by W E Johns
The Sergeant’s first words implied that he did not recognise Biggles as the cause of his discomfiture. Nor did he by any gesture indicate that he regarded him as an enemy. “Hello, sonny,” he said cheerfully. “Did you see a runaway horse down the road?”
Biggles levelled his rifle. “Hands up!” he said smartly, “Quick, or you’re a dead man!”
The Colour Sergeant looked surprised. “Oh, I am, am I?”
“Yes, you are.”
“Who says so?”
“I say so.”
The sergeant’s answer was to make a rush at him. But Biggles, now an expert in the art of dodging, slipped under his arms and ran on up the road. When he had reached a safe distance he turned and shouted: “Why don’t you play the game? You’ve been killed twice over!”
The sergeant ignored the taunt. “Have you seen the convoy?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s in a barn about two miles down the road.”
“Who put it there?”
“I did,” boasted Biggles, pulling up his jersey to show the flag.
The sergeant swore horribly, shaking his fist.
“You’re a rotten cad,” was Biggles’ final jibe, as he went on.
It was nearly half an hour later before he came upon any signs of military activity, and then there was plenty. All the troops engaged in the operation, including the O.T.C., were standing at ease in a field beside the road. The officers were together, talking. A little to one side were the umpires, dismounted, with soldiers holding their horses. The Head, and the two colonels commanding the Volunteers, were with them. The General was striking his leg with his riding crop.
Biggles joined his unit. No one took any notice of him, which was rather disappointing, because he had expected a different reception. After all, had he not, almost single-handed, captured the convoy? Perhaps they were unaware of that, he thought. He found Smith, sitting holding his ear, and trying to strike a cheerful note, inquired: “How did you get on?”
Smith regarded him with disfavour. “How do you think?” he growled.
“What happened?”
“I said ‘hands up’ but he didn’t stop. When I said ‘you’re a dead man’ he snarled like a wild beast and fetched me a clip that knocked me backwards. Look at my ear.” Smith removed the hand to reveal a swollen ear the colour of a tomato.
“I told him he was a cad,” said Biggles consolingly. “That’s the trouble,” he went on. “Some people won’t play the game.”
“I heard bugles blowing so I came back here,” concluded Smith.
Biggles looked around. “What’s going on, exactly?” he asked.
A boy sitting near answered. “Something’s happened to the convoy. They say the exercise can’t go on without it.”
Biggles realised then that what he suspected was true. No one had noticed his exploit. That was why there had been no congratulations. Clearly, it was time the Head knew about it, so that he could claim the honour for his regiment. He walked over to where the Head was still talking to the umpires and saluted with military precision.
The Head glanced round, looking not at all pleased by the interruption. “Yes, boy, what is it?” asked crisply.
“I thought you might like to know, sir, that I captured the convoy,” answered Biggles.
The Head spun round. “You—what?” he inquired, in a queer, strained sort of voice.
It seemed to Biggles that the Head had not fully grasped the fact. “With the help of Smith tertius I captured the convoy, sir,” he repeated.
There was an embarrassing silence, and for the first time Biggles had an uneasy suspicion that something had gone wrong.
“And who told you to capture the convoy?” inquired the Head coldly.
Biggles looked surprised. “Told me, sir? I thought that was the idea. You said a good soldier used his initiative and that—”
“Silence, boy!” The Head seemed to have difficulty in speaking. “Where have you put it?”
“My initiative, sir?”
“No, you little ass. The convoy. Don’t you realise that without the convoy we can’t go on?”
Biggles was cut to the quick. This was the thanks he got for doing what he was told to do. All that he had suspected of soldiering was now confirmed.
“Where is the convoy now?” demanded the Head sternly.
“I put it in a barn, sir, about three miles down the road.”
“Three miles!”
“I brought the enemy standard with me, sir,” said Biggles, producing the orange flag and dropping it at the Head’s feet. “Smith tertius helped me to get it and was wounded in the action,” he added.
The Head looked at the crumpled flag. Then he turned to the umpires. “I’m very sorry, gentlemen,” he said apologetically, “but there’s nothing more I can say.”
“Well, that puts an end to the exercise,” remarked one of the umpires. “By the time we can get the convoy back it will be getting dark.” He looked at Biggles. “Where is the sergeant in charge of the convoy?”
“He’s dead, sir,” reported Biggles. “ Smith tertius shot him at point blank range. But he wouldn’t play the game. After he was dead he struck Smith on the ear.”
The General, who had half turned away, blew his nose loudly.
“Why did the sergeant leave the convoy at all?” inquired another umpire.
“We employed a ruse to persuade him to dismount, sir.”
The General spoke. “All right, Colonel Chase. We’ll call the operation off. You can march your men off, but I’ll have a word with you before you go.”
The Head turned to Biggles and barked, “Dismiss!”
Biggles saluted stiffly and marched off.
The General watched him go. “That boy should go far, Chase, unless he gets killed early in his career, as seems probable. What’s his name?”
“Bigglesworth, sir.”
“Any relation of Brigadier General Bigglesworth?”
“Nephew, sir.”
The General s eyes twinkled. “Ah! That probably accounts for it.”
As Biggles rejoined his company it became clear that word of his exploit had leaked out. But there was still no congratulations. As he passed across the front of one of the Volunteer companies, someone said: “That’s the kid who spoilt the bloomin’ outing.”
Biggles held his chin high and did not deign to reply.
The march home was a sombre affair. The school marching song was struck up, but Biggles’ lips remained closed. He was thinking, and his thoughts were bitter. He was quite sure now that he was not cut out to be a soldier.
The Head did not refer to the matter again; but at the next lecture, when he mentioned initiative, he observed—looking at Biggles—that it should always be used with discretion.
CHAPTER 6
ALL THE FUN OF THE FAIR
THERE was also an unfortunate affair about this time which, while somewhat disreputable, had a certain educational value, although it is unlikely that Biggles considered it from that angle. His brain was now as flexible as it would ever be; it absorbed knowledge easily, and on it all natural emotions made an impact that were bound to have a lasting effect. Of these, indignation was one, and in this respect the Fair taught him a lesson that he never forgot. Up to this time he had assumed that all men were reasonably honest, for he had no experience to the contrary. The folly of such an ingenuous belief was now revealed.
The fair was, in actual fact, a rather squalid company of gipsies that travelled from town to town and once a year made a three-day stay at Hertbury. While it was there it made the night hideous with noise, and when it departed it left a trail of petty theft and a litter of waste paper that took weeks to clear up. The fair also took with it all the copper coins of the district, to the annoyance of the local tradesmen, who for weeks afterwards were hard put to find small change. For these reasons the Town Council had more than once tried to put a stop to this undesirable visit
ation, but had failed on the grounds that it was an old-established privilege.
It was always held on the same field, namely, a three-acre area of waste land known as the Sheep Pens. No doubt there had been sheep pens there at one time, but of these no trace remained. The wood, so old men averred, had been used by the gipsies to light their fires.
The fair announced its coming some time before it actually arrived by a blight of flamboyant posters which appeared overnight on gateposts, trees, fences, and even dwelling houses—on everything, in fact, on which one could be stuck. These remained for months afterwards to disfigure the landscape, until the weather peeled them off. When new they were very bright, and made the ambitious claim of representing the Most Stupendous Show on Earth. Below, they went on to describe the exhibits in term that bore little relation of reality.
However, to the youth of Hertbury and the surrounding villages the fair was an event of importance. The boys at Malton Hall School regarded it in the same light, and money was saved in order to be squandered recklessly in one magnificent orgy.
Biggles knew all about the fair coming, of course, but he was not particularly impressed. For one thing the posters strained his credulity to beyond reasonable limits. Again, he disliked crowds at any time. When accompanied by the blare of machine-made music he disliked them even more; for which reason, when the fair arrived, he announced to Smith his intention of keeping as far away from it as possible. This not only surprised Smith, but grieved him very much, because he was one of the most ardent supporters of the festival.
True to his word, Biggles remained at school for the first two days, but on the third he succumbed to Smith’s pleading and allowed himself to be persuaded. He didn’t really want to go, and put forward every excuse he could think of, the chief of which was finance. “I’ve only got three and six to last me till the end of the term,” he expostulated.
“You needn’t spend any money,” argued Smith. “Not a penny. There are all sorts of things besides the swings and roundabouts.”
“What sort of things?” inquired Biggles.
“There’s a sword swallower. He’s jolly good. He eats fire, too. You don’t have to pay.”
Biggles was frankly sceptical. “You don’t mean to tell me he eats swords because he likes them?”
“Well, not exactly,” admitted Smith. “At the end a chap comes round with a cap, but there’s no need for you to stay. When the collection starts I move on.”
“Isn’t that a bit shabby?” queried Biggles dubiously.
“Not at all. After all, I don’t ask him to perform,” countered Smith. “He has to have an audience, so it might be said that I actually help him. But I really prefer the stalls where it’s possible to make money.”
Biggles looked interested. “How?”
“There’s a boxer. He stands on a platform and invites anyone to knock him down. If you can he gives you ten shillings.”
“And what if you can’t?”
“You lose your shilling.”
“What shilling?”
“The shilling you pay to have a try, of course. You didn’t think he did it for fun, did you?”
“No,” answered Biggles. “Have you seen anyone knock this chap down?”
“Not yet,” admitted Smith. “But it’s fun watching people try.”
“Have you tried?”
“Me? No jolly fear!”
“You’re not suggesting that I try, I hope?”
Smith changed the subject. “There are places where you can make money without getting hurt.”
“That sounds better,” answered Biggles.
“Have you made any money?”
“Well—er—no. That is, not yet. I probably shall to-night, though.”
“How?”
“How? They offer prizes for almost everything.”
“But you haven’t won anything?”
“I did. I won a goldfish in a bowl.”
“Where is it?”
“A chap knocked it out of my hand and broke it. When I was looking for the fish somebody trod on it.”
“I don’t want any goldfish,” stated Biggles.
“There’s a jolly good game if you can throw.”
“Throw what?”
“Balls.”
“What at?”
“Well, for instance, there’s a row of faces cut out of iron or something. Their mouths are wide open showing their teeth. They have five teeth. You pay a penny for three balls. If you can knock down four teeth in the same face you get a prize, usually an ornament. You can choose what you like from the stall. If you can knock down five teeth you get half a crown, it’s a fact. The half-crown is there for you to see, on a piece of velvet. A good shot might easily make a lot of money.”
“Have you seen anybody win the half-crown?”
“Not quite,” Smith was forced to admit. “But that’s only because people are such rotten shots. I’ve seen plenty of people knock down four teeth and get a vase.”
“All right,” decided Biggles. “I’ll come.”
It was Smith’s last temptation that had won him over, for while he did not say so he knew he was a good thrower. Even when he was quite small he seemed to have a natural aptitude for throwing straight, and constant practice with stones at the scavenging crows near his home, chiefly to amuse the native boys, had made him exceptionally proficient.
The fair, when they reached it that evening, was in full swing, and while it was even more crowded and noisier than Biggles expected, he entered into the spirit of the thing. Naphtha flares hissed and spluttered everywhere, casting a lurid light on a throng of people who, with boisterous shouts, struck at each other with paper whips, pelted each other with confetti, or squirted water from lead tubes. Above the human din rose the blare of mechanical music, the clanging of bells and the crack of shots at the rifle ranges, where coloured celluloid balls dancing on jets of water formed the target. Here, Biggles was sorry to find, there were no prizes, so he did not waste his pence.
For a time they watched the fire-eater eating fire, and the boxer trying to persuade people in the crowd to knock him down. After that they moved along the line of stalls, from one of which a very fat woman in a star-spangled shawl invited Biggles to have his fortune told. He declined, with thanks. The noise, the crowd, and the smells were now such that he would have gone home; and presently he was to wish that he had followed that inclination; but Smith would not hear of it. Holding Biggles by the arm he dragged him to the stand of the grinning faces, where for simply knocking down five teeth one could pick up half a crown. It seemed that Smith had spoken the truth, for there, surrounded by cheap glasses and crockery, on a piece of dirty velvet, lay the shining silver coin. There were a fair number of spectators watching a fair number of triers; but the half-crown remained on its throne.
On Biggles pushing his way to the front, the owner of the stand, a swarthy, coarse-looking fellow with black curly hair and gold ear-rings, invited him to have a go, holding out three balls encouragingly. “All the fun of the fair!” he bawled. “Four teeth and you pick where you like! Five teeth gets the silver half-dollar!”
Biggles handed over his penny, and in exchange received three wooden balls.
“Stand back and give the kid a chance!” shouted the proprietor.
Biggles put two balls through a leering mouth and knocked down four teeth, which the showman was able to pull up again by a cord, ready for the next man.
“Hard luck, sonny!” cried the showman. “Pick a vase, any one you like.”
Biggles selected a crude ornament of silvered glass on which had been daubed some flowers of a species unknown to horticulture. He gave it to Smith to hold and proffered another penny for three more balls.
“Knock ‘em down, kid, knock ‘em down—you’re a sport!” sang the showman.
Again Biggles got four teeth, but there was something queer about the effort that brought a slight frown to his forehead. Once more two of the balls had gone into the gaping
mouth. The first shot was a miss, and the ball bounced back with a clang from the iron face. The second ball knocked down three teeth. The third struck fair and square between the two remaining teeth, knocking them back; but while one fell, the other in some strange way seemed to recover. Anyhow, it was still there.
“Tough luck again, kid!” shouted the showman, with rather less enthusiasm than before.
Through half-closed eyes he had another look at Biggles as he shouted, “Pick where you like!”
Biggles selected another ornament and added it to Smith’s collection. The showman was no longer looking at him, and he had to touch him on the arm to get three more balls, which the man seemed to hand over with some reluctance.
There was now a fairly big crowd, a number of new spectators having been attracted apparently by Biggles’ markmanship.
Smash went Biggles’ first ball into the white teeth, and down went two of them.
Smash went the second, and down went two more.
Smack went the third against the remaining tooth, and over it went.
Biggles turned to Smith with a yell of triumph. “Got it!” he cried, and reached for the half crown.
“Just a minute, sonny!” shouted the showman, pulling his cord sharply. “Only four. Take a vase. Pick where you like!”
Slightly bewildered Biggles looked up and stared at the mouth in which five teeth were again showing ready for the next customer. A wave of indignation surged through him, for now he saw through the trick.
“I got five!” he cried shrilly.
“No you didn’t, you got four,” said the man harshly, and looked away. “Roll up! Roll up! Three balls a penny! Four teeth and you pick where you like!”
Biggles nearly choked. “I tell you I got five!” he cried, and turned to the spectators for support. “I got five, didn’t I?”