Gunpowder Treason and Plot, and Other Stories for Boys

"No fear!" answered the long-stop with a grin.

"Well, don't bang it about; we shall want it returned next year exactly as you got it."

"You've got to win it first," chuckled Buckle, putting the case down upon a locker, and preparing to take off his spiked shoes.

Brise, the captain of cricket, elbowed his way through the crush.

"Is Herbert here?" he asked.

"No, he's gone down town," answered the long-stop.

"Oh, bother!" was the answer. "I wanted to speak to him. I'm going away for a couple of days to see my pater before he leaves for India. Well, I must see him when I come back."

"All right," answered Buckle. "Look here," he added; "how about getting this cup engraved?"

Brise was already moving away. He turned his head and said something, but the remark was lost in the babel of noises. The crowd and hubbub increased; there was some shoving and indications of horse-play.

"Now then, all you fellows who haven't any business here, just clear out!" shouted Buckle.

"Clear out! Hook it, you kids!" echoed two or three prefects, at the same time picking up old leg-guards and other weapons with which, if necessary, to enforce obedience to their commands. "Out you go!"

Among those who joined in the helter-skelter rush which followed was Master Harry Westcott, who, with his usual self-assertion, had forced his way into the pavilion, and now dashed out headlong to escape the consequences of his temerity. Glancing at his watch, he found the hour was later than he expected, and so, starting off at a trot across the level playing-field, he made the best of his way back to the house of his aunt, Mrs. Arden, with whom he lodged during the school terms.

Aunt Polly had finished her tea when her nephew arrived, but she still sat at the head of the table, while Harry gulped down huge mouthfuls of bread and butter, at the same time pouring forth an excited account of the match, describing with great animation Herbert's big hits, Smith's sensational catch, and the magnificent manner in which Vincent had kept wicket. Mrs. Arden smiled and nodded, but it was perhaps excusable if her mind wandered, and she mixed some points in her nephew's narrative. To her the Cock-house Cup was but a silver vase. She knew none of the traditions which belonged to it, the long story of gallant and honourable warfare told by the names engraved upon its side; and though she was aware of the fact that each summer term one house gained the cricket challenge trophy, yet it did not seem of vital importance to her whether it went to Conway's or Morgan's. She was, however, pleased with Harry's enthusiasm, and anxious for him to grow up a thorough Englishman, and, therefore, she tried to sympathize with him in the interest which he took in the great national sport, and made up for her lack of knowledge by being a ready listener when the boy came home with tales of the playing-field.

Meanwhile, Buckle had changed his boots, found his coat, and started off to return to Conway's, bearing the oak case in triumph, and surrounded by a small group of wearers of the green and orange cap. As they turned into the road a pebble clattered past them.

"Swindle!" yelled a shrill voice, and a youth with a red and black band to his "straw" disappeared quickly round a neighbouring corner.

"Some young beast of Morgan's," growled an indignant Conwayite. "They've all gone home in a sulk. Precious poor sportsmen, I call 'em. All because Bell gave that chap 'run out' in our match against them, and they said he wasn't."

"He was out right enough," said Buckle. "Of course, I couldn't see from where I was standing, but Vincent told me the beggar's bat never came within a yard of the crease; and Vincent isn't the sort of chap to tell a lie for the sake of a wicket. He always plays the game."

"Well, Morgan's have made up their minds that we swindled them out of that cup," said another. "They've got a grudge against us. They were all hoping that we should be beaten to-day, and they're jolly sick that we aren't."

"Let 'em be!" retorted the sturdy long-stop. "One thing I know; we've got the cup, and they'll have to wait a whole twelvemonth before they can take it away from us again."

"They might come over and steal it!" said a rather shallow-brained small boy vaguely, for which remark he was promptly smacked on the head, and the conversation terminated.

Buckle took the case to the house-master's study, and deposited it on the end of the writing-table. The boy would have liked to have another look at the trophy, but Herbert had the key of the box, and Mr. Conway himself was out spending the evening.

The following morning at breakfast the master referred to the recent victory, and congratulated the cricket team on having won such distinction for the house.

"By the way," he said in conclusion, "while the cup remains with us (which I hope may be for many seasons to come), I think it may as well stand here on the sideboard with our other trophies. Will you fetch it from my study, Vincent?"

The boy named rose from his place at the prefect's table and left the room, reappearing again two minutes later with the oak case in his hand.

"It's locked, sir," he remarked.

"Who has the key?"

"Here it is, sir," said Herbert, producing it from his waistcoat pocket.

At each of the four tables the boys had paused in their eating and drinking, and were waiting in silence for another sight of the famous trophy. Mr. Conway turned the key and opened the box.

It was empty!

For a moment the incident seemed rather more comic than serious. It appeared a sort of first of April joke, and a ripple of laughter went round the room.

"How's this?" said Mr. Conway with a slight indication of annoyance in his tone. "Where is the cup?"

The members of the cricket team stared at one another in silent astonishment.

"Where is the cup?" repeated Mr. Conway. "Who brought it back from the field yesterday?"

"I did, sir," answered Buckle. "I put it in your study."

"Did you make sure the cup was in the case before you started?"

"Yes, sir; I saw Herbert lock it in the case, and he's had the key ever since."

"Did you leave the case about anywhere?"

"No, sir; I brought it straight home, and put it on your table."

"Do you know anything about it, Herbert?"

"No, sir," answered the cricket captain, whose face was as long as a fiddle. "I locked the cup in the case, and gave it to Buckle; and I only just remembered that the key was still in my pocket."

"Well, this is most extraordinary!" said Mr. Conway blankly. "It sounds like one of those tricks shown by Maskelyne and Cook. You must be mistaken, Herbert. This must be inquired into at once."

A few minutes later an excited crowd surged out of the dining-hall. Every one was talking at once, the result being a perfect babel of sound. The Cock-house Cup was missing; by some extraordinary means it had been spirited away from its rightful owners. In the whole history of Hadbury College such a thing had never been heard of before.

Each boy had a different opinion to offer: one thought that Herbert or Buckle must have left it behind on the ground; another believed a burglary had been committed; while a third made the somewhat rash assertion that the Morganites might have collared it out of spite, though how this could have been done he was not prepared to explain.

A few of the seniors did not doubt that the cup would be found somewhere in the house-master's study, but a careful search afforded no further clue towards a solution of the mystery; in fact, the theory of a robbery seemed untenable, since not a single article in the room had been disturbed or removed from its accustomed place.

The startling fact at length forced itself upon the minds of all concerned. The Cock-house Cup, Hadbury's most cherished and honoured trophy, had, in some mysterious manner, disappeared; added to which was the unpleasant reflection that Conway's would be held responsible for its loss.

Ill news travels fast, and before morning school the tidings had spread far and wide. Westcott, arriving in the big quadrangle ten minutes before the bell rang, was told it by his chum Lawrence.

"I say, Westcott," cried the latter; "what d'you think? The Cock-house Cup's gone!"

For a moment the day boy seemed overcome with the shock of this announcement. He gulped in his throat, and then blankly said, "Oh!"

"Yes, it's gone, right enough," continued the other excitedly. "Lost, or stolen, or something. Awful rum business. I've just heard all about it from young Redfern, who's at Conway's."

And the speaker launched out into a vivid account of what had happened, not forgetting to embellish the story with a little addition, prompted by his own imagination.