"Not so quick, Grimmy. He's wheeling into that little Westcote inn. We'll run him down now."

The rider had indeed dismounted nearly a quarter mile ahead, and instantly the Amorians were stringing down the road again. Before the door of the little inn they found a bicycle propped up drunkenly against the wall, and the Amorians, pumped though they were, had breath enough left to explode over Bourne's machine. It was a "solid" of pre-diamond-frame days, guiltless of enamel or plating, and handle-bars of width generous enough for a Dutch herring-boat's bow.

"There's no false pride about Jack," said Grim, gloating over the weird mount. "Whatever is he doing in here?"

"Liquid refreshment," said Rogers between a gulp and a gasp. "Oh, Jack, was it for this and this that you gave us the go-by?"

"This place doesn't seem Jack's form somehow," said Wilson, looking doubtfully up and down the little inn.

"Ring him out, Wilson," said Grim. "His little game's up now, and we can rag him for an age over this."

"Let's try his mount first, Grimmy." Rogers wheeled out the machine and, after hopping twenty yards, "found" the saddle. To mount it was one thing, to ride it was evidently a matter of liberal education beyond the attainments of a junior Amorian, for, as Rogers attempted a modest sweep round, the machine collapsed, and he was sprawling on his back, the bicycle rattling about his ears. Then--it seemed automatically to the gasping Amorians--a st.u.r.dy youth rushed out of the inn flourishing a half-emptied gla.s.s of beer in one hand, and he seized the struggling Rogers by the scruff of the neck with the other. Rogers was unceremoniously jerked to his feet before he quite realized what it was all about. One or two men lounged out of the inn, and surveyed the scene dispa.s.sionately, and the landlord pushed his way forward.

"Wot's the matter?"

"Matter!" gasped the youth, tightening his hold on Rogers' collar and waving his gla.s.s dramatically.

"This young shaver was going to nick my bike. I seen him."

"I wasn't, you fool----" began Rogers, who did not like the man's knuckles in his neck.

"Fool am I, you little ugly thief? Worn't you a-scorchin' down the road w'it? I see you."

The other Amorians curled up with laughter at the way things were mixing up, and at the last exquisite joke.

"Jove, Rogers, to think you meant to steal it!" burbled Poulett.

"Leave loose of my collar, you idiot," said Rogers, squirming in the man's grasp; "I tell you it's all a mistake."

"That's all my h'eye. I see you sneak it, and it'll be a month for you.

Sneaking bikes is awful! Mistake be blowed."

"Oh! explain, some of you," said Rogers, frantically, "before I--Grim, tell the lunatic."

The Amorians were beyond mere laughter now, but the landlord had wit enough to see that there was some mistake somewhere, and he finally persuaded the owner of the bicycle to moderate his attentions to the exasperated Rogers. Grim recovered sufficiently to lift some of the suspicions from that ill-used youth.

"We thought you were a friend of ours--back view only and at a distance, you know--but you're not very like him, really, in the face. His name's Bourne."

"Mine's 'Arris," said the bicycle owner, angrily.

"A very nice name, too;" said Grim, soothingly. "You'd better see what's the damage to the machine for we must be trotting back to St. Amory's."

Mr. Harris spun the pedals and tried the wheels.

"It's shook up considerable, that's wot it is."

"All right," said Grim, hastily. "Here's a shilling. Give it a drink of beer."

This was a wretched joke really, but it brightened the face of Mr. Harris considerably when he heard it, and the loafers departed from their dispa.s.sionate att.i.tude, and became quite friendly. The landlord went in to draw beer.

A minute afterwards the quartette was heading back for St. Amory's as hard as it could go, and whenever a halt was called for breath, three of the cronies collapsed on the earth, and howled at Rogers, who could not see the joke.

Over a quiet little tea, after call-over, at Hooper's Rogers explained fully his views.

"No, I'm not going to do any more detective work. We missed Acton and Bourne beautifully; they don't go to Westcote, and Grimmy's idea about poachin' 's rotten. He may be Acton's messenger-boy or the rider of a decent pneumatic, but I'm going to let him go his own way."

When, afterwards, they rubbed embrocation into their wearied limbs, the rest agreed with Rogers.

"But, yet," said Grim, "I'd like to know about that cartridge too."

CHAPTER XVI

TODD "FINDS HIMSELF"

Todd had found out all the unpainted beauty of public-school life without pocket money, and discovered that existence was just possible. A shilling on your watchchain and a shilling's worth of stamps admit of no luxuries, and Todd, through his impecuniosity, even if he had wished, could not have done anything else but work. Taylor's house was supposed to provide a fairly liberal table, but Gus really did miss his after-dinner cup of coffee at Hooper's, and not many fellows would regard long letters to and from home as being the _summum bonum_ of the week. Yet Todd had come to regard his mamma's letters--four-paged gossip about his sisters, his brothers, the horses, and the dogs--in the light of luxuries.

Consequently, with nothing to distract him, Gus really did work. His standing in the Fifth sensibly increased. Merishall did not make elaborate jokes on his Latin, and Corker not once let fall the warning eye-gla.s.s preparatory to savaging him for his Greek, formerly called so by a courtesy t.i.tle. There was a world of difference between his old haphazard slip-slop and his present honest attempts in the ways of scholarship.

The half-holidays, though, dragged dreadfully, for Gus was one of those fellows who have no natural apt.i.tude for games, and he had a theory that he did not care a straw about them either. Being in the Fifth he could, of course, suit himself what he did with his halfers. Sometimes, in very desperation, he would lounge down to the Acres, and wander forlornly from goal post to goal post, and sometimes he spent the afternoon amusing himself--with Lancaster's express approval--in the laboratory, and so effaced previous bad impressions from the science master's mind. Gus, however, was honest enough with himself to own that he would rather have had an aimless stroll with Cotton than any amount of footer-gazing or "bottle-washing." But Cotton had definitely thrown him over; they did not nod when they met, and Jim was very careful not to see Gus walking in solitary state in the roadway.

Todd was moodily looking out of his window one halfer, and discontentedly wondering how he could exist till he should switch on the electric for the evening grind, when a not unfamiliar knock sounded on the door. Gus faced round wonderingly, and opened the door. The house-master dropped into the chair which Todd hastily drew out for him.

"I thought I should catch you in, Todd. Nothing on, have you?"

"No, sir," said Todd.

"No particular engagement for this afternoon."

"No, sir," said Gus, with a half sigh merging into a half smile, "though I did think of going down to the Acres, and looking at the footer."

"I'm glad of that," said Taylor, as though he really were. "I promised to referee this afternoon--Hargon's _v_. Sharpe's--but I want to cry off now. Neuralgia, Todd, is simply torturing me this moment, and refereeing wouldn't improve it. Do you mind taking my place? Do please say 'No' if you'd rather not."

"Very sorry, sir," said Gus, referring to the neuralgia. "Referee!"

"Yes," said Taylor, with a ghost of a smile at Todd's astonishment.

"Certainly, I will, sir--I mean I'll take your place. But the fellows will gasp when I step into the arena."

"Thank you, Todd. Why will they gasp?"

"Footer isn't my line, sir."

"Hasn't been, Todd. Anyhow, they'll be delighted when you whistle them up."

"I hope they'll be delighted when I've finished, sir," said Gus, doubtfully.