Acton's Feud Part 15

"Mr. Acting mentioned to me as how Warmint might amuse you."

"Warmint! What the deuce is that?"

"Why, the dawg."

"Well, it's a pretty ugly brute anyhow, Raffles."

"It is so; it's the colour--yellow is a mean colour. But he's a terror to go."

"Where?" said Jack, uncivilly; for the man's manner, a mixture of familiarity and servility, had begun to pall on Jack's taste.

"Why, there ain't a better, quicker, neater dawg in all London after the rats than Warmint. He holds the record south the Thames."

"Is there a record then for rat killing? How is it done?"

"Turn a sack o' long tails on to the floor and let the dawg among them.

He works against time, of course."

"Have the rats any chance of getting away?"

"No fear."

"Ugh!" said Jack, looking at the mongrel with intense disgust.

"Is time for twenty--but I say, Mr. Bourne, if you like I'll bring a bag o' rats down, and you can see for yourself. While the other gentleman, Mr. Acting, is with the c.o.o.n, we can bring it off in the barn."

"Man alive, no!" said Jack, with another spasm of disgust; "but if you've any other plans, Raffles, of killing an hour or so whilst Hill makes speeches, trot 'em out. I'm sick of pottering round his yard like an idiot. Are you coming with the c.o.o.n again?"

"Pretty well every time. What do you say to a little game of billiards?"

"Where?" said Jack.

"Nice little 'ouse near 'ere, I know."

"No fear! That's clean against the rules. Besides, who wants to knock b.a.l.l.s about with a sticky cue on a torn billiard cloth, where the whole place reeks of beer and stale tobacco? No, thanks!"

"Young gents used not to set so much store by rules when I was a lad."

"We've changed since then, Raffles," said Jack, drily.

"A little shooting?"

"What?"

"Sparrers?" suggested Raffles, off-hand.

"Rot!"

"Bunnies?"

"That's better, Raffles. If you can get me half an hour with Hill's rabbits, I'd risk that. Of course, there'd be a row if it was known.

Acton won't inquire, I fancy, who's shooting?"

"Mr. Acton won't, Mr. Bourne; he's a gentleman."

"He's a monitor, though, Raffles, which is a different sort of animal."

Raffles of Rotherhithe did not appear to think that Acton's being a monitor was a clinching argument barring young Bourne's sport. Perhaps he had private reasons for his opinions. Anyhow, he glibly promised to have a breech-loader and a ferret for young Bourne on the morrow.

"And old Hill? They're his rabbits, you know."

"That will be all right. Take Dan Raffles' word for it."

"Now look here, Raffles; I'll give you sixpence for every rabbit I shoot, and I'll pay you for the cartridges. You'll keep all the rabbits, but you will lend me the gun."

"Very good, sir," said Raffles, smartly.

"And, Raffles," said Jack, eyeing over that individual with a curious mixture of amus.e.m.e.nt and dislike, "you needn't be too beastly friendly and chummy. I'm going to pay you for what you do, and don't fancy I'm going an inch further than I feel inclined. I'm paying the piper, and I'm going to choose all the tunes."

"Orl right," said Raffles, considerably taken aback by the ultimatum.

"I'll not be friendlier than I can 'elp."

"Don't," said Jack.

CHAPTER XIII

"EASY IS THE DOWNWARD ROAD"

Aided by Raffles of Rotherhithe, young Bourne went royally through half the rules of the school. He called the tune to that extent. In the first place, one may believe that when he called in the aid of that horsey gentleman he had no further idea in his head than that of pa.s.sing away those dull half-hours which Hill inflicted upon him.

But, like many a wiser man, young Bourne found it was easier to conjure up a spirit than to lay one, and, having once accepted the aid of Raffles, he found it beyond his power to dispense with it, despite his brave word. So, unheedful of his brother's advice, he not merely put his innocent feet into the stream of forbidden pleasures, but waded in whole-heartedly up to the chin.

Raffles, as promised, turned up on the next occasion provided with a ferret and a gun, and all difficulties were smoothed over with the farmer. Thus Jack Bourne took his post as the n.o.ble British sportsman just behind the Lodestone Moat, whilst Raffles, with his ferret, worked the bank, which was honey-combed with rabbit-holes. As the rabbits scurried out before the ferret, Jack blazed away noisily, and occasionally he had the pleasure of seeing a rabbit turning a somersault as it made its last bound. Certainly, Jack was not a dead shot, but when he contemplated the slain lying stark on the flanks of the bank, he felt the throaty joy of the slaughtering British schoolboy. He counted out to his worthy henchman four sixpences for the four slain with all the pride of the elephant-hunter paying his beaters yards of bra.s.s wire and calico.

Raffles was properly grateful, of course.

Then, as their acquaintance progressed, there were little compet.i.tions between Jack and Raffles at artificial pigeon-shooting, Raffles having fixed up the apparatus, and Jack, from the twenty-five yards' mark, occasionally winged his clay pigeon. It was very good sport in Jack's opinion. Further, that little "'ouse" which Raffles knew of also soon made the acquaintance of Jack, and he and Raffles on rainy afternoons s.n.a.t.c.hed the fearful joys of hasty "hundreds up" or "fifties up," just as time allowed, Jack did not find the cue quite so sticky nor the charms of stale tobacco quite so unlovely as he had expected. The landlord, who marked for the two worthies, told our young gentleman that he had "a pretty 'and for the long jenny," and Jack felt he could not do less than order a little of his favourite beverage in return for his good opinion.

And thus as ever. Under the expert tuition of Raffles, Jack became a little more of a "man" every day, and a little less of a decent fellow.

He smoked, he could call for a "small port" in quite an off-hand fas.h.i.+on, he had played "sh.e.l.l out" with loafers at the little "'ouse," and he began to know a little more of betting, "gee-gees," and other kindred matters, than an average young fellow should know.

"_Facilis descensus Averni_"--you know the old tag.

By insensible gradations Jack Bourne found himself with a ruin of broken rules behind him, and still tied to the chariot-wheels of Raffles, who dragged him wherever he would. Jack's pockets, too, began to feel the drain, but luckily--or unluckily, if you look at it properly--he was rather flush this term, and as he had more than the usual allowance, he was not so short as he might have been.

One thing bothered Jack, though he did not exactly put the idea that worried him into words. There was not much fun _really_ in this shooting, billiards, etc., since Jack broke all the rules alone. Now, if Poulett, or Wilson, or Rogers, or Grim had been with him, that would have been jolly. Besides that, since he could give his old chums so precious little of his time, and had perforce to head them off when they offered to bear him company on half-holidays, they called him many choice names.