"He will," said the sergeant, drily.

"Not he. Never show his face here again."

"No! We will show it for him, poor lad. Ah! it was a very mad thing to do; and, if the truth was known, not the first mad thing Smithson's done."

"Right," said Jerry.

"Look here, Jerry Brigley, you haven't been a soldier long enough to know how sharp the police are in tracking deserters. It don't take very long to send word all over the country that a man—described—has left his regiment."

"I dunno so much about that," said Jerry.

"Well, I do!" replied Brumpton. "Say the police here telegraph to twenty stations round, and each of those twenty stations wire to twenty, and each of those to another twenty, it don't take long, at that rate, to send all over the country. You mark my words: the bobbies won't be long before they put their hands on his shoulder and bring him back."

"Just as if he had stole something!" groaned Jerry.

"So he has," said the sergeant; "a smart, clever young man; and his clothes and all belonging to the Queen."

"But maybe he'll send the toggery back," pleaded Jerry.

"They don't want the clothes; they want the man!"



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

"TOO LATE! TOO LATE!"

It was about ten o'clock that evening, after the officers had left the mess-room, that one of the subalterns sauntered up to Lacey's quarters, where he found the latter waiting for his guests.

"Cigarette?" said Lacey.

"Thanks!" replied the young officer.

"Light?" continued Lacey.

"Thanks!" said the guest; and they two sat smoking in silence, for Lacey's thoughts were upon Dick Smithson, and upon the night of the ball and the gallantry which had saved the lives of both him and his betrothed.

They did not wait long, for, before their cigarettes were finished, Mark Frayne knocked at the door, and was admitted by Jerry, who stood back for him to enter, looking very quiet, and then noting that Mark gave a start, but took no further notice of Draycott's old servant, entering the room, to be frankly welcomed.

Five minutes later a brother-officer of Mark arrived, and before long, at the latter's suggestion, the card-table was sought, and the game went on for a couple of hours in a very quiet, natural way.

Then came an interval for refreshments, and a little chat that was far from lively. After this the play was resumed, with Jerry seated in the outer lobby, thinking over the state of affairs.

"She ought to be told of it, and try to stop him," he said to himself. "He's a baby at cards, and that Mark Frayne fleeces him as hard as ever he can. I wish something would happen."

Then he thought of Richard's disappearance, and of how glad Mark would be when he found that his cousin had gone, unless Dick had gone up to town to consult with some lawyer, who might perhaps put him in the way of regaining his rights.

"How could he have been such a young donkey to do as he did?" muttered Jerry; and then, feeling exceedingly drowsy, he refreshed himself with a cup of strong coffee to make him wakeful.

After about another hour he took in some of the hot coffee, and saw that the last new pack of cards had been opened and the wrapper tossed upon the floor; while the players looked hollow-cheeked and pale, too intent upon their game to care for the refreshment, and impatiently bidding him be off.

"It's a bad complaint that men ketches—that gambling," said Jerry; "and when they've got it, they gives it to others, who have it worse. I've no call to talk, for I've been bad enough. How precious white and seedy young Mark looks! Anyone would think he had been up to some game of his own. Every time I opened the door he give quite a jump in his chair, and, though he laughed it off, he's as nervous as nerves. Wants to win, I s'pose."

Jerry had a good long walk up and down the lobby—that is to say, he walked up and down for a long time—and, feeling that he must rest himself for a while, he slowly subsided into a chair, let his head sink back, turned it sideways so as to arrange it comfortably, and then he opened his eyes directly after—as it seemed to him—to find it was daylight. The candles had burned down very low, and two of his master's guests were standing at his side.

"Let us out, my lad," said the elder of the two; and as soon as he had handed them their hats and coats, and closed the door, he gave his eyes a rub.

"I wonder where S'Richard is?" he thought. "Why, I must have been asleep a good two hours. Has young Mark gone?"

He went softly through the outer room, to find the door of the inner one just ajar, and there, at a table, he could see his master writing.

"Young Mark must have let himself out," muttered Jerry. But he altered his opinion directly, for Lacey turned the paper he had written, folded it, and held it up to someone on the other side of the table and invisible from where the man stood.

"There you are!" said Lacey.

"Really, dear boy, I'm almost ashamed to take it. But, there, I'm only acting as your steward. You'll have to come to my quarters and win it all back. The wheel of fortune goes round, eh?"

"Yes," said Lacey, laconically. "Take anything else?"

"No, really—no thanks!" said Mark. "Good-night—morning, or whatever it is. Can I let myself out?"

"The man is there," said Lacey, coldly.

But Jerry did not remain there, to wait just outside, but made his way quickly back into the lobby, where he stood, ready to hand Mark his large Inverness cloak and hat, and then open the door.

"Looks as if he were going to be hanged," muttered Jerry very sourly, as he stood watching the young officer descend in the grey morning light. "Wonder how much he has won, and whether it makes him feel better? I know one thing: it makes me feel a deal worse, and as if I should like to pitch him over the banisters. I 'ate that chap—that's what's the matter with me—and I'd tell him so to his face as soon as look at him, that I would!"

Jerry closed the door and went across the lobby, hearing the heavy pace of his master as he walked restlessly up and down the room.

"The scoundrel!" Lacey muttered. "He is a scoundrel, and I'm a fool—a pigeon, and he has plucked me. I swear he cheated. He played that very trick I was once warned about. Serve me right! But it's the last time."

He continued his hurried pace, growing sterner and more decisive as he walked.

"A lesson to me!" he muttered. "A dishonourable scoundrel! At Miss Deane's, too! I swear he has been trying to oust me, and the old lady has encouraged him. Anna told me of his words to her. One can't call a man out now; and if I spread it abroad about the cards there'll be no end of a row, and he'd be indignant. No, I won't speak. It's a lesson to me for being such an easy-going fool."

He turned thoughtful now, but was ready to look up sharply as Jerry entered.

"Want me any more 'smornin', sir?"

"No, Brigley, no. You have heard no more news of poor Smithson?"

"No, sir, not a word."

"Strange how I have been thinking of him all the night."

"So have I, sir. I went to sleep, too, out in the lobby, and I've just recollected, sir, I was dreaming all about him and wondering where he'd gone."

"Ah, it's a bad business, Brigley. He ought to have known better. But we all do things we are sorry for sometimes and repent of them afterwards. There, be off to bed."

"Shan't I clear up a bit, sir, first?"

"No: that will do."

Jerry went out of the room and shut the door after him—to stand looking back, as if he expected to be able to see through the panels everything that was going on. His brow was wrinkled up, his nostrils twitched, and his ears moved slightly, for he was listening intently; and a looker-on would have seen that he was intensely excited.

For Jerry was thinking about cases he had read of in the papers, and, being somehow naturally prone to fancy people in trouble likely to make away with themselves by jumping into flooded rivers, he now took up the idea that the lieutenant, after a disastrous night of play, had some reason for desiring to get rid of him.

"There's two double centre-fire breech-loaders in the case," he said to himself, "and there's his revolver and his sword, besides that old hunting-knife in the shark's-skin case—there's every temptation for a young man to do it. Oh, what a world this is! Why, that there Mark Frayne's been the cause of all the trouble, and driven S'Richard away— blow him!—Dick Smithson. I won't think of him by that name. But if I went and did good to everybody by knocking Master Mark on the head, or holding him under water till he was full and wouldn't go any more, they'd try me for it, and then—Never mind: I won't think what. I haven't patience with such laws."

Jerry stood listening, but all was very silent inside, and he grew more uneasy.

"I won't go," he said to himself. "He means something, or he wouldn't have been in such a jolly hurry to get rid of me. Phew! how hot it is turned, and my hands and feet are like ice."

He wiped his damp forehead, and stood gazing at the door, shaking his head mournfully, and with the dread of something wrong on the increase. But all was still, and even that Jerry looked upon as a bad omen.

"I know," he muttered. "He has been and lost all his tin, and he's making his will; and I don't want him to, even if he's going to leave me that horse-shoe pin with diamonds in for nails. Here! I can't stand this—I'll go in!"

Jerry hesitated for a few minutes, and then, unable to control the intense desire to see what was going on, he was about to take hold of the handle of the door, but he paused in doubt, for he had no excuse.

The next minute the excuse had come, and he entered quickly, to find Lacey writing, and ready to look up inquiringly.

"Beg pardon, sir, thought you might be in your bedroom. Didn't happen to see a little pig-skin purse, did you?"

"No!" said the lieutenant, gruffly.

"Sorry to have interrupted you, sir. Don't see it lying about, sir. Thank ye, sir!"

Jerry had a sharp look round, and then he backed out again to close the door after him, and stand hesitating and shaking his head.

"I don't like it," he muttered. "He ought to be tired out and glad to jump into his bed; and here he is writing! He isn't a writing sort of chap! Never hardly puts pen to paper! What's he writing for at a time like this?"

Jerry shook his head very solemnly, and sat down to wait, with all drowsiness gone and a nervous state of irritation steadily on the increase as he sat on for a time that seemed to be interminable, always on the qui vive, and expecting moment by moment to hear something which would give him ample excuse for rushing in.

"And what good will that do?" he argued, as his spirits grew lower and lower. "It'll be too late then, for I ought to be there to stop him. He's half-mad, and if I was there I might prevent it; but he would not have it. He'd tell me I was mad to think of such a thing, and kick me out!"

"Well," he said to himself, after waiting for an interminable time, all worry and indecision, "I've a good mind to risk his being angry; for I'm sure he wants something to eat. I will, before it's too late."

He rose from his seat once more, and was in the act of crossing the lobby, when a piteous cry escaped his lips, for there was a sharp concussion, the windows of the place he was in rattled, and he heard the sound of a heavy fall!

Crying out "Too late! too late!" he dashed at the door, flung it open, and entered.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

DEAD OR ALIVE?

As Jerry rushed into Lacey's room, it was with the full expectation of seeing the master for whom he had begun to feel a warm respect stretched, face downward, upon the carpet; but the place was vacant, and, panting and trembling, he ran on to where the heavy curtain draped the bedroom door, swung it aside, and rushed in—there to see that the lieutenant, in shirt and trousers, had fallen upon the bed, from which he was now evidently writhing and struggling to the floor.

Jerry was a man of resource. He had not been servant and valet to gentlemen for years without picking up a great deal—nursing being one of his accomplishments.

"Badly, perhaps fatally, wounded," he thought, "and immediate aid might be invaluable;" so, with this idea uppermost, he flung himself upon the young officer just as his feet touched the carpet, stooped down, and, by a clever quick motion, seized him round the knees, lifted his legs, and threw him on his back.

"Oh, how could you—how could you?" he cried, as he leant over him, pressing him down with his head on the pillow, and searched him wildly with his eyes, and then with one hand, for the wound.

"Do you hear?" he half-whimpered. "How could you? Oh, Mr Lacey, sir, how could you?"

The young officer's eyes looked fixed and staring, his face was white and drawn, and his mind was evidently confused and wandering. For the first few moments he struggled violently; then he lay back panting with his lips apart, while Jerry went on excitedly searching for the wound, but without success.

Then he turned his eyes to the floor, looking about in all directions for the pistol, then about the bed, which had not been turned down, but without avail; and his eyes sought those of the young man again as he held him, and with one hand felt for the pulsation at the heart.

"What's matter?" said Lacey, thickly.

At that moment Jerry caught sight of a glass on the dressing-table, and he uttered a cry, but felt confused and puzzled directly after; for his common sense told him that, if the lieutenant had tried to poison himself, whatever he had taken would not have gone off with a tremendous bang inside and made the windows rattle.

"What's matter?" said the lieutenant again, in a confused way; "did I— did I—tumble out of bed?"

"No, no. I saved you, sir!" whimpered Jerry, hysterically. "Oh, sir, where is it? What have you done?"

"I d' know," said Lacey, confusedly. Then, with the power to think returning, he seized Jerry's hands, and tried to remove them from his chest. "Here! what are you doing?"

"Doing! doing!" cried Jerry. "Oh, why don't you speak! Can you hold out while I fetch the doctor?"

"Doctor? I d' know?" cried Lacey, staring in a stupefied way at his servant, and then growing angry at being held down. "Here! what's the matter? Have I been taken ill?"

"Ill? It's ten times worse than that, sir. Hold still. Where are you hurt? Where's the pistol?"

"Confound you! Will you leave go?" cried the lieutenant, who grew angry as his senses returned; and, gripping Jerry firmly, he wrenched himself round, made a violent effort, forced his man back, and rose to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

"Mr Lacey, sir, don't!" cried Jerry.

"Oh, won't I!" cried the lieutenant. "What do you mean by it? How dare you, sir? Couldn't you sit up late without getting at my spirit-stand? What is it—brandy?"

"That it ain't, sir! I never touched a drop!" cried Jerry, indignantly. "Don't, sir! You hurt me!"

"Hurt you? Yes, you dog, I mean to! You hurt me pretty well! Why, you're as drunk as a piper!"

"Tell you I ain't, sir!" cried Jerry. "I took four cups o' coffee to keep me awake. That's all. But—but, Mr Lacey, sir, didn't you do it? Didn't you hurt yourself?—didn't—didn't—"

"'Didn't—didn't'—don't stammer and stutter like that! Confound you! What do you mean by dragging me out of bed in this way? You must have been at the spirits!"

"Tell you I haven't!" roared Jerry, indignantly. "It's taking a man's character away, sir!"

"Then what do you mean by seizing me like this?"

"I heard a noise, sir—I thought you'd been losing money all night to Mr Frayne, sir, and that you'd shot yourself, sir—with your pistol, sir. Ain't yer, sir?"

"I shot myself? Pistol? Why, Brigley, you must be tipsy!"

"Which I ain't, sir; indeed, I ain't!" protested Jerry. "But are you really all right, sir? I heered a horful bang."

"I'm so stupidly confused and sleepy, I hardly know," said Lacey. "I suppose I must have rolled off the bed."

"Then you ain't hurt, sir?"

"Not that I know of."

"But something went off, sir."

"Soda-water."

"Oh, no, sir; hundred times as loud as that."

"Never mind. I'm thirsty. Bring me some."

"Yes, sir; directly, sir," cried Jerry, and he hurried out into the lobby, to come back in a minute with a glass of the sparkling anti-feverish water, to find the lieutenant bathing his face.

"Hah, that's refreshing!" said Lacey, returning the glass to the waiter Jerry held in his trembling hands. "Why, you look as if you had seen a ghost, Brigley!"

"I thought I was going to see one, sir—yours! And you ain't hurt a bit?"

"It's quite bad enough to have to be shot by other people, Brigley, without trying to hurt oneself. But how came you to think such a thing?"

"Well, sir—I—"

"Well, you what?"

"—Have heered of such things, sir, with gents—as has been in great trouble, sir—as lost a deal o' money, sir."

Lacey frowned.

"Ever been with a gentleman who did such a thing?"

"Well, yes, sir—almost, sir—not exactly, sir; but I thought he had, sir."

"That's a nice clear way of expressing yourself. Well, don't run away with that idea, again. I don't like to be snatched out of my sleep in that fashion. What time is it? Morning gun fired?"

Jerry's jaw dropped, and he stood staring over the empty soda-water glass.

"I said had the morning gun been fired!" remarked Lacey, sharply.

Jerry's face began to wrinkle all over, and there was a peculiar twinkle in his eyes as they met his master's.

"Yes, sir, the gun's gone off a quarter of a hour ago."

"There, be off! Call me in time to dress for parade."

"Yes, sir; of course, sir. Very sorry, sir. My mistake, sir. But don't you see how it was?"

"No; I'm too sleepy to see anything; but don't make any more such mistakes."

"No, sir—cert'nly not, sir; but don't you see, sir, how it was, really?"

"No; unless you'd had too much coffee!"

"Well, sir, then, as you will keep on thinking it was coffee or something else, I must, for my character's sake, sir, explain."

"Not this morning, Brigley, thank you; some other time."

"Won't take a moment, sir," persisted Jerry. "You see, I'd got thinking, sir, through having had a hawkward experience of the sort, that you might do something of the kind; and I was actually meaning to walk in and stop you, when there was that tremenjus noise, and I thought you'd made it."

"And I did not!" said the lieutenant, angrily. "Now be off!"

"No, sir, it wasn't you," said Jerry, grinning; "and it only shows how easy we can make mistakes. You see now, sir? It was the morning gun."



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

A SECRET'S LIMIT.

"He might have told me," Jerry said to himself. "I've done all I could for him, and kep' his secret when I've felt at times as if I must shout out 'Sir Richard' all over the barracks. I call it mean: that's what I call it—mean! It ain't as if I hadn't shown him as he might trust me. I should have said a deal to him in a fatherly sort o' way to show him that it wasn't the kind o' thing for a gen'leman to do. I should have pointed out to him as he did wrong last time in going off, and what a lot of injury it did him; and he knew it, or else he wouldn't have kep' it so close, and gone without letting me know. But once bit twice shy, and I'm not going to be bit again. I'm not going to break my heart fancying he's made a hole in the water. That's what set me thinking about the lieutenant as I did. If he wasn't one of the easiest-going bits o' human machinery as ever lived, he'd have been awfully nasty with me for serving him as I did. No, I'm not going to humbug after S'Richard; and I'm not going to worry. I was ready to be friends if he liked to trust me; but he didn't, and there it ends."

Jerry sat sunning himself outside the officers' quarters as he mused in this way, and felt a bit resentful against Dick as he went on.

"I know where he's off to. He's gone to see some lawyer fellow up in town to get advice, and he'll have to pay for it. I could have given him just as good, and he could have had it free, gratus, for nothing; but stuff as people don't have to pay for they think ain't worth having. Hullo! here comes Dan'l Lambert. Mornin'!"

"Morning," said Brumpton, rather gruffly, as he halted in front of Jerry, with his battered bombardon in his hand, evidently on his way from the band-room to the sergeants' quarters.

"Any news? Ain't come back, I s'pose?" said Jerry.

"No; he won't come back till he's brought," said Brumpton rather sternly. Then, suddenly, "I told you about my bit of a row with Wilkins?"

Jerry nodded.

"There's a fine upset about that. Can't tell yet what's to be the end of it. I don't want to lose my stripes."

"Oh, they ought to let you off," said Jerry.

Sergeant Brumpton shook his head.

"Discipline," he said, "discipline. I oughtn't to have let my temper get the better of me."

"But the officers won't be able to help laughing. He must have looked like a periwinkle stuck in his shell. Go and tell him you're very sorry, and shake hands."

"Ah! you don't understand our ways here, Brigley. He wouldn't take the apology. He don't like me going there to practice, because it was all through young Smithson, for he hates him like poison."

"Yes, or he wouldn't have said what he did," cried Jerry. "It was too bad."

"Yes, too bad," said the sergeant, "when the poor lad didn't even take his own instruments away with him."

"Didn't he?" cried Jerry, rather excitedly. "What, not them big and little silver-keyed flutes?"

"No; they've got them up in his quarters, keeping them for him. Some of the men are precious wild about what Wilkins said."

Jerry made no reply, but stood rubbing one side of his nose with his finger.

"Well, why don't you speak?" said the sergeant.

"Because I was thinking," said Jerry; "and a man can't think of one thing and talk of another at the same time."

"What were you thinking, then?"

"I was thinking it seemed strange for him to leave those flutes behind. They was his own, and he set a deal of store by them."

"Well, what do you make of it, now you have thought it?"

"What do you?" replied Jerry.

"That it looks as if he meant to come back."

"Yes," said Jerry, mysteriously; "it do look like that. Are they trying to find him?"

"Of course, they are trying their best. They won't stop till they have."

"But ain't it making a deal o' fuss about one chap, and him not a reg'lar fighting man?"

"'Tisn't that," said the sergeant; "it's the principle of the thing. They wouldn't care about losing one man or a dozen; it's keeping up the discipline. Young Smithson 'll be caught, and he'll be pretty severely punished, poor lad. I rather liked Smithson."

"Liked him!" said Jerry, acidly; "why, of course, you did. Why, I like him—even me, who don't make many friends—I can tell you. You think, then, they might ketch him?"

"I do," said the sergeant, "sooner or later. They're sure to. Well, I must be off. I've got my own troubles to think about without his."

"Good-bye, sergeant," said Jerry, with a friendly nod, and Brumpton went on, while Jerry's whole expression changed. His eyes glittered, the colour came in his face, and he thrust his hands in his pockets as far down as he could get them.

"He wouldn't have gone off without telling me, pore chap! I'm sure of it. It was master and man between us, and full confidence, as you may say. He wouldn't desert—he's too much the gentleman—and he wouldn't go to see lawyers without speaking first. As to his going away, that settles it. He wouldn't leave them flutes if he were making a bolt. Why, he didn't when he ran away before. That settles it, and no mistake. Jerry Brigley, my lad, there's something wrong."

What was to be done?

That was a question Jerry could not answer, and he went about the barracks talking with the men, asking who had seen Dick last, and gleaning all about his leave, and that one of the band had seen him going down the High Street that same afternoon.

Waiting till Wilkins was away, Jerry made his way to the band-room, where he obtained confirmation of the sergeant's remarks about the flute-case, and here he began to drop dark hints of the vaguest nature. These, however, fell upon fertile soil, and struck root, and shot up into plants at a very rapid rate. In other words, Jerry's hints became solid, and from the band-room went forth the rumour that Dick Smithson had gone down the town, been persuaded to enter one of the low-class public-houses, and had there been robbed and ill-used.

Then a private in Lacey's company announced that he had had a similar experience down by the docks, and said that if he had not fought like a savage he would have lost his life.

News flies fast in a regiment where the men have so little out of the routine to attract their attention, and, consequently, it was soon the common talk of the barracks that Dick Smithson, of the band, had been "done to death" somewhere in the lower part of the city.

That night the rumour reached the mess-room. One of the officers had heard it, and in a few minutes it was the sole topic of conversation.

Men talked of the first time they had seen Dick Smithson, and reminded one another of his playing and the strange way in which he had joined the regiment.

At last, as the band finished one of the pieces in the evening's programme, the colonel, after a few words with the doctor, sent his servant to tell Wilkins to come to the table; and, upon the bandmaster appearing, the doctor addressed him in a serious tone, but with a humorous twinkle of the eye.

"Is this true, Wilkins?" he said.

"I beg pardon, sir, is what true?"

"That in a fit of jealousy you have tried to pitch young Smithson into the river, to be carried out to sea or to one of Her Majesty's ships, to form the nucleus of a new band?"

"Not a word of truth in it, sir, I assure you. Really I—"

"Stop a moment, man! You were exceedingly jealous of him."

"Really no, sir. I only did what I thought was right to keep the boy from growing too conceited."

"Well, of course, pitching him into the river would have that effect; but it strikes me that it will get you into difficulties."

"Really, sir—I assure you, sir, if it was the last word I had to utter, sir—I didn't do anything of the kind."

"Of course not, Wilkins," said the colonel, quietly; "the doctor is only quizzing you. I cannot believe that you would be guilty of such a dastardly act. But do you think anything of the kind has happened?"

"No, sir; I don't think such a thing could have taken place."

"I hope not; but you have heard the rumour?"

"Yes, sir; the men are talking about nothing else."

"One moment," cried the colonel; "you have seen a great deal of the young man. Do you think he was likely to get into bad company?"

"That he wasn't, sir!" cried someone excitedly; and Jerry advanced from where he had been waiting upon his master, and now stood close to the colonel, gesticulating with an empty claret bottle in his hand.

"Silence, sir!" cried the colonel; "how dare you speak!"

"Beg pardon, sir; I felt abound to speak because I know Dick Smithson isn't at all likely to go to any low places."

The colonel frowned; but he said no more, and Jerry was allowed to go back to his place.

That night the superintendent of police was summoned to the barracks, and had a long talk with the colonel and major.

"No, gentlemen, I don't think it is at all likely. They get down to the rougher houses, and drink and stay a day or two; but the landlords get rid of them as soon as they have spent all their money. But, as you've sent for me, I'll set a couple of our sharpest men to go from house to house, and then report to you."

The superintendent left to perform his mission, and orders were given to the military provosts; but another day passed away, and neither civil nor military police had anything to report. No one had seen the young bandsman on his way to some distant railway station, and men began to shake their heads, while Jerry's face looked hollow from anxiety. At the same time, though, he felt a kind of pride in the fact that he was constantly being questioned by those who knew that he and Dick had been on friendly terms, this culminating in his being stopped one day in the street by a couple of ladies.

"You are Mr Lacey's servant, are you not?" said the younger.

"Yes, ma'am—oh, I beg your pardon, miss. I didn't know you behind your veil."

"Has anything been heard of Smithson?"

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry to say that—"

There was a sigh, and the lady turned away, followed by her companion.

"Well," said Jerry, "she might have stopped to hear all I had to say. My word, now people have got to like him! Even her. Well, he saved her life. What can have come to him? I daren't go and say all I think, for, after all, it mayn't be true. I know: I'll wait a week, and then, right or wrong, I'll speak; for I can't keep his secret longer than that."



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

THE COWARD'S BLOW.

Fully determined that there must be no scandal, Dick resolved to await his opportunity, and then confront his cousin, to demand of him that he should quickly vacate his position; and, to this end, he watched for a chance to meet him somewhere quite alone. But he very soon became aware of the fact that not only had Mark recognised, but avoided, him, till one day, when idling along about a couple of miles from the town, there was Mark ahead, going on in front, as if inviting him to follow, and leading him on right away.

What Mark's object was in following his devious course along the lanes more and more into the country Richard Frayne did not pause to consider; all he thought was that at last, after many efforts, he was going to run his cousin down, and bring him to bay right away from the possibility of interruption, and where, out in the open fields, they would, for the time being, occupy the position not of officer and private—with the tremendous barrier of rank between them, which was like some large breastwork protecting Mark from assault—but as man to man.

And there, a few hundred yards in advance, Mark walked rapidly on, never once, as far as his cousin could see, looking back, though Richard felt sure that he was aware of being followed, and was awaiting his opportunity to get out of sight and then make for the town.

Richard knew that by running he might now overtake the young officer, but he left this for a last resource, meaning to walk steadily on until he caught up to Mark or forced him to turn back and meet him face to face.

The way grew more rural and secluded, and the chalk hills, with their sides broken up by frost and weathering, stood out white, and dotted with patches of heath and bracken. Here and there a dense copse could be seen, while in sheltered hollows—forming in the distance what looked like squares worked in tapestry patterns—was a huge fabric of green, looped and flowered, where the hops hung in luxuriant grape-like clusters.

Every now and then Mark was lost to sight, as he plunged into some copse, following a devious footpath, but Richard caught sight of him again soon after. Then the quarry was missed once more, as he crossed one of the hop-gardens; yet, always the same, Richard dogged him with unerring patience for hours.

"What does he mean?" thought Richard at last. "He can't know I am following him. He is simply having a long walk to keep himself in training, and will soon turn back."

At last, about half an hour after passing a long village lying low down in a hollow among the hills, and where there was no sign of farmhouse or cottage anywhere in the broken, wooded landscape, Mark plunged into a great patch of coppice, which had been cut down for hop-poles a few years before, and had sprung up again, forming a dense wilderness of ash, hazel, and sweet chestnut, running right up a steep, bank-like hill, away below which, well sheltered from the north and westerly gales, lay another of the many hop-fields, heavy with its green and golden bines.

Here all at once Richard found himself at fault, and he stood gazing onward, with a feeling of annoyance rapidly growing as the thought came insistent that, after all, he was to have his long, exciting walk for nothing.

Only a few minutes before he had seen the erect figure pass in among the trees, and it must, he felt, be exactly where he stood; but there was no sight of it going onward, and, as far as he could make out, there was no lane near, unless one passed over by the red-brick building which topped an eminence to the right—a building with a couple of the great cowls of the hop-kilns rising from its roof.

"He must have made for these," thought Richard. And feeling pretty certain that if he took a short cut down through the hop-garden he would strike the track, and find his cousin coming up the lane deep down in the coppice, or passing onward on his return, he passed rapidly on. Down he went along the steep slope, threading the tall, thin growing-poles to right and left, till he came suddenly upon the edge of the hop-garden, with its little hills, each squared by its four poles, running in direct lines, and forming shady alleys, completely embowered in many places by the vines which festooned the poles and leaped over from side to side.

Keeping to the edge of the garden for a few yards, and passing alley after alley, till he came upon the end of one which looked fairly open, and which ran in the direction of the oast-house on the hill, Richard was about to plunge down this, when, all at once, there was a sharp, thin sound, followed by the loud whirr of wings, as an early covey of strongly-pinioned partridges, alarmed by the crack, sprang up, and flew over the tops of the poles, completely hidden by the vines.

Eager and excited now, Richard passed into the next alley and the next, gazing sharply down them for him who had struck that match to light a cigar.

"At last!" he said to himself; for not a dozen yards down the next—a particularly dark, thickly-embowered lane of verdure—there stood Mark, with his back to him, holding a second match to his cigar, from which the grey smoke rose up, to disappear amid the vine-like leaves.

Drawing a long breath, Richard walked down this alley. But Mark did not move, standing, coolly smoking there, till his cousin was within a couple of yards, when he started round as if surprised, and the two young men stood in the greenish twilight of that solitude, utterly hidden, while in all probability there was not a human being within a couple of miles.

"Ah, my lad," said Mark, quietly, "having a walk? Rather hot."

He turned as if to go, but was arrested by Richard's imperious order—

"Stop!"

Mark turned round, frowning and scowling.

"You don't belong to my regiment, my lad, but you know that this is not the way to address an officer."

"That will do, Mark Frayne," cried Richard, sternly. "It is time we understood one another."

"Mark Frayne!" cried the officer, angrily. Then, with a half-laugh, "Oh! I see—205th, from the Town Barracks. You have got hold of my name, my lad."

"Got hold of your name!" exclaimed Richard, angrily. "There, no more of that. I tell you I can bear this no longer. It is time we came to an understanding."

"My good fellow, have you been drinking?" said Mark, with a forced laugh; "or is it a touch of sunstroke? Here, you had better make for the nearest stream, have a good draught of water, and then get back to barracks."

"So that's how Mr Mark Frayne would prescribe for sunstroke!" said Richard, sarcastically.

"My good fellow, we are not in garrison now, and I like to be kind and friendly to men in the ranks; but there are bounds. Recollect that you are addressing your officer, and do not be insolent!"

"Insolent?" cried Richard.

"Yes, sir, insolent!" said Mark, speaking in a low voice. "You have got hold of my name; but I am Sir Mark Frayne."

"Mark Frayne," cried Richard, fiercely, "and my cousin! Once more I tell you that this can go on no longer!"

"Are you mad, fellow?" said Mark, speaking beneath his breath.

"Almost, at being face to face with you alone after all I have suffered at your hands! There, set aside this miserable show of not knowing me! You recognised me that night of the ball. You knew me directly, though you tried hard to assume ignorance. Now, then, I don't want to be hard upon you. I have held back from going to lawyers, for I have felt that it would be better if we settled the matter ourselves. Do you dare to tell me that you do not know me?"

Mark gazed at him searchingly, and then his face seemed to light up.

"Why, yes; of course, I know you now—the bandsman Smithson. Of course. You are the man who helped me out of the burning tent."

"Yes; I saved the life of one who had sent me into this miserable exile!"

"Of course, I see now. You had a serious illness after, Smithson, and it affected your head. The doctor told me all about it."

"It was needless," said Richard, gazing full in the eyes which were half-closed, and which kept on glancing from their corners up and down the long dim alley where they stood.

"No; I am glad he told me, my lad. That explains a good deal. Now, take my advice, and get back to barracks. You were not fit to come so far."

This assumption of ignorance staggered Richard for the moment. Then, with his voice sounding very deep and stern—

"Look here, Mark," he said; "your poor father is dead, but I presume that my aunt is living, and for her sake I am unwilling to take steps that may give her pain. You proved yourself an unprincipled scoundrel over that bill transaction, and now, even as an officer, you cannot act like a gentleman."

Mark was very pale now as he stood facing his cousin; but he showed no sign of resentment, and Richard went on—

"Your conduct towards Miss Deane has been that of a dishonourable blackguard; towards Mr Lacey, that of a sharper and a cheat. You see, I know; but I am willing to spare you, for your mother's sake. You will at once communicate with your lawyers, and tell them your assumption of the property and title has been a mistake, and that you are willing to surrender all claims at once."

"Poor fellow!" said Mark, softly, as he stood with his hands in his jacket pockets and with a peculiar thin smile upon his tightened lips; "the result of the fever. What a fancy to get into his head!"

"Do you mean to take that line?" said Richard. "Think better of it, and give it up. It will save you trouble, your mother pain, and I promise you that I will not be ungenerous toward you."

"How singular these crazes are!" said Mark, softly, as if speaking to himself.

"Then you mean to fight me?" said Richard.

"My poor fellow, what nonsense you have got into your bewildered head! I had a cousin, Sir Richard Frayne, who once, in a mad fit, attacked me, and afterwards threw himself into a river, and was drowned."

"And was not drowned," said Richard, quietly.

"Yes, he was drowned. They found the body, and he was buried close to his estate, and in the church there is a handsome monument to his memory, saying kindly things that he did not deserve, for he committed suicide in remorse for having obtained money by false pretences."

"You are an unmitigated scoundrel, Mark!" said Richard, with his brow now knit angrily. "Once more, will you accept my terms?"

"He is dead and buried," said Mark, with his eyes more than half-shut now; "and if Richard Frayne rose from the dead no one would believe his tale."

"Will you accept my terms, or must I denounce you as one who has proved treacherous to his friend, acted like a blackleg at cards, and who obtained a hundred pounds by forging his cousin's name, and whose title and estate he now holds?"

Mark stood there, white as a sheet, glaring at the speaker.

"How will you stand then, Mark, with officers and men of honour. Take my offer before you fall."

"I tell you," whispered Mark huskily, "that Richard Frayne is dead, and that you are an impostor."

"And I tell you that I will have no mercy now," cried Richard, excitedly. "I tried to spare you, but this life is intolerable since you came here. Once more, will you accept my terms?"

"Impostor!"

"Then take your chance!"

"Take yours!" cried Mark, in the same low whisper, as he snatched a revolver from his pocket and fired quickly at his cousin, who sprang back, dragged a hop-pole from the side of the alley, snapping it in two, and, wild with agony and excitement, made a rush at Mark, who met it by standing firm, now taking aim at his cousin's head.

But he did not fire; for all at once Richard's knees gave way, the stout pole fell from his grasp, and, flinging up his hands, he swayed over backward with a crash, bearing down a portion of the hop-bine as he fell.

Mark stood there with his arm still rigidly extended, but altering his position now. Then, taking a step or two forward, he bent over, gazing fixedly at his cousin's distorted face, and taking aim once more as he stooped. He was about to draw the trigger, when the sharp barking of a dog arose from two or three hundred yards away.

The barking ceased, and Mark hurriedly thrust the pistol back in his pocket, but a sudden thought struck him, and, quickly stooping down, he seized his cousin's clenched right hand, dragged the fingers apart, and placed the weapon in his grasp; then laying the broken piece of hop-pole back, as if it had been broken in the fall, he rose and looked sharply up and down the alley, and stepped into the next, after peering through and looking up and down that.

The next moment his white and alarmed face reappeared, avoiding the body lying prone, as his eyes peered here and there till they fell upon the freshly-lit cigar he had dropped from his lips; for a faint streak of smoke rose from where it lay, and betrayed its presence.

Reaching forward, he caught it up, drew back and disappeared through the drooping hops, passing from one alley to another, till he elected to walk straight on to a coppice on the other side; here lighting his cigar afresh, he began to walk back toward Ratcham at a slow steady pace, and without meeting a soul; neither did he hear the barking of the dog again.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

SOMETHING IN THE HOPS.

The hops that year had been looking magnificent, and some of the growers were chuckling as they thought of the number of hundredweight that would go to the acre, while others took a prejudiced view of the case from a dread of the plentifulness of the crop bringing them down to a state of cheapness that would, when the cost of growing, picking, kilning, and packing had been deducted, leave nothing to pay the rent.

Then a change had come—a rapid change. There had been a fortnight's dry weather, and, as if by magic, the beautiful growths began to look foul, black, and yellow.

It was very simple—a few tiny flies came and laid eggs: the eggs hatched into little insects, and before many hours had elapsed these little insects, without waiting to become flies, had children, and these had children, and these had children as hard as ever they could, while the mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers kept on increasing until the vine-leaves became covered. These grew into hundreds, hundreds into thousands and tens and hundreds of thousands, then millions, and then into hundreds and thousands of millions, and then on and on till billions and trillions, and all the other brain-devouring lions covered the hop-grower's crops, threatening destruction to his hopes.

Then out came the engine to attack the plague.

It was an old parish fire-engine that used to live beneath the bells in the square tower of a church not many miles away. It had once been red; and upon rare occasions, when a cottage or wheat-rick caught or was set on fire and a glow gave warning, there would be a great deal of shouting, the clerk's house was raced to for the keys, and then the old engine was dragged out by its cross-handle, and a cheering crowd would trundle it for miles to the scene of the fire, which was generally expiring by the time it was reached. If the fire was not out, boys and men dragged down the coils of hose and the suction-pipe, which was run into a pond. Buckets were dipped, and water was poured down the cylinders to moisten the suckers, and ran through, because the leathers were all dried-up. Then the handles were seized and worked up and down, making a good deal of noise, but no water began to squirt, which did not matter (for the hose was all cracked, and would not have conveyed it); and at last everything was packed up again, and, the fire being out for want of more food, the engine was dragged back to its dwelling-place in the belfry, to go on growing older and more mildewy and useless.

It took a great many years to teach people that, but for the show of the thing, a great deal more good would have resulted if everybody had carried a tin mug of water and thrown it upon the fire. Still, they did learn this truth at last, and the result was that one day the old fire-engine was sold by auction in the marketplace of the nearest town and bought for a trifle by one of the hop-growers.

From that day the engine began to lead a new life, for it was cleaned up, newly leathered and suckered, and kept in a barn, from which it was dragged year after year to put out a plague as bad as fire.

Upon the morning in question there was a little procession from the oast-houses down to the gardens in the hollow, where, in a sheltered bower, a fire was lit under a huge copper, which had led the way; a great water-tub brought fluid from the muddy pond, and a kind of hot soup was made, bucketfuls of which were mixed with tubs of water; the suction-pipe of the engine was inserted in these, the hose and branch attached, and the slaughter of the insects began down between the rows of hop-poles, where the blackened, blight-covered hops clustered, twined, and hung.

Fizz-fuzz, spitter-sputter! Away flew the medicated water in a poisonous spray, and row after row of the blighted hops was relieved of the insect enemies, while the farmer's men kept the fire going, the water boiling, and the poison brewing to save the crop.

There was just enough room for the little engine to be dragged down between the hills—as they term them—of the hops without much crushing; but the labourers took good care to empty it first, and even then the wheels made deep ruts in the well-dug soil. After some hours' work the men had drawn it well into the middle of the garden; and while two pumped and another directed a fine spray under the leaves and among the tendrils, others plodded steadily along from the copper and tubs, each bearing a couple of buckets, and carefully picking a fresh way from time to time so as to avoid the shower of fine rain dripping from the verdant arches overhead.

"Hope nobody won't taste none o' this stuff in his yale, Joey," said one of the bucket-bearers, as he tossed the medicated water into the big tub from which the suction-pipe of the engine drew its supply, and as he spoke he widened the perennial grin which dwelt upon his puckered face.

"Do un good," growled Joey, who was directing the spray from the branch so as to spread it over as many leaves as possible. "Make un teetotal, Smiler."

"Ha, ha!" chuckled the man with the buckets; "deal o' teetotal about you, Joey. Make yale taste, though, won't it?"

"Na-a-a-ay! Rain'll wash it all off in no time, Smiler. There, fetch some more."

"All very fine, Joey; but its wa-arm down here. Wind don't come."

"Well, who wants wind to knock the poles down?—best lewed garden, this, on the fa-arm. Fatch some more!"

Smiler, as he was called, went off with his empty buckets, trudged back to the copper and water-barrel, justifying his name at every step; for he smiled at the clods of earth, the weeds which had sprung up, at the poles, and then at the horse in the shafts of the water-barrel cart, before refilling his buckets and starting back down a fresh row of hops, between which the sun came glinting and sending shafts of silver arrows to the rich soil, out of which peeped wool clippings, shoddy, greasy rags, and other indescribable rubbish used by the farmer to fertilise his field.

When abreast of the engine, hidden from him by three or four rows of poles, Smiler set down his pails with a clank, smiled round him, and wiped his wet brow with one bare arm, then the other side in the same way, the operation being so satisfactory that he continued it all over his face. Then, smiling more than ever, he stooped, picked up his buckets, went on a few yards to where there was an opening into the next row, turned himself edgewise, and passed through with his buckets swung round, and was about to pass through into another green arcade, but stopped, smiling still, and put down his load once more with a louder rattle of the handles, while clank clank went the engine and whish whish and sputter the cloud of spray among the leaves.

"Now then, Smiler, come on!" shouted one of the men with the engine, still hidden, but close at hand.

"Hi! Joey," shouted Smiler.

"What's the matter?—found a hop-dog?"

"Nay! Here's a tipsy swaddy lying dead asleep; shall I gi'e him a bucket o' hop-wash?"

"Gahn! Bring that stuff."

"But I tell ye he's tipsy, boy. Come, all on yer, and see!"

The clanking of the engine stopped at once, for it was very hot there, and the diversion was acceptable; so, leaving the fine rain dripping from the hop-bine, three men came, dragging their legs after them, threading their way through the poles till they all stood together, wiping their streaming faces with their bare arms, and gazing down at the recumbent figure, at which the bucket-bearer smiled, the others following his example, and ending in a hearty chuckle, in which Smiler joined.

"Shall I gi'e him a bucket, Joey?" he said again.

"Nay," said the man addressed. "Nobody never give you a bucket, Smiler, when you lay down in a ditch."

The others laughed, and Smiler winced a little.

"Make him wet outside as well as in!"

"Yah! We don't want to spoil his red coat," said Joey; "he's got it pratty will syled without. Why, he must ha' been here all night! Here, soger, wake up!"

There was no movement.

"D'yer hear? Right about face! 'Tention!"

"Well, he must have had a good wet! How did un come here?"

"I d'know," said one of the men. "Take two shillin' worth o' yale to make a man like that."

"Ay," said Smiler. "Know how they do it?"

"Saves up," said Joey.

"Yah! They don't get no money to save. I'll tell 'ee. My cousin, Billy Weekes, 'listed—you all knew Billy?"

"Ay!" chorussed the others, as they stood gazing down at the scarlet-coated figure lying with its face hidden by a drooping tangle of hops caused by the breaking of a pole.

"Billy tode me," continued Smiler, "as, when one on 'em gets leave, he goes round among his mates, and they all gi'es him a penny or twopence apiece—hundred on 'em, p'r'aps—and that sets him up!"

"Ay?" said Joey. "And when their turn comes he gi'es them all a penny?"

"Yes; that's it—all round. So they chaps as goos out allus has some'at to spend."

"And a very good way, too," said Joey, chuckling. "Well, I could drink a quaart now, and I've got a penny; s'pose you three chaps all gi'es me one apiece, for my throat's as dry as a lime-basket."

The men looked at one another and chuckled.

"Hadn't us better wake un up?" said Smiler, at last.

"Ay, 'fore he gets a drenching with the hop-wash," said Joey. "Here! hi! soger! Why, he's got a bottle in his fist here still. It's—"

The man, who had bent down low and drawn aside the verdant veil of hop-bine, started back in alarm; for, as the sunshine was let in, a couple of large vipers, which had been nestling close up to the figure, raised their heads and began to crawl away.

"Look at the nedders!" cried Smiler. "Aren't stung him, have they?"

"Nay," cried Joey, hanging back, "that arn't all. 'Tarn't a bottle he's got; it's a pistol!"

Two of the men turned as if to run away, but at that moment another bucket-bearer came up, and there was a shout from up by the fire to know why the spraying had stopped.

"Hi!—all on yer! Coome here!" yelled Smiler.

"What's he been shootin'?" cried one of the men who had turned to go.

"Hissen," growled Joey, with a horrified look. "He's a dead un, lads, and been here for days."

Mastering the feeling of shrinking which had come over him, Joey went down upon one knee, amidst the awful silence which prevailed, and stretched forth a hand to draw the figure out into a patch of sunlight, but a shout in chorus from his companions made him snatch back his hand with a violent start.

"Yah!—don't touch him," they all cried.

"Why?—poor lad," protested Joey. "We can't leave him here!"

"Mustn't touch 'im till there's been a inkwess," said Smiler, excitedly.

"I don't keer for no inkwesses," grumbled Joey; "I shall want to come here directly to wash my hops."

"What's the matter?" cried the first of several men who came down the narrow alley. "Ingin busted?"

"Nay; look ye here," cried Smiler, excitedly, and there was a low, suppressed exclamation from the group that crowded up.

"Better get a gate and carry him out," said one.

"Couldn't get a gate down here," said another.

"And yer mustn't touch 'im till there's been a inkwess," cried Smiler.

"Is he dead?" said one of the new-comers.

"Ay," said one of the first four. "We sin the nedders come away from him. Stinged to death."

"Nay, he's not bitten," cried Joey. "Here's his little pistol. Why, he's one o' they chaps as blows brass things in the band."

As he spoke, the man took the rusty pistol from the tight fingers which clutched it, and then uttered a cry.

"What's the matter?"

"His hand arn't cold," cried Joey, and, quickly turning the figure right over into the sunshine, he gazed down excitedly, and pointed at a great red stain on the breast and side of the scarlet tunic, hidden until then, and dry now and dark.

"But he's quite dead, arn't he?" said Smiler.

"Nay, he's not dead. You can feel his heart beat right up into his throat. Come and take hold of his legs, two on you, and Smiler and me 'll carry this end."

"Where to?" asked one of the men, who seized a leg.

"Tak' un up to the oast-house. Here! one o' you go and fatch a policemun and 'nother on you goo right on and tell doctor what we found. How soon can you get there?"

"'N 'our, cross the fields."

"Cut, then. He'll gi'e you a ride back in his chay."

The two men started, and, the figure being raised, it was carefully borne along the dark green alley out into the open sunshine, and then along to the shelter of a huge espalier, kept there to shelter the hop-garden from the western gales.

Not a word was spoken, the men keeping still and walking as if awestricken along by the great green bank, startling the velvet-coated blackbirds, which flew out on either side and skimmed along near the great flowery ditch, and passed over the top a hundred yards ahead.

Twice over a cotton-tailed rabbit darted out of the hops and plunged into the ditch, to reach its burrow in the sandy bank, while on and on the men tramped with their burden, whose bright scarlet coat, laced with gold, stood out vividly against the green of the hops on one side and that of the tall hedge on the other.

"Nay, he's only quite a boy," said Smiler, who, as soon as his remonstrance had been conscientiously disregarded, lent himself to the task with far more energy than he had directed toward carrying the pails.

"Say, one of you," cried Joey, "go and lay that old bed out in the oast—one I had last year for kiln-watching."

"What that there in the hop-pocket?"

"That's it, lad;" and another man ran forward up the hillside.

A few minutes later the burden was borne in through the wide entrance of the building to where the man who preceded them had dragged out the rough mattress used by the watcher through the night of the clear coal fires. And here in the cool shade the burden was gently laid; and the men stood round in silence, looking at the pale face before them and then at each other as if asking what to do next.

"He's gone!" whispered Smiler, whose grotesque face gave him the aspect of enjoying it all as some horrible jest.

For they had hardly decently composed the stiffened figure upon its soft elastic couch before it uttered a low, deep groan.

"Nay," said Joey, in a whisper, "he's with us yet, lads; men don't die when you can see that."

A shudder ran through the group as they leaned forward to gaze at that to which the man pointed, and there plainly to be seen in the great windowless place by the light which came in through the broad, high doorway, they gazed at a slowly-increasing stain which came out upon the scarlet tunic hard by the blackened dried-up patch there at the side.

For the movement had started the wound bleeding afresh, and a bit of experience when a fellow-labourer had his arm crushed in a threshing-machine years before had taught the speaker that where bleeding continues there must be life still left in the sufferer's veins.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

A GOOD GENIUS.

They were a very ignorant rustic lot these poor farm labourers, but they knew that certain things were now necessary, and Joey, taking the lead as they waited for the help of the surgeon, gave the orders, which were executed at once.

One man seized a clean bucket, and trotted off down the hill to where in the bottom there was a dark dipping place in the lonely narrow stream, and while he was fetching the clear cold water the leader carefully unfastened the tunic.

"Sharpest knife, one o' you," said Joey, and after a little comparison of blades, most of which were ground more or less on their owner's clumsy boots, he selected one, and carefully slit open the shirt and, cutting away enough to form a pad, he pressed it down upon the wound and checked the bleeding.

"Ought to be tied up," he muttered; "but 'tain't like a cut finger: you can't turn him about. We'll wait till doctor comes."

"Won't yer wash it?" said Smiler, with a grin.

"Nay, doctor 'll do that if it's right; we'll try and give him a drink when the water comes, and bathe his face. What did he go and do that for?"

"Think he did?" said Smiler.

"Why, o' course," said another. "Hadn't he got the pistol lying in his fist?"

"Ay," said Joey. "I s'pose some on 'em ain't very comf'able with them drill-sergeants—shoots theirselves in barracks sometimes. Yer see, when a man 'lists, he can't pitch it up again and say 'I've had enough of this.'"

"No, they're 'bliged to stick to it," said Smiler, "'less someun buys 'em out. I dunno, though, but what I'd ha' liked to be a sojer; it's better than spendin' all yer life in a hop-garden, spuddin' and poling and hoeing."

"You!" said Joey, "you a sojer, Smiler?"

"Well, why not? Course, I know my back's a bit twisted, but it would ha' been right enough if I'd been drilled."

"They'd ha' had to drill something else beside your legs and wings, Smiler," said Joey, giving his companions a queer look.

"Eh? What?"

"That mug o' your'n, else you'd ha' been in the Black Hole half your time for laughin' at your officers."

"Yah! Just as if I can help bein' a good-tempered lookin' chap. Dessay as I should make as good a sojer as most on 'em as you see over yonder at those towns. Better be allus on the smile than lookin' savage at everyone."

"Ay, to be sure, Smiler. Wonder, though, what did make this poor chap do it? He's a young un, too, for a sojer. I say, any on you hear his pistol go off last night?"

No one answered; but the man who held the revolver began to examine it.

"Here, just you mind what you're about with that thing," said Smiler. "I've heard as they'll go off six times o' running. Say, would it hurt un, if I lit my pipe?"

"Nay," said Joey, "and I'd thank one o' you kindly if he'd take mine out o' my pocket and fill and light it for me. Can't be very long now before doctor comes, and I must hold him here downright to stop the bleeding. Ah! I can feel his heart beating just gentle like."

"You can?"

"Ay; and it's a wonder, too. Poor lad! he's been bleeding like a pig."

The lighting of pipes was preceded by the careful putting away of the pistol, and just as the men were all puffing contentedly away, Smiler said—

"Master won't find they ten acres of hops washed if he comes 'ome to-night."

"No," said Joey; "but you can't wash hops when you're finding sojers nearly dead in the alleys.—An' here's the water. Ain't hurried yerself much, lad."

"Who's to run up hill with a pail o' water?" grumbled the man as Smiler began bathing the edge of the wound, after pouring a little water between the lips, but apparently without any effect.

Then the smoking went on in silence for a while, till Smiler asked whether the heart was still beating.

"Ay, I keep feeling it," said Joe. "S'pose one o' you goes up in one o' the cowls and looks out: you'll see if the pleeceman's coming. I'm getting a bit tired o' holding my hand to his heart."

"Let me do it now," said Smiler.

"Nay, I begun it, and I'm going on till the pleeceman comes."

One of the men had climbed up the steps at once, and they heard his heavy feet as he crossed the great loft where the hops were pressed heavily into the pockets. Five minutes after he was down again to announce that the constable was on his way, and a few minutes after the one man stationed at the tiny hamlet a short distance away came in, red-faced and eager, for, saving over a little egg-stealing and mild poaching, it was rare for his services to be called for.

Hence he bustled in, looking very important, and drew out a note-book and pencil, examined the sufferer, asked a few questions, made a show of putting down the answers, with a sad hieroglyphical result, and then turned to Joey.

"Now, then," he said, "I'll take charge of him; and one of you must go for the doctor."

"Doctor!" cried Joe indignantly. "Why, we sent for him goin' on for hour ago."

"Ho! well: stand aside!"

"What for?"

"Don't you stand arguin', or you may get yourself into trouble," said the constable importantly. "Stand aside!"

"Shan't!"

"What!" cried the constable, gripping the labourer by the arm.

"Can't you see what I'm doing? Want the poor young chap to bleed to death?"

"How was I to know?" cried the constable. "Why didn't you say you were doing it? Why don't you tie him up?"

"'Cause I wasn't born a doctor," grumbled Joey. "Hops is my line—I can tie them up. Thought you pleecemen did that sort of thing."

The constable coughed.

"How long will the doctor be?" he said.

"All depen's whether he's at home or not. P'raps he's gone on a twenty mile round."

"Then we'd better get a door and carry him somewhere," suggested the policeman.

"Nay, it's in and out bad enough moving him at all, Joey," cried Smiler. "I won't help move him, for it'll finish him off if we do."

The constable frowned, hesitated, and finally said:

"Well, as you have sent for the doctor, we'll wait."

And they waited for quite two hours before the man who had been again and again sent up to play Sister Anne in the great cowl came down at last to say that he had seen the doctor's chaise coming along the lane, and five minutes after a keen-looking youngish man entered the great barn-like place, examined his patient at once, asking questions the while, and then with clever hands put a stop to further bleeding, bandaged the wound, and contrived that a little water should trickle between the sufferer's lips.

"Now then," said the doctor, "the poor fellow ought to be taken over to Ratcham to the military hospital; but you had better get a door, and we'll lay him on that and you will carry him to the Seven Steers. It isn't above a mile, is it?"

"Mile an harf, sir," said Joe.

"Well, he must be carried there. To-morrow the people at Ratcham will send an ambulance to fetch him. Now, then, a light door."

"Don't see as we can get a door off without tools, sir," said Smiler. "What d'yer say to a huddle?"

"The very thing. We can lift this mattress right on to it, and it will be lighter and easier to carry."

The light hurdle was soon brought, and the rough bed lifted carefully on. Volunteers were plentiful enough, and one of the men was sent on in advance to the little roadside inn, to give warning of the approach of the wounded man, while the four bearers—possibly from the load being what it was—stepped out in regular slow military fashion, and went on along the dusty lane.

"Will he die, sir?" whispered Joey, as they reached the road.

The doctor shook his head.

But fate had destined that the patient should find a different resting-place that night, for before half a mile had been traversed the sound of wheels was heard behind, and the doctor called to the party to step on one side of the lane and to let the waggonette which approached pass by.

This necessitated a halt, which was taken advantage of for a change to be made in the bearers; and, while this was going on, the waggonette was stopped, and the younger of two ladies within the vehicle addressed the doctor.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "An accident?"

"Rather worse than an accident, I'm afraid," said the doctor, raising his hat in a combination of respect and admiration for the speaker. "A young soldier has been found injured by a bullet."

"And you are taking him to Ratcham?"

"No; to the neighbouring public-house. But, may I ask, are you going into Ratcham?"

"Yes, yes," said the lady excitedly, as she rose, held on by the rail of the driver's seat, and peered over the heads of the bearers, adding wildly—"Oh, aunt, aunt! it must be poor Smithson they have found."

"Anna, my dear, what are you going to do?" cried the elder lady from behind her veil.

"Nothing—I—oh, aunt, I—"

The words were faltered out, but the girl's movements were quick and decisive as she unfastened the door at the back of the waggonette and sprang down, the labouring men drawing right and left as she turned to the side of the hurdle.

"It is—it is!" she cried, as she bent over the pallid face and laid her hand upon Dick's forehead.

"You know him, then?" said the doctor eagerly, for his patient began to be of much greater importance in his eyes.

"Oh, yes—a little. Yes—very well," cried Miss Deane, contradicting herself.

"Anna, my dear, pray come here!"

"Yes, aunt, directly.—But, tell me quickly, is he very much hurt?"

"Very gravely, as far as I can tell after so slight an examination."

"He will not die?" she cried, with the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I hope not. I will do my best to save him."

"Yes, yes; of course. But we must not waste time. Sir, he once saved my life. Oh, pray, pray make haste!"

"Yes. Forward, my lads!"

"But where are you taking him?"

"To the nearest inn."

"Oh, no—no—no!" she cried. "He ought to be taken to where he will be properly attended."

"Yes; but it is impossible for the men to carry him all the way to Ratcham. If you would drive on and give notice at the barracks, they would send their ambulance and take him at once to the hospital."

"The hospital?" said the girl piteously.

"What a fool I am!" thought the young doctor, whose sympathies were aroused by this great display of interest; "I am throwing away an interesting patient."

"Anna, my dear, this is very dreadful!" cried Miss Deane, senior. "Let us drive on at once!"

"Yes, aunt dear—no, aunt dear! I know!" she cried excitedly. "The men could lay that wooden thing upon the seats of the carriage, and he could be driven gently right into the town."

"Anna!"

"Hush, aunt, pray!" cried the girl decisively. "Do you not see it is a case of life and death? Now, doctor, move him at once! Aunt, come down out of the carriage!"

Miss Deane, senior, uttered an indignant sob, and descended into the dusty road. Then she not only made a virtue of necessity, but felt her own sympathies aroused.

"I wish I were a soldier and had shot myself," thought the doctor, as he directed the men, and had the hurdle carefully lifted into the waggonette, where, with a little management, it rode securely enough, while the girl watched every step of the proceedings, with her fingers twitching as if she longed to help.

"But you?" said the doctor now.

"Oh, never mind us; we can walk," said Miss Deane; and her aunt suppressed a groan.

"But it is a long distance," said the doctor.

"Don't talk of us when that poor lad may be dying," she cried. "You must ride with him and watch him."

"Yes, and send my chaise back," said the doctor eagerly. "Or—one moment; this would be better, if you would not mind riding on the box."

"Oh, pray, pray think of him!"

"I am thinking of him—and of you," said the doctor firmly. "We will not waste time. Let me help you up, and then I can drive this lady in my chaise and keep close by and have an eye to my patient as we go."

Anna Deane needed no assistance. She sprang up beside the driver, while her aunt was helped into the chaise. Then a thought struck her, and, taking out her purse, she emptied it into her hand, and beckoned to Joey, who came up, followed by Smiler, whose face had never looked so pleasantly full of admiration before.

"Will you pay all the men? Share it, please," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you so very much for what you've all done!"

The party of labourers followed till they had passed the little roadside inn, where they stopped and stood watching till chaise and waggonette had passed a corner of the road.

Then Joey turned to his companions, and opened his hand to count over the coins.

"There's four-and-twenty, Smiler," he said.

"And there's eight on us," said Smiler.

"And eight into twenty-four goes three times," said the man who left school last, amidst a murmur of satisfaction.

"Eight shillin's apiece," said Smiler.

"Get along with you," cried Joey. "Three shillin's apiece. Hands out, boys."

Seven hard palms were extended to him instantly, the coins counted into them, and Joey looked round.

"Before we can get to work again, boys, it'll be nigh time to leave off."

"Ay," was chorussed.

"There's a drop of yale nigh at hand, we're all dry and we've yearned it, so I says let's have one drink and then talk about it as we goes back."

"And so says all you," cried Smiler.

But they did not in words, only in acts; so that the aphides left on the hops enjoyed a few more leaves of life.



CHAPTER FORTY.

JERRY LETS OUT THE CAT.

That night, after the mess dinner, Jerry, when seeing about the coffee for his master, had a note given to him to take into the room, and this he handed to the lieutenant, who flushed a little as he recognised the hand, and, disregarding the smiles of those nearest to him, he read, hastily written:—

"Pray come at once! Aunt and I were out driving, and we found poor Smithson. We brought him here. He is wounded, and dying. I know no more."

"Anna."

The lieutenant sprang up excitedly, and strode to the colonel's side, giving him the note to read.

"Poor boy!" cried the colonel. "Then he did not desert. I'm glad of that. Doctor, Smithson is found. He is, it seems, badly hurt."

"Bless my soul!" cried the doctor.

"Yes. Will you go on with Lacey at once, and—My good fellow, are you mad?"

"Yes, sir, a'most," cried Jerry, whose appearance and action justified the colonel's question, for he had suddenly seized the old officer's arm and made a snatch at the note.

"Stand back, sir! Leave the room at once! Here, turn this scoundrel out."

"Keep off, or I'll do you a mischief," roared Jerry, as two of the men sprang at him, and they shrank from his menacing gesture. "Here, Mr Lacey, Colonel, I want to know—I will know—if S'Richard's hurt—"

"Sir Richard! The man's drunk," cried the colonel.

"No, I ain't; but it's enough to make me," roared Jerry. "I am drunk now with what you gents call indignation. If S'Richard's hurt, it's foul play, and it's that black-hearted, cheating, gambling hound as done it. Keep back!—d'yer hear? It's all over now. It's the cat out of the bag, and no mistake!"

"One moment, colonel," cried Lacey firmly. "Brigley never drinks.—Look here, my man, you said foul play. Do you know who was likely to injure Smithson?"

"Smithson!" cried Jerry in contemptuous tones. "I don't care; I will speak now. Smithson—do I know? Yes, sir, I do; and I ought to have spoke before, when he was missing first."

"Then speak out," said Lacey, and the angry frown upon the colonel's face began to change to a look of interest. "Who is the scoundrel that had a grudge against Smithson?"

"Tell you he ain't no Smithson!" roared Jerry, bringing his fist down upon the table and making the glasses jump and one fall to the floor with a crash. "He made me swear I wouldn't speak; but I will now. He's no Smithson. He's Sir Richard Frayne, Baronet, and the man as hurt him is his black-hearted cousin Mark, as calls himself 'Sir.' Him of the 310th."

"Stop, my man," cried the colonel. "This is a terribly serious charge to make against an officer and a gentleman."

"Officer!" cried Jerry, who was boiling over with hysterical excitement; "he deserves to have his uniform stripped off his back. Gentleman! as borrowed money on bills, and forged Sir Richard's name; said he didn't; and made the poor feller go off, leave everything, and come here and 'list."

"You are too excited, my man," said the colonel. "If all this is true—"

"True, sir? Bring me face to face with him—no: don't; for if he's killed that poor dear lad, I shall be hung for him as sure as I'm a man."

"Brigley," said the colonel, "you will be brought face to face with Sir Mark—"

"Mark—no Sir," cried Jerry hotly.

"Silence, man. You will be brought face to face with the officer you accuse. Meanwhile, you do not leave the barracks. You are under arrest."

"No, sir; pray, sir—Colonel, don't say that. Let me go and see him," cried Jerry, with the tears now streaming down his cheeks. "Mr Lacey, sir, say a word for me to the colonel. I must go to Sir Richard. If you shut me up—I can't help it, even if you shoot me for it—I shall desert."

"Silence, sir!"

"I beg pardon, sir," said Lacey; "the man is over-excited. I will be answerable for him, if you will let him come with me."

The colonel nodded his consent.

"What he says is true," continued Lacey, flushing now. "It must be. There have been so many things to prove that Smithson—"

"S'Richard, sir," cried Jerry.

"Well, that the young man we are going to see is a gentleman. I believe it all, Colonel; for, to my sorrow, I know Mark Frayne is little better than a sharper and a cheat."

"Mind what you are saying, Mr Lacey," cried the colonel sternly.

"I can prove my words, sir," said Lacey firmly.

"Go on, and see what is the matter," said the colonel. "Gentlemen, will you excuse me? Major, will you come to my quarters? I should like a word."

Lacey, the doctor, and Jerry went off at once, and ten minutes later they were at the bedside of Richard Frayne, who was slowly recovering after the young doctor's bandaging, and was talking wildly, but with sufficient coherence about the scene among the hops to let his hearers grasp the fact that this was no attempt at suicide, but a would-be murderer's deed.

The colonel and major left the barracks some time later, and were driven up to the quarters of the colonel of the 310th, who looked surprised at the visit, but said en passant—

"I have just heard that your missing bandsman has been found. Suicide, I suppose?"

"Or attempted murder!" said the colonel gravely. "We have come about that."

He related what had taken place, and the colonel of the 310th smiled.

"I have heard of romances," he said quietly. "Excuse me."

He touched the bell, and, upon a servant appearing, said—

"Go to Sir Mark Frayne's quarters, and ask him, with my compliments, to be good enough to step here. Audi alteram partem, gentlemen. You have an impostor in your band."

"We shall see."

Five minutes later the servant returned.

"Well?"

"Sir Mark Frayne left the mess-table, sir, when the news came of that man being found in the hop-field, and went to lie down, sir; but his man says he went out about a quarter of an hour after in mufti, sir, and with a little Gladstone bag. Sergeant at the station, sir—provost—saw him leave by the up train at eight."

"That will do," said his master, and the colonel and the major rose to go.

"Looks bad, gentlemen," continued the colonel of the 310th. "A nasty scandal to have in one's corps!"

"Yes; but I don't think we want any more confirmation. That Gladstone bag and the train are enough."

"And if he had been a gentleman," said the major hotly, "he would have had the door of his quarters locked."

"How will it all end?" muttered the colonel. "Ah, well! there are black sheep in every flock, even if they hide their wool under our uniform."



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

"HALT!"

"Why, it was plain enough," said Jerry, one day as he sat by Richard's bed. "He'd made all his plans and led you on out there on purpose."

"Nonsense, man!"

"Ah, you may call it nonsense, if you like, because you don't see through it now no more than you did then."

"Of course I don't. When once you take a dislike to a man, you see nothing but evil in him. You invent things."

"Oh, do I!" cried Jerry. "Never mind. I couldn't invent so much wickedness as he's got in him, if I tried all night. Now, just let me ask you two or three questions."

"Go on then," said Dick, wearily.

"Here goes then. You know your cousin to be in the habit of going out grassing and taking walks up Constitootion Hill for training hisself?"

"Well, no, Jerry, I never did."

"Never found him fond o' buttercups and daisies, or prospects and views and that sort o' thing?"

"No."

"Nor yet taking six or seven or eight-mile walks to get himself a happetite?"

"Never."

"Then don't it seem a little strange as he should have done it that day and walked on and on, and never once made out that you were close behind him all the time?"

"It did seem strange to me once or twice. In fact, I felt pretty certain that he saw me."

"Oh, no; not likely," said Jerry, with a derisive grin. "He's too nice and innocent a young gentleman as to think that sooner or later you'd be making him give up the title and the money. He wasn't likely to say to himself, 'I'll walk right away into the lonesomest place I can find, and coax him on and on till I get him where there's not a soul likely to be about, right down in one of the hop-gardens.' He wouldn't ever dream o' taking a loaded revolver with him and shoot you, so as to be able to enter to the property and be Sir Mark—not him!"

Dick remained silent, but his fingers were tearing impatiently at the bed-clothes.

"He wouldn't say to himself, 'I'll delude him down into a place like that and give him one pill.' And no one would ever say he was a likely gentleman to think of sticking the pistol in your hand so as to make it seem, when you were found by the hop-pickers, that you had done it yourself."

Dick drew a long deep breath, and Jerry went on.

"I'm getting too wicked altogether. Soldiering's pysoning my morals— there's no mistake about it. You see how I get thinking all kinds of bad about as mild and pleasant a gentleman as ever was born to be a comfort to people."

"Hold your tongue!" said Dick hoarsely. "Look here, Jerry, you don't think it possible that my cousin could have planned all that?"

"Think it possible!" cried Jerry contemptuously; "why, I'm sure of it. He was getting desperate; and how you could go on looking at it all in such a hinnercent way caps me. Why, a child could see through it all, and so could you, only you wouldn't. You knew it was just as I said, now didn't you?"

"I tried not to, Jerry, but it would take that shape."

"Of course it would, because there was no other shape for it to take. Officers wear swords, but they don't go out walking in plain clothes with six-shooters in their pockets, to take aim at their cousins in lonely places. Well, he made a mistake this time, and so he'll find."

But Mark Frayne was not heard of again for years, when someone brought news of having seen him far up the country in Queensland; but it might only have been a rumour, after all.

This was long after Sir Richard Frayne's promotion to captain in the regiment which he joined in India; for when he had fully recovered from the wound which brought him within an inch of death—the fever caused by the exposure playing its part—he went through a course of study and received his commission. While he remained in England, many were the pleasant weeks he spent with his friends the Laceys, and many the poorly-played duets that followed on the flutes.

There was no difficulty about the resumption of the title, and though the estate had been sorely plundered by the reckless spendthrift and gambler who had held it for a time, it soon began to recover in careful hands; while, as to Lacey, his losses were balanced by a heavy legacy just before he married, when he looked as handsome and easy-going as ever; and so he remained until stirred to action, as he subsequently was, when in Africa, upon more than one occasion. Then he proved a tough customer to have to deal with.

"And so you will not stay with Captain Lacey, Jerry?" said Sir Richard one day.

"No, S'Richard. I'd do anything for him, sir; and, as for his dear lady, she knows as I'd be her slave, but I seem to belong to you, sir, and, as you're going out to Indy, I feel as if I must go too, and so I volunteers."

Jerry did go, and nursed his master after wounds received in struggles with the Hill Tribes, and, after fever, too; but never was Sir Richard Frayne so near death as upon that day when he was borne back to Ratcham upon a hurdle and the truth came out.

"Ah!" Jerry used to mutter sometimes over his pipe, "that was a narrow squeak. But what I say is, there's worse lives than a soldier's, so three cheers for The Queen's Scarlet."

THE END.