“He’ll do to keep nit,” said Dick.
Gable could not run in the event of a surprise and a pursuit, but that mattered little, as it was long since known to be hopeless to attempt to extract evidence from him, and his complicity in matters of this kind was generously overlooked by the people of Waddy.
The expedition was not a success. Dick planned it and captained it well; but the best laid plans of youth are not less fallible than those of mice and men, and one always runs a great risk in looting an orchard in broad daylight—although it will be admitted, by those readers who were once young enough and human enough to rob orchards, that stealing cherries in the dark is as aggravating and unsatisfactory an undertaking as eating soup with a two-pronged fork.
Dick stationed Gable in a convenient tree, with strict orders to cry “nit” should anybody come in sight from the black clump of fir-trees surrounding the squatter’s house. Then he led his party over the fence and along thick lines of currant bushes, creeping under their cover to where the beautiful white-heart cherries hung ripening in the sun. Dick was very busy indeed in the finest of the trees when the note of warning came from Ted McKnight.
“Nit! nit! NIT! Here comes Jock with a dog.”
Dick was last in the rush. He saw the two McKnights safe away, and was following Peterson, full of hope, when there came a rush of feet behind and he was sent sprawling by a heavy body striking him between the shoulders. When he was quite able to grasp the situation he found himself on the broad of his back, with a big mastiff lying on his chest, one paw on either side of his head, and a long, warm tongue lolling in his face with affectionate familiarity. The expression in the dog’s eye, he noticed, was decidedly genial, but its attitude was firm. The amiable eye reassured him; he was not going to be eaten, but at the same time he was given to understand that that dog would do his duty though the heavens fell.
A minute later the mastiff was whistled off; Dick was taken by the ear and gently assisted to his feet, and stood defiantly under the stern eye of a rugged, spare-boned, iron-grey Scotchman, six feet high, and framed like an iron cage. Jock retained his hold on the boy’s ear.
“Eh, eh, what is it, laddie?” he said, “enterin’ an’ stealin’, enterin’ an’ stealin’. A monstrous crime. Come wi’ me.”
Dick followed reluctantly, but the grip on his ear lobe was emphatic, and in his one short struggle for freedom he felt as if he were grappling with the great poppet-legs at the Silver Stream. Summers paused for a moment.
“Laddie,” he said, “d’ye mind my wee bit dog?”
The dog capered like a frivolous cow, flopped his ears, and exhibited himself in a cheerful, well-meaning way.
“If ye’d rather, laddie, the dog will bring ye home,” continued the man.
“Skite!” said Dick, with sullen scorn; but he went quietly after that.
At the house they were met by Christina Shine, and Dick blushed furiously under her gaze of mild surprise. Christina had been a member of the Summers household for over five years, ever since the death of her mother, and had won herself a position there, something like that of a beloved poor relation with light duties and many liberties.
“Dickie, Dickie, what have you been doing this time?” asked Miss Chris.
“Robbin’ my fruit-trees, my dear. What might we do with him, d’ye think?”
Miss Chris thought for a minute with one finger pressed on her lip.
“We might let him go,” she said, with the air of one making rather a clever suggestion.
“Na, na, na; we canna permit such crimes to go unpunished.”
“Poor boy, perhaps he’s very fond of cherries,” said Chris in extenuation.
Summers regarded the young woman dryly for a moment.
“Eh, eh, girl,” he said, “ye’d begin to pity the very De’il himself if ye thought maybe he’d burnt his finger.”
Dick was greatly comforted. As a general thing he writhed under sympathy, but, strangely enough, he found it very sweet to hear her speaking words of pity on his behalf, and to feel her soft eyes bent upon him with gentle concern. Probably no young woman quite understands the deep devotion she has inspired in the bosom of a small boy even when she realises—which is rare indeed—that she is regarded with unusual affection by Tommy or Billy or Jim. Jim is probably very young; his hair as a rule appears to have been tousled in a whirlwind, his plain face is never without traces of black jam in which vagrant dust finds rest, and in the society of the adored one he is shy and awkward. The adored one may think him a good deal of a nuisance, but deep down in the dark secret chamber of his heart she is enshrined a goddess, and worshipped with zealous devotion. Men may call her an angel lightly enough; Jim knows her to be an angel, and says never a word. His romance is true, and pure, and beautiful while it lasts—the only true, pure, and beautiful romance many women ever inspire, and alas! they never know of it, and would not prize it if they did.
That was the feeling Dick had for Christina Shine. There had been others—Richard Haddon was not bigoted in his constancy—but now it was Miss Chris, and to him she was both angel and princess; a princess stolen from her royal cradle by the impostor Shine under moving and mysterious circumstances, and at the instigation of a disreputable uncle. It only remained for Dick to slaughter the latter in fair fight, under the eyes of an admiring multitude, in order to restore Chris to all her royal dignities and privileges.
Jock Summers had not relaxed his grip on the boy’s ear. He led him to a small dairy sunk in the side of the hill and roofed with stone.
“Ye may bide in there, laddie,” he said, “till I can make up my mind. I think I might just skin ye, an’ I think maybe I might get ye ten years to Yarraman Goal, but I’m no sure.”
Dick had to go down several steps to the floor of the dairy, and when the door was shut his face was on a level with the grating that let air into the place. He passed the first few minutes of his imprisonment making offers of friendship to the dog that sprawled out side, opening its capacious mouth at him and curling its long tongue as if anxious to amuse. The boy had no fears as to his fate; he felt he could safely leave that to Miss Chris; and, meanwhile, the dog was entertaining. The animal was new to Dick: had he known of its existence, his descent upon the orchard would have been differently ordered. In time Maori came to be intimately known to every boy in Waddy as the most kindly and affable dog in the world, but afflicted with a singularly morbid devotion to duty. If sent to capture a predatory youth he never failed to secure the marauder, and always did it as if he loved him. His formidable teeth were not called into service; he either knocked the youngster down and held him with soft but irresistible paws, or he gambolled with him, jumped on him, frisked over him, made escape impossible, and all the time seemed to imply: “I have a duty to perform, but you can’t blame me, you know. There’s no reason in the world why we shouldn’t be the best of friends.” And they were the best of friends in due course, for Maori bore no malice; there came a time when youngsters invaded Jock’s garden for the pleasure of being captured by his wonderful dog.
Ere Dick had been in his prison ten minutes Chris came to him with tea and cake and scones, and when he had finished these she showered cherries in upon him. This time she whispered through the grating:
“You haven’t got a cold, have you, Dick?”
“No, miss; I never have colds.”
“Oh, dear, that’s a pity! I thought if you could catch a cold I might be able to get you out.”
“Oh!” Dick thought for a moment, and then coughed slightly.
“It will have to be a very bad cold, I think.”
Dick’s cough became violent at once, and when Chris led Summers into the vicinity of the dairy a few minutes later the cold had developed alarmingly. Summers heard, and a quizzical and suspicious eye followed Christina.
“He—he doesn’t appear to be a very strong boy, Mr. Summers,” said the young woman with obvious artfulness.
“Strong as a bullock,” said Summers.
“He looked very pale, I thought, and that place is damp—damp and dangerous.”
Summers dangled the keys.
“Let the rascal go,” he said. “Justice will never be done wi’in range o’ those bright eyes. Let the young villain loose.”
Chris liberated the boy, and filled his pockets with fruit before sending him away.
“My word, you are a brick,” murmured Dick, quite overcome, and then Chris, being hidden from the house by the shrubbery, did an astounding thing; she put her arm about the boy’s neck and kissed him, and Dick’s face flamed red, and a delicious confusion possessed him. If he were her worshipper before he was her slave now—her unquestioning, faithful slave.
“You know,” she said, “I must be your friend, because if it had not been for you my father might have died out there.”
Dick had recalled the incident several times lately, but always, it must be regretfully admitted, with a pang of angry compunction. There were occasions when he felt that it would have been wise to have left the superintendent to his fate. He wondered now, casually, why the daughter should entertain sentiments of gratitude that never seemed to find a place in the arid bosom of her sire.
“Oh, that ain’t nothin’,” he said awkwardly, digging his heel into the turf, all aglow with novel emotions. Never had he felt quite so grand before.
“Dick, will you take a message from me to—to—” The young woman was toying with his sleeve, her cheeks were ruddy, and the girlish timidity she displayed was in quaint contrast with her fine face and commanding figure.
“To Harry Hardy?” said Dick, with ready conjecture.
“Yes,” said Chris. “However could you have guessed that? Tell him I am very thankful to him—”
“Fer clearin’ out Sunday. Yes, I’ll tell him. I say, Miss Chris, do you know I think he’s awful fond o’ you—awful.”
“No, Dick, he is not. He hates us—father and I.”
“No fear, he don’t. He was at our place Sunday night, lookin’ at that photo of you in our albium. He looked at it more’n he looked at all the rest put together, an’ kep’ sneakin’ peeps, an’ that don’t show hate, if you ask me.”
Dick was half an hour late for school that afternoon, but he never faced Joel Ham with a lighter heart or more careless mien. The master pretended to be absorbed in a patch on the roof till Dick had almost reached his seat; then he beckoned the boy, took him on the point of his cane, like a piece of toast, and backed him against the wall, where he held him transfixed for a few moments, blinking humorously.
“Ginger, my boy, I regret to have to say it, but you are late again.”
“Never said I wasn’t,” said Dick, accepting the inevitable.
“True, Ginger, perfectly true. Any explanation? But let me warn you anything you may say will be taken down as evidence against you.”
“I was visitin’—visitin’ Mr. John Summers up at The House” (Summers’ residence was always ‘The House’), “an’—an’ he detained me.”
Joel’s face suddenly fell into wrinkles, and his disengaged fingers clawed his sparse whiskers.
“And you used to be quite a clever liar, Ginger,” he said with philosophical regret.
“Arsk Jock Summers yerseif if you don’t believe me,” growled the boy.
“No, no,” said the master shaking his head sadly, “you are lying very badly to-day, Ginger. You have the heart to do it, but not the art. Hold up!
Dick’s hand went out unfalteringly.
“One,” said the master. “Two! Hurt, eh? Well, be consoled with the reflection that all knowledge is simply pain codified. Three! Four—no, I will owe you the fourth.”
Jacker Mack, and Ted, and Peterson were prey to the wildest curiosity. Peterson risked cuts with criminal recklessness in his efforts to communicate with Dick when the latter took his seat, and Jacker, who sat next, edged up close to Dick and whispered excitedly:
“What happened? What’d he do? Where yer been?”
“Been,” said Dick, “oh, just havin’ dinner up at The House.”
“Wha-at—with ole Jock?”
“With Mr. and Mrs. Summers, J.P.”
“Gerrout! yer can’t stuff me.”
“Oh, all right, Jacker, don’t excite yerseif. Perhaps they didn’t give me a load o’ cherries to bring away, an’ strawberries—thumpin’ ripe strawberries, hid somewhere what I know of. Oh, I think not. an’ maybe I wasn’t told to come up to The House Sundays an’ help myself. Very likely not.” All this in an airy whisper.
“Halves!” hissed Jacker.
“Quarters!” murmured Peterson from his hiding place behind the desk.
“P’raps I don’t know somethin’ too,” continued Jacker mysteriously.
Dick Haddon cocked his eye.
“Pompey, the woodjammer, tol’ me he see that bandy whimboy what you fought at the picnic ridin’ your billy down to Cow Flat, an’ Butts seemed to like it.”
This was serious. The idea of Butts becoming attached to another master gave Dick a real pang. Already he had suffered many twinges of conscience in consequence of his neglect of the goat in captivity.
“Wait till r get hold o’ that cove,” he said bitterly. “I’ll murder him.”
“Ain’t we never goin’ after them goats?” asked Jacker.
Dick nodded emphatically.
“My oath, I’ll fix it.”
“An’ you’ll shell out wif the strawb’ries?”
Dick nodded again; Jacker went peacefully to his work and Peterson crawled back to his seat. Confidence was restored.