"Surely, sir, that's no evidence whatever that it has been done by any of the school," said Laughton, as the Doctor paused, as though inviting opinion.

"I think it is, Laughton. The ordinary poacher, you see, would remove his game, not cook and eat it in a dry ditch. Furthermore, the footmarks observed by the keepers were made by cricket shoes, and not large enough nor broad enough to be imprinted by the village ne'er-do-well."

"But Lord Hebron's preserves are too far away, sir," urged Medlicott.

"No fellow would have time to get there and back unless he got leave from calling-over."

"That's true," rejoined the Doctor; "but the Question is, has anybody been getting such leave of late, and, if so, how many? I shall inquire into that. And now have any of you any other suggestions to offer?"

The prefects looked at each other rather blankly. It was, of course, very flattering, and all that sort of thing, to be taken thus into the counsels of the redoubtable Doctor; but then, unfortunately, they hadn't the ghost of a notion what to suggest. At last Laughton said:--

"I should think, sir, the best plan would be for the owners of the shootings to increase their staff of keepers. It seems hard for them to lay the blame on the school when there's so little to justify the suspicion."

"On the contrary, I think there is a good deal to justify it," returned the Doctor. "I think they have made out a _prima facie_ case. The question now is what steps I shall be called upon to take. I am very loth to put in force so grave a measure as withdrawing the privilege of rambling over the country and confining the school strictly to grounds, merely on suspicion, even though a strong suspicion. I have always held, too, that that privilege, combined with the natural healthiness of our situation, has not a little to do with the high reputation for health we have always enjoyed. But, if this goes on, I shall be obliged to take some such step."

"Perhaps, sir, some of us might make it our business to go about a little and keep our eyes open," suggested Read, the other prefect.

"That is just what I was thinking, Read," replied the Doctor. "If we can discover the offenders, I shall make a grave example of them, and it will be to the interest of the whole school. Meanwhile, let me impress upon you that I particularly wish this meeting to be considered a confidential one. To the other prefects its burden must, of course, be imparted, but beyond them I desire no information to leak out, for that might be to defeat our object entirely, for it is better for the evil-doers to be detected than to be only warned and to desist for a time. And at this we will leave it."

And so they were dismissed.

The while Haviland and his dusky accomplice, blissfully unconscious, were planning their great stroke, which had the additional attraction of tying yet another knot in Nick's tail.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A GRIM TUSSLE.

"I say, Cetchy, isn't this splendid?" said Haviland, drawing in long breaths of the cool night air. He was simply revelling in the sense of absolute liberty as he gazed around upon the dim fields, then up at the star-gemmed sky.

"Oh, yes. Splendid, rather! Hangman's Wood long way--get morning very early," replied the other.

The long, dark outline of the ill-omened covert loomed before them; and at sight of it Haviland could hardly restrain a wild paroxysm of laughter, as he remembered the last time they visited the place, and the awful scare they had put upon the unfortunate keeper. Just as they gained it, the moon in its last quarter arose above the tree tops.

"It's awfully dark in here, Cetchy," whispered Haviland, as they stood within the gloomy depths of the wood. "These trees are too thick. We can't see a blessed bird."

It was even as he had said. The light of the feeble moon hardly penetrated here, and the chill gloom and weird a.s.sociations of the place began to take effect even upon their spirits. A fox barked in the further end of the covert, and ever and anon the doleful hooting of owls, both far and near, rang out upon the night, and now and again one of the ghostly birds would drop down almost into their faces, and skim along the ride on soft, noiseless pinions. The earthy moisture of the soil and undergrowth was as the odour of a charnel-house. Every now and then some sound--strange, mysterious, unaccountable--would cause them to stop short, and, with beating hearts, stand intently listening. Then they went on again.

They had secured no spoil; the tree tops were too thick to see the roosting birds. At last, as luck would have it--whether for good or ill we say not--they managed to glimpse a single pheasant through a gap against the sky. All of a quiver with excitement, Haviland pressed the trigger, and missed. Still the dim black ball up aloft never moved.

Again he took careful aim, and this time it did move, for it came down from its perch with a resounding flapping of wings, and hit the earth with a hard thud, still flapping. In a moment the Zulu boy was upon it and had wrung its neck, but not before it had uttered a couple of raucous croaks that seemed, to the over-strained sense of its slayers, loud enough to be heard for miles in the midnight stillness.

"I'm glad we've got something at last, Cetchy," whispered Haviland, as he examined the dead bird. "We'll have to be contented with it, though, for time's up. Come along, we must get back now."

Bearing off their spoil in triumph, they had gained the centre of the wood--the spot, in fact, where the old tragedy had occurred, and close to that whereon they had so badly frightened the keeper. Suddenly Haviland felt a hand on his arm, heard a brief whisper:

"Stop! Something moving."

At first he could hear nothing; then his ears detected a sound, and his nerves thrilled. As the other had said, it was something moving, and instinctively he realised that it was something heavier, more formidable than any of the light-footed denizens of an English wood. Somehow his mind reverted to the grim legend. What if it were true, and the strangled man actually did walk, with all the marks of his horrible and violent death upon him? In front, where the rides of the wood intersected each other, the moonlight streamed through in a broad patch, rendering blacker still the pitchy blackness beneath the trees beyond.

The stillness and excitement, together with the gruesome a.s.sociations of the place, had got upon their nerves even more than they knew. What if some awful apparition--appalling, horrible beyond words--were to emerge from yonder blackness, to stand forth in the ghostly moonlight, and petrify them with the unimaginable terrors of a visitant from beyond the grave? Haviland's pulses seemed to stand still as the sounds drew nearer and nearer. A keeper's? No. They were too quick, too heavy, too blundering, somehow. Then Anthony breathed one word:

"Dog!"

A dog! Of course, that solved the mystery. But even then the jump from supernatural fears to the material hardly seemed to mend matters. A dog meant a keeper, of course, unless it were a midnight poacher like themselves, in which event it would give them a wide berth; but this was too much to hope. On the other hand, if it were accompanying a keeper on his midnight round, the brute would certainly attack them; and that it was a large and heavy animal they could determine by the sound of its quick, fierce rushes to and fro, and a sort of deep-toned grunt which it uttered now and then as it snuffed the ground.

Breathlessly they crouched. Ha! It was coming! The sound of its approaching rush in the pitchy blackness was almost upon them--then it pa.s.sed. It had not discovered them yet, but evidently suspected their presence. When it winded them, as it might do any moment, then it would come straight for them. There was something terribly unnerving in this feeling of being hunted, and that by an enemy whose strength they had no opportunity of estimating.

As the retreating sound grew fainter, Haviland suggested climbing a tree. There was no such thing as playing the ghost again. That was all very well with a keeper, but it wouldn't do for a moment with a dog.

Besides, the brute could maul them horribly even before the keeper should arrive on the scene; but Anthony negatived the suggestion.

"No climb tree," he said. "I kill him. Look, he come again."

It was even as he had said. The rush of a heavy body through the undergrowth, this time on the other side of the ride, and then, from the darkness beyond, there sprang forth into the moonlit ride an enormous bull-mastiff.

Terrible to a degree looked the formidable brute, his fangs exposed in a white line across the blackness of his huge bullet head: and the great muscular brindled body looked powerful enough to bring down a bullock with ease. Why, these two would simply be torn to pieces.

As the brute sprang into the light it paused a moment. Then, uttering one deep, cavernous "gowl" it came straight for them.

But at the moment it began its rush, there darted forth into the light a form, lithe and dark. Something flashed aloft, and at the same time descended--and then animal and human were mixed up together in a struggling ma.s.s upon the ground. The descendant of a long line of warriors knew better than to give his antagonist the choice of battle ground, and did not prefer to fight in the dark, wherefore he had hurled himself straight at the onrushing monster--stabbing furiously with his improvised sheep-shear a.s.segai.

Not ineffectually either, but the sheer weight of the heavy muscular brute had hurled him flat.

It had all been done with a rapidity that was almost lightning-like.

Haviland, witnessing it, felt all in a maze for a moment, realising that he was unarmed--for the air-gun of course would be about as effective against such an adversary as this as the common or school pea-shooter.

Yet he bethought him of a weapon more useful still, and without hesitation he advanced upon the struggling pair, and his right fist was armed with a knuckle-duster of the most formidable kind, each knuckle const.i.tuting a sharp point--a terrible implement, one moderately strong blow of which could kill a man easily.

The Zulu boy lay on the sward beneath the great dog--his one object being to shield his throat. Fortunately he had previously rolled his jacket round his left arm, and this had received the powerful jaws, which hung on, with a dreadful worrying snarl--while, with his right, he was stabbing furiously at the creature's body, but somehow without much effect. Haviland saw his chance--and the good moonlight befriended him.

With the utmost coolness and ready prompt.i.tude he selected his opportunity--letting out with all the force of his iron-bound right hand. "Woof!" It caught the snarling, gnashing monster full and square on the side of the head, and without waiting to see the result he followed it up with another. One quick gasp, and the great brute rolled off, lying on its side, hardly moving--stunned, if not dead. But the Zulu boy would leave nothing to chance. Springing to his feet he drove his sharp weapon through and through the body of the dog. There was no doubt about it then. The animal lay still--the dark pool of its blood widening ever in the moonlight.

"Are you hurt, Cetchy? D'you hear--are you hurt?" gasped Haviland, panting with the effort and excitement of his supreme exertion.

"Hurt? No. He bite me once. Ha! I, Mpukuza! I can kill! Ha!"

Thus spoke the savage--the descendant of a line of fighting savages, standing there, grasping his savage weapon, surveying the dead and bleeding body of his formidable enemy, not in his own native wilds, but in the peaceful glade of an English game preserve.

"Well, come along then, and quick. There's sure to be a keeper not far off."

Quickly they took their way to the edge of the wood. They were over the fence and away, but hardly had they gone some fifty yards when a voice behind them shouted:--

"Hi! Stop there! Stop, do 'ee 'ear? I'll shoot 'ee if 'ee don't."

And immediately the bang of a discharged gun crashed out upon the night, Haviland laughed.

"It's all right, Cetchy. He daren't fire at us, for his life. It's bluff. Come along."

And away they raced, but a glance over their shoulder showed them that the keeper was giving chase.

That in itself didn't afflict them much, but by and by when they had covered several long fields, they observed with concern that he was still on their heels. As a rule, a keeper was easy to distance, but this one seemed lightly built and in excellent training. Even a dark lane down which they dived, hoping to double on him, proved of no avail; rather did it serve to make matters worse, for the keeper, knowing where they were bound to come out, had wasted neither time nor energy, but made straight for that point: a manoeuvre which brought him alarmingly close when he did emerge. And at all hazards he must not be suffered to head them off from their objective.

"Now, then--'ee'd better stop, I tell 'ee!" he shouted, reckoning them done up. But the fugitives knew better than to waste wind, if he did not. They simply raced on, offering no reply. And by degrees their superior wind and training told, the more so that the race was a long one. They saw they were shaking their pursuer off, and it was all important they should do this, because it would never do for them to let him run them all the way back to the school. They might as well surrender at once as that.