Gunpowder Treason and Plot, and Other Stories for Boys

"They've funked!" growled a voice in the gloom. "I thought from the first some of them would."

"Beastly sneaks!" added another. "I collared hold of young Thomas and tried to make him come, but he wouldn't."

For a second time in the history of the project Brookfield hesitated. Here was an end to all his ideas of united action, and the whole responsibility for the rebellion would rest on the shoulders of himself and the few bolder spirits who stood before him. He could not draw back now – it would be too much of a climb-down; and it would never do for him, the football captain, to show the white feather.

"Come on! Don't waste time!" muttered Jarvis, but not in quite such a confident tone as that in which he usually spoke.

"Come on, then!" repeated the leader desperately. And turning on his heel he made for the adjacent wooden building styled on the prospectus the "gymnasium," but commonly known among the boys as the "shed."

Exactly what happened next perhaps Brookfield alone could afterwards clearly explain, and he was rather chary of repeating his experience. He opened the door and went cautiously forward in the darkness, feeling his way with outstretched hand to prevent his coming into violent collision with the parallel and horizontal bars. The windows, which in former times had been constantly broken with tennis balls in a game known as "shed cricket," were protected with wire latticing, and this served to obscure the struggling moonbeams which faintly illuminated the farther end of the building.

Exactly how or when he first caught sight of it, Brookfield could hardly have told, but as he neared the chest in which the fireworks were stored, he became conscious of the presence of something standing in what was usually an empty corner.

The moonlight strengthening, or his own eyes becoming every instant more accustomed to the gloom, enabled him to make out a tall, dark figure, erect and motionless as a statue; then his heart gave a jump as he recognized the outlines of a mortar-board and gown.

In an instant he realized that he and his comrades had walked into a trap; and without a second's hesitation he turned and bolted, coming into violent collision with Jarvis and Roden, who were following closely on his heels.

"Cave!—Scoot!"

The retreat became a rout. At the moment no one clearly understood what was the matter; but those who had not entered the shed, seeing their companions rush out like rabbits from a furze bush, joined in the stampede.

As they ran, and as if to increase their confusion and hasten their flight, a big squib came whizzing over the playground wall and exploded with a bang in their very midst. This single firework formed the whole of Sloper's contribution to the entertainment; for, finding that there was no response, he came to the wise conclusion that something must have happened; and so, putting the rest of the squibs in his pocket, he ran off home.

It was not until the entrance to the school building was reached that Brookfield found breath enough to gasp out, —

"'Twas old Chard himself! I nearly walked into his arms! Some one's split, and he was waiting there to collar the whole pack of us!"

Shamefacedly, and with looks of apprehension, the discomfited band assembled in the schoolroom for prayers.

"Hullo!" whispered Oliver to Brookfield in a bantering tone. "How about the firework display?"

The football captain was in no mood for joking, and answered with a surly "Shut up!" He was momentarily expecting the door to open, and the headmaster to enter and commence an investigation.

To the surprise of at least a dozen young gentlemen, nothing of the sort happened. Mr. Draper read prayers, and gave the order to pass on to bed.

Brookfield was the senior in charge of No. 5 Dormitory, and all the other occupants of the room being numbered among the faithful dozen who had mustered in the playground, the conversation naturally turned on the unexpected termination to their adventure.

"How is it Chard has said nothing? Perhaps he won't kick up a row after all."

"Oh, won't he! He's keeping it till to-morrow; don't you fret."

"Who could have told him?"

"Why, that young sneak of a Downing," said Brookfield, getting into bed. "He told Wills. I'll half kill that young hound in the morning!"

The getting-up bell rang at the accustomed time, and early school proceeded as usual. This suspense was worse almost than the row itself, and Brookfield began to wish that the thundercloud would break.

At length the dreaded moment seemed to have arrived, when at the end of breakfast the headmaster rose from his chair and rapped on the table as a signal for silence. Jarvis and Roden exchanged a meaning glance, which was repeated between other boys at different tables.

"I told you the other day that I did not wish you to have any fireworks," began Mr. Chard. "It is not my intention to take away any legitimate enjoyment to which you have been accustomed, without, if possible, giving you something in its place; and as it is a fine day, I shall grant a half-holiday for a special game of football."

There was a burst of applause as the boys rose from their seats; but Brookfield, without waiting to join in the cheers, slipped out of the room and made for the entrance to the playground. Half-way across the stretch of gravel he heard footsteps behind him, and turning saw Jarvis following at top speed. The same thought had evidently suggested itself to them both – a possible solution of the mystery.

Rushing into the empty shed, they paused, and then burst into a laugh.

"Well, I'm blest!" cried Jarvis. "We were a set of muffs! Fancy all our grand plot being knocked out by that!"

In one corner stood one upright of the high-jump gallows; about it was hung an old tarpaulin; while perched on the top was a battered mortar-board, the property of some departed hero.

"Some of the kids must have done this," said Brookfield – "the one who was in here the other evening, and heard us talking. He slipped out last night, and rigged this up after tea. It wasn't Downing, after all; but I wouldn't mind betting sixpence 'twas young Markham."

"Cheeky little beggar!" cried Jarvis. "I saw him sniggering this morning at breakfast. I vote we haul him in here and give him a licking."

"Oh no!" answered Brookfield. "It's a jolly day for footer, and we've got the extra half, so perhaps it's as well this blessed guy did spoil our revolt."

The fireworks were subsequently disposed of on easy terms to the day boys, and though the story soon leaked out among the boarders, causing a good deal of harmless chaff and hearty laughter, it is probable that Mr. Chard himself never knew how much he was indebted to an old tarpaulin and battered mortar-board for the part they had played in so effectively nipping in the bud a promising rebellion.

THE COCK-HOUSE CUP

There was great excitement on the Big Side cricket ground at Hadbury College, though play for the day had finished. The last of the inter-house matches had just been brought to a conclusion, and the coveted trophy, known generally as the "Cock-house Cup," was about to be presented to the winners.

At Hadbury there were many honours of this kind to be won – the "footer" shield, the racquets trophy, and other prizes of a similar nature, which excited keen competition between the different boarding-houses. But among all these coveted rewards of skill and endurance the cricket challenge cup was perhaps the most highly valued. It took the form of a handsome and elegantly-chased vase of solid silver, on which, each succeeding year, the name of the holders was engraved.

Directly in front of the pavilion the ground was raised into a small terrace, round which the whole school had assembled in a dense crowd. At the top of the slope, as though on a platform, stood the headmaster, the Rev. T. A. Wedworth, M.A., Mrs. Wedworth, several of the house-masters and their wives, Brise the captain of cricket, and other notables too numerous to mention.

The late afternoon sunlight flashed like fire on the precious metal as Mrs. Wedworth handed the cup to Herbert, the captain of the winning team; and a mighty roar of applause went up from the crowd, who had been patiently bottling up their shouts all through the headmaster's speech.

"Hurrah! Bravo, Conway's! Three cheers for Conway's! Hurrah!"

A boy who, considering his size, contributed as large a share as any one to the general hubbub, was young Harry Westcott, commonly known among his more intimate associates as the "Weasel." In a voice of remarkable power and shrillness he shrieked, "Bravo, Conway's! Bravo, Herbert!" until a bigger boy, standing just in front, whose teeth were set on edge by these yells, turned round crying, "Shut up, you little beast! You're enough to deafen anybody!"

At first sight there seemed little cause for such a display of feeling. Westcott was a day boy, and did not wear the green and orange cap of Mr. Conway's house. He was, however, a cricket enthusiast, never absented himself from a big match, and knew all the great men's scores and averages. He was a stanch admirer of Herbert, and secretly flattered himself that his own style in batting closely resembled that of the captain of Conway's. As his own team had been knocked out in the first round, he had hoped that Conway's would win, and hence his satisfaction at the result of the final contest.

At Hadbury the day boys were, for the sake of the games, nominally divided into two "houses," Mr. Beard's and Mr. Hutton's. Westcott wore the blue and white cap of the latter; and though Hutton's had never been favourites for the challenge cup, yet the "Weasel" continued to possess his soul in patience, feeling quite sure that when he should be awarded his house colours, a great change would come over the character of the team, and the name of "Hutton's" would then stand a very good chance of being engraved on the Cock-house Cup.

The sunlight flashed again in a dazzle of ruddy gold, as Herbert turned and held up the trophy as a sign of victory. Another roar burst from three hundred throats; the handsome cup being regarded almost with awe and reverence by the spectators, as though it were some relic of the heroic past, a trophy for which doughty knights had struggled in the ages of romance. It had been in existence now for years, and many players who had helped to win it had since then done great things on county grounds, and made names in first-class cricket.

One set of boys there was among the crowd who, for the most part, looked glum and surly, and refused to cheer. They wore the red and black cap of Morgan's, and curiously enough were not members of the house which had been defeated in that day's encounter. Morgan's had been beaten by Conway's in the semi-finals. There had been ill will and dissatisfaction about an umpire's decision on which hung the fate of the game, and, ever since, Morgan's had been consoling themselves with the rather malevolent hope that Conway's would be defeated in the final.

An oak box, lined with baize and fitted with a lock and key, had been specially constructed to hold the cup when it was carried to and from the cricket ground; and, as the assembly began to disperse, Herbert carefully deposited the trophy in its appointed case, which he then locked, and put the key in his pocket.

"I say," he remarked, handing the box to Buckle, the long-stop, "I wish you'd take care of this, and carry it back with you. I want to run down town and send off a telegram. I told my people I'd wire if we won."

The interior of the pavilion was forbidden ground except to the privileged few; but on an occasion such as the present the rule was not so rigidly enforced, and a motley crowd pressed in after the players to congratulate the winners and glance at the scoring sheets.

Buckle was a good-natured giant, a strong tower as long-stop, but rather a clown in many ways; and, as might have been expected in the present instance, he became the subject of a good bit of friendly chaff and joking.

"Take care of that cup, Buckle; don't lose it!"