Private Jones explained this with some warmth.
“Somebody jumped at me and sat on my head in the ditch. I couldn’t get up. And then some blackguard cut the ropes of the guard-tent. I couldn’t see who it was. He cut off directly the tent went down.”
Private Jones further expressed a wish that he could find the chap. When he did, there would, he hinted, be trouble in the old homestead.
The tent was beginning to disgorge its prisoners.
“Guard, turn out!” said a facetious voice from the darkness.
The camp was divided into two schools of thought. Those who were watching the guard struggle out thought the episode funny. The guard did not. It was pathetic to hear them on the subject of their mysterious assailants. Matters quieted down rapidly after the tent had been set up again. The spectators were driven back to their lines by their officers. The guard turned in again to try and restore their shattered nerves with sleep until their time for sentry-go came round. Private Jones picked up his rifle and resumed his beat. The affair was at an end as far as that night was concerned.
Next morning, as might be expected, nothing else was talked about. Conversation at breakfast was confined to the topic. No halfpenny paper, however many times its circulation might exceed that of any penny morning paper, ever propounded so fascinating and puzzling a breakfast-table problem. It was the utter impossibility of detecting the culprits that appealed to the schools. They had swooped down like hawks out of the night, and disappeared like eels into mud, leaving no traces.
Jimmy Silver, of course, had no doubts.
“It was those Kay’s men,” he said. “What does it matter about evidence? You’ve only got to look at ‘em. That’s all the evidence you want. The only thing that makes it at all puzzling is that they did nothing worse. You’d naturally expect them to slay the sentry, at any rate.”
But the rest of the camp, lacking that intimate knowledge of the Kayite which he possessed, did not turn the eye of suspicion towards the Eckleton lines. The affair remained a mystery. Kennedy, who never gave up a problem when everybody else did, continued to revolve the mystery in his mind.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” he said to Silver, two days later, “if you were right.”
Silver, who had not made any remark for the last five minutes, with the exception of abusive comments on the toughness of the meat which he was trying to carve with a blunt knife for the tent, asked for an explanation. “I mean about that row the other night.”
“What row?”
“That guard-tent business.”
“Oh, that! I’d forgotten. Why don’t you move with the times? You’re always thinking of something that’s been dead and buried for years.”
“You remember you said you thought it was those Kay’s chaps who did it. I’ve been thinking it over, and I believe you’re right. You see, it was probably somebody who’d been to camp before, or he wouldn’t have known that dodge of loosing the ropes.”
“I don’t see why. Seems to me it’s the sort of idea that might have occurred to anybody. You don’t want to study the thing particularly deeply to know that the best way of making a tent collapse is to loose the ropes. Of course it was Kay’s lot who did it. But I don’t see how you’re going to have them simply because one or two of them have been here before.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Kennedy.
After tea the other occupants of the tent went out of the lines to play stump-cricket. Silver was in the middle of a story in one of the magazines, so did not accompany them. Kennedy cried off on the plea of slackness.
“I say,” he said, when they were alone.
“Hullo,” said Silver, finishing his story, and putting down the magazine. “What do you say to going after those chaps? I thought that story was going to be a long one that would take half an hour to get through. But it collapsed. Like that guard-tent.”
“About that tent business,” said Kennedy. “Of course that was all rot what I was saying just now. I suddenly remembered that I didn’t particularly want anybody but you to hear what I was going to say, so I had to invent any rot that I could think of.”
“But now,” said Jimmy Silver, sinking his voice to a melodramatic whisper, “the villagers have left us to continue their revels on the green, our wicked uncle has gone to London, his sinister retainer, Jasper Murgleshaw, is washing his hands in the scullery sink, and—_we are alone!_”
“Don’t be an ass,” pleaded Kennedy.
“Tell me your dreadful tale. Conceal nothing. Spare me not. In fact, say on.”
“I’ve had a talk with the chap who was sentry that night,” began Kennedy.
“Astounding revelations by our special correspondent,” murmured Silver.
“You might listen.”
“I
“You remember the sentry was upset—”
“Very upset.”
“Somebody collared him from behind, and upset him into the ditch. They went in together, and the other man sat on his head.”
“A touching picture. Proceed, friend.”
“They rolled about a bit, and this sentry chap swears he scratched the man. It was just after that that the man
