Great Northern?

  Getting away from the others had been easy. When the first whistle sounded and the red herrings began to run, his chance had come almost at once. He had only to lag a little, drop into one of the old peat cuttings at the side of the track and lie there while the red herrings and their pursuers moved on towards the hills. By the time he had thought it safe to put his head up and look out, the winding track had taken the red herrings out of sight. Indianing carefully, just in case some invisible Gael might be looking, Roger wormed his way back to the Pict-house and lay beside it to consider what to do next.

  He had a pleasant feeling of badness, to which he was well accustomed. He knew very well what Susan and the others would be thinking of him. Anyhow, they could not be expected to understand. None of them had waked up to find that someone had written a label … Even to himself, Roger did not repeat those loathsome words.

  Carefully without touching it, he had another look at the heather that filled the mouth of what had been a passage into the Pict-house and was now the place where that enemy kept his secret store. He saw that the heather had been cleverly put in so that not a root was showing. Anybody might think it was growing there. It was as if his enemy had dared him to move the heather and put it back so exactly as it had been that nobody could tell it had been disturbed.

  Dimly, Roger began to see how he could make his enemy look foolish even if not quite as foolish as he had been made to look himself. He felt in his pocket for the string that he always carried in case it might come in useful. It was coming in useful today. He found one neat hank and a couple of loose bits. He unwound the hank and made a loop in one end of the string. Then, gently, he worked the string all round the heather just where it stuck out of the entrance. He poked the other end through the loop and pulled. The string tightened until the heather was held together like a bunch of flowers. Gingerly he lifted the great bunch of heather out of the entrance and saw that the roots, sticking out in all directions, would stop him from putting it back. He joined his other two bits of string together and used them to tie up the roots in the same way. The heather, instead of falling to pieces as his enemy had planned, was a single faggot. Roger put it back in the entrance and admired it. No one looking at it from outside could tell that anything had been done to it. He had another idea, even better. He took out the faggot of heather, laid it close to the entrance, wriggled in himself and, from inside, pulled the heather back into place. Yes, the fox could lie there, hidden, in the very earth from which his enemy had meant to shut him out. All he had to do now was to wait for the enemy. The heather was itself a promise that the enemy would come, if only to see if it had been moved. Roger pushed it carefully out, and crept, blinking, into the sunshine. There was no need to wait in that dark tunnel. Far better to watch for the enemy, see him when still far away, and be ready for him when he came.

  He remembered the biscuit box. Dealing with the heather had put other things out of his head. He crawled back into the tunnel, felt for the box, pulled it into the light and opened it. The diary was still there, but nothing else. Roger shut the box, put it back where he had found it, and crawled out once more.

  He worked round to the seaward side of the Pict-house and climbed up and over into the hollow on the top of it, from which he could see out without being seen. He took his telescope out of his knapsack and looked cautiously along the hillside for the red herrings he had deserted. They had long passed out of sight beyond a shoulder of the Rockies. There were no Gaels to be seen. He looked down to the cove where, through the telescope, he saw Captain Flint busy with something, sitting on the cross-trees of the Sea Bear. A little further away, beyond those rocks, he could see the Pterodactyl. That was probably the egg-collector himself, sitting in a chair on the after deck. What about Dick? Down in the valley, beyond the Hump, the far hills were reflected in the waters of the loch. There was no wind. The island lay as if on a looking-glass. There was not a sign that Dick was there. Everything was working out just as Nancy had planned.

  Roger was surprised to find that he felt a little downcast. If that enemy of his did not turn up quickly he would have to stay here all day. The others were being hunted like deer, and the more they were hunted the better they would be pleased. But it was no good thinking of running after them now. It was too late. If anybody were to see him and start shouting, as those Gaels had shouted the other day, it would mean failure for Dick and for everybody else. Roger might be forgiven for going off alone but he knew he would not be forgiven, even by himself, if he spoilt the plan of the whole ship’s company. Bother! He almost wished he had stuck to the red herrings and was helping them to lead the stalkers a dance. As it was, whatever happened, he must not let himself be seen. If you are not to be seen, you must keep still, and keeping still is very dull work unless you are asleep, when it does not seem to matter.

  *

  He had never believed that time could pass so slowly. Those same hours that were going too quickly for Dick, lying in his hide with the birds before his eyes, for Roger seemed like years. Every now and then he took a wary look out from the hollow on the top of the Pict-house. Nothing seemed to change. The egg-collector and Captain Flint, one in a deck-chair and the other at the top of a mast, solemnly kept an eye on each other throughout the endless day. Up the valley there was nothing to show what the red herrings were doing or the Gaels. No one was moving anywhere. Perhaps, thought Roger, the whole lot of them, Gaels and red herrings alike, were out of the valley altogether and climbing those blue hills. Perhaps his own particular enemy had gone with them. In the end he found it hard to believe that anybody was hidden on the island. He began to wonder whether Dick had not already taken his photographs and gone back to the Sea Bear. No. If he had, Captain Flint would have sounded the foghorn, to let the red herrings know their task was done. He had heard no foghorn and Captain Flint was still up at the cross-trees of the Sea Bear. There was nothing for it but to wait.

  Roger put off eating his sandwiches as long as he could, but suddenly remembered that it would be a waste if the foghorn were to sound before he had eaten them. He made a slow and comfortable meal. Then he stowed empty bottle and paper in his knapsack so as to be able, when the time came, to slip into hiding without leaving a trace. He had another careful look round, dropped back into the hollow saucer on the top of the Pict-house and lay there planning what he would do and say when at last he met his enemy face to face. One way or another, Roger would surprise him.

  Suddenly he was alert. Asleep again? No. Of course he had not been asleep, not properly. But the sun had somehow made a bit of a jump to the westward. It must have been a good long time since he had last looked out and, without knowing why, Roger was certain that something was happening or going to happen. He rolled quickly over and crept up the rim. Instantly he lowered his head. A boy in Highland dress was coming at a steady lope along the old cart track from the head of the valley. It was Dorothea’s “young chieftain”, the boy they had all seen with the old dogmudgeon looking at the Pterodactyl, the boy Captain Flint had said was likelier than any other to have written that label the mere thought of which made Roger’s cheeks burn. Roger looked again. The boy was just coming to the place where the track turned up into the gap. If he was going home then Roger had waited all day for nothing. No. He had left the track and was racing towards the Pict-house, to look at the earth he had stopped and to see if his private hiding-place had been invaded again. If Roger was going to be ready for him, he had not a moment to lose.

  Roger slipped down on the side furthest from the boy, crawled to the entrance, pushed his knapsack in, crawled in backwards and then, roots first, pulled the big faggot of heather after him so that, as before, it filled the opening. A little too far or not far enough and the boy would see that somebody had moved it.

  Roger waited, listening. Close outside, a stone clicked against another. The enemy had arrived. Footsteps … Roger crouched in the dark inside the entrance, expecting every moment to see the heather snatched away and the e
nemy once more triumphant while he, Roger, had to crawl out defeated. It seemed almost too much to hope that the heather was exactly as the enemy had left it. There was silence. Perhaps the enemy had gone up on the top of the Pict-house where yesterday he had found his … Sleeping Beauty. Even without saying them, Roger choked over those words. Specks of light showed through the heather. Suddenly a shadow passed across them putting out one speck of light after another. They showed again. They all went out together. The enemy must be stooping just outside, looking at the heather. He must have been satisfied with what he saw, for suddenly the shadow was gone. Roger, holding his breath, heard a step or two and then no more. Victory.

  Roger was on the point of dashing out to gloat and meet his enemy. He stopped. Was it victory, or was the enemy being cunning? Had he only pretended not to see that the heather had been moved? Had he guessed that Roger was inside? Was he lurking, perhaps only a yard away, on the top of the Pict-house, ready to leap on Roger from above when, thinking the coast clear, he should come confidently out? Roger waited, listening. He heard nothing. At last he made up his mind, pushed away the heather and shot out, ready for instant battle. There was no one waiting for him. He was only just in time to see that boy, running hard, disappear in the gap where the cart track led over the ridge.

  It had been a triumph of a kind. That dodge with the heather had worked. The enemy had been fooled, but so long as the enemy did not know he had been fooled, the triumph had fallen rather flat. Roger climbed once more into the hollow on the top of the Pict-house.

  Suddenly, far up the valley, where the track crossed a spur of the ridge, he saw people moving, a lot of people … the Gaels coming back? He saw them only for a moment, as the track dipped again. They had vanished before he had time to focus his telescope.

  Half an hour later he saw them again. They were very much nearer, and this time he was able to get a proper look at them, wild-looking men and boys and, walking along in the midst of them, most of the crew of the Sea Bear.

  “Prisoners!” gasped Roger. “They’ve got them all.” He counted, John, Susan, Titty, Nancy, Peggy and Dorothea. What were John and Nancy doing there? He had thought they were going to be far away in another valley altogether. Still, it was all in the plan. Nancy herself had said that it would not matter if they did get captured, so long as they had drawn the Gaels well away towards the hills so that Dick could get his photographs and get back to the Sea Bear without being seen. But had he? While Roger was watching, he saw a sudden stir in the little crowd coming along the track. They were running. He heard a shout or two. What on earth was happening? Were the prisoners being taken over the ridge to the stronghold of the Gaels? Even that, he thought, would not matter if Dick was safe in the Sea Bear or lay low on the island till enemies and red herrings alike had passed through the gap and out of sight.

  But what was this? A dip in the track had hid the convoy of prisoners. Now they showed again very much nearer, where the track turned up into the gap. They were stopping, looking back, waiting for something. A few minutes later he knew why. They were waiting for another prisoner. He saw the tall old man and Dick, climbing up to the track. He saw the others clustering round Dick, and the tall old man whom he had called a dogmudgeon striding ahead as the whole party were on the move again.

  He must get help at once. He must signal the news to Captain Flint. He looked down at the mast of the Sea Bear. For the first time, he saw no lump at the Sea Bear’s cross-trees. Captain Flint must have got sick of sitting up there watching the Pterodactyl. What was he to do? If he were to make a bolt for it, he would be in full view of the Gaels and be captured like the rest of them. Another thought struck him like a blow between the eyes. The Gaels might be coming straight to the Pict-house. They certainly would if they caught a glimpse of him. Roger rolled hurriedly over the edge of his look-out place on the seaward side, crawled round to the entrance, went backwards into the tunnel, pulled the roots of heather in after him once more and crouched as breathless as if he had been running.

  Every single one of the red herrings had been captured except himself. John and Nancy had been captured and even they had not been able to talk the Gaels into letting them go. Dick had been captured. It was lucky for everybody that he, Roger, was free. As soon as the coast was clear, he would run down to the cove, hail the Sea Bear and bring Captain Flint to the rescue. If he did that, even John and Nancy would have to admit that he had been pretty useful. Breathing more evenly, now that he knew what he meant to do, he crouched in the tunnel listening. He heard, faintly, the voices of the Gaels, or thought he heard them. He heard a shout, “Hey!” the voice of Captain Flint. Then, suddenly, close by, he heard running footsteps and the panting of somebody very much out of breath. No need for him to fetch Captain Flint. He had seen them and was already hurrying to the rescue of his crew. Roger waited, smiling in the dark.

  He heard no more voices or footsteps. Cautiously he pushed the heather before him and came out. Gaels and prisoners were nowhere to be seen, but he caught just a glimpse of Captain Flint disappearing into the gap. Faintly, from beyond the ridge, he heard the sound of bagpipes as he had heard them on the day the whole adventure had begun. Well, Captain Flint was with the others now. He would make the Gaels give up their prisoners, Dick and all. There was nothing else to worry about. He stood beside the Pict-house, looking out over the deserted valley, and planned to do a little gloating himself, telling Nancy, for example, that she had had to be rescued by Captain Flint whereas he, Roger, had remained the only one uncaught.

  Suddenly something moving caught his eye, something yellowish, moving on the dark slopes on the further side of the lochs. Where was that telescope? Whatever the thing was, it was moving fast. Yellowish. Who but the egg-collector wore mustard-coloured clothes? There was someone else. Roger caught a sharp glint of light. It could not be … Yes, it was. Looking through the telescope he saw them both clearly, the egg-collector and another man, one of his sailors. The sailor was carrying a gun. They were coming down into the valley, making for the upper end of the loch of the Great Northern Divers.

  Roger’s smile left his face. At the very last minute the success of the expedition was turning into failure. The egg-collector, while sitting quietly on deck, must have had a spy ashore who had seen Dick leave the island. Now, with Captain Flint no longer watching, he was taking his chance. Chance? It was a certainty. Dick must have brought the folding boat ashore. The egg-collector and his man had only to cross the stream between the lochs and walk along the shore to find the boat wherever Dick had left it. The Sea Bears were in the hands of the Gaels. The egg-collector would steal the eggs and shoot the birds. The whole of Nancy’s plan was crashing to disaster.

  Roger thought no more of his private feud, his personal enemy. He remembered only that he was a Sea Bear and the only one who knew how desperate was the need for hurry. He left the Pict-house, plunged down into the heather, raced up to the track and along it as fast as he could run towards the gap through which the Gaels and their prisoners had disappeared. He must let the others know at once. Captain Flint had gone to the rescue. Why was he taking so long to set them free? What on earth was he doing, parleying with the Gaels and listening to bagpipes, when every moment counted?

  As he came into the gap, he expected to meet Flint and the others on their way back. Not one of them was in sight, only a few of the Gaels standing beside the closed door of a thatched building, which, as he could see no windows in it, he thought must be a barn.

  Roger dropped to the ground. If he ran into those Gaels he would only be captured like the others. If Captain Flint had been in sight that would not have mattered, but he was not and Roger did not know where he was. Suddenly he heard a muffled thumping, as if someone were kicking at a door. He saw the old dogmudgeon walk up to the door of the barn and listen. Then faintly, he heard Captain Flint’s voice. The Gaels by the door were laughing. They were going away towards the cottages, now and then looking back towards the barn. There was
another thump or two, and then silence, except for the bagpipes. Some of the Gaels had gone into their cottages. Only two were left, the tall old dogmudgeon and another, talking together just beyond the corner of the barn. Roger slipped sideways, so that the barn was between himself and them, and hurried on.

  ROGER AT THE PRISON DOOR

  He knew now that Captain Flint was as much a prisoner as any of the others. He knew that the barn was their prison. Well, they would not let themselves be prisoners for long, when they heard the dreadful news of what was happening. There was not a moment to spare. Already the egg-collector and his man might be rowing off to the island in the Sea Bear’s own folding boat. Quickly. Quickly. The men behind the barn could not see him, but anybody might be looking from the cottages. He remembered those dogs that had come charging through the heather that first day. Dogs had a dreadful way of knowing you were there even if they could not see you. At any moment he might hear their loud ferocious barking. Well, he could not help that. He was close to the barn now, and no one had shouted and no dog had barked. He could hear people talking in Gaelic close by. For an awful moment he thought he had been mistaken and that the prisoners were not in the barn. They might have been taken straight to the grey house. Then he heard Nancy’s voice, very loud and cheerful. He was just going to shout, but stopped himself in time. He dared not even talk loud, with the enemy so near. He threw himself on the ground and began tapping, gently at first, at the bottom of the big door.