Perry doubted this in his innermost thoughts, but it was not worth while to say so.
“Those Blackburn chaps,” continued Walton, reverting to another grievance, “will stick on no end of side next term about that cup. They wouldn’t have had a look in if Kay hadn’t given Fenn that extra. Kay ought to be kicked. I’m hanged if I’m going to care what I do next term. Somebody ought to do something to take it out of Kay for getting his own house licked like that.”
Walton spoke as if the line of conduct he had mapped out for himself would be a complete reversal of his customary mode of life. As a matter of fact, he had never been in the habit of caring very much what he did.
Walton’s last remarks brought the conversation back to where it had been before the mention of Kennedy switched it off on to new lines. Perry had been complaining that he thought camp a fraud, that it was all drilling and getting up at unearthly hours. He reminded Walton that he had only come on the strength of the latter’s statement that it would be a rag. Where did the rag come in? That was what Perry wanted to know.
“When it’s not a ghastly sweat,” he concluded, “it’s slow. Like it is now. Can’t we do something for a change?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Walton, “nearly all the best rags are played out. A chap at a crammer’s told me last holidays that when he was at camp he and some other fellows loosed the ropes of the guard-tent. He said it was grand sport.”
Perry sat up.
“That’s the thing,” he said, excitedly. “Let’s do that. Why not?”
“It’s beastly risky,” objected Walton.
“What’s that matter? They can’t do anything, even if they spot us.”
“That’s all you know. We should get beans.”
“Still, it’s worth risking. It would be the biggest rag going. Did the chap tell you how they did it?”
“Yes,” said Walton, becoming animated as he recalled the stirring tale, “they bagged the sentry. Chucked a cloth or something over his head, you know. Then they shoved him into the ditch, and one of them sat on him while the others loosed the ropes. It took the chaps inside no end of a time getting out.”
“That’s the thing. We’ll do it. We only need one other chap. Leveson would come if we asked him. Let’s get back to the lines. It’s almost tea-time. Tell him after tea.”
Leveson proved agreeable. Indeed, he jumped at it. His life, his attitude suggested, had been a hollow mockery until he heard the plan, but now he could begin to enjoy himself once more.
The lights-out bugle sounded at ten o’clock; the last post at ten-thirty. At a quarter to twelve the three adventurers, who had been keeping themselves awake by the exercise of great pains, satisfied themselves that the other occupants of the tent were asleep, and stole out.
It was an excellent night for their purpose. There was no moon, and the stars were hidden by clouds.
They crept silently towards the guard-tent. A dim figure loomed out of the blackness. They noted with satisfaction, as it approached, that it was small. Sentries at the public-school camp vary in physique. They felt that it was lucky that the task of sentry-go had not fallen that night to some muscular forward from one of the school fifteens, or worse still, to a boxing expert who had figured in the Aldershot competition at Easter. The present sentry would be an easy victim.
They waited for him to arrive.
A moment later Private Jones, of St Asterisk’s—for it was he—turning to resume his beat, found himself tackled from behind. Two moments later he was reclining in the ditch. He would have challenged his adversary, but, unfortunately, that individual happened to be seated on his face.
He struggled, but to no purpose.
He was still struggling when a muffled roar of indignation from the direction of the guard-tent broke the stillness of the summer night. The roar swelled into a crescendo. What seemed like echoes came from other quarters out of the darkness. The camp was waking.
The noise from the guard-tent waxed louder.
The unknown marauder rose from his seat on Private Jones, and vanished.
Private Jones also rose. He climbed out of the ditch, shook himself, looked round for his assailant, and, not finding him, hurried to the guard-tent to see what was happening.
VII
A CLUE
The guard-tent had disappeared.
Private Jones’ bewildered eye, rolling in a fine frenzy from heaven to earth, and from earth to heaven, in search of the missing edifice, found it at last in a tangled heap upon the ground. It was too dark to see anything distinctly, but he perceived that the canvas was rising and falling spasmodically like a stage sea, and for a similar reason— because there were human beings imprisoned beneath it.
By this time the whole camp was up and doing. Figures in
“What are you men playing at? What’s all the row about? Can’t you finish that game of footer some other time, when we aren’t trying to get to sleep? What on earth’s up?”
Then the voice of one having authority.
“What’s the matter? What are you doing?”
It was perfectly obvious what the guard was doing. It was trying to get out from underneath the fallen tent.
