by W E Johns
“Yes, he got five,” answered someone. “Give the kid his money!” shouted a voice at the back.
The showman ignored the request. “Roll up! Roll up! Who’s next!” he bellowed.
But Biggles was not to be denied. His blood was boiling, as the saying is. “I got five and you know it!” he yelled, pushing away two or three rough looking louts who had begun to jostle him.
A voice in the crowd cried “Shame!”
The showman took no notice.
Tears of exasperation came to Biggles’ eyes when he saw how he had been beaten by the trickster.
A man now pushed his way to the front. It was, Biggles saw with dismay, none other than Colour Sergeant Buckle of the convoy, who certainly had no reason to take up his cause. His rosette still fluttered in his cap and tucked under his arm was a little swagger cane. The points of his moustache stuck out like bodkins, giving him such a fierce appearance that Biggles was glad the soldier was looking at the showman, not at him.
The sergeant’s first words left no doubt as to where his sympathies lay. Pointing an accusing finger at the showman, he said tersely: “Give him the dough! He won it. I was watching.”
The showman had to answer. “I tell you he only got four,” he blustered.
The sergeant’s moustache seemed to quiver. “And I tell you you’re a liar!” he rapped out, with cold steel in his voice. “Don’t argue the toss with me, you dirty skrimshanker! Give the kid his dough!”
If looks could slay the sergeant’s career would have ended on the spot. But the showman, after a quick glance at the crowd, which was beginning to show signs of hostility, changed his tune. “All right, if you say so,” he muttered, and picking up the half-crown, fairly threw it at Biggles, who caught it, put it in his pocket, and would have retired had not the press of spectators prevented it.
There the matter should have ended. But at this juncture a voice said loudly: “Make way for the Lancers!” And there appeared in front of the stand, with a jangle of spurs, two tall figures in blue tunics and striped trousers. On their heads, pillbox hats were held at a seemingly impossible angle by shiny black chinstraps. Under his arm each carried a walking-out riding switch. Their chins were held high, and their chests, showing several medal ribbons, stuck out in a manner that did not seem quite natural.
Looking at them, Biggles formed the opinion that they were slightly inebriated, a view to which their subsequent behaviour lent support. Which is not to say they were drunk, or anything like it. They were, let us say, in that carefree mood when they could be swayed easily to either mirth or anger.
Said one of them, casually: “What’s the trouble, Colour Sergeant? Want any help?”
The sergeant explained. With a contemptuous toss of his head towards the showman he remarked: “That cheap chiseller tried to do this kid out of his dough. He won the half-dollar fair enough. I saw him with my own eyes.”
The Lancer looked surprised. “You don’t say?”
“Didn’t want to give him the dough,” repeated the sergeant, in a voice heavy with disgust.
“He didn’t?”
“No, he didn’t. Wouldn’t give it to him.”
“He wouldn’t?”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
The Lancer looked at his companion. “Did you hear that, Bill? Wouldn’t give the kid his dough?”
“He wouldn’t?”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
The second Lancer drew deeply at his cigarette. “Well, fancy that now,” he murmured.
“Tried to make out the kid had only knocked down four teeth.”
“You don’t say?”
“That’s what the Colour Sergeant says. He says the show’s crooked—crooked as a dog’s hind leg. That’s what he says.”
“Must be right then, Joe,” rejoined the second soldier thoughtfully.
“Tried to cheat the kid out of half a dollar.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Well, I never!”
The showman now made a foolish mistake. No doubt he was angry, but anger is no excuse for folly—at least, not where the army is concerned. Glaring at the Lancers he snarled: “You mind your own business!”
The two soldiers looked steadfastly into each other’s eyes. “Did you hear that, Bill?” said Joe in a curious voice.
“Was he talking to us?” queried the other.
“Must have been. He was looking at us.” The speaker turned slowly to the showman. “Was you talking to us, may I ask?” he inquired in a voice so polite that the showman should have been warned.
“Yes, I was talking to you,” snapped the showman venomously.
“And may I ask what you think you’re a’talking to?” inquired the soldier smoothly.
“I ain’t no good at natural history,” sneered the showman.
It took a moment for this jibe to sink in. When it did, and the soldier spoke again, his voice had taken on an almost dulcet tone. “Oh! So you ain’t, ain’t you?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“And p’raps you wouldn’t know what uniform this is you’re insulting?”
“I don’t and I don’t want,” rasped the showman.
The soldier fingered one of the buttons of his tunic —a silver button embossed with the grim emblem of a Skull and Crossbones. “Never heard of the Death or Glory Boys, maybe?” he inquired, almost dreamily.
“No, but I’ve heard of red herrings,” scoffed the showman.
The soldier turned to his companion. “Did you hear that, Bill?” he asked in a shocked voice. “Never heard of the Death or Glory Boys.”
Bill dropped his cigarette and put his foot on it. “Time he did,” he suggested.
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
The showman now chose to ignore the soldiers. Facing the crowd he shouted: “Roll up! Roll up! All the fun of the fair!”
“ Oh well,” said Joe, “if it’s only fun you want, that’s easy.” Very carefully he selected a large vase. He tossed it into the air as if to test it for balance, caught it deftly, and then sent it smashing into the middle of the display. “How about that for a bit of fun?” he inquired blandly.
A shout went up from the crowd. “That’s the way to learn ‘em, Tommy!” yelled a voice.
Now the showman, seeing the temper of the crowd, should have kept himself under control. Had he treated the thing as a joke all might still have been well. Instead of which he lost his head, and tried to strike the soldier, Bill.
Bill, with an ease that thrilled Biggles with admiration, side-stepped, and with a terrific right hook knocked the showman backwards into the middle of his china shop.
The crowd roared its delight at this unexpected entertainment.
There seems to be something in the sound of breaking glass and china that makes people temporarily insane. Thus was it now. A coconut came sailing over the heads of the crowd to land with another crash in the display. That seemed to be all the crowd was waiting for, and missiles began to fly. The showman, trying to get up, stumbled and fell again in the middle of his wares. Pandemonium broke loose.
By this time, it need hardly be said, Biggles’ one idea was to get clear. This appeared to be impossible. He and Smith, and others in the front rank, were pushed forward into the stand, and were, in fact, in some danger of being trampled to death. Keeping his feet with difficulty, Biggles scrambled across the stand, pulling Smith with him, to the open space behind it. Glancing round, he saw P.C. Grimble waving his arms and shouting in a futile attempt to restore order. He might as well have tried to stem a stampeding herd of buffaloes. He, too, was knocked down, for by this time it looked as if everyone at the fair had converged on the spot to see what all the noise was about. The posts that held up the awning over the show gave way before the pressure, and the canvas came down, burying the boys under it. Biggles cut a hole through it with his penknife, crawled through, and helped Smith. No word was spoken. None was necessary, for both minds were now act
uated by a single thought, which was to get back to school and safety. They started to run, but Biggles caught his foot in a guy rope and took a header into the stomach of a man who was coming the other way. “Sorry,” he gasped, scrambling to his feet, and would have gone on; but a hand grabbed his arm and held him. Looking up he saw that it was Mr. Bruce.
“What are you doing?” asked Mr. Bruce curtly, looking at the vases Smith still clutched.
“Nothing, sir,” answered Biggles. “We were on our way back to school.”
Mr. Bruce pointed at the vases. “Have you been looting?”
“No, sir,” replied Biggles. “We won them—didn’t we, Smith?”
“Yes, we won them,” murmured Smith weakly.
“Had you anything to do with starting this riot?”
“We were there, sir, but that’s all,” asserted Biggles.
“Very well. Go back to school at once.”
The boys obeyed the order willingly. “Have you still got the half-crown?” asked Smith anxiously as they ran.
“You bet I have,” answered Biggles.
“I told you it was easy to make money.”
“I wouldn’t call it easy,” panted Biggles.
P.C. Grimble came to the school the following day to make some inquiries, as he said. He had learned, apparently, that some boys from the school were involved in the riot. After he had gone Biggles, was called to the Head’s study. He encountered Mr. Bruce just leaving, so when he went in he was prepared for the worst.
“What is all this I hear about you starting a fight at the fair last night, Bigglesworth?” inquired the Head.
“I didn’t start it, sir,” protested Biggles.
“Who did?”
Biggles told the Head exactly what had happened, and the Head, with twinkling eyes, accepted his version of the affair. Biggles suspected that it was the part the soldiers had played, rather than anything he had done, that was chiefly responsible for this benevolent attitude.
“I think it’s best to keep away from these affairs, don’t you?” inquired the Head at the finish.
Biggles agreed.
“The moral is,” concluded the Head, “you can always rely on the army to do the right thing.”
“Absolutely, sir,” declared Biggles. And he meant it. At that moment he was in complete accord with that particular sentiment.
CHAPTER 7
“ONE GOOD TURN...”
To Biggles, one of the most pleasant occurrences of this period of his career was the strange adventure that began in the garden of a house named “The Garth.” It did not begin at all well, but at the finish it enabled him to pay a debt of gratitude. And there is, he found, no occasion more satisfying than that in which kindness can be repaid in actions rather than words.
Nothing could have been more simple, or innocent, than the way it started. He was out for a stroll with Smith, with no particular object in view, when they saw Hervey and Brickwell in the distance, coming towards them. As they themselves had not yet been seen, they decided, on the principle of discretion being the better part of valour, to avoid a clash by keeping out of sight until the boys had gone past.
They were at this time walking along the boundary hedge of a big, red brick house, built in Victorian style, that stood in its own grounds some distance back from the road. This hedge was not the front hedge of the property. On the main road, the house and gardens were protected by a high brick wall behind which Biggles had never seen. But up one side of the estate there was a lane, bounded on the house side by a thick laurel hedge, and on the other by a thorn hedge beyond which there was an open field.
The thorn hedge was obviously an obstacle not to be tackled without discomfort and the risk of torn clothes. In any case, the field beyond offered no cover of any sort. Wherefore Biggles and Smith, without even discussing the matter, chose the laurel hedge as a haven of refuge.
It turned out that this hedge was not such a formidable barrier as might have been supposed by looking at it from the outside. The absence of thorns made it an easy matter to push a way well into it ; and Biggles, prompted perhaps by curiosity, did in fact force a way to the far side of it. Smith, accepting his leadership as usual, remained with him.
Biggles now found himself gazing with some trepidation into what had at one time been part of the gardens of the house, but might now be best described as a jungle. There were some fairly large trees, natural rather than ornamental, under which flourished a riot of weeds and overgrown gooseberry bushes. Biggles was not particularly interested in this beyond the fact that he was looking at something that he had never seen before. His sensations were chiefly apprehensive, because he knew that they were trespassing, and he merely hoped that no one would come out of the house, which he could see about fifty yards away. There was no need for him to warn Smith to sit still, because, if for no other reason, Hervey and Brickwell could now be heard on the far side of the hedge.
Sitting quietly gazing at the scene Biggles saw a jackdaw pitch on the dead limb of a tree about twenty feet or so above his head. The branch looked fairly strong, about six inches in diameter, and was broken off short. The bird walked along the branch and disappeared in the end, making it apparent that the limb was hollow. It was soon out again, and with its usual call of jock-jock flew away and disappeared.
A minute passed. Smith rose slowly to his feet and stood listening. “It’s all right, they’ve gone,” he said, referring of course to Hervey and Brickwell.
Biggles was still gazing at the hollow branch. “Did you see that jackdaw go in there?” he asked.
“You bet I did,” answered Smith. “I’d say it’s had a nest there. We’ll remember it next bird’s-nesting season. It looks easy to get to.”
“Did you notice something in its beak?” inquired Biggles.
“Yes. I thought it was a bit of silver paper,” opined Smith. “Jackdaws are always picking up things, particularly shiny things, so I’ve heard.”
“Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t silver paper,” averred Biggles, getting up. “Silver paper shines, but this thing seemed to sparkle.”
“Bit of glass perhaps,” suggested Smith, disinterestedly.
“Could have been,” replied Biggles.
With that the subject was dismissed. Nor was it referred to again. The boys got back through the hedge, ascertained that the coast was clear, and continued their walk.
Some days later—it was Sunday afternoon—Biggles suggested that they should for their afternoon stroll go as far as the cave. There might still be some apples lying about, and if they were lucky they might get a cup of tea and a slice of cake from Mrs. Grant. They went, and had the good fortune to see Mrs. Grant at her back door shaking out the dinner cloth. She gave them what Biggles thought was a rather sickly smile, quite different from her usual cheerful greeting. Moreover, her eyes were red, as if she had been crying.
Biggles raised his cap, and feeling somewhat embarrassed, nearly passed on without speaking. Then curiosity got the better of him and he half turned. “You don’t look very well to-day, Mrs. Grant,” he remarked, with the candour of youth. “Is anything the matter?”
Mrs. Grant nodded, trying to smile through tears. “I’m in great trouble,” she said.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” answered Biggles, with genuine concern. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” replied Mrs. Grant. “Of course, you know what’s happened, don’t you?”
Biggles didn’t know, and he said so. He spoke the literal truth when he said he hadn’t the remotest idea.
“But surely you’ve heard about my young sister?” said Mrs. Grant.
“No. I didn’t even know you had a sister,” returned Biggles.
“She’s been locked up.”
“Locked up! Do you mean by the police?”
Mrs. Grant nodded.
“What for?”
“Stealing.”
“What did she steal?”
Mrs. Gra
nt drew herself up. “She didn’t steal anything. We’re not that sort of family.”
“Well, what do they say she’s stolen?”
“A diamond ring. I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Where was the ring?”
“At the house where she worked as a parlourmaid.”
“That’s pretty awful, particularly if she didn’t do it,” observed Biggles, not knowing what else to say. It was really because Mrs. Grant did not speak again that he went on, trying to be sympathetic. “Where did your sister work, Mrs. Grant?”
“At ‘The Garth.’ Major Travers’ house.”
“Oh,” said Biggles, and turned away. Then he stopped dead. “Did you say The Garth?”
“ Yes, you know, the big house at the corner of Clifton’s Lane.”
Biggles stared at the woman in front of him. But he did not see her. He was looking at a picture that had flashed into his mind’s eye—the picture of a black bird hopping along a branch. For a moment or two he hesitated, wondering if he should tell Mrs. Grant what he was thinking. He decided not to, because he thought it would be cruel to raise a hope that might come to nothing. “Tell me about the robbery,” he requested in a curious voice. “How did it happen?”
“It was just bad luck that Vera—that’s my sister —was alone in the house,” asserted Mrs. Grant. “Major and Mrs. Travers had gone out. The other girls were out, too. In the evening, when Mrs. Travers went upstairs to her bedroom to get ready for dinner, she missed her diamond ring. She says she left it on the dressing-table. The Major fetched the police. They asked Vera where the ring was. Vera said she didn’t know anything about it. But because no one else had been in the house the police said Vera must have taken it.”
“But a burglar could have taken it!” declared Biggles.
“The police say no, because a burglar would have taken everything in the jewel case as well. You see, there were other jewels besides the ring. Now they’ve taken Vera into custody and are trying to make her confess.” Mrs. Grant’s voice broke off into renewed sobs.
Biggles was really upset. “ Please don’t cry, Mrs. Grant,” he pleaded. “They’ll have to prove your sister took the ring before they can send her to prison. The ring may turn up yet.”