That evening, in the dormitory, Haviland being in hall at supper with the other prefects off duty, Anthony was relating, in his quaint racy English, the exciting events of the afternoon, all except the ghost episode, which he had been strictly enjoined to keep to himself. Those who were collectors were thrilled with envy.

"You are a lucky beggar, Cetchy," sighed Smithson minor. "I wish to goodness Haviland would take me with him once or twice--that's all."

"Ha! Take you!"

"Yes. Why not?" bristling up.

"You no good. You can't run."

"Look here, Cetchy. I'll smack your head if you talk like that to me."

"Smack my head! You can't do it."

"Oh, can't I?" retorted Smithson minor jumping out of bed. The other said nothing. He simply followed suit, and stood waiting. This was not in the least what Smithson expected, and now he remembered, when too late, the Zulu boy's summary retaliation on Jarnley, and how st.u.r.dily and unmovedly he had taken the caning it involved, what time Jarnley had howled. He remembered, too, the hard, wiry training the other was in and--hesitated. But it was too late to draw back, and so he rushed on his enemy, hitting out right and left; and at first Anthony seemed to be getting the worst of it, for, in common with his race, he had no idea how to use his fists, nor had he been long enough at Saint Kirwin's to have learnt, and the scuffle was enlivened by the encouraging though stifled adjurations of the spectators.

"Go it, Smithson! Now then, Cetchy! Ah! He's got it! Shut up, you fellows. We'll have Medlicott in directly if you kick up such a row,"

and so forth. But just then, Anthony, who, if he hadn't science, a.s.suredly had all the fierce fighting valour of his race, woke up to a mighty effort, and dashing out with both hands and hurling himself forward at the same time, landed his adversary full in the face, and down went Smithson minor, and with him two other fellows who were pressing him too close behind. In the midst of which shindy the door opened, and in walked Haviland.

"What's all this about?" he cried, turning the gas full up and revealing the whole scene of disorder--the panting combatants and the now sheepish-looking spectators, some of whom were making desperate efforts to appear as if they had never left their beds. "Come here, Smithson.

What d'you mean by it, eh?"

Smithson, who recognised in this formula a certain preamble to condign punishment, thought he might as well try to say something for himself.

"Please, Haviland, he cheeked me," he faltered.

"Cheeked you, did he? I wonder you haven't had Sefton up here with his cane, and of course that wouldn't have meant a thousand lines for me for not keeping order, would it?"

"He tell me he smack my head," cut in Anthony. "I tell him he can't do it. Then he try. Ha!"

The room t.i.ttered. Haviland was mollified.

"Did he do it?" he said.

"No fear. I knock him over. Then you come in." And the speaker stood with his head in the air, and the light of battle in his eyes, albeit one of them was rather swollen, looking for all the world a youthful reproduction of one of his warrior sires.

"Well, I know jolly well that Cetchy didn't begin the row," p.r.o.nounced Haviland, throwing down his square cap, and beginning to take off his coat and vest with a yawn. "Get into bed, Smithson. If I hear anything about this to-morrow from Sefton, I'll sock your head off. If not, I'll let you off this time. Now shut up, you fellows. No more talking."

There was no need to repeat the order. Silence prevailed in that dormitory forthwith.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

JARNLEY AGAIN.

If the practical joke played upon the keeper in Hangman's Wood ever transpired in the immediate neighbourhood of that ill-omened locality, the tidings thereof did not reach as far as Saint Kirwin's--nor had its perpetrators any opportunity of revisiting the place, by reason of the distance, and the difficulty of so soon again obtaining leave from call-over. But other coverts were levied upon in like fashion, all, or nearly all, we regret to say, under equally forbidden conditions.

The summer term proved exceptionally fine, and Haviland and other collectors revelled in the bright and glowing weather. If at times illicit, the long breezy rambles over field and down were fraught with all that was healthful and wholesome, in the splendid air, the beautiful surroundings of the fairest of English landscapes, the hardening of the young frame into the most perfect training, the excitement of a certain amount of ever present risk, and the absorbing pursuit of a favourite hobby. And then the cool plunge into the swimming pool at the close of the long summer's day. There was plenty of cricket too, and some exceptionally good matches in which Saint Kirwin's kept up its name quite well.

"Can't think why you don't go in for cricket, Haviland," observed Laughton, in the prefects room one whole holiday as he was getting ready for one of the matches aforesaid, and in which he figured in the school eleven as a bowler of no mean repute. "You ought to, you know. It's due to your position."

"No, thanks, Laughton. You don't catch me wasting a splendid day like this shying a ball at three silly sticks."

"Well, you could go in for batting. From what little I've seen you do in that line, with a little practice you'd make a very fair bat indeed."

"Oh, yes. Get bowled first ball, and spend the rest of the day fielding out. I'd as soon be doing an impos."

And the speaker finished some arrangement of cotton wool and cardboard boxes, and stowing the same into his side pockets tightened the strap wherewith he was girded, and nodding to Laughton started off there and then upon his favourite pursuit--but alone.

After him from the third form room windows gazed a pair of wistful eyes.

Mpukuza, otherwise Anthony, had conceived a hero-worship for the other, nearly akin to that felt by some of the old indunas of his race for their king. To accompany Haviland on one of these rambles had become for him something to live for. He would have "broken his gates" and cheerfully welcomed the inevitable swishing thereby incurred, rather than forego one such, and of late the occasions on which Haviland had been graciously pleased to command his attendance had been growing more and more rare--partly due to the unwritten code which was against a prefect fraternising much with a junior unless the latter were about his own age and size. So he gazed wistfully after his hero, and in the expressive idiom of his race "his heart was sore."

"Hallo, Cetchy! Not gated, are you? Come out bird-nesting." The voice was that of Smithson minor.

Since their little scrimmage in the dormitory the two had become very friendly, and had been out together several times.

"All right."

"Thought you were gated when I saw Haviland go out alone," went on Smithson as they started. "Hallo! There's Clay! Quick. We'll dodge him. I've got an impos to do for him. I'm not gated, but if he saw me he might want to know why I'm not doing it."

Having successfully dodged the master they struck across some fields.

But alack and alas! in escaping one possible danger they were destined to run straight into the jaws of another and a more certain. At the crossing of a stile there was a rush of big fellows who had been lying in wait on the other side, and in a trice they were pounced upon and collared by Jarnley and his gang.

"Got you at last, have I, Cetchy?" snarled that worthy, fairly grinning with delight. "Oh, I've a long score to pay off on your black hide, haven't I? and I'm going to begin now," tweaking the other savagely by the ear with one hand though holding him firmly by the collar with the other. "You would get me tanned by Clay, would you?"

"I was tanned too," protested the victim.

"And now you'll be tanned again. What Clay gave you--gave us--is nothing to what we are going to give you now. And the seven hundred lines, and the lines Sefton gave us all but let you off."

"Shut up, Perkins, you beastly bully!" yelped Smithson minor, who was undergoing his share of trial in the little matter of a twisted arm and a fistic punch or two thereon. "I'll report you to Haviland if you don't leave us alone."

"Oh, you'd sneak, would you? Take that--and that"--emphasising the expostulation with a couple of sounding smacks on the head.

"Come on, you fellows," said Jarnley. "Don't let him go, but we'll deal with Cetchy first. Oh, yes, my black s...o...b..ll, my woolly-pated beauty-- I told you I'd skin you alive, didn't I? I told you I'd rip the black hide off you, and now I'm going to do it. Now then, spread-eagle him over the steps of that stile. Oh, yes. We've been keeping these for you many a long day, my n.o.ble s...o...b..ll," producing a thick but supple willow switch, and one of the others, of whom there were just half a dozen, producing one likewise.

It was then or never. The victim, well aware of what a savage thrashing would be inflicted upon him, should he fail, made one last effort.

Before the others had time to seize him he struck his heel down sharply on to Jarnley's toes, crushing them into the ground, at the same time sending his elbow back with all his force. It caught the bully fair in the pit of the stomach, and with a howl, promptly strangled in a gasp, Jarnley partially relaxed his hold. In a trice the Zulu boy had wrenched himself free, and, deftly ducking between two of the others who sprang at him, was off like a shot.

Jarnley was beside himself with rage.

"You a.s.ses!" he shouted gaspingly as he recovered his wind. "All this time we've been looking out for him, and now, just as we've got him, you let him get away."

"It strikes me it was you who let him get away," retorted Perkins.

"Well, we'll take it out of this little beast instead."

Poor Smithson minor howled for mercy, but he howled in vain. They pulled him down over the stile step, the switches were uplifted and ready when--

"Whack! Whack!" came a couple of stones. "Whack--whack--whack!" came three more, flung hard too, and with a terrible precision. One struck Perkins on the hand, causing him to dance and swear all his fingers were broken. Another hit Jarnley on the shoulder, while two more found their billet in violent contact with another of the bullies--and there, in a gap in the hedge some little distance off, stood the one who had escaped, grinning in mingled vindictiveness and glee. Other stones followed, hurled with the same unerring precision. To proceed with their congenial work under that terrible bombardment was impossible--and so, leaving one in charge of Smithson, the gang started in pursuit of the Zulu boy.