To Slegge's annoyance, he very soon found that if the prestige of the school was to be kept up Glyn and Singh must be in the eleven, for the former in a very short time was acknowledged to be the sharpest bowler in the school, while, from long practice together, Singh was an admirable wicket-keeper--one who laughed at gloves and pads, was utterly without fear, and had, as Wrench said--he being a great admirer of a game in which he never had a chance to play--"a nye like a nork."

"But they can't beat me at batting," Slegge said to himself grimly, and he worked at his practice like a slave. But as a slave he made others slave--to wit, all the small unfortunates who took his fancy.

"You needn't grumble, you lazy little beggars," he used to say. "Nasty, ungrateful little beasts! See what bowlers I'm making of you, and what fielders!"

And in his manufacture of cricketers he would have out five or six at a time, with three or four cricket-b.a.l.l.s, to keep on bowling to him while he went on slogging and hitting the b.a.l.l.s in all directions, utterly reckless of the poor little fellows' exhaustion and of the risks they ran, as he drove or cut the b.a.l.l.s right at them or far away over the field.

The natural result was that in regular play Slegge's score always mounted up when he was not opposed to Glyn and Singh, when there was generally what the delighted younger boys denominated a "swodge of rows;" while Slegge himself, always ready to pick a quarrel, never now attempted to settle it with fists, but he fought pretty hard with his tongue, and always declared that there was "a beastly conspiracy."

Possibly there was; but it was only between the two friends, who strove their best to put him out, the one by a clean ball which sent stumps and bails flying, the other by laying his wicket low with a sharp movement when Slegge's long legs had, in his excitement carried him off his ground.

One morning there was a little meeting held under the elms by twelve of the very junior juniors, for they had found out a malicious act on the part of their tyrant, or rather he had openly boasted of it himself, and not only showed the little fellows visually what he had done to his practice-bat, as he called it, but also awakened them thoroughly to his play.

"'Tisn't fair," said one of them. "I vote we lay it all before Burney and Severn and Hot Pickles."

"No," said another, "it isn't fair. He couldn't do it off Glyn Severn's bowling; not that we chaps bowl badly. Severn calls some of us toppers, and last week and several times since he put me up to giving the b.a.l.l.s a twist. You know; you saw--those long-pitched b.a.l.l.s that drop in as quiet as a mouse, and look as if they are going wide, but curl in round the end of a fellow's bat, just tap a stump, and down go the bails before he knows where he is."

"Yes; but I don't see much good in that," said another. "You didn't take much out of it yesterday when you put old Shanks's wicket down, and he gave you a lick on the head for it."

"I don't care if he'd given me a dozen," said the little fellow with a grin. "I took old Bully Bounce's wicket. Oh, didn't it make him wild!"

"Yes; but it isn't fair, as I said before," cried the first speaker.

"He could do what he liked with our bowling before, but now we have got to run nearly off our legs to fetch up fivers. I say it isn't fair. He must have got half-a-pound of lead let into the end of his bat. Took it down to the carpenter's, he did, and made old Gluepot bore three holes in the bottom with a centre-bit, pour in a lot of melted lead, and then plug the bottom up again with wood."

"Here, I know," said one; "let's watch for our chance, and get Wrench-- he'll keep it a secret; he hates Longshanks--let's ask him to make a fire under the wash-house copper, and one of us could do it I'll volunteer. I'll smuggle out Slegge's bat, and it wouldn't take long.

Just hold it on the fire where it's hottest, and the lead would all melt and run out."

"And what about the end of the bat?" said another.

"Well, it would be all light again, just the same as it was before."

"Light?" cried the objector. "Why, it would be all black. The wood would all burn away before the fire got to the lead."

"Would it?" said the inventor of the scheme thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose it would. But we must do something."

This was agreed to _nem con_, and, after a long meeting for boys, their faces indicated a satisfactory termination of their debate.

That something had been done was proved two days later, for the intervening day had been wet; and as usual, on the second day, when it was time to turn out in the grounds, Slegge ordered up his little band of slaves and marched them to the cricket-shed for the necessary implements. Half-a-dozen b.a.l.l.s were got out of one locker, the stumps and bails from another, and from his own particular lock-up, flap-topped receptacle, Slegge proceeded to take out the special bat with which he practised hitting--two more, his club-bat and his match-bat, lying there in their cases of green flannel.

Taking his key, one of a bunch, from his pocket, Slegge proceeded to unlock the flap-topped cupboard; but somehow the key would not go in, and he withdrew it, and under the impression that he had made a wrong selection he pa.s.sed another along the ring and tried that. This was worse, and he tried a third, before withdrawing it, blowing into the pipe, and making it whistle, and then tapping it and bringing forth a few grains of sand.

"Here, what game's this?" shouted the big fellow in what his enemies called a bubble-and-squeak voice, due to the fact that in the change that was taking place his tones were an awkward mingling of treble and ba.s.s; and as he spoke he seized the boy nearest to him by the ear.

"Oh, please don't, sir! Please don't! Please don't! I haven't done nothing!"

"Done nothing, you little vermin!" shouted Slegge. "Who said you had?

But you've done something. Now, don't deny it, for I'll half-skin you.

You can't deceive me. You have been blowing this lock full of sand and gravel with a pea-shooter."

"I haven't, sir; I haven't indeed!" cried the boy.

"Then tell me who has?" cried Slegge; and, seizing the boy's fingers, he held his hand, palm downwards, on the top of the locker, and then began to torture him by sawing the knuckles of his own doubled fist across the back.

The boy squealed and yelped, but bore the inquisition-like torture bravely enough.

Nothing was got out of him, however; and, getting between the boys and the door of the shed, Slegge tortured one after the other, but could not find a traitor to impeach the rest. And at last, in a fit of rage, he stepped back and with a furious kick sent the lid of the locker flying upwards; while, tearful though some of the eyes of the lookers-on were, they were full of a strange kind of exultation as they glanced at one another and waited for the _denouement_ that was to come.

As Slegge saw the result of his kick to the heavy lid, he stepped quickly forward and thrust in his right hand to withdraw the bat; but he uttered a yell, for the great cover rebounded and came down with a bang, sending one of the little fellows skimming out of the shed to get round to the back so that his laughter should not be seen.

"That's one for you, Burton, when I get hold of you again," cried Slegge. "I shan't forget it. And--here, what's the meaning of this?

Where's my practice-bat?"

There was a dead silence in the shady, wooden room, and three or four of the boys stood looking as if they were going to have apoplectic fits, for their eyes started and their teeth were clenched together, and they seemed as if they were trying to swallow something.

But there was no danger. It was only bottled-up mirth that they were striving hard to suppress.

"Ugh-h-h-ugh!" snarled Slegge, making a rush at the boys, who scattered at once, dashed out of the door before any of them were seized, and ran as if for their lives, to begin shrieking with laughter as soon as they were out of reach.

In his rage at what he looked upon as a theft, Slegge chased first one and then another; but he was too big, heavy, and clumsy to catch the delighted imps, who, as active as monkeys, dodged him at every turn, till at last he stood panting.

"All right," he said. "I am not going to make myself hot with running after you; but the Doctor's going to know that he has got thieves in the school. I am not going to be robbed for nothing, and if my practice-bat is not back in its place before night I shall go and tell Bewley that he's got blackguards and fellows who use false keys in his school. So you'd better look sharp and bring that bat back. And here, mind this; the carpenter will charge six or seven shillings for putting on a new lock here, so you have got to find sixpence apiece before Sat.u.r.day night and hand it over to me."

But in spite of threats the bat was not brought back nor its purloiner or annexer betrayed. The bat was gone, and its owner's practice was modified, for he did not care to improve the driving power of his first-cla.s.s bats by having them bored and weighted with lead.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

WRENCH IS CONFIDENTIAL.

The Doctor was very fond of lecturing the boys on the beneficial qualities of water.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I pa.s.s no stern edicts or objections to the use of beer, and for those who like to drink it there is the ale of my table, which is of a nature that will do harm to no one"--which was perfectly true--"but I maintain that water--good, pure, clear, bright, sparkling spring water--is the natural drink of man. And being the natural drink of man, ergo--or, as our great national poet Shakespeare puts the word in the mouth of one of his clowns, _argal_--it is the natural drink of boys."

As he spoke, the Doctor poured out from a ground-gla.s.s decanter-like bottle a tumblerful of clear cold water, which he treated as if it were beer, making it bubble and foam for a moment before it subsided in the gla.s.s.

The Doctor said good, pure, sparkling water, and the supply of the school possessed these qualities, for it came from a deep draw-well that went right down, cased in brick, for about forty feet, while for sixty feet more it was cut through the solid stone.

The Doctor was very particular about this well, which was furnished with a mechanical arrangement of winch and barrel, which sent down one big, heavy bucket as the winder worked and brought up another full; and it was Wrench's special task to draw the drinking-water from this well for the whole of the school, that used for domestic purposes coming from two different sources--one an ordinary well, and the other a gigantic soft-water tank.

One morning early, after Singh and Glyn descended from their dormitory, and were strolling down towards the Doctor's neatly-kept garden by a way which led them past the well-house, they stopped to listen to a clear musical pipe that was accompanied by the creaking of a wheel and the splash of water.

The pipe proved to be only Wrench the footman's whistle, and its effect was that of a well-played piccolo flute, as it kept on giving the boys the benefit of a popular air with variations, which stopped suddenly as the big full bucket reached the surface and was drawn sideways on to a ledge by the man, while a hollow musical dripping and tinkling went on as a portion of the superfluous water fell splashing back into the depths.

As Wrench uttered a grunt and proceeded to fill the water-can he had brought and a couple of jugs, he turned slightly and saw that the shadow cast into the cool, moist-smelling interior was that of the two boys.

"Morning, gentlemen," he said. "What do you think of this for weather?"

"Lovely," cried Glyn. "Why, Wrench, you beat the blackbirds."