Mike

“It’s all right,” said Wyatt.

“All right, is it?  What’s on?”

One of the prisoners spoke.

“Make ’em leave hold of us, Mr. Butt.  They’re a-going to chuck us in the pond.”

“Ho!” said the policeman, with a change in his voice.  “Ho, are they?  Come now, young gentleman, a lark’s a lark, but you ought to know where to stop.”

“It’s anything but a lark,” said Wyatt in the creamy voice he used when feeling particularly savage.  “We’re the Strong Right Arm of Justice.  That’s what we are.  This isn’t a lark, it’s an execution.”

“I don’t want none of your lip, whoever you are,” said Mr. Butt, understanding but dimly, and suspecting impudence by instinct.

“This is quite a private matter,” said Wyatt.  “You run along on your beat.  You can’t do anything here.”

“Ho!”

“Shove ’em in, you chaps.”

“Stop!” From Mr. Butt.

“Oo-er!” From prisoner number one.

There was a sounding splash as willing hands urged the first of the captives into the depths.  He ploughed his way to the bank, scrambled out, and vanished.

Wyatt turned to the other prisoner.

“You’ll have the worst of it, going in second.  He’ll have churned up the mud a bit.  Don’t swallow more than you can help, or you’ll go getting typhoid.  I expect there are leeches and things there, but if you nip out quick they may not get on to you.  Carry on, you chaps.”

It was here that the regrettable incident occurred.  Just as the second prisoner was being launched, Constable Butt, determined to assert himself even at the eleventh hour, sprang forward, and seized the captive by the arm.  A drowning man will clutch at a straw.  A man about to be hurled into an excessively dirty pond will clutch at a stout policeman.  The prisoner did.

Constable Butt represented his one link with dry land.  As he came within reach he attached himself to his tunic with the vigour and concentration of a limpet.

At the same moment the executioners gave their man the final heave.  The policeman realised his peril too late.  A medley of noises made the peaceful night hideous.  A howl from the townee, a yell from the policeman, a cheer from the launching party, a frightened squawk from some birds in a neighbouring tree, and a splash compared with which the first had been as nothing, and all was over.

The dark waters were lashed into a maelstrom; and then two streaming figures squelched up the further bank.

The school stood in silent consternation.  It was no occasion for light apologies.

“Do you know,” said Wyatt, as he watched the Law shaking the water from itself on the other side of the pond, “I’m not half sure that we hadn’t better be moving!”

CHAPTER IX BEFORE THE STORM

Your real, devastating row has many points of resemblance with a prairie fire.  A man on a prairie lights his pipe, and throws away the match.  The flame catches a bunch of dry grass, and, before any one can realise what is happening, sheets of fire are racing over the country; and the interested neighbours are following their example. (I have already compared a row with a thunderstorm; but both comparisons may stand.  In dealing with so vast a matter as a row there must be no stint.)

The tomato which hit Wyatt in the face was the thrown-away match.  But for the unerring aim of the town marksman great events would never have happened.  A tomato is a trivial thing (though it is possible that the man whom it hits may not think so), but in the present case, it was the direct cause of epoch-making trouble.

The tomato hit Wyatt.  Wyatt, with others, went to look for the thrower.  The remnants of the thrower’s friends were placed in the pond, and “with them,” as they say in the courts of law, Police Constable Alfred Butt.

Following the chain of events, we find Mr. Butt, having prudently changed his clothes, calling upon the headmaster.

The headmaster was grave and sympathetic; Mr. Butt fierce and revengeful.

The imagination of the force is proverbial.  Nurtured on motor-cars and fed with stop-watches, it has become world-famous.  Mr. Butt gave free rein to it.

“Threw me in, they did, sir.  Yes, sir.”

“Threw you in!”

“Yes, sir. Plop!” said Mr. Butt, with a certain sad relish.

“Really, really!” said the headmaster.  “Indeed!  This is—­dear me!  I shall certainly—­They threw you in!—­Yes, I shall—­certainly——­”

Encouraged by this appreciative reception of his story, Mr. Butt started it again, right from the beginning.

“I was on my beat, sir, and I thought I heard a disturbance.  I says to myself, ‘’Allo,’ I says, ’a frakkus.  Lots of them all gathered together, and fighting.’  I says, beginning to suspect something, ‘Wot’s this all about, I wonder?’ I says.  ’Blow me if I don’t think it’s a frakkus.’  And,” concluded Mr. Butt, with the air of one confiding a secret, “and it was a frakkus!”

“And these boys actually threw you into the pond?”