Stalky and Co Part 3

"Oh, don't let _me_ interrupt you," he said. "Engaged in scientific pursuits, of course? I trust you will enjoy yourselves, my young friends."

"You see!" said Stalky, when they were out of earshot. "He _can't_ keep a secret. He's followin' to cut off our line of retreat. He'll wait at the baths till Heffy comes along. They've tried every blessed place except along the cliffs, and now they think they've bottled us. No need to hurry."

They walked leisurely over the combes till they reached the line of notice-boards.

"Listen a shake. Foxy's up wind comin' down hill like beans. When you hear him move in the bushes, go straight across to Aves. They want to catch us _flagrante delicto_."

They dived into the gorse at right angles to the tunnel, openly crossing the gra.s.s, and lay still in Aves.

"What did I tell you?" Stalky carefully put away the pipes and tobacco.

The Sergeant, out of breath, was leaning against the fence, raking the furze with his binoculars, but he might as well have tried to see through a sand-bag. Anon, Prout and King appeared behind him. They conferred.

"Aha! Foxy don't like the notice-boards, and he don't like the p.r.i.c.kles either. Now we'll cut up the tunnel and go to the Lodge. Hullo! They've sent Foxy into cover."

The Sergeant was waist-deep in crackling, swaying furze, his ears filled with the noise of his own progress. The boys reached the shelter of the wood and looked down through a belt of hollies.

"h.e.l.lish noise!" said Stalky, critically. "'Don't think Colonel Dabney will like it. I move we go into the Lodge and get something to eat. We might as well see the fun out."

Suddenly the keeper pa.s.sed them at a trot. "Who'm they to combe-bottom for Lard's sake? Master'll be crazy," he said.

"Poachers simly," Stalky replied in the broad Devon that was the boy's _langue de guerre_.

"I'll poach 'em to raights!" He dropped into the funnel-like combe, which presently began to fill with noises, notably King's voice crying: "Go on, Sergeant! Leave him alone, you, sir. He is executing my orders."

"Who'm yeou to give arders here, gingy whiskers? Yeou come up to the master. Come out o' that wuzzy! [This is to the Sergeant.] Yiss, I reckon us knows the boys yeou'm after. They've tu long ears an' vuzzy bellies, an' you nippies they in yeour pockets when they'm dead. Come on up to master! He'll boy yeou all you're a mind to. Yeou other folk bide your side fence."

"Explain to the proprietor. You can explain, Sergeant," shouted King.

Evidently the Sergeant had surrendered to the major force.

Beetle lay at full length on the turf behind the Lodge, literally biting the earth in spasms of joy. Stalky kicked him upright. There was nothing of levity about Stalky or McTurk save a stray muscle twitching on the cheek.

They tapped at the Lodge door, where they were always welcome. "Come yeou right in an' set down, my little dearrs," said the woman. "They'll niver touch my man. He'll poach 'em to rights. Iss fai! Fresh berries an' cream. Us Dartymoor folk niver forgit their friends. But them Bidevor poachers, they've no hem to their garments. Sugar? My man he've digged a badger for yeou, my dearrs. 'Tis in the linhay in a box."

"Us'll take un with us when we're finished here. I reckon yeou'm busy.

We'll bide here an'--'tis was.h.i.+n' day with yeou, simly," said Stalky.

"We'm no company to make all vitty for. Never yeou mind us. Yiss.

There's plenty cream."

The woman withdrew, wiping her pink hands on her ap.r.o.n, and left them in the parlor. There was a scuffle of feet on the gravel outside the heavily-leaded diamond panes, and then the voice of Colonel Dabney, something clearer than a bugle.

"Ye can read? You've eyes in your head? Don't attempt to deny it. Ye have!"

Beetle s.n.a.t.c.hed a crochet-work antimaca.s.sar from the s.h.i.+ny horsehair sofa, stuffed it into his mouth, and rolled out of sight.

"You saw my notice-boards. Your duty? Curse your impudence, sir. Your duty was to keep off my grounds. Talk of duty to _me_! Why--why--why, ye misbegotten poacher, ye'll be teaching me my A B C next! Roarin' like a bull in the bushes down there! Boys? Boys? Boys? Keep your boys at home, then! I'm not responsible for your boys! But I don't believe it--I don't believe a word of it. Ye've a furtive look in your eye--a furtive, sneakin', poachin' look in your eye, that 'ud ruin the reputation of an archangel! Don't attempt to deny it! Ye have! A sergeant? More shame to you, then, an' the worst bargain Her Majesty ever made! A sergeant, to run about the country poachin'--on your pension! d.a.m.nable! Oh, d.a.m.nable!

But I'll be considerate. I'll be merciful. By gad, I'll be the very essence o' humanity! Did ye, or did ye not, see my notice-boards? Don't attempt to deny it! Ye did. Silence, Sergeant!"

Twenty-one years in the army had left their mark on Foxy. He obeyed.

"Now. March!" The high Lodge gate shut with a clang. "My duty! A sergeant to tell me my duty!" puffed Colonel Dabney. "Good Lard! more sergeants!"

"It's King! It's King!" gulped Stalky, his head on the horsehair pillow.

McTurk was eating the rag-carpet before the speckless hearth, and the sofa heaved to the emotions of Beetle. Through the thick gla.s.s the figures without showed blue, distorted, and menacing.

"I--I protest against this outrage." King had evidently been running up hill. "The man was entirely within his duty. Let--let me give you my card."

"He's in flannels!" Stalky buried his head again.

"Unfortunately--most unfortunately--I have not one with me, but my name is King, sir, a house-master of the College, and you will find me prepared--fully prepared--to answer for this man's action. We've seen three--"

"Did ye see my notice-boards?"

"I admit we did; but under the circ.u.mstances--"

"I stand _in loco parentis_." Prout's deep voice was added to the discussion. They could hear him pant.

"F'what?" Colonel Dabney was growing more and more Irish.

"I'm responsible for the boys under my charge."

"Ye are, are ye? Then all I can say is that ye set them a very bad example--a dam' bad example, if I may say so. I do not own your boys.

I've not seen your boys, an' I tell you that if there was a boy grinnin'

in every bush on the place, _still_ ye've no shadow of a right here, comin' up from the combe that way, an' frightenin' everything in it.

Don't attempt to deny it. Ye did. Ye should have come to the Lodge an'

seen me like Christians, instead of chasin' your dam' boys through the length and breadth of my covers. _In loco parentis_ ye are? Well, I've not forgotten my Latin either, an' I'll say to you: '_Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_.' If the masters trespa.s.s, how can we blame the boys?"

"But if I could speak to you privately," said Prout.

"I'll have nothing private with you! Ye can be as private as ye please on the other side o' that gate an'--I wish ye a very good afternoon."

A second time the gate clanged. They waited till Colonel Dabney had returned to the house, and fell into one another's arms, crowing for breath.

"Oh, my Soul! Oh, my King! Oh, my Heffy! Oh, my Foxy! Zeal, all zeal, Mr. Simple." Stalky wiped his eyes. "Oh! Oh I Oh!--'I _did_ boil the exciseman!' We must get out of this or we'll be late for tea."

"Ge--Ge--get the badger and make little Hartopp happy. Ma--ma--make 'em all happy," sobbed McTurk, groping for the door and kicking the prostrate Beetle before him.

They found the beast in an evil-smelling box, left two half-crowns for payment, and staggered home. Only the badger grunted most marvelous like Colonel Dabney, and they dropped him twice or thrice with shrieks of helpless laughter. They were but imperfectly recovered when Foxy met them by the Fives Court with word that they were to go up to their dormitory and wait till sent for.

"Well, take this box to Mr. Hartopp's rooms, then. We've done something for the Natural History Society, at any rate," said Beetle.

"'Fraid that won't save you, young gen'elmen," Foxy answered, in an awful voice. He was sorely ruffled in his mind.

"All sereno, Foxibus." Stalky had reached the extreme stage of hiccups.

"We--we'll never desert you, Foxy. Hounds choppin' foxes in cover is more a proof of vice, ain't it?... No, you're right. I'm--I'm not quite well."

"They've gone a bit too far this time," Foxy thought to himself. "Very far gone, _I'd_ say, excep' there was no smell of liquor. An' yet it isn't like 'em--somehow. King and Prout they 'ad their dressin'-down same as me. That's one comfort."

"Now, we must pull up," said Stalky, rising from the bed on which he had thrown himself. "We're injured innocence--as usual. We don't know what we've been sent up here for, do we?"