovered his footing. Immediately below him Rod and Sibelius, pointing their revolvers, only awaited an opportunity of firing as soon as there was no risk of hitting their own comrade. Mr. Pratt, who was weaker than he knew, had just pulled his trigger without effect; either the chamber was empty or something had jammed. Armstrong, with a wound in the shoulder, was leaning, for the moment overcome with pain, against the wall of the staircase. Taking in the whole scene, Percy felt that all was over. His own weapon was gone; even if he should seize Armstrong's bar, single-handed he must soon be overpowered.
At this crisis, by one of those tricks of the mind which no one can account for, he suddenly remembered the packet of pepper he had bought in the village, and one of the uses to which pepper could be put. It was still in his pocket. Snatching it out, he swiftly unfolded the top of the cone-shaped paper bag, and holding the bag by the screwed-up end, he scattered its contents upon the face of Jensen, just rounding the bend. With a howl of rage and pain the Swede recoiled on his comrades behind, driving them back upon the remainder of their party at the foot of the stairs. The volume of wood smoke had lessened when they started the attack; and now the cloud of pepper, floating down slowly upon the fumes, spread over the whole width of the staircase. A chorus of sneezes soared up--a chorus in many parts, from the shrill tenor of Prutti, the Italian chauffeur, to the resonant bass of the corpulent Swiss, Maximilien Rod. Gradoff's sneeze was distinguishable from Jensen's, and the two strangers performed a duet in sternutation. There were interludes of cursing and yelling; Rush's sense of humour appeared to be tickled, as well as his nostrils; for Pratt declared that he heard him guffawing between his sneezes. After all, Rush was an Englishman.
The performers were still busy--the audience on the stairs was about to move a little higher up--when there came, from some spot without, a sound of cheers. Never was applause so unwelcome to a foreign band. With the sneezes now mingled cries of alarm, the noise of feet scuffling amid litter, a running to and fro. Percy, with a whoop of delight, dashed downstairs, picking up his assegai on the way. When he reached the room below, he was momentarily checked by a sneeze; then, through the clearing smoke, his streaming eyes beheld two figures struggling on the floor. A second glance distinguished them as Jensen and his old enemy, Henery Drew. The farmer was uppermost.
[image]"THE FARMER WAS UPPERMOST."
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"THE FARMER WAS UPPERMOST."
"Come and see fair play, Jack," Pratt shouted up the stairs to Armstrong, who had pulled himself together and was following him.
From outside came fierce shouts, pistol shots, the clash of weapons. Pratt dashed out. Gradoff and his gang (all but Rush, who had surrendered at once) were sustaining an unequal struggle with the infuriated villagers who had closed upon them. On the one side Warrender, with Rogers and the rest, on the other the group of villagers collected by Drew--of whom the general dealer, smarting for his unpaid bill, had constituted himself the temporary leader in rivalry with Constable Hardstone--a body of some twenty determined men, who were perhaps a little breathless from haste. Not so with the others. As Samson lost his strength with his hair, so these international adventurers, desperate, courageous enough, holding life cheap, became as children under the debilitating pungency of pepper. A man cannot sneeze and fight. Some few shots were fired; a bullet grazed Rogers's shining skull; another struck out of Blevins's hand the mallet he carried; a third carried away the lobe of an ear from a young carter, who refused to leave the field until he had found it. Short, sharp, decisive, the battle ended in a general capitulation. Only one of the foreigners escaped; Gradoff, seeing that all was lost, kept his last bullet for himself.
From the doorway Mr. Pratt had watched the pinioning of the prisoners. A cheer broke from his neighbours and tenants. And, just as a move towards the house was being made, Mr. Crawshay and two of his men, armed with shot-guns, came trotting across the sward.
"God bless you, Pratt, my dear fellow," cried the old gentleman, grasping his neighbour by the hand, and shaking it vigorously up and down.
Mr. Pratt sneezed.
"And you, Crawshay," he said. "But try the other hand, my friend; my right arm bears an honourable wound."
EPILOGUE
It was Saturday afternoon. The spacious lawn in front of Mr. Crawshay's house was spread with bamboo tables and deck-chairs. At the porch stood Mr. Crawshay and Mr. Ambrose Pratt side by side, smoking long cigars, chatting and laughing with the familiarity of old friends. Mr. Pratt's right arm was in a sling.
"It's time they came," said Mr. Crawshay, taking out his watch. He wore a large panama, and his suit of spotless ducks gave him a festal air.
"They're probably squabbling for precedence," said Mr. Pratt; "not on social grounds, but for modesty. It's an ordeal, you know, Crawshay; and when they see your rig, and that purple tie of yours, they'll be abashed."
"What'll they say to the women, then?" returned Mr. Crawshay. "Upon my soul, Pratt, I think you are right to come in your old clothes; they'll feel more at home. It never occurred to me."
"Oh, well, you're lord of the manor; I dare say you're right to look the part. But here they come, in a bunch. Mrs. Rogers is, perhaps, a shade ahead."
Mr. Crawshay turned and called through the open door. His daughter, in a dainty confection of muslin and lace, and a straw hat trimmed with pink silk, came running out, followed by her mother, an impressive figure in blue, and our three campers, in flannels and blazers. Armstrong also had an arm in a sling.
Grouped in front of the porch they awaited the coming of the party that had just entered the drive. Mrs. Rogers, in stiff black silk, and a wonderful bonnet, marched along a little in advance of her husband, hardly recognisable in his Sunday suit of blue serge and a bowler hat sitting uneasily on the back of his head. Samuel Blevins, the general dealer, had affected a long frock coat and a tall hat. Henery Drew, magnificent in a brown bowler and a suit of large-checked tweed, walked beside Hardstone, the constable, disguised in habiliments that might have become a prosperous plumber. The rest of the company, whose names we do not know, were alike in one respect; all had donned their "Sunday best." Every face, without exception, wore an air of deep solemnity.
Mr. Crawshay took a step forward.
"Glad to see you, neighbours," he said, genially. "We are lucky in a fine afternoon."
He shook hands with them individually, a greeting that inflicted on them various degrees of embarrassment, deepened by the smiling welcome of his wife and daughter. Mr. Pratt contented himself with a general salutation; it was not until the boys began to crack jokes with them that the prevailing gloom lightened.
"You didn't bring your sister, Rogers?" said Mr. Crawshay to the innkeeper.
"True, sir; she bain't come along."
"She couldn't face 'ee, sir," added Mrs. Rogers. "I always did say as she was making a rod for her back, though never did I think Rod was such a downright wicked feller. And Henery Drew, as would have made her a good husband as far as husbands do go, and now he can't marry her without committing bigamy."
"Well, well! We must hope for the best," said Mr. Crawshay. "Now, my friends, we're all here. Take your seats, and we'll have tea."
The company seated themselves. Maids brought from the house trays filled with good things. Mrs. Crawshay poured out tea, and Lilian and the boys carried round the eatables. Under the influence of good cheer the villagers' stiffness wore off, and they began to descant upon the moving events of the past days. For the first time in its history the village had become a place of importance. Visitors had flocked to it from all parts; journalists with cameras had interviewed the actors in the drama, and expressed themselves very freely on Mr. Pratt's refusal to admit them to his grounds, and to pose for his photograph. His modesty in this respect was a standing puzzle to his humble neighbours. Mrs. Rogers, for instance, was extremely proud of the portrait of her husband that had appeared in the previous day's picture paper.
"The scar shows beautiful," she said, complacently.
"Dear me," said Mrs. Crawshay, with a discreet glance at Rogers's broad face, "I wasn't aware----"
"Take off your hat, Joe, and show the lady."
Removing his hat, Rogers displayed a red furrow that ran across his shiny pate.
"What a narrow escape!" exclaimed Mrs. Crawshay.
"Ay sure, ma'am, 'twas so," said Mrs. Rogers. "And I'm certain a widow's cap wouldn't have suited me."
"Well, Mrs. Rogers, you won't be so particular about Joe's wig after this," said Percy Pratt. "You see, if he'd worn his wig, his scalp wouldn't have been touched; think what millions of people have had the pleasure of admiring your husband, talking about his bravery, discussing the track of the bullet across his skull. No one wanted to take my photograph."
"They took 'ee unbeknownst, then, becos there you be, next to Joe, with 'Pepper and Salt' printed underneath; very clever, I call it, Joe being once a sailor."
"Oh, I say," exclaimed Pratt, "did they get the others too?"
"No, sir. Not as I think it a very good likeness. You've got your two eyes half shut, and your mouth is a very queer shape, like as if you was expecting of somebody to pop something in it--a drop of physic, maybe."
The villagers looked merely interested, the others frankly amused. Pratt blushed.
"He must have caught you when you were singing a particularly sentimental song, old chap," said Warrender, smiling.
"That reminds me," said Mrs. Crawshay. "Do bring out your banjo, Mr. Pratt, and sing us something."
"Wait a minute," said Mr. Crawshay. "Before we begin the--entertainment, shall I call it?--I want to say a word or two."
"Hear, hear!" exclaimed Blevins. "'Tis what I call an event."
"No heroics, for goodness' sake, Crawshay," murmured Mr. Pratt.
Mr. Crawshay assumed the look of one determined not to be interfered with.
"I just want to say, neighbours," he proceeded, "how glad I am to see you all here this afternoon, in celebration of what Mr. Blevins rightly calls an event in the simple history of our little parish. You all had a part in the frustration of the most nefarious criminal conspiracy that has ever come within my long experience as a county magistrate. Thanks to the ingenuity and perseverance of my dear young friends, their refusal to be intimidated, their sleepless vigils and untiring watchfulness, the secrets of that criminal conspiracy were laid bare, my old friend and neighbour was rescued from a most distressing situation, and you, anticipating the slow operation of the law, but sanctioned by the presence among you of an officer of the law, were able to secure the apprehension of the whole band of criminals, who are now awaiting in the darkness of the county gaol the due reward of their deeds. Our village is to be congratulated on the visit of three young men, typical products of our renowned public school system, and on the public spirit of its own inhabitants, who, when the call for action came, forgetting all class distinctions, regardless of personal risk, braved the murderous weapons of unscrupulous villains, and nobly carried out the first duty of the patriotic citizen. I am speaking the mind of you all," the worthy magistrate went on, warming to his subject, "when I say that we shall long treasure the memory of our young friends, their high spirits, their unfailing cheerfulness under persecution, their courage and ingenuity; and it is a matter of regret that, yielding to paramount claims, the claims of parental affection, they are leaving us to-day. But it will please you all to hear that, in response to my invitation--I may say to my insistence--they have agreed to visit us again next year; and I understand from my old friend and neighbour, Mr. Pratt, that he intends to acquire No Man's Island, so long derelict, and restore the cottage as a holiday hostel for boys of our public schools."
Here there were general cheers.
"Dear old Father!" whispered Lilian to the boys. "He gets so few chances of making a speech, and he does love it so."
"I won't detain you longer," Mr. Crawshay went on. "No doubt Mr. Pratt would like to say a few words."
"Hate it!" exclaimed Mr. Pratt. "One thing only. I've had a bad time. I deserved it. I was over-hasty. My old servants are scattered; if any of you know where they are, tell them to come to me. I'll reinstate them--if we can agree about wages."
Under cover of the villagers' applause, Percy seized the opportunity of unbosoming himself to a select audience, his companions and Lilian Crawshay.
"Are we blushing, Miss Crawshay?" he asked. "I don't think we are, because, you see, we are supremely conscious of each other's merits. We really are benefactors, you know--public and private. Who would ever believe that the two old gentlemen were not long ago calling each other luna----"
"Now, Mr. Pratt," the girl interrupted.
"Well, X and Y then," rejoined Pratt. "It's undeniable, isn't it, that they're reconciled through us? And as for my uncle and me, we're quite pally; the old feud is healed, and before long I expect my father and Uncle Ambrose will kiss again with tears. Tennyson, you know. Anyway, it's been a ripping holiday, and----"
"Now, Mr. Pratt, we are all waiting," said Mrs. Crawshay, amiably.
Pratt obediently went into the house, brought out his banjo, and trolled out ditties of the most sentimental order. Presently Warrender announced that it was time to go if they meant to reach Southampton before dark. The whole company trooped down to the bank with them, and watched them board the motor-boat, already loaded with their camp equipment. Last good-byes were said; Warrender opened the throttle; and as the boat panted down stream there came to the ears of the silent spectators the gentle strumming of the banjo, and Pratt's melodious tenor--
"Our hearts were once divided,But now they beat as one;The clouds roll by across the sky,And yonder shines the sun."
"Our hearts were once divided,But now they beat as one;The clouds roll by across the sky,And yonder shines the sun."
"Our hearts were once divided,
But now they beat as one;
But now they beat as one;
The clouds roll by across the sky,
And yonder shines the sun."
And yonder shines the sun."
THE END
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKNO MAN'S ISLAND***