CHAPTER I

THE TWO CHUMS

"MY last term, Tiny, old son," announced Sinclair dismally.

"What? Never!" replied "Tiny" Desmond, who, at the age of sixteen years and three months, had attained the height of six feet one inch. "Your last term at Stockmere? You're trying to pull my leg."

"Wish I were," rejoined Colin. "But it's a fact. My governor wrote to Dr. Narfield a week ago."

"Why?" inquired Desmond, linking arms with his sturdy, athletically-built chum. "Tell me all about it. Chuck it off your chest."

It was the first day of the summer term. Stockmere was in a state of commotion that is usually associated with the commencement of a new session. There were boys promoted to higher forms, boys remaining in a state of "as you were," new boys wandering about aimlessly like strangers in a strange land, fearful the while lest by word or deed they should transgress the moral and social side of their new school-fellows. There were boys seeking old chums; boys casting about for fresh ones. Housemasters and formmasters were discussing boys; the Head and the Matron were doing likewise. In short, the topic was "Boys."

"Let's get out of this crush," continued Tiny. "Lorrimer and Perkins are cackling away in our study. You know what they are. I vote we push off up on the moors. I'll ask Collier."

The housemaster, recently placed in charge of the Upper Sixth, gave the required permission.

"Very good, Desmond," he replied in answer to Tiny's request. "Back at four, mind. How's that cough of yours, by the bye? Lost it yet?"

"Nearly, sir," replied Tiny, flushing.

"H'm, about time," rejoined Mr. Collier. "All right, carry on."

The two sixth-formers touched their caps and walked away.

"Wish he wouldn't harp on that cough," murmured Desmond. "It's really nothing much; a bit of a bother first thing in the morning. Now, Colin, what's this stunt?"

Sinclair told his story simply and without hesitation. There were no secrets between the two chums. They shared their pleasures, their, for the most part trivial, troubles, their perplexities, and their worldly goods (as far as their school belongings went) whole-heartedly.

"Fact is," said Colin, "my governor has been losing a lot of money since the War, and he can't afford to keep me at Stockmere after this term. I found out quite accidentally that the pater had been pretty badly hit for some time. I ought to have left a year ago, only he kept it dark and managed to let me stay on. He was hoping for things to improve financially only they didn't. So that's that."

"Hard lines!" ejaculated Desmond sympathetically.

"That's why the governor didn't come up to the sports," resumed Sinclair. "He simply couldn't run to it. And he's sold his car and cut down a lot of things, but he's losing ground, so to speak. His pension was quite all right once upon a time, but now it goes nowhere."

"And what are you going to do?" asked Tiny.

"I hardly know," replied his chum. "Of course, my idea of going to an engineering college is off. After all's said and done, it means earning nothing until a fellow's well over twenty-one, and then he's lucky if he makes as much as a miner or a bricklayer. At any rate, I've got to do something--to earn something. In fact, I don't think I ought to have come back this term."

"Well, what are you going to do?" asked Desmond.

Colin shook his head.

"I hardly know," he replied. "Anything to help things along. I've got thirteen weeks to think over it. By that time--but, I say, Tiny, you won't say a word to any of the other fellows?" he added anxiously.

"'Course not," declared Desmond.

"Right-o!" rejoined Sinclair, then, as if he had put the matter out of his mind, he drew himself up, stretched his arms, and sniffed appreciatively at the keen, bracing mountain air.

"My word," he exclaimed, "isn't it tophole? I'll race you to the crest of Shutter Pike."

It was a distance of about four hundred yards to the summit of the hill known as Shutter Pike--a gentle gradient for two-thirds of the way, ending up with a fairly stiff ascent.

For the first fifty yards Tiny led, but gradually Colin recovered the initial advantage his companion had gained, and before the last fifty yards he had drawn up level. Then, putting his whole energy into the race, Sinclair dashed ahead and flung himself upon the grassy knoll at the summit. To his surprise, Tiny had stopped and was holding his hands against his ribs and coughing violently.

"Buck up, man!" Sinclair shouted. "I'm a bit out of training .... Why, what's the matter? Anything wrong?"

Desmond shook his head, but made no attempt to move. His companion jumped to his feet and ran down the slope.

"Did you fall?" he asked anxiously, for the bluish-grey pallor on his chum's face rather took him aback.

"No," spluttered Tiny. "Stitch, or something ... nothing much."

He sat down abruptly, endeavouring to stifle the fit of coughing. At length he succeeded.

"You're not up to the mark, that's evident," said Colin. "What have you been doing these hols? You're right out of condition. You'll have to train, my festive."

"I will," replied Desmond. "I've been slacking a bit, but I'll soon get into form. I say, it's close on four. Let's get a move on."

Hardly a word was exchanged as the pair made their way schoolwards.

"Don't say anything to Collier," said Tiny, as they passed the lodge gates. "About this little cough of mine, I mean."

"'Course not," declared Colin. "Why should I?"

Tea over, Desmond and Sinclair went to the rooms they shared with Lorrimer and "Polly" Perkins. Here everything was in a state of disorder. The furniture had only just been removed from their last term's den; their boxes and trunks, half unpacked, were piled upon the table and chairs, while an assortment of bats, tennis rackets, fishing rods, nets, and other articles inseparable with schoolboys filled every available corner of the room.

"You're a nice pair!" exclaimed Lorrimer. "Mooching off and leaving Polly and me to square things up."

"And a fine square up you've made of it," replied Tiny. "Hullo, what's this? My razor! Polly, you are the absolute limit."

Perkins received the intelligence with as good grace as possible when discovered in the act of using another fellow's razor for the purpose of cutting rope.

"Sorry, old man," he replied apologetically. "But what _do_ you do with your razor, by the bye? Half a mo', Tiny, before you start scrapping. The Head's been looking out for you."

"Honest?" inquired Desmond.

"Honest," assented Polly.

At Stockmere that word was sufficient. No fellow ever doubted the genuineness of an assertion thus expressed. Desmond picked up his cap and made his way to Dr. Narfield's study.

The summons did not surprise him. Coupled with the fact that he was one of the head boys, and that this was the first day of a new term, it was not unusual for a youth in Desmond's position to be called to the Head's study.

Dr. Narfield was standing with his back to the empty fireplace in a characteristic attitude, his mortar-board on the back of his head and his hands clasped under the tails of his gown:

"You sent for me, sir?"

"Yes, Desmond," replied the Head, looking at the lad over the top of his spectacles. "I thought, Desmond, that you, a head boy, would be above a senseless practical joke."

He paused. Tiny regarded the doctor dumfoundedly. And then that irritating cough made itself known again.

Dr. Narfield waited until the fit was over.

"Perhaps, Desmond," he resumed, "you will kindly explain why this was found in your handbag?"

He pointed to a large dish on a side table. On it, writhing gently, was an eel, about ten inches in length.

"That--er--pet," continued the Head, "nearly frightened the housekeeper into hysterics when she opened your bag. You are, of course, aware that pets are permitted at Stockmere, but there are limits in the choice of a selection. Now, Desmond, please explain."

Desmond hesitated. The affair wanted some explanation, but he wasn't at all sure that his elucidation was a correct one.

"I can't exactly explain, sir," he replied. "I didn't put it into my bag, and I certainly didn't intend to frighten Mrs. Symonds or anybody."

"Then how did it get into your bag?" asked the Head patiently. Previous experiences had taught him the advisability of a patient hearing and not to judge by circumstantial evidence. He knew perfectly well the best way to detect a guilty culprit was to let him tell his story without comment until he had made the fatal error of condemning himself.

"It was like this, sir," explained Desmond. "The train was crowded, and I rode in the guard's van. In the van, amongst other things, was a large box labelled 'Eels--Perishable.' It had a small crack in it, and very soon I saw an eel's tail appear. Then somehow other tails found their way through and the box began to open."

Dr. Narfield nodded. He knew from personal experience that eels have frequently been known to force open heavy boxes in which they are packed for transit.

"Go on, Desmond," he said gravely. Tiny, finding that the Head did not ridicule his tale, plunged into his narrative without further hesitation.

"I told the guard," he continued, "but he was busy writing in a book, and told me it wasn't his business. It wasn't mine, so I just watched. And before we got to Little Porton the eels had forced open the box and were wriggling all over the place--hundreds of them, sir. The guard got the wind up then--I mean, sir, he was in a bit of a funk. I didn't exactly care for it myself, although it was a topping rag to watch. So we both sat on some luggage and kept our feet up, although at every station the guard had to get out. And a crowd of eels got out, too. There were dozens of them left on every platform, and by the time we got to Colbury Monkton the van was almost empty. I must have left my bag unfastened--in fact, I remember closing it when I got out--so I suppose one of them wriggled in."

The Head smiled.

"That explanation is quite satisfactory, Desmond," he remarked. "You may go."