CHAPTER III
THE CRY OF THE PSALMIST
Yes; poor Falcon was dying. A crimson stream was running from a wound inits flank, and Paul knew that the horse had not many minutes to live.
"The scoundrel!" he said to himself between his clenched teeth, as hethought of the man who had wrought this cruel deed. Paul was one ofthose brave lads who would never wittingly have done an act of cruelty,least of all to one of God's dumb creatures. It touched him to the quickto see the poor horse dying. He knelt by its side, and his hand wentcaressingly over it. Falcon turned to him with such a look of pathos inits eyes that a big lump rose in the boy's throat, as though he werechoking.
"I can do nothing for you, old fellow. I wish I could!"
There was no help near, and it was clear to see that if there had beenit would have been useless. Falcon was breathing hard, in its last sternfight with death. Paul could not bear to see its pain. His hand moved upto its head. It soothed the horse. For a minute it lay perfectly still,and then, as though in that brief interval of rest it had beencollecting its strength for a last great effort, it tried to rise to itsfeet again. It rose a little way, then fell. Again it turned its head toPaul, and looked at him with glazed eyes. A shiver went over every limb;then the noble horse lay quite still, and Paul knew that it was dead.
Tears came to his eyes. It was as though he had been standing by thedeath-bed of a human being. And, now that he was in the presence ofdeath, he scarcely knew how to act. Suddenly the sound of distant voicesroused him from the stupor into which he had fallen. For the moment, inhis grief at Falcon's death, he had forgotten that he was beingpursued--forgotten the message of which he was the bearer.
The sound of voices recalled him to his duty. If he remained there, hispursuers would soon discover him, and wrest from him the letter withwhich he had been entrusted. Falcon was dead. He could do no good byremaining. To make good his escape, no time must be lost. By God's goodhelp, he might yet succeed in eluding his pursuers.
So he pulled himself together, resolved to go forward at all hazards.
"It is for Stan's father," he said to himself, as he tried to run. Buthe soon found that another misfortune had befallen him. The injury tohis leg prevented him from running. It was only with an effort he couldwalk at any speed, and at every step he took he felt that his pursuerswere gaining ground.
Redmead was close upon three miles away. How could he hope to reach itwithout being overtaken by the men who were so keenly pursuing him?Instinctively came to his memory the words he had so often heard in thevillage church--"The wicked oppress me--compass me about. They nowcompass me in my footsteps." And the cry of the Psalmist rose to hislips:
"Hold up my goings in Thy paths, that my footsteps slip not. Show Thymarvellous loving kindness, O Thou that savest by Thy right hand themwhich put their trust in Thee. Hide me under the shadow of Thy wingsfrom the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass meabout. Arise, O Lord, disappoint him, cast him down."
With renewed strength he pressed on; but he had not gone far before hewas compelled to slacken his pace. He realized that it was hopeless forhim to evade his pursuers unless he could find some hiding-place. Helooked around. There was no house near. But just a little ahead of him,to the right of the road, were the ruins of an old house which had beenburned almost to the ground, and never been re-built.
As a drowning man clutches at a straw, Paul made his way to the ruins.But he had not gone more than a few paces through what had once been thegarden of the house, when a voice cried:
"Hallo! Who are you? What are you doing here?"
Paul was somewhat startled, for he thought the place deserted. He foundhimself mistaken, however, for a boy came from the ruins and faced him.He was slightly taller than Paul, and of slimmer build; but he was nonethe less well proportioned, and his limbs moved with the easy movementof a young athlete. In spite of the dusk, Paul recognized him. He wasone of the senior boys of St. Bede's--the scholars of which were thedeadly rivals of Paul's school. There had been a perpetual feud betweenSt. Bede's and Garside for many years. Sometimes it would be patched upfor a week or two; then it would break out with greater violence thanever. Just before the vacation, the feud had burst out stronger thanever. There is no telling to what length it might have been carried,but, fortunately, the vacation came on, and hostilities were suspended.The boy before him was Wyndham, one of the ringleaders on the otherside. The recognition was simultaneous.
"You're one of the bounders of Garside, aren't you?"
"Yes," Paul candidly admitted; "and you--you're one of the Bede's,aren't you? I haven't time to talk. There's some one after me. Can youput me up to a place to hide in?--quick, there's a good fellow!"
"Running away--eh?" said the other contemptuously, without moving."That's like you Garside fellows!"
"I wish I had only the time to teach you better," retorted Paulindignantly. Then, remembering all that was at stake, he suppressed hisindignation, and in quick, earnest tones: "I'm not sneaking--on my wordof honour. I'm the bearer of an important paper, belonging to a chum'sfather. Two men are following me up to try to get it from me. If I can'tsteer clear of them they will take it from me. You know this place. Hideme somewhere!"
The earnest tones of Paul appealed to Wyndham.
"I don't know of any hiding-place, except----"
"Except what?" cried Paul eagerly, as he again caught the sound ofvoices from the roadway.
"The old well."
"The old well! How is it possible to hide there?"
"Well, I can let you down in the bucket, if you care to run the risk.I've been down it myself--but I'm not a Garside fellow."
It was as much as to say that "a Garside fellow" was not capable ofdoing what a "St. Bede fellow" could do.
"I'd run any risk--quick! I can near them coming! Where's the well?"
It was only a few paces from where they were standing. Wyndham led theway.
"I'll let you down a little way; then draw you up again directly the menhave gone--that is to say, if they should come this way."
"They are coming this way. I feel sure of it, and there's no time tolose."
"Here you are, then. Keep steady, and don't make a sound. They won'tthink of you stowed away down there."
Paul got into the bucket. The chain was somewhat rusty, but though itwas the worse for disuse, and creaked as it was lowered, it held firm.When Wyndham had lowered Paul a short distance, he made firm the chain;so that he was suspended half-way between the water and the top. Itwasn't a very pleasant situation. A dank smell came from below, and itseemed the abode of darkness as the boy above shut out the last remnantof light by placing the cover a little way over the well.
Not a moment too soon, for he had only just finished when a man dartedup to him and seized him by the collar.
"Ha! Got you at last, have I? A nice chase you've led us."
"What's the matter? That's my collar when you've done with it. Drop it,please!"
"Hand over that paper."
"What paper?"
"The paper you're taking to Redmead. Quick--out with it!"
Wyndham, though he did not appreciate the man's grip on his collar, wasenjoying the joke. He could see what had happened. The man had mistakenhim for "that Garside fellow" down the well.
"I would like to oblige you, but I really don't know what you're talkingabout. I haven't any paper."
By this time the second man had arrived on the scene. His sharp, ferretyeyes, which--like the eyes of a cat--seemed capable of seeing in thedarkness, immediately went to Wyndham's face.
"Hi, Brockman! Hi! What are you doing? You have got hold of the wrongboy!"
"The wrong boy!" exclaimed the man addressed as Brockman. "Are yousure?"
"Certain! Where are your eyes?"
"They're not quite so sharp as yours, Mr. Zuker, I know; but I made sureI'd tracked the youngster here."
Paul could hear distinctly every word that passed from his uncomfortablepos
ition down the well. As the name Zuker fell upon his ears he trembledso that he nearly over-balanced himself and fell into the water below.It was not with fear. Zuker! That name was one he was never likely toforget so long as memory lasted. It was the name of the man for whom hispoor father had sacrificed his life!
Could it be the same? It was not a common name, and though the man spokeEnglish readily, it was with a German accent. Instinctively Paul feltthat it was the same, instinctively he felt that the man who had been inpursuit of him was the man whom his father had tried to save from thesea so long ago. As a recompense for what the father had done he washunting down the son!
"Thank you; it's very kind of you," said Wyndham, as Brockman releasedhis hold. "Seems to me you're a little too hasty with your hands! Thenext time you take any one by the collar you'd better make sure firstthat you're going for the right one!"
Brockman turned away without deigning to reply. Zuker was about tofollow his example, but, suddenly checking himself, he asked:
"Have you seen any one pass this way--a boy about your size--no, notquite so tall," as the sharp eyes took note of Wyndham's height.
"About my own size--not quite so tall? Let me see." Wyndham paused asthough trying to remember.
"Make haste!" cried Zuker impatiently. "We haven't any time to lose.Surely you can remember."
"I'm trying to. You see, there are a good number of boys pass along thisroad during the day."
"I'm not speaking about the daytime--within the last quarter of anhour!"
"A quarter of an hour. Let me think."
"You'll get nothing from that blockhead, sir!" cried Brockman. "We'relosing valuable time!"
Zuker had drawn near the well. His hand rested upon the handle. Wyndhamwas a cool boy, whom it took a great deal to disturb, but it must beconfessed that he required all his coolness and self-possession at thatmoment. He was fearful lest Zuker might catch a glimpse of Paul down thewell. But, fortunately, he was too intent on questioning Wyndham. So,after asking him one or two more questions, he said cuttingly:
"You're a sharp youth. You will set the Thames on fire some day--ugh!"
He looked for the moment as though he would spurn Wyndham with his foot;but instead of doing so he gave a vicious twist to the well-handle--tothe no small alarm of Wyndham--and hastened after his tool and servant,Brockman.
Wyndham leapt to the windlass. The twist given by the German had set thebucket in motion. Paul was rapidly descending in the bucket to thebottom! He seized the handle in his hand and held on to it with all hisstrength. It vibrated as though it were a live thing. He feared that thesudden strain upon the chain might snap it in twain, but it held firm.
"Hi, hi!" he cried below. "Are you all right?"
A moment of intense silence--a moment which seemed interminable to theboy clinging to the handle of the windlass; then, to his great relief,the voice of Paul came faintly up the well:
"All right! But--but it's been a near thing!"
"Hold tight. I'm going to haul you up!"
Slowly he hauled Paul to the top of the well; and, with aninexpressible feeling of thankfulness, Paul stepped from the bucket.
"Have they gone?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes. A near thing, you said; what happened?"
"You just stopped me within about a foot of the water, and the suddenjerk nearly pitched me out of the bucket. The scoundrels have gone, yousay?"
"Yes," smiled Wyndham; "they've gone in hot pursuit of you. They littledreamt you were down that well! You couldn't have had a betterhiding-place."
"Better! Well, perhaps you're right; but it was a bit musty anduncomfortable! I'm much obliged to you, all the same. You seem a decentfellow, though you are a Beetle!"
Beetle was the nickname given by the Garside boys to the boys of St.Bede's.
Wyndham laughed. Paul glanced round the melancholy, deserted ruin. Hecould see no sign of human habitation.
"And you seem a decent fellow, though you are a Gargoyle." (Gargoyle wasthe nickname given by the St. Bede boys to the boys of Garside School.)"What's your name?"
"Paul Percival. I have often seen you amongst the other Beetles; but youdon't live about here, do you?"
"Not now." And there was a deep note of melancholy in Wyndham's voice."You can see, it's a ruin; but before it was a ruin I lived here with mymother and youngest brother, Archie. He's gone--now."
"Gone?"
Wyndham nodded, and Paul understood too well what "gone" meant.Wyndham's brother was dead; but he wondered what his death could have todo with the ruined house. There was a painful silence between them forsome moments.
"I think you said you were going to Redmead?"
"Yes; Oakville, that's the house I want."
"I know it. Mr. Moncrief lives there. He's a big man at ChathamDockyard, and has a lot to do with the defences of the Medway and theThames, so I've heard. He designs things, too, for the Admiralty. I'mgoing partly that way if you don't mind walking with a Beetle."
Paul laughed, and remarked that he could put up for once with a Beetleif the Beetle could put up with a Gargoyle.
So they started together, and Wyndham told Paul by the way the reason ofthe ruined house.
His father and mother had taken the house soon after they were married.He, Gilbert, was born there; so was his younger brother Archie. Threeyears after the birth of Archie, God visited upon them a greatmisfortune by calling to Himself Mr. Wyndham. Gilbert had by this timestarted on his school career, for he was several years older than hisbrother. The second misfortune occurred while he was away at school,three years after the death of his father.
Little Archie was the idol of his mother, and a great pet with oldMartha, the housekeeper, who had been in the household ever since themarriage of Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham. Early one morning Mrs. Wyndham awokewith a feeling of suffocation. On looking, half dazed, around thebedroom, she found it full of smoke. Her first thought was of Archie.She made her way to his bed. It was empty! She went to the landing; thatwas full of smoke also. She called for her boy. No answer came. Thebewildered mother imagined that he must have escaped from the burninghouse while she slept.
By God's providence she got out. She found that the two servants hadmanaged to escape from the burning house; but there were no signs oflittle Archie! The distracted mother would have entered the burninghouse again to search for him, but she was held back. It was a mercifulthing that she became unconscious, and did not see the end of thehomestead where she had spent so many happy, peaceful hours. It wasburnt almost to the ground, and amongst the ruins in the kitchen werefound the charred remains of Archie.
The little fellow was fond of watching old Martha when she lit thefires. It was believed, therefore, that he had stolen out of bed thatfatal morning and tried to light the fire in the kitchen on his ownaccount. The lighted match set fire to his bedgown, the bedgown to somecurtains, and so the fire had spread. Archie joined his father inheaven.
"I was away at school at the time," said Wyndham, when he had finishedhis painful story. "You can judge what a homecoming that was for me!"
"It must indeed have been sad," said Paul feelingly.
"My mother was ill for a long time, but at length she got well again. Iwas the only one left to her. After that we lived in a house about amile from here. The ruins of the old house still remain, as you haveseen. Some day my mother may build again, but she hasn't the heart forit at present."
The story of little Archie Wyndham is perfectly true. It is not fiction.It happened precisely in the way I have described. I know the terriblefascination that fire has for children. Unfortunately they do notunderstand its danger. When, therefore, my dear boy or girl, you aretempted to play with fire, will you remember the sad fate of littleArchie Wyndham? That will enable you, by God's help, to put thetemptation from you.
All at once Paul came to a dead stop. His hand went to his coat-pocket.Absorbed in Wyndham's story, he had forgotten all about the letter hewas to take to Mr. Walter Moncrief.
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sp; "What's the matter?" asked Wyndham.
Paul's face had turned to an ashen hue. His hand was still searching hispocket.
"The letter!" he exclaimed.
"The letter--well, what about it?"
"It's gone!"
"Gone!" echoed Wyndham scarce able to believe his ears.
The Hero of Garside School Page 4