Jack Raymond

He, for his part, had nearly forgotten the incident of the puppy, and certainly bore no ill-will on account of it. Thrashings were matters of common occurrence; and, for the rest, he was still in the barbaric stage of cub­hood, and had fought as much for pure joy in fighting as for any sentimental reason. Nevertheless, he instinctively disliked both Greaves and Polwheal, just as he disliked Charlie Thompson, the fat, short-winded boy whose hands always disgusted him — he could not have told why. Jack, like many primitive creatures, had a curious physical shrinking from anything not quite healthy. Singularly enough, this subtle instinct of repulsion had never yet warned him against the Vicar; there his feeling was quite simple and ele­mentary; he hated his uncle, just as he liked animals, just as he despised Aunt Sarah.

Mr. Hewitt, the schoolmaster, walked down the lane with his eyes on the ground; he did not share the general high spirits. The re­sponsibilities of his profession weighed heav­ily upon him, for he was a conscientious person, and nature had not intended him for a schoolmaster.

"Together again," he muttered, looking after the two big boys as they walked off arm in arm.

"They're always huggermuggering over something," said the curate, coming up be­hind him. Mr. Hewitt turned round quickly, with a look of relief; he and the curate were old friends.

"I'm awfully worried about this business, Black," he said. "Do you think the Vicar suspects anything?"

"I'm certain he doesn't; he'd have turned the place inside out. You know how severe he is about anything immoral. Why, the other day, with Roscoe's girl — I thought he would have frightened her into a fit. It's all very well, Hewitt, but he goes too far. The girl's very young and ignorant, and it was not fair to press her so."

"I don't agree with you. As vicar of the parish he ought to know the seducer's name, for the protection of other girls. It was sheer obstinacy that made her refuse to tell."

"Or sheer terror. Anyhow, about the boys ------"

The schoolmaster drew back.

"For Heaven's sake!" he crifed; "you don't suspect one of my boys about the Roscoe girl?"

"No, no, of course not! It's some young fisherman. That is..." They both paused a moment.

"I hadn't thought of that," the curate went on, with a troubled face; "but Greaves and Polwheal... Anyway, it's no use imagining horrors like that till we have cause. And Heaven knows the other thing's black enough."

"It is indeed; and the worst is that I'm afraid the Vicar's own nephew is at the bottom of it all."

"Hewitt, are you sure of that? Jack is without exception the most troublesome boy I ever came across, but he doesn't look to me that sort, somehow. Now if you'd said Thompson ------"

"Oh, as for Thompson, I have no doubt at all. But I'm afraid Jack must be a bad lot too; he's so utterly callous. And if so, his influence over all the other boys makes him fearfully dangerous. You know, in every thing, it's he that leads them away, I scarcely know how to go and tell Mn Raymond what I suspect, after all the trouble he's taken about the school. I'm convinced of one thing: if we have a scandal in this place, and boys expelled, and the newspapers reporters down, and his nephew's in it, — it'll break the Vicar's heart. Who's that — Greggs?"

A slim, indefinite-looking boy, with timid eyes, too prominent and a little too near together, got up from behind a tussock of gorse, and pulled at his cap with a shame­faced grin. He was the village blacksmith's son, and a personal satellite of Jack Raymond, without whose nefarious influence he would probably never have had the courage to rob any man's orchard; A born huckster, he made a good deal of pocket-money by accompany­ing Mr. Hewitt's scholars on various mar­auding expeditions under Jack's leadership, and selling them birds, ferrets, and fishing­tackle by the way.

"Could you go a message for me this afternoon?" asked the curate.

"If Master Jack will let me, sir; he told me to wait for him here: he wants to go fishing."

"You see," sighed Mr. Hewitt, as he walked on with his friend. "Jack told him to wait; and he'll wait the whole afternoon sooner than disobey. A boy like that is putty in Jack's hands."

Indeed, Billy Greggs had waited for a long time when his commander appeared, moody and wrathful-eyed, and dismissed him with a curt: "Bill, it's no go."

"Why, Jack, aren't you coming?" "Can't; the beastly sneak is keeping me in to do a lot of piggish Latin — just because the weather's fine."

"What, old Hewitt? Why ------"

"No, uncle, of course; it's just his spite." "Have you been putting his back up again?"

"Oh, the everlasting story — want of re­spect to the Bishop. I wish that old boy would come back out of his grave for five minutes — wouldn't I just punch his head!"

The Bishop, an eminent and learned great-uncle of the Raymonds, and the only member of the family who had ever attained to any special distinction, was at the vicarage a kind of household god on a small scale. Every object co

"You know that knife with the green handle that uncle makes such a fuss over be­cause the Duke of something or other gave it to the Bishop? I just took it to mend my tackle this afternoon, and, of course, he came in and caught me; and wasn't he wild! I slipped out at the back door to let you know. I'll get done as quick as I can. Good­bye."

"Jack!" Billy called after the retreating figure; "meet me behind our cowshed when you're done; we'll have larks."

Jack stopped and turned back. "Why, what's up?"

"Whitefoot's calving, and something's gone wrong. Father's sent for the vet to put her right. He won't let me in; but there's a chink at the back by the ash-heap, and we can ------"

Jack flared up suddenly.

"Bill Greggs, if I catch you hanging about and peeping at things that aren't your busi­ness, the vet 'll have you to put right next, you dirty little cad."

Billy subsided, meekly enough, but with a small internal chuckle, remembering what things could safely be said and done under this strict commander's very nose.

"All right," he said mildly; "you needn't snap my head off. I say, do you want a grey-bird?"

"What, a tame one?"

"Well, you can tame it if you like. I caught one yesterday in the glen — a beauty. You can have it for ninepence."

"And where am I going to get the nine-pence?"

"Why, you had half-a-crown the other day."

Jack shrugged his shoulders; money never would stop in his pockets for any length of time,

"I've only got twopence halfpe

"All right! then I shall let Greaves have the bird; he asked me for it. I'll blind it to-night."

Jack's level brows contracted into a frown.

"Let the thing alone, can't you!" he said angrily. "What d'you want to blind it for? It 'll sing right enough without that."

At this second display of mawkishness in his captain Billy permitted himself a little snigger.

"Why, Jack, I didn't think you were so soft! Of course I'm going to blind it; it's the proper way. There's nothing to make all that fuss about; you just stick a needle into a cork and make it red-hot and ------"

"Let me see the bird before you do it," Jack interrupted imperiously. "I'll get done by tea-time."

He walked away, his forehead still con­tracted. Perhaps the dash of Hungarian blood inherited from his mother was respon­sible for the overweening personal pride which made any suspicion of ridicule so in­tolerably galling to him. He rated himself fiercely for caring who peeped and sniggered at "beastly" sights, or put out a wild bird's eyes. What was it all to him that he should mind so much? Nobody else ever minded those things.