In Search of Treasure

“Here is a message just received from Milton,” he said.

The merchant tore it open, and read aloud, in some excitement:

From Dr. Musgrave, of Milton, to David Russell, Grace Court, London.

The boy Vivian Bell has run away. Will you defray expenses of search?

“How shall I answer this, Mr. Fenwick?”

“Please wire him that a special messenger will call upon him to-morrow.”

CHAPTER X

AT MILTON SCHOOL

Milton School was situated in a delightful part of the country. It was broad on the ground, and built of stone, the sides being overgrown with the clinging ivy so abundant in England.

It ought to have been a paradise. Casual visitors always admired it, and declared that the boys who attended it were especially favored.

But they did not know the character of Dr. Peter Musgrave, who had for fifteen years exercised tyrannical sway over the pupils committed to his charge.

He was in the habit of forming sudden prejudices against his pupils, and when he was “down on a boy,” as the saying is, no amount of good behavior softened him. Vivian Bell had been unfortunate enough to incur this man’s enmity, and his life had been a hard one ever since he had entered the school.

Two days before the date of the telegram mentioned at the close of the last chapter, Simon Musgrave, the doctor’s son, ordered Vivian to go on an errand to Milton village.

“I have a bad headache, Simon,” said Vivian. “I don’t feel as if I could sit up.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” returned the young tyrant. “You’re lazy, that’s all.”

“But indeed my head aches badly, Simon.”

“Don’t call me Simon.”

“Isn’t that your name?” asked Vivian, wonderingly.

“My name to you is Mr. Musgrave. Just remember that, will you?”

“Yes, Simon—I mean Mr. Musgrave.”

“Take that!” said Simon, aiming a blow at Vivian that nearly felled him to the ground. “Perhaps you’ll remember next time.”

“You have no right to strike me!” said Vivian, plucking up courage.

He did not dare to retaliate, for he was weak compared with the young tyrant.

“Haven’t I? Then I’ll do it again!”

Which threat he promptly translated into action.

“Now you know me. Don’t you ever dare to tell me again that I haven’t a right to wallop you! Start for the village at once, or you’ll get another!”

But there was an unexpected champion in the person of one of the older boys, who had come up while Simon was gratifying his brutal instincts.

“I say, Musgrave, what are you doing to Bell?”

“None of your business!”

“Isn’t it, though? You have made him cry.”

“Oh, he’s a cry-baby, anyway,” said Simon, scornfully.

“What has he been doing to you, Vivian?” asked the other boy, kindly.

“He hit me twice!”

“What did you do that for?”

“I told you before it was none of your business,” returned Simon Musgrave, sullenly. “If you’re not careful, I’ll serve you the same way!”

“You will, eh? I should like to see you do it!” replied Jim Rawdon, not in the least terrified by Musgrave’s threats, even if he were the son of the head master.

Simon Musgrave scowled at the intrepid boy, but he knew very well that it would not do to treat him as he had Vivian Bell. Simon was a born bully, and bullies are generally cowards.

He took advantage of Vivian Bell’s gentleness, but he held in unwilling respect James Rawdon’s strength and pluck.

“I’ll report your insolence to my father,” he said, biting his nether lip.

“Do,” retorted Rawdon. “Go and complain to your pa like an overgrown baby!”

Simon was in such a passion that he ached to strike Rawdon, but prudence got the better of temper, and he refrained.

Turning to Vivian, he said: “You heard what I told you to do. Go and do it!”

“What did you tell him to do?” asked Rawdon.

“I told him to go to the village on an errand for me.”

“Why don’t you go yourself?”

“Because I don’t choose to.”

“I would go if I hadn’t a headache,” interposed Vivian, putting his hand to his head and sighing. “It’s very bad.”

“It’s all put on,” said Simon, brutally. “Your head doesn’t ache any more than mine does.”

“Indeed, indeed it does!”

James Rawdon listened to Simon with a disgust for his brutality which he did not attempt to conceal.