CHAPTER XV
GRIM'S SUSPICIONS
As I said before, Jack Bourne, after the first bloom of his forbiddenpleasures had worn off, rather repented of the Raffles' connection, andwould gladly have exchanged it for the old, easy, open, and above-boardsociety of his chums. Grim, Rogers, Wilson, Poulett, etc., were, on theirside, rather sore at Jack's continual desertion of them and their causes.They had just seen him pedalling easily after Acton, throwing them arather mirthless joke as he ran past, and they had, naturally, held acouncil to consider matters.
"Wherever can the beggar get to is what I want to know," said Wilson.
"Can any one tell me what he wants with Acton?" said Grim.
"I think that it's Acton that wants him," said Rogers. "Come to think ofit, Grimmy, you're Acton's man. Why doesn't he lag you?"
"Grimmy's not to be trusted. He'd read the _billet-doux_"
"I don't believe that there's any notes, Wilson," said Grim,impressively, "in this business. It's something deeper than that."
"What's the mystery, Mr. Grimmy Sherlock Combs?"
"Poachin'," said Grim, solemnly.
"What!" exclaimed the other, with breathless interest.
"Dunno, quite," said Grim; "but that young ass dropped a cartridge fromhis pocket the other day."
"There's nothing to poach here, Grimmy."
"There's Pettigrew's pheasants," said Grim, mysteriously.
"But you don't shoot them in March."
"_We_ don't, Poulett, but poachers do."
"Tisn't likely that Acton----"
"Well, don't know," said Rogers, reflectively. "He's lived so long inFrance, where they shoot robins and nightingales, that he'll not know."
"But Bourne would."
"That's why he looks so blue. He does know, and it preys on his mind."
W.E. Grim's pathetic picture of young Bourne turned out-of-season poacheragainst his will by an inexorable Acton didn't seem quite to fill thebill.
"Grimmy, you're an absolute idiot. That poachin' dodge won't do. Perhaps,after all, they only bike round generally."
"What about that cartridge?" said Grim.
The little knot of cronies discussed the matter for a good half-hour,Grim holding tenaciously to a poaching theory--pheasants or rabbits--theothers scouting the idea as next door to the absurd.
"Look here," said Wilson, brilliantly, "we'll track the pair to theirearth to-morrow. If they're after birds or bunnies I'll stand tea allround at Hooper's."
"All right," said Grim. "I'd like to know about that cartridge."
On the morrow the suspicious band quietly trotted out after dinner fromSt. Amory's, dressed ostensibly for a run down Westcote way. Once downthe hill they lay well out in the fields, keeping a sharp watch throughthe hedges for their quarry. When they saw two well-known figures, feeton the rest, coasting merrily down and head for Westcote, they all drew along breath and girded up their loins for the race.
"With luck and the short cuts," said Grim, stepping out, "we may just see'em sneak into Pettigrew's woods."
"And we've got a mile in hand too," said Wilson.
The cronies ran tightly together, nursing their wind and keeping wellscreened from eyeshot from the road, not that either Acton, or Bournedreamed that their afternoon's run was being dogged by anyone. From theirnumerous short cuts the scouts were necessarily out of view from theroad, but they marked the two cyclists from point to point and themselvesheaded up hill and down dale straight for Westcote. They felt pretty wellwinded by now, as they stood panting in a breezy spinney, watching forthe appearance of their quarry on the brown road beneath them.
"There they are," gasped Wilson, pretty blown.
"There's only one," said Rogers, "and it is that young owl Bourne, too.He's shed Acton."
"Perhaps he's punctured," suggested Grim; "anyhow, we hang on to Jack."
Rather puzzled at the non-appearance of Acton, they kept the first-comerwell in view as he pedalled hard for Westcote.
"That's Jack right enough," said Rogers; "and we'll have to leg it orhe'll slip us. Jove! he's captured a wheel with a vengeance. Hear ithum."
The quartette strung down the hill full pelt, but when they got to thebottom the cyclist was a good hundred yards ahead. His pursuers came to adead stop.
"May as well go home now," said Grim, in great disgust. "We can't dog himnow, and anyhow it isn't Pettigrew's pheasants that Jack's after: he'sgone past the woods. What a bone-shaker he's captured. Hear the spokesrattlin'."
"Not so quick, Grimmy. He's wheeling into that little Westcote inn. We'llrun him down now."
The rider had indeed dismounted nearly a quarter mile ahead, andinstantly the Amorians were stringing down the road again. Before thedoor of the little inn they found a bicycle propped up drunkenly againstthe wall, and the Amorians, pumped though they were, had breath enoughleft to explode over Bourne's machine. It was a "solid" ofpre-diamond-frame days, guiltless of enamel or plating, and handle-barsof width generous enough for a Dutch herring-boat's bow.
"There's no false pride about Jack," said Grim, gloating over the weirdmount. "Whatever is he doing in here?"
"Liquid refreshment," said Rogers between a gulp and a gasp. "Oh, Jack,was it for this and this that you gave us the go-by?"
"This place doesn't seem Jack's form somehow," said Wilson, lookingdoubtfully up and down the little inn.
"Ring him out, Wilson," said Grim. "His little game's up now, and we canrag him for an age over this."
"Let's try his mount first, Grimmy." Rogers wheeled out the machine and,after hopping twenty yards, "found" the saddle. To mount it was onething, to ride it was evidently a matter of liberal education beyond theattainments of a junior Amorian, for, as Rogers attempted a modest sweepround, the machine collapsed, and he was sprawling on his back, thebicycle rattling about his ears. Then--it seemed automatically to thegasping Amorians--a sturdy youth rushed out of the inn flourishing ahalf-emptied glass of beer in one hand, and he seized the strugglingRogers by the scruff of the neck with the other. Rogers wasunceremoniously jerked to his feet before he quite realized what it wasall about. One or two men lounged out of the inn, and surveyed the scenedispassionately, and the landlord pushed his way forward.
"Wot's the matter?"
"Matter!" gasped the youth, tightening his hold on Rogers' collar andwaving his glass dramatically.
"This young shaver was going to nick my bike. I seen him."
"I wasn't, you fool----" began Rogers, who did not like the man'sknuckles in his neck.
"Fool am I, you little ugly thief? Worn't you a-scorchin' down the roadw'it? I see you."
The other Amorians curled up with laughter at the way things were mixingup, and at the last exquisite joke.
"Jove, Rogers, to think you meant to steal it!" burbled Poulett.
"Leave loose of my collar, you idiot," said Rogers, squirming in theman's grasp; "I tell you it's all a mistake."
"That's all my h'eye. I see you sneak it, and it'll be a month for you.Sneaking bikes is awful! Mistake be blowed."
"Oh! explain, some of you," said Rogers, frantically, "before I--Grim,tell the lunatic."
The Amorians were beyond mere laughter now, but the landlord had witenough to see that there was some mistake somewhere, and he finallypersuaded the owner of the bicycle to moderate his attentions to theexasperated Rogers. Grim recovered sufficiently to lift some of thesuspicions from that ill-used youth.
"We thought you were a friend of ours--back view only and at a distance,you know--but you're not very like him, really, in the face. His name'sBourne."
"Mine's 'Arris," said the bicycle owner, angrily.
"A very nice name, too;" said Grim, soothingly. "You'd better see what'sthe damage to the machine for we must be trotting back to St. Amory's."
Mr. Harris spun the pedals and tried the wheels.
"It's shook up considerable, that's wot it is."
"All right," said Grim, hastily. "Here's a shilling. Give it a drink
ofbeer."
This was a wretched joke really, but it brightened the face of Mr. Harrisconsiderably when he heard it, and the loafers departed from theirdispassionate attitude, and became quite friendly. The landlord went into draw beer.
A minute afterwards the quartette was heading back for St. Amory's ashard as it could go, and whenever a halt was called for breath, three ofthe cronies collapsed on the earth, and howled at Rogers, who could notsee the joke.
Over a quiet little tea, after call-over, at Hooper's Rogers explainedfully his views.
"No, I'm not going to do any more detective work. We missed Acton andBourne beautifully; they don't go to Westcote, and Grimmy's idea aboutpoachin' 's rotten. He may be Acton's messenger-boy or the rider of adecent pneumatic, but I'm going to let him go his own way."
When, afterwards, they rubbed embrocation into their wearied limbs, therest agreed with Rogers.
"But, yet," said Grim, "I'd like to know about that cartridge too."