"I hear they sample all the public-houses between here and Westcote,"

said Rogers. "Look what a dissipated eye Mr. Bourne's got."

"Yours will soon be groggy, Rogers, my pet, though you are c.o.c.k of your beastly water-lilies." After Sharpe's memorable poem, Biffen's house were always "water-lillies" to the rest of St. Amory's.

"Ah?" said Poulett, "Jack carries Acton's notes to some yellow-haired dolly down at Westcote. She gives him milk whilst he's waiting for the answer."

"Go and poach eggs, Poulett."

"Don't do anything too mean, dear Jack, so that you'll make us blush for you."

"Keep Acton out of mischief, Jack, remember he's only a poor forsaken monitor. Show him the ropes."

"Good-bye, you chaps," said Jack, hopping on his bike, "here's Acton coming." The two would then pedal the well-known road to the Lodestone, and the elevating company of the c.o.o.n and Raffles.

"Don't let Raffles bore you, young 'un," said Acton to Bourne one day as the owner of Warmint hove in sight. "Make him useful, but keep out of mischief."

Jack, had he thought about the matter, might have reasonably asked Acton how he could make Raffles useful and yet keep out of mischief, but the c.o.o.n appearing at the stable-door in all the glory of a fur-lined coat, with a foot of fur round the collar and half a foot round the sleeves, and a bigger cigar than ever in his mouth, drove Jack's thoughts in another direction.

Acton had really made marvellous progress under the c.o.o.n's coaching, and as Jack watched the usual concluding three rounds, he was puzzled in his own mind as to who could hold a candle up to his friend. This particular afternoon was to be the final appearance of the c.o.o.n, who was going to figure shortly as princ.i.p.al in some contest at Covent Garden, and Jack determined to miss no opportunity of catching the last wrinkles of the great professor's skill. Therefore, instead of sallying out as usual halfway through the performance in the stable, he sat on the corn-chest until Hill came in.

"Good-bye, c.o.o.n! Hope you come off all right in your turn-up."

"Good-bye, sir! Hope I'll train you when you start for the Heavy."

"I'll give you the chance if I do. Come along, Raffles."

When they were outside, Jack said, "By the way, Raffles, this will be your last appearance down here too, eh?"

"I suppose so," said Raffles, "unless you make it worth my while to come down entirely on your account."

"H'm, no," said Jack. "I'm deucedly short now, and when I've paid for the last fifty cartridges, and the last rabbits, I'll be still shorter."

"Let it stand over, sir."

"No," said Jack. "I've had the fun, and I'll pay, of course. Let's have a last dozen pigeons at the twenty-five yards' rise."

Secretly, Jack was rather glad that Raffles' _role_ of entertainer was finished; for his stolen pleasures had lost a considerable part of their original sweetness, and their cost _was_ heavy. It would be quite a change, too, to get back to Grim and the others, and be the ordinary common sort of fellow again.

Raffles went and wound up the throwing apparatus, and set the clay pigeon on the rest. Jack took his breech-loader, raised it to the shoulder, and said, "Ready!" Raffles pulled the string, the dummy bird rocketed up, and Jack pressed the trigger.

For one second afterwards Jack did not rightly know what had happened.

There was a blinding flash before his eyes, a something tore off his cap, and something stung his cheeks like spirts of scalding water. His left hand felt numb and dead. This all happened in the fraction of a moment.

Jack looked at the gun in stupid wonder. The breech was clean blown out!

With a groan of horror, he dropped the gun. He realized that he had escaped death by a miracle. He put up his right hand to his face, which felt on fire, and stared blankly at Raffles.

That worthy was scared out of his wits; but when he saw Jack was more or less alive, he managed to jerk out--

"That was a squeak, young shaver! Hurt any?"

"Don't know," said Jack, blankly.

Raffles anxiously examined him, and it was with no end of relief he said--

"Clean bill, sir--bar those flecks of powder on your cheek.

Considering--well you're--we're--lucky."

"Rather," said Jack, dizzily. "That's my cap isn't it?"

Yards away was Jack's cap, and Raffles brought it. His face was white--white above a bit. There was a clean cut through the brim, and a neat, straightforward tear-out of an inch or so of the front just above the crest.

"Well," said Raffles, looking narrowly at that business-like damage. "All I can say is you're lucky."

"Lucky! Yes," said Jack. "I suppose I'd better go. Let's have the thing.

An inch lower down, and I'd have had that piece of barrel in my head--or through it. It wants thinking over."

"I suppose, sir, you're going to----"

"Oh, the cash you mean! Eh?"

"Yes, that was my meaning."

"Your cash will be all right, man. Come down for it on Friday--can't you?"

"How if I can't, young shaver?" said Raffles of Rotherhithe.

"Then do without it! Anyhow, I'm going now--I'm too sick."

"All right," said Raffles, sulkily. "On Thursday."

Jack, without another word, stumbled across the fields into the farmyard, and luckily found Acton ready for home. He shakily dropped into his saddle; and, with a mind pretty busy, he tailed wearily after Acton to St. Amory's.

CHAPTER XIV

IN THE STABLE

After tea that day Acton went down to the farm _solus_, not having, as you will presently see, any need of Jack's company, even if Bourne had felt any desire to accompany him, which he didn't.

The monitor tinkled his bell, and in answer to the ringing, Raffles lounged out of a barn, the inseparable Warmint trotting at his master's heels.

"Suppose we'd better go into the stable, Raffles."

The odour of the c.o.o.n's afternoon cigar still hung about the place, and the stable was half dark, but as Acton had an idea that his conversation with Raffles would not be a short one, and the night was rather cold, they went in.