“I’m certain I tied it up all right. And—why, look! here’s the rope still on the pole, just as I left it.”
For the first time Dunstable seemed interested.
“This is getting mysterious. Did we hire a rowing-boat or a submarine? There’s something on the end of this rope. Give it a tug, and see. There, didn’t you feel it?”
“I do believe,” said Linton in an awed voice, “the thing’s sunk.”
They pulled at the rope together. The waters heaved and broke, and up came the nose of the boat, to sink back with a splash as they loosened their hold.
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth—” said Dunstable, wiping his hands. “If you ask me, I should say an enemy hath done this. A boat doesn’t sink of its own accord.”
“Albert!” said Linton. “The blackguard must have followed us up and done it while we were at tea.”
“That’s about it,” said Dunstable. “And now—how about getting home?”
“I suppose we’d better walk. We shall be hours late for lockup.”
“You,” said Dunstable, “may walk if you are fond of exercise and aren’t in a hurry. Personally, I’m going back by river.”
“But—”
“That looks a good enough boat over there. Anyhow, we must make it do. One mustn’t be particular for once.”
“But it belongs—what will the other fellow do?”
“I can’t help his troubles,” said Dunstable mildly, “having enough of my own. Coming?”
It was about ten minutes later that Sheen, approaching the waterside in quest of his boat, found no boat there. The time was a quarter to six, and lockup was at six-thirty.
XIII
Deus Ex Machina
It did not occur to Sheen immediately that his boat had actually gone. The full beauty of the situation was some moments in coming home to him. At first he merely thought that somebody had moved it to another part of the bank, as the authorities at the inn had done once or twice in the past, to make room for the boats of fresh visitors. Walking along the lawn in search of it, he came upon the stake to which Dunstable’s submerged craft was attached. He gave the rope a tentative pull, and was surprised to find that there was a heavy drag on the end of it.
Then suddenly the truth flashed across him. “Heavens!” he cried, “it’s sunk.”
Joe Bevan and other allies lent their aid to the pulling. The lost boat came out of the river like some huge fish, and finally rested on the bank, oozing water and drenching the grass in all directions.
Joe Bevan stooped down, and examined it in the dim light.
“What’s happened here, sir,” he said, “is that there’s a plank gone from the bottom. Smashed clean out, it is. Not started it isn’t. Smashed clean out. That’s what it is. Someone must have been here and done it.”
Sheen looked at the boat, and saw that he was right. A plank in the middle had been splintered. It looked as if somebody had driven some heavy instrument into it. As a matter of fact, Albert had effected the job with the butt-end of an oar.
The damage was not ruinous. A carpenter could put the thing right at no great expense. But it would take time. And meanwhile the minutes were flying, and lockup was now little more than half an hour away.
“What’ll you do, sir?” asked Bevan.
That was just what Sheen was asking himself. What could he do? The road to the school twisted and turned to such an extent that, though the distance from the “Blue Boar” to Seymour’s was only a couple of miles as the crow flies, he would have to cover double that distance unless he took a shortcut across the fields. And if he took a shortcut in the dark he was certain to lose himself. It was a choice of evils. The “Blue Boar” possessed but one horse and trap, and he had seen that driven away to the station in charge of a fisherman’s luggage half an hour before.
“I shall have to walk,” he said.
“It’s a long way. You’ll be late, won’t you?” said Mr. Bevan.
“It can’t be helped. I suppose I shall. I wonder who smashed that boat,” he added after a pause.
Passing through the inn on his way to the road, he made inquiries. It appeared that two young gentlemen from the school had been there to tea. They had arrived in a boat and gone away in a boat. Nobody else had come into the inn. Suspicion obviously rested upon them.
“Do you remember anything about them?” asked Sheen.
Further details came out. One of the pair had worn a cap like Sheen’s. The other’s headgear, minutely described, showed him that its owner was a member of the school second eleven.
Sheen pursued the inquiry. He would be so late in any case that a minute or so more or less would make no material difference; and he was very anxious to find out, if possible, who it was that had placed him in this difficulty. He knew that he was unpopular in the school, but he had not looked for this sort of thing.
Then somebody suddenly remembered having heard one of the pair address the other by name.
“What name?” asked Sheen.
His informant was not sure. Would it be Lindon?
“Linton,” said Sheen.
That was it.
Sheen thanked him and departed, still puzzled. Linton, as he knew him, was not the sort of fellow to do a thing like that. And the other, the second eleven man, must be Dunstable. They were always about together. He did not know much about Dunstable, but he could hardly believe that this sort of thing was his form either. Well, he would have to think of that later. He must concentrate himself now on covering the distance to the school in the minimum of time. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes more. If
