Haviland's Chum

How good it was to be out again, to move freely over this glorious open country spreading around so still and soft and mysterious in the moonlight! Half hundred fragrant scents seemed to blend and fuse, distilled from grass and bank and hedgerow, upon the pure night air, and mingled with the odour of kine asleep in the pasture meadows. A nightingale “jug-jugged” in an adjacent copse, and was answered by another; a large hare, long-eared and ghostly, sprang out of their way and loped off into misty dimness – but, over all, that sense of freedom, of entire and complete liberty, which a sense of risk, and very real risk, did but add to.

For a keeper would likely be on his beat these moonlight nights, and to encounter one such would be almost fatal. And to-night they had higher game in view than bird-nesting.

“Here it is,” said Mpukuza, diving into a bed of leaves at the bottom of a dry ditch and dragging forth – an air-gun. “Now we have fun. Au!”

Haviland’s hand shook with excitement as he took the weapon. Fun indeed! Wouldn’t they? He was not unpractised in the use of firearms, for on rare and happy occasions when he had visited at the country place of a distant relative he had been taught and encouraged to shoot, and he was passionately fond of the sport. But his opportunities, alas, had been few and far between.

The air-gun was a good one of its kind, and up to a certain distance shot true and hard. The Zulu boy had seen it among the wares of a travelling pedlar during one of his solitary wanderings, and had purchased it for five shillings, it having probably been stolen in the first instance. He had hidden it craftily away, with an eye to just such an adventure as this.

Haviland put in a pellet and fired at nothing in particular. Even the slight twang as he pulled the trigger seemed quite loud in the midnight stillness; but he felt that it would hit hard.

They stole along in the shadow of a hedgerow, Haviland carrying the gun. A covert loomed darkly in front of them. As they entered it stealthily, the flap-flap of startled wood-pigeons set their nerves all tingling, for would not a tale be thereby conveyed in the event of keepers being abroad?

But alas for their reckoning! It was the wrong time of year for night-poaching. The foliage was so thick that they could see nothing. Every tree might have been weighted with roosting pheasants for all the sport that fact would afford them. For some time they went round and round the copse, looking upward, and were just going to give it up when – there in a young ash of scanty leafage, they made out two dark balls silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Controlling his excitement, Haviland took careful aim and pressed the trigger. There was a thud, a flapping of wings, and one of the dark balls fell to earth with a louder thud. There lay at their feet a splendid cock-pheasant. The Zulu boy promptly ended its struggles by a tap on the head with his stick.

“Shoot again,” he whispered. “Shoot again.”

Now at ordinary times Haviland’s sporting instincts were far too true to allow him to find much satisfaction in shooting birds on the roost. But here the night adventure, the secrecy and risk, and, further, the skill required to pick off a bird with a single pellet, and that in a very uncertain light, all went to render the situation intensely exciting. Again he raised the weapon and took careful aim, with the same result as before. Mpukuza capered with delight.

“That enough for to-night,” he whispered. “Now we go and eat him. Come.”

For the speaker had been carefully planning this adventure for some days past, consequently it was not surprising that when the two gained the congenial hiding-place formed by a deep dry ditch with clayey overhanging banks, the whole well concealed by brambles, the materials for a fire were laid and ready, and only wanted lighting. The fireplace was cunningly scooped out of the clay bank, and now, in deft manner known to himself, the Zulu boy managed to light and foster that fire in such wise that it soon consisted of a mass of ardent and glowing charcoal, giving forth little or no smoke. The while the birds had been hastily plucked and cut in pieces, and set on the embers to broil.

It was almost worth while undergoing his long imprisonment to have such glorious fun as this, thought Haviland, as he watched the hissing and sputtering flesh which, but half an hour ago, had been alive and totally unsuspicious of approaching fate. The dry ditch became a sort of cave of romance, an episode in a life of wild adventure. Perhaps some day, at no great distance of time either, such a life might be his. And as the roast went on, his dusky companion told him strange tales of his own country – tales of war, of stirring sights he himself had looked on with childish eyes, of grim legends fraught with mysterious horror; stories, too, of widespread slaughter, and ruthless, unsparing revenge. The listener’s blood was all on fire.

“I say, Cetchy, I would like to go to that country of yours,” he said, half breathlessly. “Perhaps I will one of these days.”

“Ha! you come. We have good fun then. But it’s no longer good country. The English have driven out the king – broken up the people. Ha!”

The first instalment of the broil was ready, and they fell upon it with a will, the while Anthony had raked up the fire and put on as much more of the birds as it would hold.

“Cetchy, old chap, this is splendid,” said Haviland gleefully, as with their pocket-knives they stripped the flesh from the bones, and devoured it with their healthy school appetites. “Why Nick himself can’t get roast pheasant now for love or money, because it’s out of season. Old brute! I’d like to give him a turn on that fire. Eh?”

“Oh yes, make him wriggle on it like Umbelini make the Tonga prisoners I was goin’ to tell about. They go work in diamond mines, come back through Umbelini’s country with plenty money. They no tell where it is, hide it away. He burn them till they tell – most of them never tell; Umbelini burn ’em till they dead. One man tell. Ha!”

The while Haviland had hardly noticed how the other had been allotting all the choicest bits to his share.

“I say,” he said at last, “I never thought you and I would be able to polish off a brace of cock-pheasants to our own cheek. Yet we jolly well nearly have.”

They had. The night air and their natural growing appetites had rendered the feat one of no great difficulty. But it was time to go back. The nights were nearly at their shortest. By two o’clock it would be almost daylight. So they started from their alfresco kitchen and banqueting-room, and, concealing the air-gun and its ammunition, made their way back once more, and neglecting no precaution, shinned up the rope which had been left dangling, and were safe and sound within the dormitory again – the rope being carefully coiled away in Haviland’s box – he about five minutes thereafter being fast asleep, and dreaming that he was plugging a huge cock-pheasant through and through with air-gun pellets, the riddled bird finally taking shape as the Doctor, to his own great and vengeful satisfaction.

Chapter Twelve.

Tying Knots in Nick’s Tail

A change seemed now to have fallen upon Haviland. He was no longer to be met wandering alone, and the moody frown had left his brow, giving way to an expression of easy, light-hearted contentment. Yet there were days when he spent nearly the whole of his spare time lying in a corner of the playing fields, his cap over his face and – fast asleep. There was no fear of him sleeping too long, or being late for anything – Mpukuza, otherwise Anthony, took care of that – and was always at hand to awake him in time.

Not much together were they in the daytime, in fact, hardly at all, yet the Zulu boy was always at hand when his hero wanted him, actually or unconsciously. He could do without all this extra sleep, but the other, with his nervous, high-strung temperament, felt the reaction after these nights of adventurous excitement, to say nothing of the sheer physical fatigue following upon the hard exercise attendant on their nocturnal exploits.

For that first expedition was by no means the last. The appetite for such grew, and night after night the cord was let down, and these two amateur poachers would sally forth upon their lawless but entrancing errand. Not always so lucky were they, however, as on that first occasion, for it was generally impossible to see the roosting birds because of the abundant foliage, and then too, the moon began to wane, which added to the difficulty of bringing them down, even when they did see them. Moreover, they had at least two exceedingly narrow escapes at the hands of unduly vigilant keepers. They decided that the time had come to change their field of action. Things were getting too hot.

Not always, however, were they on poaching bent. Sometimes the air-gun would be left reposing in its place of concealment and egg-hunting would be the order of the day – or rather of the night – and here Haviland’s consummate knowledge of the life of the fields and woods brought success where another would have returned empty-handed. But the season was getting late, and the nests mostly contained young birds, or eggs so hard-set as to be useless.

Now this change in Haviland did not long escape the keen, observant eyes of Mr Sefton. True to his resolution, that kind-hearted disciplinarian had taken an opportunity of putting in a word with the Doctor, in mitigation of his favourite’s penalty, and had been incontinently snubbed for his pains. The headmaster saw no reason whatever for modifying his former judgment, nor did he recognise the right of his assistants to offer criticism upon his acts, had been the substance of his reply.

“Ha! Nick blew himself out like a bullfrog, by Jingo!” was Mr Sefton’s subsequent comment when he narrated the result to Mr Williams. “But I don’t mind his bounce, not I, ha ha! It’s like water off a duck’s back with me. Ha!” he added whimsically, with his head thrown back, as his way was.

Of course he said nothing to Haviland as to his kindly meant attempt, but this new attitude on the part of his favourite was sorely puzzling. He would engage him in conversation from time to time – not out of any motive of spying, but because he was really interested in the young fellow, and liked him genuinely, but even then he could arrive at no clue.

Haviland, for his part, was greatly enjoying that side of the situation. He knew they were all curious about him, those, that is, who were interested in him at all. Laughton and Medlicott and others had at times commented on his altered demeanour, but he had explained it away on the ground that the end of the term was not far off, and he expected to go and stay at an awfully jolly place for part of the holidays. If they only knew the fun he was having what time everybody else was in bed and asleep! The thought appealed to the humorous side of his nature. It is possible he might even have forgiven the Doctor, but that his sense of justice was outraged. Other masters had punished him, but never unfairly. He knew he had earned such. The extreme and double-weighted penalty with which the Head had visited a not very grave offence he could not feel he had earned. Other masters had set him more than one swingeing imposition, but even when they had spoken sharply they had always behaved like gentlemen. The Doctor, on the other hand, had a bullying, overbearing way with him, which was quite unnecessary, and galling and ungentlemanly to the last degree, he considered. It might be all right when dealing with some of these cads, thought Haviland, but he ought to know when to discriminate. No, he could not forgive the Doctor. The sense of injustice rankled, and festered, and not the least side of the enjoyment of his new escapades was that he was “tying knots in Nick’s tail,” as he put it to himself – and Anthony – consciously or unconsciously “lifting” from Ingoldsby.

The only misgiving – and it was rather a serious one – that would strike him was how long the other fellows in the dormitory would manage to hold their tongues. He did not believe that any among them would willingly give them away, but the young asses might get chattering. With this in view, many and oft were the monitions addressed to them by himself and his accomplice. They were admonished, not only to make no confidences to those outside, but never even to talk about it among themselves, for fear of being overheard – in fact, to regard their knowledge as the cherished secret of some privileged order, of which they had the honour to be members. This appealed to them more than any other argument, and it hardly needed Cetchy’s from time to time repeated threat: “Any fellow sneak – I kill him.” This threat he would emphasise by the production of a wicked-looking weapon, which he kept in his box – namely, the half of an old sheep-shear, with which, spliced on to a short, strong handle, he had manufactured a very creditable imitation of his native assegai. Nor did they regard the menace as an entirely futile one, for they had witnessed an outbreak or two of genuine, though not unprovoked, savagery on the part of the threatener, which, but for timely interference, might have entailed serious – if not fatal – consequences.

Yet the above misgiving grew by dwelling upon, and there were times when Haviland would feel exceedingly uncomfortable and almost make up his mind to give up these perilous expeditions. Were they worth the risk? The end of the term was drawing near, and his irksome restraint would, of course, end with it; whereas, were he detected, the result would be inevitable expulsion. Mr Sefton’s words would strike uncomfortably home to his mind, and, after all, embittered and reckless as he might feel, he had no desire to be expelled. His accomplice would get off with a sound swishing, for which, of course, he himself was too old. He would certainly be expelled.

But such prudential moods were not destined to last. His close confinement galled him more and more, and, besides, there was one expedition the pair had promised themselves, and that was to extend their midnight marauding to Hangman’s Wood. That would be a famous exploit. They would shoot two or three pheasants there – the place just grew pheasants – and at night they would be entirely safe, because no one dared go into it on account of the ghost. Yes, it would be the crowning exploit of all, and the sooner they undertook it the better, while there was some moonlight left.

They might have been less easy in their minds, however, could they have assisted unseen in a discussion then going on in the Doctor’s study between that potentate and Laughton, with a couple of the senior prefects.

“It is really becoming a serious matter,” the Headmaster was saying, “and I am considering what action I shall take. Again I have had complaints. Both Mr Worthington’s and Lord Hebron’s keepers have been to me again. There is no doubt as to the truth of their stories, I am afraid. Their woods are overrun and pheasants taken – they gave me ample proof of that. They have even found a place where the birds have been cooked and eaten, and a good many of them too.”

“Surely, sir, that’s no evidence whatever that it has been done by any of the school,” said Laughton, as the Doctor paused, as though inviting opinion.

“I think it is, Laughton. The ordinary poacher, you see, would remove his game, not cook and eat it in a dry ditch. Furthermore, the footmarks observed by the keepers were made by cricket shoes, and not large enough nor broad enough to be imprinted by the village ne’er-do-well.”

“But Lord Hebron’s preserves are too far away, sir,” urged Medlicott. “No fellow would have time to get there and back unless he got leave from calling-over.”

“That’s true,” rejoined the Doctor; “but the Question is, has anybody been getting such leave of late, and, if so, how many? I shall inquire into that. And now have any of you any other suggestions to offer?”

The prefects looked at each other rather blankly. It was, of course, very flattering, and all that sort of thing, to be taken thus into the counsels of the redoubtable Doctor; but then, unfortunately, they hadn’t the ghost of a notion what to suggest. At last Laughton said: —

“I should think, sir, the best plan would be for the owners of the shootings to increase their staff of keepers. It seems hard for them to lay the blame on the school when there’s so little to justify the suspicion.”

“On the contrary, I think there is a good deal to justify it,” returned the Doctor. “I think they have made out a primâ facie case. The question now is what steps I shall be called upon to take. I am very loth to put in force so grave a measure as withdrawing the privilege of rambling over the country and confining the school strictly to grounds, merely on suspicion, even though a strong suspicion. I have always held, too, that that privilege, combined with the natural healthiness of our situation, has not a little to do with the high reputation for health we have always enjoyed. But, if this goes on, I shall be obliged to take some such step.”

“Perhaps, sir, some of us might make it our business to go about a little and keep our eyes open,” suggested Read, the other prefect.

“That is just what I was thinking, Read,” replied the Doctor. “If we can discover the offenders, I shall make a grave example of them, and it will be to the interest of the whole school. Meanwhile, let me impress upon you that I particularly wish this meeting to be considered a confidential one. To the other prefects its burden must, of course, be imparted, but beyond them I desire no information to leak out, for that might be to defeat our object entirely, for it is better for the evil-doers to be detected than to be only warned and to desist for a time. And at this we will leave it.”

And so they were dismissed.

The while Haviland and his dusky accomplice, blissfully unconscious, were planning their great stroke, which had the additional attraction of tying yet another knot in Nick’s tail.

Chapter Thirteen.

A Grim Tussle

“I say, Cetchy, isn’t this splendid?” said Haviland, drawing in long breaths of the cool night air. He was simply revelling in the sense of absolute liberty as he gazed around upon the dim fields, then up at the star-gemmed sky.

“Oh, yes. Splendid, rather! Hangman’s Wood long way – get morning very early,” replied the other.

The long, dark outline of the ill-omened covert loomed before them; and at sight of it Haviland could hardly restrain a wild paroxysm of laughter, as he remembered the last time they visited the place, and the awful scare they had put upon the unfortunate keeper. Just as they gained it, the moon in its last quarter arose above the tree tops.

“It’s awfully dark in here, Cetchy,” whispered Haviland, as they stood within the gloomy depths of the wood. “These trees are too thick. We can’t see a blessed bird.”

It was even as he had said. The light of the feeble moon hardly penetrated here, and the chill gloom and weird associations of the place began to take effect even upon their spirits. A fox barked in the further end of the covert, and ever and anon the doleful hooting of owls, both far and near, rang out upon the night, and now and again one of the ghostly birds would drop down almost into their faces, and skim along the ride on soft, noiseless pinions. The earthy moisture of the soil and undergrowth was as the odour of a charnel-house. Every now and then some sound – strange, mysterious, unaccountable – would cause them to stop short, and, with beating hearts, stand intently listening. Then they went on again.

They had secured no spoil; the tree tops were too thick to see the roosting birds. At last, as luck would have it – whether for good or ill we say not – they managed to glimpse a single pheasant through a gap against the sky. All of a quiver with excitement, Haviland pressed the trigger, and missed. Still the dim black ball up aloft never moved. Again he took careful aim, and this time it did move, for it came down from its perch with a resounding flapping of wings, and hit the earth with a hard thud, still flapping. In a moment the Zulu boy was upon it and had wrung its neck, but not before it had uttered a couple of raucous croaks that seemed, to the over-strained sense of its slayers, loud enough to be heard for miles in the midnight stillness.

“I’m glad we’ve got something at last, Cetchy,” whispered Haviland, as he examined the dead bird. “We’ll have to be contented with it, though, for time’s up. Come along, we must get back now.”

Bearing off their spoil in triumph, they had gained the centre of the wood – the spot, in fact, where the old tragedy had occurred, and close to that whereon they had so badly frightened the keeper. Suddenly Haviland felt a hand on his arm, heard a brief whisper:

“Stop! Something moving.”

At first he could hear nothing; then his ears detected a sound, and his nerves thrilled. As the other had said, it was something moving, and instinctively he realised that it was something heavier, more formidable than any of the light-footed denizens of an English wood. Somehow his mind reverted to the grim legend. What if it were true, and the strangled man actually did walk, with all the marks of his horrible and violent death upon him? In front, where the rides of the wood intersected each other, the moonlight streamed through in a broad patch, rendering blacker still the pitchy blackness beneath the trees beyond. The stillness and excitement, together with the gruesome associations of the place, had got upon their nerves even more than they knew. What if some awful apparition – appalling, horrible beyond words – were to emerge from yonder blackness, to stand forth in the ghostly moonlight, and petrify them with the unimaginable terrors of a visitant from beyond the grave? Haviland’s pulses seemed to stand still as the sounds drew nearer and nearer. A keeper’s? No. They were too quick, too heavy, too blundering, somehow. Then Anthony breathed one word:

“Dog!”

A dog! Of course, that solved the mystery. But even then the jump from supernatural fears to the material hardly seemed to mend matters. A dog meant a keeper, of course, unless it were a midnight poacher like themselves, in which event it would give them a wide berth; but this was too much to hope. On the other hand, if it were accompanying a keeper on his midnight round, the brute would certainly attack them; and that it was a large and heavy animal they could determine by the sound of its quick, fierce rushes to and fro, and a sort of deep-toned grunt which it uttered now and then as it snuffed the ground.

Breathlessly they crouched. Ha! It was coming! The sound of its approaching rush in the pitchy blackness was almost upon them – then it passed. It had not discovered them yet, but evidently suspected their presence. When it winded them, as it might do any moment, then it would come straight for them. There was something terribly unnerving in this feeling of being hunted, and that by an enemy whose strength they had no opportunity of estimating.

As the retreating sound grew fainter, Haviland suggested climbing a tree. There was no such thing as playing the ghost again. That was all very well with a keeper, but it wouldn’t do for a moment with a dog. Besides, the brute could maul them horribly even before the keeper should arrive on the scene; but Anthony negatived the suggestion.

“No climb tree,” he said. “I kill him. Look, he come again.”

It was even as he had said. The rush of a heavy body through the undergrowth, this time on the other side of the ride, and then, from the darkness beyond, there sprang forth into the moonlit ride an enormous bull-mastiff.

Terrible to a degree looked the formidable brute, his fangs exposed in a white line across the blackness of his huge bullet head: and the great muscular brindled body looked powerful enough to bring down a bullock with ease. Why, these two would simply be torn to pieces.

As the brute sprang into the light it paused a moment. Then, uttering one deep, cavernous “gowl” it came straight for them.

But at the moment it began its rush, there darted forth into the light a form, lithe and dark. Something flashed aloft, and at the same time descended – and then animal and human were mixed up together in a struggling mass upon the ground. The descendant of a long line of warriors knew better than to give his antagonist the choice of battle ground, and did not prefer to fight in the dark, wherefore he had hurled himself straight at the onrushing monster – stabbing furiously with his improvised sheep-shear assegai.