King of Ranleigh: A School Story

  CHAPTER II

  A BOOBY TRAP

  "Five feet and a bit," announced Bert Seymour with gusto, measuring thedepth of the pit which he and Hugh and Clive had been digging in thecentre of the path leading down the much-discussed spinney. "Two feeteither way, and a precious job to dig it on that account. Jolly well toonarrow."

  "For working in, rather," agreed his brother. "But about right size fora trap. A bit big, if anything. Top edges nicely sloped off, so as togive nothing for a fellow to cling on to."

  "And a good foot of sticky clay pudding at the bottom," grinned Clive."That'll hold him like bird-lime. It'll be bad for his boots and hispants. But, then, it can't be helped. He shouldn't be such a cad. It'llhelp to teach him manners. I say, do you think a foot of pudding'senough? Suppose we make it two. It'd make things certain."

  A second foot of the sticky puddled clay was therefore added, and Hughtested its adhesiveness with a long stake he had discovered in theforest.

  "It'll hold him like wax, till he hollers for someone to help him," heannounced, with radiant face. "Of course, we ain't likely to hear himfor a goodish time, are we? and there's no one else who'll be about. OldTom knows what we're up to, of course, but he's a clever bird. He'll beout of the way, or deaf or something. Tom don't like the Rawlings."

  That was true enough. If Clive and his chums had suffered from theloftiness and condescension of the new-comers to Potters Camp, Old Tom,Mrs. Darrell's gardener, had likewise suffered. He'd been used toquality.

  "The folks up at the house was different to that," he had assured hiscronies in the village. "The old master'd never have thought of passingwithout a nod and a smile, and most like he'd have pulled up his hossand had a chat about things in general. As for being proud, why he'dhave his hand out to shake whenever he came back home after a holiday;while he'd come to the wedding of his gardener's daughter, and it was afive-pound note, all clean and crisp, that he'd slipped into herfingers. He was quality. These here Rawlings ain't the same product.They're jest commoners. And I'll tell yer more," observed Tom, dragginghis clay from between a pair of fangless gums and looking round at thecompany slyly and cautiously.

  "More?" ejaculated one of his cronies, encouragingly. "More, Tom? Thenlet's have it. We don't hold by new-comers."

  "Then here it is. But no splitting, mind you. No going about and tellingothers. Else the whole of Potters Camp and the neighbourhood'll have itbefore evening."

  He lifted an admonitory finger, and glanced sternly at his audience, acollection of village gossips of the type usually to be met with. Therewas Tom himself, tanned by exposure, his rugged face wreathed by a pairof white whiskers of antique fashion. A bent but powerful figure washis, while in spite of his stooping shoulders he stood half a head abovehis companions. Then there was the publican himself, rubicund and roundand prosperous, his teeth gripping the stem of a favourite pipe. Mrs.Piper also, the said publican's helpful wife, ensconced behind the bar,clattering glasses and bottles and yet managing to hear all that was ofinterest. Joe Swingler, groom at the Rectory, fondly imagined by hisemployer never to frequent such a place as a public-house, was in acorner, jauntily dressed, the fit of his gaiters being the despair ofJack Plant, the bailiff's son. But the latter could at least display asuit to attract the fancy of all in the village. There was enoughmaterial in his riding-breeches to accommodate two of his size, whilethe cut of his jacket was ultra-fashionable. The slit at the backextended so high, and the tails were so long, that one wondered whetherthe garment were actually divided into two portions. For the rest of theaudience, they were shepherds, pig men--for Potters Camp prided itselfon its pigs, while there was even a small bacon factory--cattle men,carters and agricultural labourers, and all, without exception, agog tohear news of the Rawlings. That caution which Old Tom had given was ascertain to have its effect as if he had gone upon the house-tops andcalled therefrom the news he was about to give to his audience on thepromise of their secrecy. It was certain, in fact, that within a shorthour every inhabitant of Potters Camp of adult age would be possessed ofthe information.

  "It ain't to go further, mind that!" repeated Tom, wrinkling his faceand glaring round. "It's a secret; but it's got truth behind it, so Itell ye. I ain't so sure that these here Rawlings come by the house andthe park in a square sort of way. You take it from me, I ain't so sure.There was queer doings afore the old master died. He got to runnin' upto Lunnon, which ain't no good for anyone, least of all for a squire ashas things to see to in the country. There was letters to this manRawlings. I knows that, 'cos I posted 'em, as I always posted all theletters from the house. Then the master dies, and this here Rawlingscome down and takes the place and starts ordering people about."

  "And he ain't got it fair?" asked one of the hearers.

  "I ain't a-going to say that," nodded Tom cautiously. "But I kin thinkas I like. You can't go and stop a man thinking, can yer? No. I thoughtnot. You can't. So I thinks what I like, and thinkin' with me's preciousnigh knowing."

  The old fellow gave the company generally the benefit of a knowing wink,and lapsed into silence. But from that moment all who had heard himspeaking thought as he thought, and were as equally certain. Such is theunstable foundation of tales which at times go the round of the country.Not that Tom was altogether wrong. There were others who might have saidmore, others in the city of London. But Tom did not know that, nor anyof his audience. But the conversation at least gives one the impressionthat if Clive and his chums were not enamoured of the new-comers, Tomwas even less so.

  "It'll come to blows atween that ere son of Rawlings and Master Cliveand his friends," he observed to the company present. "There's beenwords already, and ef Master Clive's like his father--which he is--why,it's 'look out' fer this here Albert Rawlings."

  That pit so craftily constructed would have made Tom even more emphatic.For when all was ready, and Clive and his accomplices had completedtheir work to their own satisfaction, even they could hardly say wherethe pit existed.

  "Of course," observed Hugh, with that grin to which his friends wereaccustomed--"of course, if we were actually setting the proper sort oftrap we'd have to bait it, eh, and put sharpened stakes in it to killthe game. But it isn't necessary here, eh?"

  "To bait?--not a bit. This is a booby trap," laughed Bert. "It's meantfor an ass, and an ass is the one that'll fall into it."

  It came as a shock, rather, to this lanky young hero that he himself wastrapped within the minute. For Bert was not too observant. That dreamyeye was not meant for close watching, while here it wanted the eye of ahawk to detect the presence of a pit. For Clive had been very thorough.To the covering of reeds and light sticks laid across the pit mouth hadbeen added a thick sprinkling of leaves which were most bewildering.Bert's description of the trap as a booby one carried him away into awhirl of delight, during which he strutted aimlessly along the path. Andin an instant he was immersed. There was the sound of rending reeds, hislanky figure disappeared as if by magic, and only the top of his capremained in view, frantically bobbing.

  "Hi! Here! What's this?" he shouted, roused to a pitch of indignation.

  "Booby trap. Well caught!" cried Clive, dancing with delight at thisunexpected demonstration of the successful working of his invention.

  "And done without baiting," gibed Hugh, shaking with laughter. "Now,Bert, you've spoiled the thing. Come along out. Don't stop hiding inthere."

  That was an impossibility. Two feet of glutinous clay adhered to theboy's boots and trousers and refused to be shaken off. He raised one legwith an effort, gripped the sloping side of his prison, and endeavouredto raise the other limb. The result was that he was dragged back intothe depths promptly.

  "Well, it's a beauty," he grinned at last, beginning to relish the funof the scene himself. "Regularly tested the trap, eh? and been badly hadmyself. But lend a hand. This stuff'd stick old Rawlings himself, letalone his son. And it's beautifully hidden. I was never more surprisedin my life."

  "Then it'll be ten times mo
re of a jar to the fellow we're after,"gurgled Clive. "My! You do look a beauty! And what a mess you've gotinto!"

  Bert was smothered in sticky clay from the knees downward, and had needto stand in the stream adjacent and wash his boots and clothing.Meanwhile Clive and Hugh completed their repairs to the covering of thepit, scattered leaves about till the surroundings looked quite natural,and having concluded matters to their satisfaction passed out of thespinney.

  To-morrow, they promised themselves retaliation. "And it's not been sucha long job as I thought," said Clive, as he put Old Tom's garden toolsback into the shed from which they had been taken. "Supposing we tacklethe car again. She'd be ready, perhaps, by the morning."

  But tea was of almost equal importance. Hugh and his brother thereforepartook of Mrs. Darrell's hospitality, the state of Bert's trousers andboots being skilfully concealed by that young gentleman by the simpleexpedient of standing well in the background. But he left a stain hereand there. Peering through her spectacles on the following morning,Clive's mother was astonished to find red lines of clay on the chintzcover of one of her chairs.

  And then the workshop claimed the three young fellows.

  "Ready for dropping the engine in," declared Clive, surveying theskeleton of his motor. "By the way, we've forgotten seats, haven't we?"

  "That's a nuisance!" admitted Hugh. "But we'll not let that bother us.We'll fix it by nailing boards across. I know. We'll get a box and makethat fast. That's what all the garage people do. A shop body, you know.Smart! Eh? I rather think so."

  Behold them, then, struggling with the sheer legs erected over thepetrol engine so nicely fitted in the workshop. Watch the pulleycontrivance secured to those legs above and the rope passing about it.The slipping of the legs of this improvised crane was a distinctnuisance at first, and made the lifting of the engine difficult, if notimpossible. But an iron peg driven in between the tiles of the floor putan end to the trouble, while, once the bolts of the engine had beenfreed, Bert and Hugh were easily able to haul the engine clear of itsfoundation.

  "Hoist!" shouted Clive, "and stand clear. I'll shove the chassis beneaththe engine. Then lower gently. I don't want to have my fingers pinchedoff, remember that; so slack an inch at a time, and be ready to haulagain."

  Oh, the triumph of this final achievement! That engine went intoposition with the docility of a lamb. The chassis framework might havebeen its intended resting-place from the very commencement. It beddeddown on the wooden frame snugly, hugging the timber. The bolt holesmatched beautifully with those bored by Clive perhaps a week before,calling shouts of approval from his comrades. And when the hoisting ropewas thrown off, and the sheer legs removed, there the engine was inposition.

  "And the wheels don't even feel the weight. Look. See if they do," criedClive.

  "A bit wobbly, eh?" suggested Hugh grudgingly, pushing the chassis fromside to side, when it certainly had what might be described as freedomof movement. "Just a bit, eh? Still, that don't matter. Make her run allthe better. But I'm glad she hasn't springs. She'd fairly roll herselfover if she had them."

  "But the back part's as steady as a rock," reported Cliveenthusiastically. "Don't rock. Not a bit. Anyway, she runs forward andbackward easily. By George! That's a bother!"

  "What? You make a fellow ask such heaps of questions," grumbled Hugh,dismayed himself at the sudden fall in Clive's features.

  "We've forgotten something else, and the bally thing's frightfullyimportant."

  Hugh gaped; Bert looked somewhat amused. To tell the truth, though gladalways to lend a helping hand, he looked upon all this unnecessary workas a species of madness.

  "You'll have to sweat at things like this when you're older," hedeclared. "No one's going to let you live at home and walk about doingnothing. You won't have time for games, and this sort of thing'll keepyou from morning to evening--that is, if you take up engineering. Thenwhy not make use of the good times and freedom now and play cricket?"

  That had led to a somewhat animated discussion on the subject andseriousness of games as compared with mechanics till Hugh and Bert werewithin an inch of a struggle. But that was in the past. The plot theyhad so recently discussed, and the pit they had dug for the downfall ofyoung Rawlings, had drawn the bonds of friendship more closely together.So Bert changed his expression of amusement to one of concern.

  "What's the jolly thing?" he asked. "It looks complete--in fact,ripping. There's an engine and wheels and steering gear and frame. Whatmore do you want? Ah! Got it! There's nothing there with which to coolthe engine. Well, you two are precious mugs! Just fancy, taking all thesweat to mount an engine and then forgetting such an important matter!"

  Clive's eye kindled, while his cheeks reddened. He could afford to pitya chap who showed such tremendous ignorance; only, coming as it did at amoment when he himself was distinctly distressed, the idioticsuggestions of this ignoramus made him angry.

  "Hang it!" he growled. "Don't talk such rot! Cooling indeed! Why,even--even Rawlings could tell you that the engine's air-cooled. There'sthe fan, stupid! staring you right in the face. The thing that'sworrying me is the lever for chucking the concern out of gear."

  Hugh gripped the side of the chassis as the secret was mentioned. Itmade him shiver to think that just as every difficulty that could beforeseen had been surmounted another had cropped up.

  "And it's a beast," he groaned.

  "A teaser," admitted Clive desperately.

  "What's a gear lever?" asked Bert, with aggravating coolness andflippancy.

  "What's a gear lever!" growled Clive, regarding him with an eye thatpositively glared.

  "What's a mug?" shouted Hugh, ready almost to strike him.

  "Someone who forgets that there is such a thing as a gear lever, andthen can't or won't explain," came the irritating, maddening answer.

  "Look here," began Clive, flushing hotly, and stepping nearer to Bert,"I've troubles enough already. I'll trouble you to----"

  "He's punning," shouted Bert, seizing the angry Clive by the shouldersand shaking him. And then, careless of the anger he had aroused, forthat was the way with him, he began to cross-examine the two mechanicson the uses and abuses of every class of lever. The meeting, in fact,was in grave danger of a sudden break-up. But a shout from Hugh helpedmatters wonderfully.

  "I've got it!" he bellowed.

  "What? The lever or the measles?" asked Bert, still amused andfacetious.

  "Shut up, you ass! The measles indeed! No, the bally difficulty. I've away in which to work it."

  Clive agreed with the suggestion when it came to be put to him, agreedwith ungrudging enthusiasm. "It'll be as easy as walking," he said.

  "Or falling," suggested Bert.

  "You'll get your head punched yet," growled Clive. "But it's fine, thisidea. You see, we start our engine. That's easy enough."

  "Well, it may be," from Bert. "I'll believe you."

  "Then we take our seats."

  "Don't see 'em," came from the critic.

  "Ass! You've heard of the box we're going to fix."

  "But that's a box. It's not a seat."

  "Go on with it, Clive," urged Hugh, looking as if he would willinglyslay his brother. "Take no notice of the ass. We start her up, and thenget seated."

  "On a box."

  "Yes," agreed Clive, glaring at Bert, who had again interrupted. "Theengine's going. The chain's free-wheeling. We have a lever somewhere."

  Hugh pointed out its position with triumph, and the two promptlyproceeded to fit the contrivance. But levers are not made in a moment.It was, in fact, noon of the following day before they were ready for anouting.

  "You manage the steering, that's agreed?" asked Clive, when theamateur-constructed motor-car had been pushed as far as the road.

  "That's it. You control the engine. Don't let her race too much atfirst. Remember I ain't used to steering. Besides, those front wheelsare frightfully groggy. She'll sway at corners, and if we put on thepace I shall be piling the whole bag of tri
cks up on one of the banks.Bert'll keep cave. There's no police about here to matter. Jimmy, thelocal constable, 's a real good fellow. He'll see the thing from theright point of view. He knows we're experimenting and'll sympathise."

  "Particularly if he's called in at the inquest," gurgled Bert,irrepressible when his chums desired to be so serious.

  "Inquest. Eh?" asked Hugh. "What's that?"

  "Enquiry held on the bodies of Clive Darrell and Hugh Seymour, late ofthis parish, killed on the high-road. Died in the execution of theirduty'll be the verdict. Great inventors cut off in their prime!"

  Bert had to run an instant later. For Clive came at him with a hammer,while Hugh looked distinctly furious. However, the incident quieteddown, the inventors took their seats on this chassis of their ownmaking, while Bert, having seen that the coast was clear, listened tothe puff of the engine. Hugh gripped the steering gear. True, it wassomewhat flimsy, and bent easily from side to side. But nothing can beperfected in a moment, he told himself. It would do for this firstexperimental run, at any rate.

  "Ready?" asked Clive deliberately.

  "Let her go."

  Clive did. There was a painful clattering of gears. The lever jerkedviolently, while the engine almost came to a stop. However, a touch ofthe throttle and ignition levers put that right, while the gear leverbehaved itself of a sudden. The chassis bounded forward, very nearlyhurling the box which acted as a seat from it. But for the steeringwheel Hugh would have been deposited in the gutter. But he clungmanfully to the frame, and in a moment was hurtling forward.

  "Steady!" he called. "She don't steer so nicely."

  She didn't. She--that is, the car--swerved frightfully. Those frontwheels had rather the appearance of wheels trying to twist round to lookat one another. Then the swivelling axle wasn't altogether a brilliantsuccess. It refused to swivel at inconvenient moments. The heroes ofthis expedition were within an inch of the ditch lining the road.

  "Near as a toucher," cried Clive. "Keep her up."

  "Can't! The brute won't steer. She likes the ditch," came the answer.

  "Then I'll stop her. Some of those wires want tightening. Then she'llsteer."

  But that troublesome gear lever was determined to ruin the hopes of bothinventors. Perhaps it was because it had been forgotten till the veryend and felt neglected. In any case, it refused to disengage, whileowing to the awkward fact that the throttle and ignition levers haddropped away and gone adrift, Clive could not control his engine. Itraced badly. It snorted as if it felt that it could do as it liked. Itsent the swaying car hurtling along like a bullet.

  "Look out!" yelled Bert. "The bally thing's pitching like a ship at sea.Stop her!"

  "Can't! The brute's got the bit between her teeth badly," shriekedClive. "I can't quite reach the throttle, and till I do she'll goplugging ahead. She runs like a demon."

  "Top hole!" gurgled Hugh, whom it took a lot to frighten. "Ain't she gotpace? But she'd be better if she didn't rush so much from side to side.Look out! There's a cart coming our way."

  He set his teeth, endeavoured to make his figure adhere to the top ofthat egg box which did duty as a seat, and braced himself for theencounter. For encounter it seemed there was to be. The wondrous carwhich he and Clive had called into being romped towards the unsuspectingcart. It waltzed merrily from side to side of the road, seeming to takean uncanny delight in racing within hair's breadth of the ditch oneither hand. It mounted the rough footpath with impunity, careless ofthe law and of possible policemen, its springless axles bending andbumping. It actually appeared to sight that approaching cart itself, andas if filled with fiendish delight at its unaccustomed freedom, andfilled with knowledge of the helplessness of its inventors, it spedtoward the vehicle, pirouetted before it, skidded badly, removing in thespace of a bare five seconds one of the Rector's expensive back tyres,and then, mounting the pathway again with startling abruptness, itpitched its nose into the air, shuddered with positive glee, and havingthrown its drivers into the ditch subsided into match-wood andscrap-iron. Those back wheels and their axle, borrowed for thismemorable occasion, had the appearance rather of a couple of invertedumbrellas with the sticks tied together. The framework was torn asunder,and only the engine remained in recognisable condition.

  As Clive and Hugh picked themselves up from the ditch and surveyed thewreck, with the driver of the cart and Bert giggling beside them, therecame a horrid shout from behind them.

  "Eh? What's that?" demanded the baker, for he it was who had sowonderfully escaped annihilation.

  "Someone in trouble," said Bert. "Calling for help. Let's go."

  "You ass!" grinned Hugh, gripping him by the sleeve. "Can't you guess?It's that Rawlings cad. We've bagged him."

  "It's someone as is in trouble," exclaimed the worthy baker, not hearingthe above. "Wonder if it's that Mr. Rawlings?"

  "Young Rawlings?" asked Clive, with a horrible presentiment of comingtrouble.

  "Mr. Rawlings," came the emphatic answer. "Him who's bought the house. Iseed him walking to the path through the spinney. He's been away up toLunnon."

  Clive and his fellow conspirators looked at one another painfully. Thenthey regarded the wreck of the motor. That was bad enough. Admissionmust be made to the Rector, and his axle and back wheels brought forinspection. Common honesty demanded that of them. It wouldn't be playingthe game to borrow and smash and then hide their guilt in some underhandmanner. And here was an addition.

  "I'm a-going to see what's up," declared the baker. "You young gents hadbest come along too."

  They couldn't very well hang back, and had perforce to visit the sceneof their late labours. And there was the fat Mr. Rawlings, imprisoned ina pit which needed no adhesive clay pudding to hold him. For this Londongentleman was of portly structure, and the narrow pit held him as if hisfat figure had been poured into it. He could hardly shout. Evenbreathing was difficult, while his rage and mortification made himdangerously purple. Then, when at length the efforts of the four hadreleased him, and he sat at the side of the pit besmirched with clayfrom head to foot, his rage was almost appalling.

  "HIS RAGE WAS ALMOST APPALLING."]

  "You little hounds!" he stuttered. "You did it. Don't tell me youdidn't. I know you did. I'll set the police on you. You weretrespassing. This is my property. I'll send Albert down to give you ahiding, and he'll be glad to do it. I'll--I'll----" His breath was goneby now, and he sat back gasping. But his anger did not subside, andClive's prediction of coming evil was speedily realised.

  "I shall send you off to school," said his mother. "You ought to havegone long ago. I really do consider your conduct to have beendisgraceful."

  "A piece of unmitigated mischief, and not of a harmless character,"growled the Rector, who was given to choosing long words where possible."Unmitigated mischief, Bert and Hugh. First you have the temerity tocarry out something approaching a theft, a common and nefariousbusiness. Then you implicate a respected neighbour in a catastrophewhich might have terminated in his entire and total undoing. Bert, bendover."

  Dear! Dear! It was a painful and humiliating week which followed. YoungRawlings up at the house giggled secretly at his father's discomfiture.But he threatened openly when he happened to come across Clive onemorning. As for the three conspirators, they were not allowed to see oneanother, nor to communicate.

  "You'll go on Wednesday," said the Rector. "I've written about you."

  That was ominous. "We'll catch it hot," said Hugh. "I don't care. I'mjolly glad to be going. A chap ought to go to a big school, not stickalways at home. There'll be a workshop. That'll be ripping."

  "And cricket. That's better. Wish Clive were coming to the same school.Old Tom tells me he's led a dog's life these last few days."

  Clive's existence had been wretched. He was glad, delighted in fact,when the day for departure arrived, and he took his place in the trainfor Ranleigh.

  "That cad travelling too," he said, seeing Rawlings entering a distantcarriage. "Glad he's going to some othe
r place than Ranleigh."

  He saluted his mother, waved to Old Tom, and sank back on his seat asthe train started. If Bert and Hugh were glad to go to a public school,so also was Clive. He had longed to see life outside the village ofPotters Camp with an intense longing. And here he was on his way. Whatwould it be like? Was there bullying? Would he have to fag? and whatsort of a place was Ranleigh?