Chapter Thirty Two.

Chapter Thirty Two.A startling Fact.That event was the turning-point in Dick Smithson’s long illness; and the words said to him by Anna Deane at her visit convinced him that there was something worth living for, even if it was only to have won the respect and friendship of the lady whom he judged now to be the lieutenant’s betrothed.“I knew it,” Jerry said, with a good, open smile, as he was finishing Dick’s toilet. “Nobody knows till they try it what virtue there is in a shampoo.”That was some few days later, when the lieutenant’s servant had gone to the hospital, as usual, to see how the patient was getting on, and if anything could be done.“Rubbish!” cried Dick, who was still very weak; but there was a different look in his eyes now that was cheering, and it made Jerry rub his hands.“All right; you call it rubbish. That’s the way of the world. Chap’s dying; doctor gives him the right stuff, and pulls him round; and he says: ‘Physic? Rubbish! I should have got right by myself.’”“I wasn’t talking about doctors,” said Dick, “but of you and your shampooing.”“All right, have it your own way; but you began to get better the morning after the guv’nor brought Miss Deane, and since I shampooed you.”“Absurd!” cried Dick.“That’s right, stick to it; but I say that when a man’s weak and upset, if he has a good shampoo—I mean a real shampoo, given by anyone who understands it—he begins to feel better directly. There, it stands to reason. Even a watch won’t go without it’s properly cleaned now and then; so how can you expect it of a human being? But never mind, sir, you are better, and that’s everything. Mind my coming up?”“Mind? No; I’m glad to see you, Jerry. How is Mr Lacey?”“Well, I wanted to talk to you about him, sir.”“Not going back, surely?” said Dick, eagerly.“Well, he is and he isn’t, if you can understand that.”“But has the doctor seen him?”“Wouldn’t do no good, if he did, sir. Sort of complaint no doctor couldn’t cure.”“Now, look here, Jerry; do you see that glass of lemonade?”“See it? Of course.”“Then take warning: if you begin telling me that nothing will do Mr Lacey any good but a shampoo, I’ll throw it at you.”Jerry grinned.“You are getting better, Dick Smithson, and no mistake,” he said; “but you can drink the stuff, for you won’t have to throw it at me, because shampooing ain’t no good for a bit o’ gambling—whether it’s horse-racing or cards.”“What do you mean?”“Well, this, S’Rich—”“Hush!”Slap!Jerry gave himself a heavy pat on the mouth.“Forgot,” he muttered. “Look here, sir—I mean Dick Smithson—has Mr Lacey got plenty of money?”“I don’t know. He must be pretty well-off or he couldn’t live as he does.”“Oh, I don’t see that. Lots o’ gentry lives in good style and no money per rannum, as we calls it, at all. But you think he is pretty well-off?”“Yes; why are you talking like this?”“Because he ought to be stopped, or somebody else ought.”“I don’t understand you, Jerry. Speak out openly, please.”“Oh, very well, then, I will, even if it costs me my place. You see, I’ve burnt my fingers, so that I know,” and these words came fast. “I can’t help seeing when anyone’s getting into the fire.”“Do you mean, in plain English, Jerry, that Mr Lacey is betting and gambling?”“That’s just what I do mean, in plain English.”“But it seems impossible, situated as he is.”“With a hangel to take care of him? It do.”“He never seemed to me to be a man who would care for such things.”“More he would if he wasn’t led on to it. It is his doing—him, I mean!”“My cousin?”“That’s him; and I’m beginning to think you ought to do something as soon as you’re well enough. Speak up, and say who you are and why you’re here.”“They’d call me an impostor, Jerry.”“What, when you’ve got me for a witness? Not they, sir; I can prove anything. You ought to do something. You ought indeed.”“Must get well first, Jerry.”“Of course, no one can’t be expected to do much when he’s weak as you are. But as soon as you feel strong enough, do pray make a start; and, just look here, it’s your dooty—it is, indeed. If you don’t, him as has shown himself your friend ’ll be suffering for it, and if he does, so will somebody else.”“Let me get well,” said Dick, knitting his brows.“Well, I will; but, look here, if you don’t, my conscience won’t let me hold my tongue no longer; I shall speak out myself.”“You wouldn’t dare, Jerry, after your promise.”The doctor’s visit brought Jerry’s to an end, and at last Dick was left alone to think out his position and what he ought to do.But he could not plan just then; he was too weak, and his head grew confused.“It will have to wait,” he said with a sigh. “Everything in the past seems now like part of a dream, and I’m beginning to feel as if I really am Dick Smithson, and that I have no right to think anything about Mark. Yes, my head feels all wrong, and as if that weary time was coming back. What did the doctor say—that I must sleep all I can? I will.”His eyelids were already drooping from sheer weariness, and a few minutes later he was lying back fast asleep, with nature working steadily and well to build up his strength.

That event was the turning-point in Dick Smithson’s long illness; and the words said to him by Anna Deane at her visit convinced him that there was something worth living for, even if it was only to have won the respect and friendship of the lady whom he judged now to be the lieutenant’s betrothed.

“I knew it,” Jerry said, with a good, open smile, as he was finishing Dick’s toilet. “Nobody knows till they try it what virtue there is in a shampoo.”

That was some few days later, when the lieutenant’s servant had gone to the hospital, as usual, to see how the patient was getting on, and if anything could be done.

“Rubbish!” cried Dick, who was still very weak; but there was a different look in his eyes now that was cheering, and it made Jerry rub his hands.

“All right; you call it rubbish. That’s the way of the world. Chap’s dying; doctor gives him the right stuff, and pulls him round; and he says: ‘Physic? Rubbish! I should have got right by myself.’”

“I wasn’t talking about doctors,” said Dick, “but of you and your shampooing.”

“All right, have it your own way; but you began to get better the morning after the guv’nor brought Miss Deane, and since I shampooed you.”

“Absurd!” cried Dick.

“That’s right, stick to it; but I say that when a man’s weak and upset, if he has a good shampoo—I mean a real shampoo, given by anyone who understands it—he begins to feel better directly. There, it stands to reason. Even a watch won’t go without it’s properly cleaned now and then; so how can you expect it of a human being? But never mind, sir, you are better, and that’s everything. Mind my coming up?”

“Mind? No; I’m glad to see you, Jerry. How is Mr Lacey?”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about him, sir.”

“Not going back, surely?” said Dick, eagerly.

“Well, he is and he isn’t, if you can understand that.”

“But has the doctor seen him?”

“Wouldn’t do no good, if he did, sir. Sort of complaint no doctor couldn’t cure.”

“Now, look here, Jerry; do you see that glass of lemonade?”

“See it? Of course.”

“Then take warning: if you begin telling me that nothing will do Mr Lacey any good but a shampoo, I’ll throw it at you.”

Jerry grinned.

“You are getting better, Dick Smithson, and no mistake,” he said; “but you can drink the stuff, for you won’t have to throw it at me, because shampooing ain’t no good for a bit o’ gambling—whether it’s horse-racing or cards.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this, S’Rich—”

“Hush!”

Slap!

Jerry gave himself a heavy pat on the mouth.

“Forgot,” he muttered. “Look here, sir—I mean Dick Smithson—has Mr Lacey got plenty of money?”

“I don’t know. He must be pretty well-off or he couldn’t live as he does.”

“Oh, I don’t see that. Lots o’ gentry lives in good style and no money per rannum, as we calls it, at all. But you think he is pretty well-off?”

“Yes; why are you talking like this?”

“Because he ought to be stopped, or somebody else ought.”

“I don’t understand you, Jerry. Speak out openly, please.”

“Oh, very well, then, I will, even if it costs me my place. You see, I’ve burnt my fingers, so that I know,” and these words came fast. “I can’t help seeing when anyone’s getting into the fire.”

“Do you mean, in plain English, Jerry, that Mr Lacey is betting and gambling?”

“That’s just what I do mean, in plain English.”

“But it seems impossible, situated as he is.”

“With a hangel to take care of him? It do.”

“He never seemed to me to be a man who would care for such things.”

“More he would if he wasn’t led on to it. It is his doing—him, I mean!”

“My cousin?”

“That’s him; and I’m beginning to think you ought to do something as soon as you’re well enough. Speak up, and say who you are and why you’re here.”

“They’d call me an impostor, Jerry.”

“What, when you’ve got me for a witness? Not they, sir; I can prove anything. You ought to do something. You ought indeed.”

“Must get well first, Jerry.”

“Of course, no one can’t be expected to do much when he’s weak as you are. But as soon as you feel strong enough, do pray make a start; and, just look here, it’s your dooty—it is, indeed. If you don’t, him as has shown himself your friend ’ll be suffering for it, and if he does, so will somebody else.”

“Let me get well,” said Dick, knitting his brows.

“Well, I will; but, look here, if you don’t, my conscience won’t let me hold my tongue no longer; I shall speak out myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare, Jerry, after your promise.”

The doctor’s visit brought Jerry’s to an end, and at last Dick was left alone to think out his position and what he ought to do.

But he could not plan just then; he was too weak, and his head grew confused.

“It will have to wait,” he said with a sigh. “Everything in the past seems now like part of a dream, and I’m beginning to feel as if I really am Dick Smithson, and that I have no right to think anything about Mark. Yes, my head feels all wrong, and as if that weary time was coming back. What did the doctor say—that I must sleep all I can? I will.”

His eyelids were already drooping from sheer weariness, and a few minutes later he was lying back fast asleep, with nature working steadily and well to build up his strength.

Chapter Thirty Three.The Missing Man.Jerry Brigley was operating upon his master’s head, a few days later, with a couple of hair-brushes, and these he used in the most dexterous manner; and the results were wonderfully different from those produced by the people who brushed one’s boyish hair in the good old times.“Oh! for the days when I was young!” people cry, and they may well make use of that interjection; but it ought to be in something else than regret.I, for one, would prefer not to be young again, to go through all that suffering connected with my head.Pray, do not imagine that I refer to learning the three “R’s” or to working out those angular puzzles invented by Euclid, whose problems would only stop in my brain one at a time—that is to say, when I had mastered one perfectly, and could repeat and illustrate it throughout upon slate with pencil, upon paper with pen, upon blackboard with chalk, the process of acquiring another made a clean sweep of the first, which was utterly demolished and had to be relearned, only in its turn to destroy “Proposition Two.”I meant nothing of that sort, but rather the external suffering that my unfortunate little head received at the hands of nurses, who half-suffocated me with the soap that produced temporary blindness in my eyes, and deafness in my ears, before the best family yellow or mottled was “slooshed” away, leaving me panting and hot. Then came the tremendous rubbing, followed by the jigging out of knots of hair with a cruel comb and the brushing which seemed to make numberless little holes in my tender scalp; while my head was knocked to this side and to that, and then tapped with the back of the brush, because I was a naughty boy and would not hold still.Lieutenant Lacey’s treatment at the hands of Jerry Brigley was of a very different type. When he was shampooing, Jerry could have given Cinquevalli, the great juggler, long odds and beaten him. This man performs wonderful feats with cannon-balls, but they are nothing to Jerry’s graceful acts with the human head, which he would take in hand and keep in a perfect state of equilibrium, balancing the pressure of one set of fingers by the resistance of the other; the same when towelling, and, above all, when finishing with a pair of the lieutenant’s ivory-backed brushes. His master’s head was kept floating, as it were, on the points of the bristles, while a pleasant stimulation was kept up on what Jerry termed “the scallup.”“By the way, Brigley,” said the lieutenant, who sat back in his chair, with his eyes half-shut, “I shall have three or four friends here to-night.”“Yes, sir.”“See that the refreshments are on a side-table.”“Yes, sir.”“And go down into the town and buy three or four packs of cards.”“Yes, sir.”Silence for a few moments, and then the lieutenant began again, just as Jerry had come to the conclusion that he could name the guests expected, one of whom was certain to be Mark Frayne.“And he won’t be very glad to see me here,” thought Jerry, who started at his master’s next words.“What have you done with your tongue?”“Beg pardon, sir? Nothing, sir.”“Because you don’t talk. Aren’t you well?”“Well, sir? No, sir; not quite, sir.”“Take some pills!” growled Lacey.“Pills, sir? I ’ate pills!”“More stupid you. Swallow them at once!”“Beg pardon, sir?”“I say, swallow them at once. Best way is to wrap them in cigarette-paper.”“Beg pardon, sir! A mistake, sir. I said I ’ate pills.”“I heard you.”Jerry peered round a little into the lieutenant’s face, to see if he were trying to make a joke; but Lacey looked serious enough, and the man went on, confidentially—“Fact is, sir, I’m a bit upset.”“Look sharp and get right again. Don’t you say you’re too poorly to wait on us to-night!”“Oh, dear, no, sir! I shall attend upon you; but, the fact is, I’m in trouble.”“Humph! And you want an advance upon your wages. How much?”“No, sir,” said Jerry, irritably, as he drove the bristles of one brush among the bristles of the other; “it’s not that sort of trouble. It’s about someone.”“Lady! Why, Brigley, you’re not thinking of getting married?”“Oh, no, sir! it’s about—about a gent—I mean a man, sir. It’s him as you know, sir—Smithson.”“Dick Smithson!” cried the lieutenant. “What’s the matter with him?”“He ain’t been the same, sir, since the night of the ball. He has worried me a deal.”“Yes, he seems a good deal pulled down, poor fellow! But is he ill again?”“No, sir; he went out yesterday—had a pass—and—”“And what? Don’t hesitate like that, man!”“He did not come back last night.”“Sorry to hear it,” said the lieutenant. “Means trouble—punishment. I liked Smithson.”“Yes, sir; everyone did.”“Perhaps he’s taken ill, and had to stay somewhere.”Jerry was silent.“You don’t think he has bolted?”Jerry made no answer, and the lieutenant swung round in his chair.“Why, you do,” he cried, excitedly. “Do you know that bolting means desertion, sir?”“Yes, sir,” said Jerry, humbly.“Then you’re a fool, Brigley.”“Yes, sir.”“If Smithson had been a common sort of pothouse-haunting fellow, it might have been so; but Smithson was a clever musician, and too much of a gentleman to do such a thing.”“Thank ye, sir.”“‘Thank ye!’” cried the lieutenant, irritably; “what do you mean by that?”“I mean, sir, that’s what he is.”“Oh, pooh! he has not deserted.”“I don’t know, sir,” said Jerry, dubiously.“Look here, Brigley: I don’t often use bad language, but if you talk like that, confound you! I shall swear at you.”“I wish you would, sir,” said Jerry.“What?”“I say I wish you would, sir. It would seem to do me good like, for I’m reg’larly upset about Smithson, sir.”“There, I beg your pardon, Brigley. I’m sorry I spoke so roughly.”“Oh, don’t do that, sir. It don’t matter. I don’t want to think he’s gone, sir, because it’s ’ard—because he seemed to trust me a bit, and I don’t like for him to have gone off without saying a word.”“Look here: you knew him before he joined?”“Oh, yes, sir; I knew him.”“You were friends?”“No, sir—not exactly friends, but I knew him.”“And—There! I don’t want to pump you, Brigley, but I suppose he was in quite a different station of life, and got into some trouble, which made him leave home?”“Beg pardon, sir; Dick Smithson made me swear as I’d keep my mouth shut about him, and I give him my word; and, all respeck to you, sir, I’m going to keep it; but I can’t contradict what you said, sir, all the same.”“Well, it would be confoundedly ungentlemanly of me to be prying into anyone’s affairs, Brigley, and I won’t ask questions about him. I hope, though, he hasn’t done anything so foolish as to desert, because, even if he is in the band, he is a soldier, and—I have heard nothing. Has it been reported?”“Yes, sir; and Mr Wilkins is making a big stir about it. Never had a civil word for him, and used to sneer at his playing; but, now Dick’s gone, he’s going on as if he couldn’t spare him at no price.”“How do you know—who told you?”“The bombardon, sir.”“The what? Why don’t you say the big drum?”“Beg pardon, sir, I meant Sergeant Brumpton, the fa—stout musician, sir, as is practising for the band.”“Then they must be sending out notices to the police all over the place. Tut—tut—tut! This is a great pity. I must ask you one thing, Brigley: has there anything happened that would make him likely to go?”Jerry nodded his head over and over again.“I’m sorry—very sorry; but perhaps we are making a stir about nothing, and he’ll be back soon.”“Yes, sir, perhaps he will.”“But you don’t expect to see him, eh?”Jerry shook his head—this time violently—and no more was said, for the lieutenant had to finish dressing and go on parade.A couple of hours later the young bandsman’s disappearance was the talk of the barracks, and numerous were the reasons assigned for it; while the customary notification was given, to the annoyance of Dick’s friends and the gratification of his enemies, these consisting of the men who wished to be on good terms with the bandmaster.But Jerry had his business to attend to; for, though Lieutenant Lacey was annoyed, he had invited friends for that evening, and the orders given had to be attended to. So the man went off into the town and bought the playing-cards, shaking his head as he walked back. “Don’t seem much now for a pack of cards,” he muttered, “but I’ll be bound to say they’ll cost the guv’nor a pretty penny. Wonder what he’d say to me if I told him the best thing he could do would be never to make another bet and never to touch a card again. I know—he’d kick me.”“Who would?” said someone at his elbow.“Hallo! You! Mr Brumpton? Was I talking aloud?”“Yes, quite aloud.”“Then it’s a bad habit, sir. I say, has young Smithson come back?”“No; I’m afraid he’s gone, Brigley. There always was a bit of mystery about that young fellow. You had no idea that he was going off?”“Not I, or I should have let out at him. I say, they won’t call it desertion, will they, Mr Brumpton?”“That’s what they do call it; and, the worst of it is, he’ll be punished.”“Won’t the colonel let him off easy as—as he’s a musician?”“How can they let him off easy? Why, if they did, half the roughs of the regiment would be off at once.”“Ah! I didn’t think of that,” said Jerry, sadly. “But s’pose he comes back of himself?”“He’ll be punished, but not so severely.”“And s’pose he don’t come back?”“Don’t suppose any confounded nonsense,” said the fat sergeant, wiping his moist forehead. “I’d have given anything—sooner than it should have happened. There’s that twopenny-fife of a man, Wilkins, squeaking about it all over the place. Hang him! I should like to punch his miserable little head, only my hands are so fat they’d feel like boxing-gloves to him. What do you think he said just now?”“As he was glad Smithson had gone?”“No; I’d have believed him for that. He never liked the lad, and it would only have been the honest truth. He said that it was a painful thing; but, under the circumstances, he should advise every man to examine his kit, and see that his instruments were all right.”“What did he mean by that?” cried Jerry.“Mean! Why, for the men to see that the poor lad hadn’t carried off anything that didn’t belong to him.”“Well!” cried Jerry, fiercely, “of all! Here! I can’t stand that!”“Hold hard!” cried the fat sergeant, catching his arm. “Where are you going?”“To the bandmaster,” cried Jerry, “to have it out with him. My hands won’t feel like gloves!”“Stop where you are!” growled the sergeant. “Never mind Wilkins. You don’t want to get in a row. Do you want to strike your officer?”“Officer!” cried Jerry, excitedly; “officer! I don’t call that combination of a thing an officer!”“You be quiet,” said Brumpton. “We’ve said enough as it is.”“No, sir, we ain’t! and, soldier or no soldier, I’m a man, and not going to have things like that spoken about my comrade—and such a comrade as him!”“Be quiet, I tell you!” said Brumpton; and the man’s tone and manner made Jerry forget that he was so pincushion-like in appearance. “I don’t want you to get in trouble, too!”“And I don’t want to get in trouble,” said Jerry; “but I don’t call it manly for a lot of fellows who knew Dick Smithson to be a reg’lar gent to the backbone to stand there and hear that mean little wax-match of a man, without saying a word or sticking up for him!”“Who said nobody stuck up for him?” said Brumpton.“You never said anyone did!”“Well, they did!” said Brumpton.“Oh, that’s better! What did they say?”“As soon as he spoke like that, a lot of the men began to hiss.”“Hiss!” cried Jerry, contemptuously; “why, a goose on Clapham Common could do that!”“And then,” continued Brumpton, “Wilkins began to blink over his music-stand, looking as red in the face as his uniform. ‘Who was that?’ he says—‘who was it that dared to make that noise?’”“And then no one spoke,” sneered Jerry. “Hissed! I’d ha’ punched his head. Bandmaster, indeed!—I’d ha’ been the bandmaster’s master that time!”“Wrong, Jerry Brigley!” cried Brumpton. “Someone did speak, others did not; but I’ll answer for everyone, I spoke out.”“Bravo!” cried Jerry. “What did you say, sergeant?”“I said it was a blackguardly, cowardly thing to say behind a man’s back.”“Yes; and what then?” cried Jerry, breathlessly.“Then? Oh, he turned upon me and let me have it, while I took no notice, feeling as I did that I ought to have known better; and the quieter I was the more he went on giving it me, and threatening and getting more and more savage, till he roused me at last.”“How? What did he say?”“Well, there is one thing that makes me wild, and he did it. I stood there holding the bombardon, letting him go on, till all at once he told me that I was no more good in my company and I had come sneaking to the band to try and get taken on there, but that I was of no use at all, and he’d soon put a stop to my practising with the men; and that I was—”Brumpton stopped, and wiped his face again.“Well, let’s have it!” cried Jerry, excitedly.“He said that I was a fat, idiotic porpoise; and that did it.”“Did what?” cried Jerry.“I’d got that big bombardon upside down in my hands, and, before I knew it, I’d brought it down on his bald head, just as if it was an extinguisher.”“And put him out!” said Jerry.“Well, he put me out then, anyhow.”“And what did he say, then.”“Oh, he didn’t say any more,” replied Brumpton. “But I’m sorry I did it, and there’ll be a big row.”“Mind shaking hands with me, sergeant?”“No, my lad—not a bit.”“Hah!” ejaculated Jerry after the operation. “That was a real honest English grip, and I wish Dick Smithson had been there to hear you take his part. He’ll never come back now!”“He will,” said the sergeant, drily.“Not he. Never show his face here again.”“No! We will show it for him, poor lad. Ah! it was a very mad thing to do; and, if the truth was known, not the first mad thing Smithson’s done.”“Right,” said Jerry.“Look here, Jerry Brigley, you haven’t been a soldier long enough to know how sharp the police are in tracking deserters. It don’t take very long to send word all over the country that a man—described—has left his regiment.”“I dunno so much about that,” said Jerry.“Well, I do!” replied Brumpton. “Say the police here telegraph to twenty stations round, and each of those twenty stations wire to twenty, and each of those to another twenty, it don’t take long, at that rate, to send all over the country. You mark my words: the bobbies won’t be long before they put their hands on his shoulder and bring him back.”“Just as if he had stole something!” groaned Jerry.“So he has,” said the sergeant; “a smart, clever young man; and his clothes and all belonging to the Queen.”“But maybe he’ll send the toggery back,” pleaded Jerry.“They don’t want the clothes; they want the man!”

Jerry Brigley was operating upon his master’s head, a few days later, with a couple of hair-brushes, and these he used in the most dexterous manner; and the results were wonderfully different from those produced by the people who brushed one’s boyish hair in the good old times.

“Oh! for the days when I was young!” people cry, and they may well make use of that interjection; but it ought to be in something else than regret.

I, for one, would prefer not to be young again, to go through all that suffering connected with my head.

Pray, do not imagine that I refer to learning the three “R’s” or to working out those angular puzzles invented by Euclid, whose problems would only stop in my brain one at a time—that is to say, when I had mastered one perfectly, and could repeat and illustrate it throughout upon slate with pencil, upon paper with pen, upon blackboard with chalk, the process of acquiring another made a clean sweep of the first, which was utterly demolished and had to be relearned, only in its turn to destroy “Proposition Two.”

I meant nothing of that sort, but rather the external suffering that my unfortunate little head received at the hands of nurses, who half-suffocated me with the soap that produced temporary blindness in my eyes, and deafness in my ears, before the best family yellow or mottled was “slooshed” away, leaving me panting and hot. Then came the tremendous rubbing, followed by the jigging out of knots of hair with a cruel comb and the brushing which seemed to make numberless little holes in my tender scalp; while my head was knocked to this side and to that, and then tapped with the back of the brush, because I was a naughty boy and would not hold still.

Lieutenant Lacey’s treatment at the hands of Jerry Brigley was of a very different type. When he was shampooing, Jerry could have given Cinquevalli, the great juggler, long odds and beaten him. This man performs wonderful feats with cannon-balls, but they are nothing to Jerry’s graceful acts with the human head, which he would take in hand and keep in a perfect state of equilibrium, balancing the pressure of one set of fingers by the resistance of the other; the same when towelling, and, above all, when finishing with a pair of the lieutenant’s ivory-backed brushes. His master’s head was kept floating, as it were, on the points of the bristles, while a pleasant stimulation was kept up on what Jerry termed “the scallup.”

“By the way, Brigley,” said the lieutenant, who sat back in his chair, with his eyes half-shut, “I shall have three or four friends here to-night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“See that the refreshments are on a side-table.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And go down into the town and buy three or four packs of cards.”

“Yes, sir.”

Silence for a few moments, and then the lieutenant began again, just as Jerry had come to the conclusion that he could name the guests expected, one of whom was certain to be Mark Frayne.

“And he won’t be very glad to see me here,” thought Jerry, who started at his master’s next words.

“What have you done with your tongue?”

“Beg pardon, sir? Nothing, sir.”

“Because you don’t talk. Aren’t you well?”

“Well, sir? No, sir; not quite, sir.”

“Take some pills!” growled Lacey.

“Pills, sir? I ’ate pills!”

“More stupid you. Swallow them at once!”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“I say, swallow them at once. Best way is to wrap them in cigarette-paper.”

“Beg pardon, sir! A mistake, sir. I said I ’ate pills.”

“I heard you.”

Jerry peered round a little into the lieutenant’s face, to see if he were trying to make a joke; but Lacey looked serious enough, and the man went on, confidentially—

“Fact is, sir, I’m a bit upset.”

“Look sharp and get right again. Don’t you say you’re too poorly to wait on us to-night!”

“Oh, dear, no, sir! I shall attend upon you; but, the fact is, I’m in trouble.”

“Humph! And you want an advance upon your wages. How much?”

“No, sir,” said Jerry, irritably, as he drove the bristles of one brush among the bristles of the other; “it’s not that sort of trouble. It’s about someone.”

“Lady! Why, Brigley, you’re not thinking of getting married?”

“Oh, no, sir! it’s about—about a gent—I mean a man, sir. It’s him as you know, sir—Smithson.”

“Dick Smithson!” cried the lieutenant. “What’s the matter with him?”

“He ain’t been the same, sir, since the night of the ball. He has worried me a deal.”

“Yes, he seems a good deal pulled down, poor fellow! But is he ill again?”

“No, sir; he went out yesterday—had a pass—and—”

“And what? Don’t hesitate like that, man!”

“He did not come back last night.”

“Sorry to hear it,” said the lieutenant. “Means trouble—punishment. I liked Smithson.”

“Yes, sir; everyone did.”

“Perhaps he’s taken ill, and had to stay somewhere.”

Jerry was silent.

“You don’t think he has bolted?”

Jerry made no answer, and the lieutenant swung round in his chair.

“Why, you do,” he cried, excitedly. “Do you know that bolting means desertion, sir?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jerry, humbly.

“Then you’re a fool, Brigley.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If Smithson had been a common sort of pothouse-haunting fellow, it might have been so; but Smithson was a clever musician, and too much of a gentleman to do such a thing.”

“Thank ye, sir.”

“‘Thank ye!’” cried the lieutenant, irritably; “what do you mean by that?”

“I mean, sir, that’s what he is.”

“Oh, pooh! he has not deserted.”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Jerry, dubiously.

“Look here, Brigley: I don’t often use bad language, but if you talk like that, confound you! I shall swear at you.”

“I wish you would, sir,” said Jerry.

“What?”

“I say I wish you would, sir. It would seem to do me good like, for I’m reg’larly upset about Smithson, sir.”

“There, I beg your pardon, Brigley. I’m sorry I spoke so roughly.”

“Oh, don’t do that, sir. It don’t matter. I don’t want to think he’s gone, sir, because it’s ’ard—because he seemed to trust me a bit, and I don’t like for him to have gone off without saying a word.”

“Look here: you knew him before he joined?”

“Oh, yes, sir; I knew him.”

“You were friends?”

“No, sir—not exactly friends, but I knew him.”

“And—There! I don’t want to pump you, Brigley, but I suppose he was in quite a different station of life, and got into some trouble, which made him leave home?”

“Beg pardon, sir; Dick Smithson made me swear as I’d keep my mouth shut about him, and I give him my word; and, all respeck to you, sir, I’m going to keep it; but I can’t contradict what you said, sir, all the same.”

“Well, it would be confoundedly ungentlemanly of me to be prying into anyone’s affairs, Brigley, and I won’t ask questions about him. I hope, though, he hasn’t done anything so foolish as to desert, because, even if he is in the band, he is a soldier, and—I have heard nothing. Has it been reported?”

“Yes, sir; and Mr Wilkins is making a big stir about it. Never had a civil word for him, and used to sneer at his playing; but, now Dick’s gone, he’s going on as if he couldn’t spare him at no price.”

“How do you know—who told you?”

“The bombardon, sir.”

“The what? Why don’t you say the big drum?”

“Beg pardon, sir, I meant Sergeant Brumpton, the fa—stout musician, sir, as is practising for the band.”

“Then they must be sending out notices to the police all over the place. Tut—tut—tut! This is a great pity. I must ask you one thing, Brigley: has there anything happened that would make him likely to go?”

Jerry nodded his head over and over again.

“I’m sorry—very sorry; but perhaps we are making a stir about nothing, and he’ll be back soon.”

“Yes, sir, perhaps he will.”

“But you don’t expect to see him, eh?”

Jerry shook his head—this time violently—and no more was said, for the lieutenant had to finish dressing and go on parade.

A couple of hours later the young bandsman’s disappearance was the talk of the barracks, and numerous were the reasons assigned for it; while the customary notification was given, to the annoyance of Dick’s friends and the gratification of his enemies, these consisting of the men who wished to be on good terms with the bandmaster.

But Jerry had his business to attend to; for, though Lieutenant Lacey was annoyed, he had invited friends for that evening, and the orders given had to be attended to. So the man went off into the town and bought the playing-cards, shaking his head as he walked back. “Don’t seem much now for a pack of cards,” he muttered, “but I’ll be bound to say they’ll cost the guv’nor a pretty penny. Wonder what he’d say to me if I told him the best thing he could do would be never to make another bet and never to touch a card again. I know—he’d kick me.”

“Who would?” said someone at his elbow.

“Hallo! You! Mr Brumpton? Was I talking aloud?”

“Yes, quite aloud.”

“Then it’s a bad habit, sir. I say, has young Smithson come back?”

“No; I’m afraid he’s gone, Brigley. There always was a bit of mystery about that young fellow. You had no idea that he was going off?”

“Not I, or I should have let out at him. I say, they won’t call it desertion, will they, Mr Brumpton?”

“That’s what they do call it; and, the worst of it is, he’ll be punished.”

“Won’t the colonel let him off easy as—as he’s a musician?”

“How can they let him off easy? Why, if they did, half the roughs of the regiment would be off at once.”

“Ah! I didn’t think of that,” said Jerry, sadly. “But s’pose he comes back of himself?”

“He’ll be punished, but not so severely.”

“And s’pose he don’t come back?”

“Don’t suppose any confounded nonsense,” said the fat sergeant, wiping his moist forehead. “I’d have given anything—sooner than it should have happened. There’s that twopenny-fife of a man, Wilkins, squeaking about it all over the place. Hang him! I should like to punch his miserable little head, only my hands are so fat they’d feel like boxing-gloves to him. What do you think he said just now?”

“As he was glad Smithson had gone?”

“No; I’d have believed him for that. He never liked the lad, and it would only have been the honest truth. He said that it was a painful thing; but, under the circumstances, he should advise every man to examine his kit, and see that his instruments were all right.”

“What did he mean by that?” cried Jerry.

“Mean! Why, for the men to see that the poor lad hadn’t carried off anything that didn’t belong to him.”

“Well!” cried Jerry, fiercely, “of all! Here! I can’t stand that!”

“Hold hard!” cried the fat sergeant, catching his arm. “Where are you going?”

“To the bandmaster,” cried Jerry, “to have it out with him. My hands won’t feel like gloves!”

“Stop where you are!” growled the sergeant. “Never mind Wilkins. You don’t want to get in a row. Do you want to strike your officer?”

“Officer!” cried Jerry, excitedly; “officer! I don’t call that combination of a thing an officer!”

“You be quiet,” said Brumpton. “We’ve said enough as it is.”

“No, sir, we ain’t! and, soldier or no soldier, I’m a man, and not going to have things like that spoken about my comrade—and such a comrade as him!”

“Be quiet, I tell you!” said Brumpton; and the man’s tone and manner made Jerry forget that he was so pincushion-like in appearance. “I don’t want you to get in trouble, too!”

“And I don’t want to get in trouble,” said Jerry; “but I don’t call it manly for a lot of fellows who knew Dick Smithson to be a reg’lar gent to the backbone to stand there and hear that mean little wax-match of a man, without saying a word or sticking up for him!”

“Who said nobody stuck up for him?” said Brumpton.

“You never said anyone did!”

“Well, they did!” said Brumpton.

“Oh, that’s better! What did they say?”

“As soon as he spoke like that, a lot of the men began to hiss.”

“Hiss!” cried Jerry, contemptuously; “why, a goose on Clapham Common could do that!”

“And then,” continued Brumpton, “Wilkins began to blink over his music-stand, looking as red in the face as his uniform. ‘Who was that?’ he says—‘who was it that dared to make that noise?’”

“And then no one spoke,” sneered Jerry. “Hissed! I’d ha’ punched his head. Bandmaster, indeed!—I’d ha’ been the bandmaster’s master that time!”

“Wrong, Jerry Brigley!” cried Brumpton. “Someone did speak, others did not; but I’ll answer for everyone, I spoke out.”

“Bravo!” cried Jerry. “What did you say, sergeant?”

“I said it was a blackguardly, cowardly thing to say behind a man’s back.”

“Yes; and what then?” cried Jerry, breathlessly.

“Then? Oh, he turned upon me and let me have it, while I took no notice, feeling as I did that I ought to have known better; and the quieter I was the more he went on giving it me, and threatening and getting more and more savage, till he roused me at last.”

“How? What did he say?”

“Well, there is one thing that makes me wild, and he did it. I stood there holding the bombardon, letting him go on, till all at once he told me that I was no more good in my company and I had come sneaking to the band to try and get taken on there, but that I was of no use at all, and he’d soon put a stop to my practising with the men; and that I was—”

Brumpton stopped, and wiped his face again.

“Well, let’s have it!” cried Jerry, excitedly.

“He said that I was a fat, idiotic porpoise; and that did it.”

“Did what?” cried Jerry.

“I’d got that big bombardon upside down in my hands, and, before I knew it, I’d brought it down on his bald head, just as if it was an extinguisher.”

“And put him out!” said Jerry.

“Well, he put me out then, anyhow.”

“And what did he say, then.”

“Oh, he didn’t say any more,” replied Brumpton. “But I’m sorry I did it, and there’ll be a big row.”

“Mind shaking hands with me, sergeant?”

“No, my lad—not a bit.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Jerry after the operation. “That was a real honest English grip, and I wish Dick Smithson had been there to hear you take his part. He’ll never come back now!”

“He will,” said the sergeant, drily.

“Not he. Never show his face here again.”

“No! We will show it for him, poor lad. Ah! it was a very mad thing to do; and, if the truth was known, not the first mad thing Smithson’s done.”

“Right,” said Jerry.

“Look here, Jerry Brigley, you haven’t been a soldier long enough to know how sharp the police are in tracking deserters. It don’t take very long to send word all over the country that a man—described—has left his regiment.”

“I dunno so much about that,” said Jerry.

“Well, I do!” replied Brumpton. “Say the police here telegraph to twenty stations round, and each of those twenty stations wire to twenty, and each of those to another twenty, it don’t take long, at that rate, to send all over the country. You mark my words: the bobbies won’t be long before they put their hands on his shoulder and bring him back.”

“Just as if he had stole something!” groaned Jerry.

“So he has,” said the sergeant; “a smart, clever young man; and his clothes and all belonging to the Queen.”

“But maybe he’ll send the toggery back,” pleaded Jerry.

“They don’t want the clothes; they want the man!”

Chapter Thirty Four.“Too late! Too late!”It was about ten o’clock that evening, after the officers had left the mess-room, that one of the subalterns sauntered up to Lacey’s quarters, where he found the latter waiting for his guests.“Cigarette?” said Lacey.“Thanks!” replied the young officer.“Light?” continued Lacey.“Thanks!” said the guest; and they two sat smoking in silence, for Lacey’s thoughts were upon Dick Smithson, and upon the night of the ball and the gallantry which had saved the lives of both him and his betrothed.They did not wait long, for, before their cigarettes were finished, Mark Frayne knocked at the door, and was admitted by Jerry, who stood back for him to enter, looking very quiet, and then noting that Mark gave a start, but took no further notice of Draycott’s old servant, entering the room, to be frankly welcomed.Five minutes later a brother-officer of Mark arrived, and before long, at the latter’s suggestion, the card-table was sought, and the game went on for a couple of hours in a very quiet, natural way.Then came an interval for refreshments, and a little chat that was far from lively. After this the play was resumed, with Jerry seated in the outer lobby, thinking over the state of affairs.“She ought to be told of it, and try to stop him,” he said to himself. “He’s a baby at cards, and that Mark Frayne fleeces him as hard as ever he can. I wish something would happen.”Then he thought of Richard’s disappearance, and of how glad Mark would be when he found that his cousin had gone, unless Dick had gone up to town to consult with some lawyer, who might perhaps put him in the way of regaining his rights.“How could he have been such a young donkey to do as he did?” muttered Jerry; and then, feeling exceedingly drowsy, he refreshed himself with a cup of strong coffee to make him wakeful.After about another hour he took in some of the hot coffee, and saw that the last new pack of cards had been opened and the wrapper tossed upon the floor; while the players looked hollow-cheeked and pale, too intent upon their game to care for the refreshment, and impatiently bidding him be off.“It’s a bad complaint that men ketches—that gambling,” said Jerry; “and when they’ve got it, they gives it to others, who have it worse. I’ve no call to talk, for I’ve been bad enough. How precious white and seedy young Mark looks! Anyone would think he had been up to some game of his own. Every time I opened the door he give quite a jump in his chair, and, though he laughed it off, he’s as nervous as nerves. Wants to win, I s’pose.”Jerry had a good long walk up and down the lobby—that is to say, he walked up and down for a long time—and, feeling that he must rest himself for a while, he slowly subsided into a chair, let his head sink back, turned it sideways so as to arrange it comfortably, and then he opened his eyes directly after—as it seemed to him—to find it was daylight. The candles had burned down very low, and two of his master’s guests were standing at his side.“Let us out, my lad,” said the elder of the two; and as soon as he had handed them their hats and coats, and closed the door, he gave his eyes a rub.“I wonder where S’Richard is?” he thought. “Why, I must have been asleep a good two hours. Has young Mark gone?”He went softly through the outer room, to find the door of the inner one just ajar, and there, at a table, he could see his master writing.“Young Mark must have let himself out,” muttered Jerry. But he altered his opinion directly, for Lacey turned the paper he had written, folded it, and held it up to someone on the other side of the table and invisible from where the man stood.“There you are!” said Lacey.“Really, dear boy, I’m almost ashamed to take it. But, there, I’m only acting as your steward. You’ll have to come to my quarters and win it all back. The wheel of fortune goes round, eh?”“Yes,” said Lacey, laconically. “Take anything else?”“No, really—no thanks!” said Mark. “Good-night—morning, or whatever it is. Can I let myself out?”“The man is there,” said Lacey, coldly.But Jerry did not remain there, to wait just outside, but made his way quickly back into the lobby, where he stood, ready to hand Mark his large Inverness cloak and hat, and then open the door.“Looks as if he were going to be hanged,” muttered Jerry very sourly, as he stood watching the young officer descend in the grey morning light. “Wonder how much he has won, and whether it makes him feel better? I know one thing: it makes me feel a deal worse, and as if I should like to pitch him over the banisters. I ’ate that chap—that’s what’s the matter with me—and I’d tell him so to his face as soon as look at him, that I would!”Jerry closed the door and went across the lobby, hearing the heavy pace of his master as he walked restlessly up and down the room.“The scoundrel!” Lacey muttered. “He is a scoundrel, and I’m a fool—a pigeon, and he has plucked me. I swear he cheated. He played that very trick I was once warned about. Serve me right! But it’s the last time.”He continued his hurried pace, growing sterner and more decisive as he walked.“A lesson to me!” he muttered. “A dishonourable scoundrel! At Miss Deane’s, too! I swear he has been trying to oust me, and the old lady has encouraged him. Anna told me of his words to her. One can’t call a man out now; and if I spread it abroad about the cards there’ll be no end of a row, and he’d be indignant. No, I won’t speak. It’s a lesson to me for being such an easy-going fool.”He turned thoughtful now, but was ready to look up sharply as Jerry entered.“Want me any more ’smornin’, sir?”“No, Brigley, no. You have heard no more news of poor Smithson?”“No, sir, not a word.”“Strange how I have been thinking of him all the night.”“So have I, sir. I went to sleep, too, out in the lobby, and I’ve just recollected, sir, I was dreaming all about him and wondering where he’d gone.”“Ah, it’s a bad business, Brigley. He ought to have known better. But we all do things we are sorry for sometimes and repent of them afterwards. There, be off to bed.”“Shan’t I clear up a bit, sir, first?”“No: that will do.”Jerry went out of the room and shut the door after him—to stand looking back, as if he expected to be able to see through the panels everything that was going on. His brow was wrinkled up, his nostrils twitched, and his ears moved slightly, for he was listening intently; and a looker-on would have seen that he was intensely excited.For Jerry was thinking about cases he had read of in the papers, and, being somehow naturally prone to fancy people in trouble likely to make away with themselves by jumping into flooded rivers, he now took up the idea that the lieutenant, after a disastrous night of play, had some reason for desiring to get rid of him.“There’s two double centre-fire breech-loaders in the case,” he said to himself, “and there’s his revolver and his sword, besides that old hunting-knife in the shark’s-skin case—there’s every temptation for a young man to do it. Oh, what a world this is! Why, that there Mark Frayne’s been the cause of all the trouble, and driven S’Richard away—blow him!—Dick Smithson. I won’t think of him by that name. But if I went and did good to everybody by knocking Master Mark on the head, or holding him under water till he was full and wouldn’t go any more, they’d try me for it, and then—Never mind: I won’t think what. I haven’t patience with such laws.”Jerry stood listening, but all was very silent inside, and he grew more uneasy.“I won’t go,” he said to himself. “He means something, or he wouldn’t have been in such a jolly hurry to get rid of me. Phew! how hot it is turned, and my hands and feet are like ice.”He wiped his damp forehead, and stood gazing at the door, shaking his head mournfully, and with the dread of something wrong on the increase. But all was still, and even that Jerry looked upon as a bad omen.“I know,” he muttered. “He has been and lost all his tin, and he’s making his will; and I don’t want him to, even if he’s going to leave me that horse-shoe pin with diamonds in for nails. Here! I can’t stand this—I’ll go in!”Jerry hesitated for a few minutes, and then, unable to control the intense desire to see what was going on, he was about to take hold of the handle of the door, but he paused in doubt, for he had no excuse.The next minute the excuse had come, and he entered quickly, to find Lacey writing, and ready to look up inquiringly.“Beg pardon, sir, thought you might be in your bedroom. Didn’t happen to see a little pig-skin purse, did you?”“No!” said the lieutenant, gruffly.“Sorry to have interrupted you, sir. Don’t see it lying about, sir. Thank ye, sir!”Jerry had a sharp look round, and then he backed out again to close the door after him, and stand hesitating and shaking his head.“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “He ought to be tired out and glad to jump into his bed; and here he is writing! He isn’t a writing sort of chap! Never hardly puts pen to paper! What’s he writing for at a time like this?”Jerry shook his head very solemnly, and sat down to wait, with all drowsiness gone and a nervous state of irritation steadily on the increase as he sat on for a time that seemed to be interminable, always on thequi vive, and expecting moment by moment to hear something which would give him ample excuse for rushing in.“And what good will that do?” he argued, as his spirits grew lower and lower. “It’ll be too late then, for I ought to be there to stop him. He’s half-mad, and if I was there I might prevent it; but he would not have it. He’d tell me I was mad to think of such a thing, and kick me out!”“Well,” he said to himself, after waiting for an interminable time, all worry and indecision, “I’ve a good mind to risk his being angry; for I’m sure he wants something to eat. I will, before it’s too late.”He rose from his seat once more, and was in the act of crossing the lobby, when a piteous cry escaped his lips, for there was a sharp concussion, the windows of the place he was in rattled, and he heard the sound of a heavy fall!Crying out “Too late! too late!” he dashed at the door, flung it open, and entered.

It was about ten o’clock that evening, after the officers had left the mess-room, that one of the subalterns sauntered up to Lacey’s quarters, where he found the latter waiting for his guests.

“Cigarette?” said Lacey.

“Thanks!” replied the young officer.

“Light?” continued Lacey.

“Thanks!” said the guest; and they two sat smoking in silence, for Lacey’s thoughts were upon Dick Smithson, and upon the night of the ball and the gallantry which had saved the lives of both him and his betrothed.

They did not wait long, for, before their cigarettes were finished, Mark Frayne knocked at the door, and was admitted by Jerry, who stood back for him to enter, looking very quiet, and then noting that Mark gave a start, but took no further notice of Draycott’s old servant, entering the room, to be frankly welcomed.

Five minutes later a brother-officer of Mark arrived, and before long, at the latter’s suggestion, the card-table was sought, and the game went on for a couple of hours in a very quiet, natural way.

Then came an interval for refreshments, and a little chat that was far from lively. After this the play was resumed, with Jerry seated in the outer lobby, thinking over the state of affairs.

“She ought to be told of it, and try to stop him,” he said to himself. “He’s a baby at cards, and that Mark Frayne fleeces him as hard as ever he can. I wish something would happen.”

Then he thought of Richard’s disappearance, and of how glad Mark would be when he found that his cousin had gone, unless Dick had gone up to town to consult with some lawyer, who might perhaps put him in the way of regaining his rights.

“How could he have been such a young donkey to do as he did?” muttered Jerry; and then, feeling exceedingly drowsy, he refreshed himself with a cup of strong coffee to make him wakeful.

After about another hour he took in some of the hot coffee, and saw that the last new pack of cards had been opened and the wrapper tossed upon the floor; while the players looked hollow-cheeked and pale, too intent upon their game to care for the refreshment, and impatiently bidding him be off.

“It’s a bad complaint that men ketches—that gambling,” said Jerry; “and when they’ve got it, they gives it to others, who have it worse. I’ve no call to talk, for I’ve been bad enough. How precious white and seedy young Mark looks! Anyone would think he had been up to some game of his own. Every time I opened the door he give quite a jump in his chair, and, though he laughed it off, he’s as nervous as nerves. Wants to win, I s’pose.”

Jerry had a good long walk up and down the lobby—that is to say, he walked up and down for a long time—and, feeling that he must rest himself for a while, he slowly subsided into a chair, let his head sink back, turned it sideways so as to arrange it comfortably, and then he opened his eyes directly after—as it seemed to him—to find it was daylight. The candles had burned down very low, and two of his master’s guests were standing at his side.

“Let us out, my lad,” said the elder of the two; and as soon as he had handed them their hats and coats, and closed the door, he gave his eyes a rub.

“I wonder where S’Richard is?” he thought. “Why, I must have been asleep a good two hours. Has young Mark gone?”

He went softly through the outer room, to find the door of the inner one just ajar, and there, at a table, he could see his master writing.

“Young Mark must have let himself out,” muttered Jerry. But he altered his opinion directly, for Lacey turned the paper he had written, folded it, and held it up to someone on the other side of the table and invisible from where the man stood.

“There you are!” said Lacey.

“Really, dear boy, I’m almost ashamed to take it. But, there, I’m only acting as your steward. You’ll have to come to my quarters and win it all back. The wheel of fortune goes round, eh?”

“Yes,” said Lacey, laconically. “Take anything else?”

“No, really—no thanks!” said Mark. “Good-night—morning, or whatever it is. Can I let myself out?”

“The man is there,” said Lacey, coldly.

But Jerry did not remain there, to wait just outside, but made his way quickly back into the lobby, where he stood, ready to hand Mark his large Inverness cloak and hat, and then open the door.

“Looks as if he were going to be hanged,” muttered Jerry very sourly, as he stood watching the young officer descend in the grey morning light. “Wonder how much he has won, and whether it makes him feel better? I know one thing: it makes me feel a deal worse, and as if I should like to pitch him over the banisters. I ’ate that chap—that’s what’s the matter with me—and I’d tell him so to his face as soon as look at him, that I would!”

Jerry closed the door and went across the lobby, hearing the heavy pace of his master as he walked restlessly up and down the room.

“The scoundrel!” Lacey muttered. “He is a scoundrel, and I’m a fool—a pigeon, and he has plucked me. I swear he cheated. He played that very trick I was once warned about. Serve me right! But it’s the last time.”

He continued his hurried pace, growing sterner and more decisive as he walked.

“A lesson to me!” he muttered. “A dishonourable scoundrel! At Miss Deane’s, too! I swear he has been trying to oust me, and the old lady has encouraged him. Anna told me of his words to her. One can’t call a man out now; and if I spread it abroad about the cards there’ll be no end of a row, and he’d be indignant. No, I won’t speak. It’s a lesson to me for being such an easy-going fool.”

He turned thoughtful now, but was ready to look up sharply as Jerry entered.

“Want me any more ’smornin’, sir?”

“No, Brigley, no. You have heard no more news of poor Smithson?”

“No, sir, not a word.”

“Strange how I have been thinking of him all the night.”

“So have I, sir. I went to sleep, too, out in the lobby, and I’ve just recollected, sir, I was dreaming all about him and wondering where he’d gone.”

“Ah, it’s a bad business, Brigley. He ought to have known better. But we all do things we are sorry for sometimes and repent of them afterwards. There, be off to bed.”

“Shan’t I clear up a bit, sir, first?”

“No: that will do.”

Jerry went out of the room and shut the door after him—to stand looking back, as if he expected to be able to see through the panels everything that was going on. His brow was wrinkled up, his nostrils twitched, and his ears moved slightly, for he was listening intently; and a looker-on would have seen that he was intensely excited.

For Jerry was thinking about cases he had read of in the papers, and, being somehow naturally prone to fancy people in trouble likely to make away with themselves by jumping into flooded rivers, he now took up the idea that the lieutenant, after a disastrous night of play, had some reason for desiring to get rid of him.

“There’s two double centre-fire breech-loaders in the case,” he said to himself, “and there’s his revolver and his sword, besides that old hunting-knife in the shark’s-skin case—there’s every temptation for a young man to do it. Oh, what a world this is! Why, that there Mark Frayne’s been the cause of all the trouble, and driven S’Richard away—blow him!—Dick Smithson. I won’t think of him by that name. But if I went and did good to everybody by knocking Master Mark on the head, or holding him under water till he was full and wouldn’t go any more, they’d try me for it, and then—Never mind: I won’t think what. I haven’t patience with such laws.”

Jerry stood listening, but all was very silent inside, and he grew more uneasy.

“I won’t go,” he said to himself. “He means something, or he wouldn’t have been in such a jolly hurry to get rid of me. Phew! how hot it is turned, and my hands and feet are like ice.”

He wiped his damp forehead, and stood gazing at the door, shaking his head mournfully, and with the dread of something wrong on the increase. But all was still, and even that Jerry looked upon as a bad omen.

“I know,” he muttered. “He has been and lost all his tin, and he’s making his will; and I don’t want him to, even if he’s going to leave me that horse-shoe pin with diamonds in for nails. Here! I can’t stand this—I’ll go in!”

Jerry hesitated for a few minutes, and then, unable to control the intense desire to see what was going on, he was about to take hold of the handle of the door, but he paused in doubt, for he had no excuse.

The next minute the excuse had come, and he entered quickly, to find Lacey writing, and ready to look up inquiringly.

“Beg pardon, sir, thought you might be in your bedroom. Didn’t happen to see a little pig-skin purse, did you?”

“No!” said the lieutenant, gruffly.

“Sorry to have interrupted you, sir. Don’t see it lying about, sir. Thank ye, sir!”

Jerry had a sharp look round, and then he backed out again to close the door after him, and stand hesitating and shaking his head.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “He ought to be tired out and glad to jump into his bed; and here he is writing! He isn’t a writing sort of chap! Never hardly puts pen to paper! What’s he writing for at a time like this?”

Jerry shook his head very solemnly, and sat down to wait, with all drowsiness gone and a nervous state of irritation steadily on the increase as he sat on for a time that seemed to be interminable, always on thequi vive, and expecting moment by moment to hear something which would give him ample excuse for rushing in.

“And what good will that do?” he argued, as his spirits grew lower and lower. “It’ll be too late then, for I ought to be there to stop him. He’s half-mad, and if I was there I might prevent it; but he would not have it. He’d tell me I was mad to think of such a thing, and kick me out!”

“Well,” he said to himself, after waiting for an interminable time, all worry and indecision, “I’ve a good mind to risk his being angry; for I’m sure he wants something to eat. I will, before it’s too late.”

He rose from his seat once more, and was in the act of crossing the lobby, when a piteous cry escaped his lips, for there was a sharp concussion, the windows of the place he was in rattled, and he heard the sound of a heavy fall!

Crying out “Too late! too late!” he dashed at the door, flung it open, and entered.

Chapter Thirty Five.Dead or Alive?As Jerry rushed into Lacey’s room, it was with the full expectation of seeing the master for whom he had begun to feel a warm respect stretched, face downward, upon the carpet; but the place was vacant, and, panting and trembling, he ran on to where the heavy curtain draped the bedroom door, swung it aside, and rushed in—there to see that the lieutenant, in shirt and trousers, had fallen upon the bed, from which he was now evidently writhing and struggling to the floor.Jerry was a man of resource. He had not been servant and valet to gentlemen for years without picking up a great deal—nursing being one of his accomplishments.“Badly, perhaps fatally, wounded,” he thought, “and immediate aid might be invaluable;” so, with this idea uppermost, he flung himself upon the young officer just as his feet touched the carpet, stooped down, and, by a clever quick motion, seized him round the knees, lifted his legs, and threw him on his back.“Oh, how could you—how could you?” he cried, as he leant over him, pressing him down with his head on the pillow, and searched him wildly with his eyes, and then with one hand, for the wound.“Do you hear?” he half-whimpered. “How could you? Oh, Mr Lacey, sir, how could you?”The young officer’s eyes looked fixed and staring, his face was white and drawn, and his mind was evidently confused and wandering. For the first few moments he struggled violently; then he lay back panting with his lips apart, while Jerry went on excitedly searching for the wound, but without success.Then he turned his eyes to the floor, looking about in all directions for the pistol, then about the bed, which had not been turned down, but without avail; and his eyes sought those of the young man again as he held him, and with one hand felt for the pulsation at the heart.“What’s matter?” said Lacey, thickly.At that moment Jerry caught sight of a glass on the dressing-table, and he uttered a cry, but felt confused and puzzled directly after; for his common sense told him that, if the lieutenant had tried to poison himself, whatever he had taken would not have gone off with a tremendous bang inside and made the windows rattle.“What’s matter?” said the lieutenant again, in a confused way; “did I—did I—tumble out of bed?”“No, no. I saved you, sir!” whimpered Jerry, hysterically. “Oh, sir, where is it? What have you done?”“I d’ know,” said Lacey, confusedly. Then, with the power to think returning, he seized Jerry’s hands, and tried to remove them from his chest. “Here! what are you doing?”“Doing! doing!” cried Jerry. “Oh, why don’t you speak! Can you hold out while I fetch the doctor?”“Doctor? I d’ know?” cried Lacey, staring in a stupefied way at his servant, and then growing angry at being held down. “Here! what’s the matter? Have I been taken ill?”“Ill? It’s ten times worse than that, sir. Hold still. Where are you hurt? Where’s the pistol?”“Confound you! Will you leave go?” cried the lieutenant, who grew angry as his senses returned; and, gripping Jerry firmly, he wrenched himself round, made a violent effort, forced his man back, and rose to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.“Mr Lacey, sir, don’t!” cried Jerry.“Oh, won’t I!” cried the lieutenant. “What do you mean by it? How dare you, sir? Couldn’t you sit up late without getting at my spirit-stand? What is it—brandy?”“That it ain’t, sir! I never touched a drop!” cried Jerry, indignantly. “Don’t, sir! You hurt me!”“Hurt you? Yes, you dog, I mean to! You hurt me pretty well! Why, you’re as drunk as a piper!”“Tell you I ain’t, sir!” cried Jerry. “I took four cups o’ coffee to keep me awake. That’s all. But—but, Mr Lacey, sir, didn’t you do it? Didn’t you hurt yourself?—didn’t—didn’t—”“‘Didn’t—didn’t’—don’t stammer and stutter like that! Confound you! What do you mean by dragging me out of bed in this way? You must have been at the spirits!”“Tell you I haven’t!” roared Jerry, indignantly. “It’s taking a man’s character away, sir!”“Then what do you mean by seizing me like this?”“I heard a noise, sir—I thought you’d been losing money all night to Mr Frayne, sir, and that you’d shot yourself, sir—with your pistol, sir. Ain’t yer, sir?”“I shot myself? Pistol? Why, Brigley, you must be tipsy!”“Which I ain’t, sir; indeed, I ain’t!” protested Jerry. “But are you really all right, sir? I heered a horful bang.”“I’m so stupidly confused and sleepy, I hardly know,” said Lacey. “I suppose I must have rolled off the bed.”“Then you ain’t hurt, sir?”“Not that I know of.”“But something went off, sir.”“Soda-water.”“Oh, no, sir; hundred times as loud as that.”“Never mind. I’m thirsty. Bring me some.”“Yes, sir; directly, sir,” cried Jerry, and he hurried out into the lobby, to come back in a minute with a glass of the sparkling anti-feverish water, to find the lieutenant bathing his face.“Hah, that’s refreshing!” said Lacey, returning the glass to the waiter Jerry held in his trembling hands. “Why, you look as if you had seen a ghost, Brigley!”“I thought I was going to see one, sir—yours! And you ain’t hurt a bit?”“It’s quite bad enough to have to be shot by other people, Brigley, without trying to hurt oneself. But how came you to think such a thing?”“Well, sir—I—”“Well, you what?””—Have heered of such things, sir, with gents—as has been in great trouble, sir—as lost a deal o’ money, sir.”Lacey frowned.“Ever been with a gentleman who did such a thing?”“Well, yes, sir—almost, sir—not exactly, sir; but I thought he had, sir.”“That’s a nice clear way of expressing yourself. Well, don’t run away with that idea, again. I don’t like to be snatched out of my sleep in that fashion. What time is it? Morning gun fired?”Jerry’s jaw dropped, and he stood staring over the empty soda-water glass.“I said had the morning gun been fired!” remarked Lacey, sharply.Jerry’s face began to wrinkle all over, and there was a peculiar twinkle in his eyes as they met his master’s.“Yes, sir, the gun’s gone off a quarter of a hour ago.”“There, be off! Call me in time to dress for parade.”“Yes, sir; of course, sir. Very sorry, sir. My mistake, sir. But don’t you see how it was?”“No; I’m too sleepy to see anything; but don’t make any more such mistakes.”“No, sir—cert’nly not, sir; but don’t you see, sir, how it was, really?”“No; unless you’d had too much coffee!”“Well, sir, then, as you will keep on thinking it was coffee or something else, I must, for my character’s sake, sir, explain.”“Not this morning, Brigley, thank you; some other time.”“Won’t take a moment, sir,” persisted Jerry. “You see, I’d got thinking, sir, through having had a hawkward experience of the sort, that you might do something of the kind; and I was actually meaning to walk in and stop you, when there was that tremenjus noise, and I thought you’d made it.”“And I did not!” said the lieutenant, angrily. “Now be off!”“No, sir, it wasn’t you,” said Jerry, grinning; “and it only shows how easy we can make mistakes. You see now, sir? It was the morning gun.”

As Jerry rushed into Lacey’s room, it was with the full expectation of seeing the master for whom he had begun to feel a warm respect stretched, face downward, upon the carpet; but the place was vacant, and, panting and trembling, he ran on to where the heavy curtain draped the bedroom door, swung it aside, and rushed in—there to see that the lieutenant, in shirt and trousers, had fallen upon the bed, from which he was now evidently writhing and struggling to the floor.

Jerry was a man of resource. He had not been servant and valet to gentlemen for years without picking up a great deal—nursing being one of his accomplishments.

“Badly, perhaps fatally, wounded,” he thought, “and immediate aid might be invaluable;” so, with this idea uppermost, he flung himself upon the young officer just as his feet touched the carpet, stooped down, and, by a clever quick motion, seized him round the knees, lifted his legs, and threw him on his back.

“Oh, how could you—how could you?” he cried, as he leant over him, pressing him down with his head on the pillow, and searched him wildly with his eyes, and then with one hand, for the wound.

“Do you hear?” he half-whimpered. “How could you? Oh, Mr Lacey, sir, how could you?”

The young officer’s eyes looked fixed and staring, his face was white and drawn, and his mind was evidently confused and wandering. For the first few moments he struggled violently; then he lay back panting with his lips apart, while Jerry went on excitedly searching for the wound, but without success.

Then he turned his eyes to the floor, looking about in all directions for the pistol, then about the bed, which had not been turned down, but without avail; and his eyes sought those of the young man again as he held him, and with one hand felt for the pulsation at the heart.

“What’s matter?” said Lacey, thickly.

At that moment Jerry caught sight of a glass on the dressing-table, and he uttered a cry, but felt confused and puzzled directly after; for his common sense told him that, if the lieutenant had tried to poison himself, whatever he had taken would not have gone off with a tremendous bang inside and made the windows rattle.

“What’s matter?” said the lieutenant again, in a confused way; “did I—did I—tumble out of bed?”

“No, no. I saved you, sir!” whimpered Jerry, hysterically. “Oh, sir, where is it? What have you done?”

“I d’ know,” said Lacey, confusedly. Then, with the power to think returning, he seized Jerry’s hands, and tried to remove them from his chest. “Here! what are you doing?”

“Doing! doing!” cried Jerry. “Oh, why don’t you speak! Can you hold out while I fetch the doctor?”

“Doctor? I d’ know?” cried Lacey, staring in a stupefied way at his servant, and then growing angry at being held down. “Here! what’s the matter? Have I been taken ill?”

“Ill? It’s ten times worse than that, sir. Hold still. Where are you hurt? Where’s the pistol?”

“Confound you! Will you leave go?” cried the lieutenant, who grew angry as his senses returned; and, gripping Jerry firmly, he wrenched himself round, made a violent effort, forced his man back, and rose to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

“Mr Lacey, sir, don’t!” cried Jerry.

“Oh, won’t I!” cried the lieutenant. “What do you mean by it? How dare you, sir? Couldn’t you sit up late without getting at my spirit-stand? What is it—brandy?”

“That it ain’t, sir! I never touched a drop!” cried Jerry, indignantly. “Don’t, sir! You hurt me!”

“Hurt you? Yes, you dog, I mean to! You hurt me pretty well! Why, you’re as drunk as a piper!”

“Tell you I ain’t, sir!” cried Jerry. “I took four cups o’ coffee to keep me awake. That’s all. But—but, Mr Lacey, sir, didn’t you do it? Didn’t you hurt yourself?—didn’t—didn’t—”

“‘Didn’t—didn’t’—don’t stammer and stutter like that! Confound you! What do you mean by dragging me out of bed in this way? You must have been at the spirits!”

“Tell you I haven’t!” roared Jerry, indignantly. “It’s taking a man’s character away, sir!”

“Then what do you mean by seizing me like this?”

“I heard a noise, sir—I thought you’d been losing money all night to Mr Frayne, sir, and that you’d shot yourself, sir—with your pistol, sir. Ain’t yer, sir?”

“I shot myself? Pistol? Why, Brigley, you must be tipsy!”

“Which I ain’t, sir; indeed, I ain’t!” protested Jerry. “But are you really all right, sir? I heered a horful bang.”

“I’m so stupidly confused and sleepy, I hardly know,” said Lacey. “I suppose I must have rolled off the bed.”

“Then you ain’t hurt, sir?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But something went off, sir.”

“Soda-water.”

“Oh, no, sir; hundred times as loud as that.”

“Never mind. I’m thirsty. Bring me some.”

“Yes, sir; directly, sir,” cried Jerry, and he hurried out into the lobby, to come back in a minute with a glass of the sparkling anti-feverish water, to find the lieutenant bathing his face.

“Hah, that’s refreshing!” said Lacey, returning the glass to the waiter Jerry held in his trembling hands. “Why, you look as if you had seen a ghost, Brigley!”

“I thought I was going to see one, sir—yours! And you ain’t hurt a bit?”

“It’s quite bad enough to have to be shot by other people, Brigley, without trying to hurt oneself. But how came you to think such a thing?”

“Well, sir—I—”

“Well, you what?”

”—Have heered of such things, sir, with gents—as has been in great trouble, sir—as lost a deal o’ money, sir.”

Lacey frowned.

“Ever been with a gentleman who did such a thing?”

“Well, yes, sir—almost, sir—not exactly, sir; but I thought he had, sir.”

“That’s a nice clear way of expressing yourself. Well, don’t run away with that idea, again. I don’t like to be snatched out of my sleep in that fashion. What time is it? Morning gun fired?”

Jerry’s jaw dropped, and he stood staring over the empty soda-water glass.

“I said had the morning gun been fired!” remarked Lacey, sharply.

Jerry’s face began to wrinkle all over, and there was a peculiar twinkle in his eyes as they met his master’s.

“Yes, sir, the gun’s gone off a quarter of a hour ago.”

“There, be off! Call me in time to dress for parade.”

“Yes, sir; of course, sir. Very sorry, sir. My mistake, sir. But don’t you see how it was?”

“No; I’m too sleepy to see anything; but don’t make any more such mistakes.”

“No, sir—cert’nly not, sir; but don’t you see, sir, how it was, really?”

“No; unless you’d had too much coffee!”

“Well, sir, then, as you will keep on thinking it was coffee or something else, I must, for my character’s sake, sir, explain.”

“Not this morning, Brigley, thank you; some other time.”

“Won’t take a moment, sir,” persisted Jerry. “You see, I’d got thinking, sir, through having had a hawkward experience of the sort, that you might do something of the kind; and I was actually meaning to walk in and stop you, when there was that tremenjus noise, and I thought you’d made it.”

“And I did not!” said the lieutenant, angrily. “Now be off!”

“No, sir, it wasn’t you,” said Jerry, grinning; “and it only shows how easy we can make mistakes. You see now, sir? It was the morning gun.”

Chapter Thirty Six.A Secret’s Limit.“He might have told me,” Jerry said to himself. “I’ve done all I could for him, and kep’ his secret when I’ve felt at times as if I must shout out ‘Sir Richard’ all over the barracks. I call it mean: that’s what I call it—mean! It ain’t as if I hadn’t shown him as he might trust me. I should have said a deal to him in a fatherly sort o’ way to show him that it wasn’t the kind o’ thing for a gen’leman to do. I should have pointed out to him as he did wrong last time in going off, and what a lot of injury it did him; and he knew it, or else he wouldn’t have kep’ it so close, and gone without letting me know. But once bit twice shy, and I’m not going to be bit again. I’m not going to break my heart fancying he’s made a hole in the water. That’s what set me thinking about the lieutenant as I did. If he wasn’t one of the easiest-going bits o’ human machinery as ever lived, he’d have been awfully nasty with me for serving him as I did. No, I’m not going to humbug after S’Richard; and I’m not going to worry. I was ready to be friends if he liked to trust me; but he didn’t, and there it ends.”Jerry sat sunning himself outside the officers’ quarters as he mused in this way, and felt a bit resentful against Dick as he went on.“I know where he’s off to. He’s gone to see some lawyer fellow up in town to get advice, and he’ll have to pay for it. I could have given him just as good, and he could have had it free, gratus, for nothing; but stuff as people don’t have to pay for they think ain’t worth having. Hullo! here comes Dan’l Lambert. Mornin’!”“Morning,” said Brumpton, rather gruffly, as he halted in front of Jerry, with his battered bombardon in his hand, evidently on his way from the band-room to the sergeants’ quarters.“Any news? Ain’t come back, I s’pose?” said Jerry.“No; he won’t come back till he’s brought,” said Brumpton rather sternly. Then, suddenly, “I told you about my bit of a row with Wilkins?”Jerry nodded.“There’s a fine upset about that. Can’t tell yet what’s to be the end of it. I don’t want to lose my stripes.”“Oh, they ought to let you off,” said Jerry.Sergeant Brumpton shook his head.“Discipline,” he said, “discipline. I oughtn’t to have let my temper get the better of me.”“But the officers won’t be able to help laughing. He must have looked like a periwinkle stuck in his shell. Go and tell him you’re very sorry, and shake hands.”“Ah! you don’t understand our ways here, Brigley. He wouldn’t take the apology. He don’t like me going there to practice, because it was all through young Smithson, for he hates him like poison.”“Yes, or he wouldn’t have said what he did,” cried Jerry. “It was too bad.”“Yes, too bad,” said the sergeant, “when the poor lad didn’t even take his own instruments away with him.”“Didn’t he?” cried Jerry, rather excitedly. “What, not them big and little silver-keyed flutes?”“No; they’ve got them up in his quarters, keeping them for him. Some of the men are precious wild about what Wilkins said.”Jerry made no reply, but stood rubbing one side of his nose with his finger.“Well, why don’t you speak?” said the sergeant.“Because I was thinking,” said Jerry; “and a man can’t think of one thing and talk of another at the same time.”“What were you thinking, then?”“I was thinking it seemed strange for him to leave those flutes behind. They was his own, and he set a deal of store by them.”“Well, what do you make of it, now you have thought it?”“What do you?” replied Jerry.“That it looks as if he meant to come back.”“Yes,” said Jerry, mysteriously; “it do look like that. Are they trying to find him?”“Of course, they are trying their best. They won’t stop till they have.”“But ain’t it making a deal o’ fuss about one chap, and him not a reg’lar fighting man?”“’Tisn’t that,” said the sergeant; “it’s the principle of the thing. They wouldn’t care about losing one man or a dozen; it’s keeping up the discipline. Young Smithson ’ll be caught, and he’ll be pretty severely punished, poor lad. I rather liked Smithson.”“Liked him!” said Jerry, acidly; “why, of course, you did. Why, I like him—even me, who don’t make many friends—I can tell you. You think, then, they might ketch him?”“I do,” said the sergeant, “sooner or later. They’re sure to. Well, I must be off. I’ve got my own troubles to think about without his.”“Good-bye, sergeant,” said Jerry, with a friendly nod, and Brumpton went on, while Jerry’s whole expression changed. His eyes glittered, the colour came in his face, and he thrust his hands in his pockets as far down as he could get them.“He wouldn’t have gone off without telling me, pore chap! I’m sure of it. It was master and man between us, and full confidence, as you may say. He wouldn’t desert—he’s too much the gentleman—and he wouldn’t go to see lawyers without speaking first. As to his going away, that settles it. He wouldn’t leave them flutes if he were making a bolt. Why, he didn’t when he ran away before. That settles it, and no mistake. Jerry Brigley, my lad, there’s something wrong.”What was to be done?That was a question Jerry could not answer, and he went about the barracks talking with the men, asking who had seen Dick last, and gleaning all about his leave, and that one of the band had seen him going down the High Street that same afternoon.Waiting till Wilkins was away, Jerry made his way to the band-room, where he obtained confirmation of the sergeant’s remarks about the flute-case, and here he began to drop dark hints of the vaguest nature. These, however, fell upon fertile soil, and struck root, and shot up into plants at a very rapid rate. In other words, Jerry’s hints became solid, and from the band-room went forth the rumour that Dick Smithson had gone down the town, been persuaded to enter one of the low-class public-houses, and had there been robbed and ill-used.Then a private in Lacey’s company announced that he had had a similar experience down by the docks, and said that if he had not fought like a savage he would have lost his life.News flies fast in a regiment where the men have so little out of the routine to attract their attention, and, consequently, it was soon the common talk of the barracks that Dick Smithson, of the band, had been “done to death” somewhere in the lower part of the city.That night the rumour reached the mess-room. One of the officers had heard it, and in a few minutes it was the sole topic of conversation.Men talked of the first time they had seen Dick Smithson, and reminded one another of his playing and the strange way in which he had joined the regiment.At last, as the band finished one of the pieces in the evening’s programme, the colonel, after a few words with the doctor, sent his servant to tell Wilkins to come to the table; and, upon the bandmaster appearing, the doctor addressed him in a serious tone, but with a humorous twinkle of the eye.“Is this true, Wilkins?” he said.“I beg pardon, sir, is what true?”“That in a fit of jealousy you have tried to pitch young Smithson into the river, to be carried out to sea or to one of Her Majesty’s ships, to form the nucleus of a new band?”“Not a word of truth in it, sir, I assure you. Really I—”“Stop a moment, man! You were exceedingly jealous of him.”“Really no, sir. I only did what I thought was right to keep the boy from growing too conceited.”“Well, of course, pitching him into the river would have that effect; but it strikes me that it will get you into difficulties.”“Really, sir—I assure you, sir, if it was the last word I had to utter, sir—I didn’t do anything of the kind.”“Of course not, Wilkins,” said the colonel, quietly; “the doctor is only quizzing you. I cannot believe that you would be guilty of such a dastardly act. But do you think anything of the kind has happened?”“No, sir; I don’t think such a thing could have taken place.”“I hope not; but you have heard the rumour?”“Yes, sir; the men are talking about nothing else.”“One moment,” cried the colonel; “you have seen a great deal of the young man. Do you think he was likely to get into bad company?”“That he wasn’t, sir!” cried someone excitedly; and Jerry advanced from where he had been waiting upon his master, and now stood close to the colonel, gesticulating with an empty claret bottle in his hand.“Silence, sir!” cried the colonel; “how dare you speak!”“Beg pardon, sir; I felt abound to speak because I know Dick Smithson isn’t at all likely to go to any low places.”The colonel frowned; but he said no more, and Jerry was allowed to go back to his place.That night the superintendent of police was summoned to the barracks, and had a long talk with the colonel and major.“No, gentlemen, I don’t think it is at all likely. They get down to the rougher houses, and drink and stay a day or two; but the landlords get rid of them as soon as they have spent all their money. But, as you’ve sent for me, I’ll set a couple of our sharpest men to go from house to house, and then report to you.”The superintendent left to perform his mission, and orders were given to the military provosts; but another day passed away, and neither civil nor military police had anything to report. No one had seen the young bandsman on his way to some distant railway station, and men began to shake their heads, while Jerry’s face looked hollow from anxiety. At the same time, though, he felt a kind of pride in the fact that he was constantly being questioned by those who knew that he and Dick had been on friendly terms, this culminating in his being stopped one day in the street by a couple of ladies.“You are Mr Lacey’s servant, are you not?” said the younger.“Yes, ma’am—oh, I beg your pardon, miss. I didn’t know you behind your veil.”“Has anything been heard of Smithson?”“No, ma’am. I’m sorry to say that—”There was a sigh, and the lady turned away, followed by her companion.“Well,” said Jerry, “she might have stopped to hear all I had to say. My word, now people have got to like him! Even her. Well, he saved her life. What can have come to him? I daren’t go and say all I think, for, after all, it mayn’t be true. I know: I’ll wait a week, and then, right or wrong, I’ll speak; for I can’t keep his secret longer than that.”

“He might have told me,” Jerry said to himself. “I’ve done all I could for him, and kep’ his secret when I’ve felt at times as if I must shout out ‘Sir Richard’ all over the barracks. I call it mean: that’s what I call it—mean! It ain’t as if I hadn’t shown him as he might trust me. I should have said a deal to him in a fatherly sort o’ way to show him that it wasn’t the kind o’ thing for a gen’leman to do. I should have pointed out to him as he did wrong last time in going off, and what a lot of injury it did him; and he knew it, or else he wouldn’t have kep’ it so close, and gone without letting me know. But once bit twice shy, and I’m not going to be bit again. I’m not going to break my heart fancying he’s made a hole in the water. That’s what set me thinking about the lieutenant as I did. If he wasn’t one of the easiest-going bits o’ human machinery as ever lived, he’d have been awfully nasty with me for serving him as I did. No, I’m not going to humbug after S’Richard; and I’m not going to worry. I was ready to be friends if he liked to trust me; but he didn’t, and there it ends.”

Jerry sat sunning himself outside the officers’ quarters as he mused in this way, and felt a bit resentful against Dick as he went on.

“I know where he’s off to. He’s gone to see some lawyer fellow up in town to get advice, and he’ll have to pay for it. I could have given him just as good, and he could have had it free, gratus, for nothing; but stuff as people don’t have to pay for they think ain’t worth having. Hullo! here comes Dan’l Lambert. Mornin’!”

“Morning,” said Brumpton, rather gruffly, as he halted in front of Jerry, with his battered bombardon in his hand, evidently on his way from the band-room to the sergeants’ quarters.

“Any news? Ain’t come back, I s’pose?” said Jerry.

“No; he won’t come back till he’s brought,” said Brumpton rather sternly. Then, suddenly, “I told you about my bit of a row with Wilkins?”

Jerry nodded.

“There’s a fine upset about that. Can’t tell yet what’s to be the end of it. I don’t want to lose my stripes.”

“Oh, they ought to let you off,” said Jerry.

Sergeant Brumpton shook his head.

“Discipline,” he said, “discipline. I oughtn’t to have let my temper get the better of me.”

“But the officers won’t be able to help laughing. He must have looked like a periwinkle stuck in his shell. Go and tell him you’re very sorry, and shake hands.”

“Ah! you don’t understand our ways here, Brigley. He wouldn’t take the apology. He don’t like me going there to practice, because it was all through young Smithson, for he hates him like poison.”

“Yes, or he wouldn’t have said what he did,” cried Jerry. “It was too bad.”

“Yes, too bad,” said the sergeant, “when the poor lad didn’t even take his own instruments away with him.”

“Didn’t he?” cried Jerry, rather excitedly. “What, not them big and little silver-keyed flutes?”

“No; they’ve got them up in his quarters, keeping them for him. Some of the men are precious wild about what Wilkins said.”

Jerry made no reply, but stood rubbing one side of his nose with his finger.

“Well, why don’t you speak?” said the sergeant.

“Because I was thinking,” said Jerry; “and a man can’t think of one thing and talk of another at the same time.”

“What were you thinking, then?”

“I was thinking it seemed strange for him to leave those flutes behind. They was his own, and he set a deal of store by them.”

“Well, what do you make of it, now you have thought it?”

“What do you?” replied Jerry.

“That it looks as if he meant to come back.”

“Yes,” said Jerry, mysteriously; “it do look like that. Are they trying to find him?”

“Of course, they are trying their best. They won’t stop till they have.”

“But ain’t it making a deal o’ fuss about one chap, and him not a reg’lar fighting man?”

“’Tisn’t that,” said the sergeant; “it’s the principle of the thing. They wouldn’t care about losing one man or a dozen; it’s keeping up the discipline. Young Smithson ’ll be caught, and he’ll be pretty severely punished, poor lad. I rather liked Smithson.”

“Liked him!” said Jerry, acidly; “why, of course, you did. Why, I like him—even me, who don’t make many friends—I can tell you. You think, then, they might ketch him?”

“I do,” said the sergeant, “sooner or later. They’re sure to. Well, I must be off. I’ve got my own troubles to think about without his.”

“Good-bye, sergeant,” said Jerry, with a friendly nod, and Brumpton went on, while Jerry’s whole expression changed. His eyes glittered, the colour came in his face, and he thrust his hands in his pockets as far down as he could get them.

“He wouldn’t have gone off without telling me, pore chap! I’m sure of it. It was master and man between us, and full confidence, as you may say. He wouldn’t desert—he’s too much the gentleman—and he wouldn’t go to see lawyers without speaking first. As to his going away, that settles it. He wouldn’t leave them flutes if he were making a bolt. Why, he didn’t when he ran away before. That settles it, and no mistake. Jerry Brigley, my lad, there’s something wrong.”

What was to be done?

That was a question Jerry could not answer, and he went about the barracks talking with the men, asking who had seen Dick last, and gleaning all about his leave, and that one of the band had seen him going down the High Street that same afternoon.

Waiting till Wilkins was away, Jerry made his way to the band-room, where he obtained confirmation of the sergeant’s remarks about the flute-case, and here he began to drop dark hints of the vaguest nature. These, however, fell upon fertile soil, and struck root, and shot up into plants at a very rapid rate. In other words, Jerry’s hints became solid, and from the band-room went forth the rumour that Dick Smithson had gone down the town, been persuaded to enter one of the low-class public-houses, and had there been robbed and ill-used.

Then a private in Lacey’s company announced that he had had a similar experience down by the docks, and said that if he had not fought like a savage he would have lost his life.

News flies fast in a regiment where the men have so little out of the routine to attract their attention, and, consequently, it was soon the common talk of the barracks that Dick Smithson, of the band, had been “done to death” somewhere in the lower part of the city.

That night the rumour reached the mess-room. One of the officers had heard it, and in a few minutes it was the sole topic of conversation.

Men talked of the first time they had seen Dick Smithson, and reminded one another of his playing and the strange way in which he had joined the regiment.

At last, as the band finished one of the pieces in the evening’s programme, the colonel, after a few words with the doctor, sent his servant to tell Wilkins to come to the table; and, upon the bandmaster appearing, the doctor addressed him in a serious tone, but with a humorous twinkle of the eye.

“Is this true, Wilkins?” he said.

“I beg pardon, sir, is what true?”

“That in a fit of jealousy you have tried to pitch young Smithson into the river, to be carried out to sea or to one of Her Majesty’s ships, to form the nucleus of a new band?”

“Not a word of truth in it, sir, I assure you. Really I—”

“Stop a moment, man! You were exceedingly jealous of him.”

“Really no, sir. I only did what I thought was right to keep the boy from growing too conceited.”

“Well, of course, pitching him into the river would have that effect; but it strikes me that it will get you into difficulties.”

“Really, sir—I assure you, sir, if it was the last word I had to utter, sir—I didn’t do anything of the kind.”

“Of course not, Wilkins,” said the colonel, quietly; “the doctor is only quizzing you. I cannot believe that you would be guilty of such a dastardly act. But do you think anything of the kind has happened?”

“No, sir; I don’t think such a thing could have taken place.”

“I hope not; but you have heard the rumour?”

“Yes, sir; the men are talking about nothing else.”

“One moment,” cried the colonel; “you have seen a great deal of the young man. Do you think he was likely to get into bad company?”

“That he wasn’t, sir!” cried someone excitedly; and Jerry advanced from where he had been waiting upon his master, and now stood close to the colonel, gesticulating with an empty claret bottle in his hand.

“Silence, sir!” cried the colonel; “how dare you speak!”

“Beg pardon, sir; I felt abound to speak because I know Dick Smithson isn’t at all likely to go to any low places.”

The colonel frowned; but he said no more, and Jerry was allowed to go back to his place.

That night the superintendent of police was summoned to the barracks, and had a long talk with the colonel and major.

“No, gentlemen, I don’t think it is at all likely. They get down to the rougher houses, and drink and stay a day or two; but the landlords get rid of them as soon as they have spent all their money. But, as you’ve sent for me, I’ll set a couple of our sharpest men to go from house to house, and then report to you.”

The superintendent left to perform his mission, and orders were given to the military provosts; but another day passed away, and neither civil nor military police had anything to report. No one had seen the young bandsman on his way to some distant railway station, and men began to shake their heads, while Jerry’s face looked hollow from anxiety. At the same time, though, he felt a kind of pride in the fact that he was constantly being questioned by those who knew that he and Dick had been on friendly terms, this culminating in his being stopped one day in the street by a couple of ladies.

“You are Mr Lacey’s servant, are you not?” said the younger.

“Yes, ma’am—oh, I beg your pardon, miss. I didn’t know you behind your veil.”

“Has anything been heard of Smithson?”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry to say that—”

There was a sigh, and the lady turned away, followed by her companion.

“Well,” said Jerry, “she might have stopped to hear all I had to say. My word, now people have got to like him! Even her. Well, he saved her life. What can have come to him? I daren’t go and say all I think, for, after all, it mayn’t be true. I know: I’ll wait a week, and then, right or wrong, I’ll speak; for I can’t keep his secret longer than that.”

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