My Friend Smith | Page 3

here, if it takes you till
midnight to say what you've got to say to Jenny."
This valiant determination put an end to Bates's wavering, and with a
rueful face he joined us.
"Now, mind," said Rasper, "the first you see!"
"Well," exclaimed I, starting suddenly to run, "that's Cad Prog, the
butcher-boy, there; come along."
So it was! Of all our enemies Cad Prog was the most truculent, and
most feared. The sight of his red head coming round the corner was
always enough to strike panic into a score of youngsters, and even we
bigger boys always looked meek when Prog came out to defy us.
He was strolling guilelessly along, and didn't see us at first. Then
suddenly he caught sight of us approaching, and next moment the blue
apron and red head disappeared with a bolt round the corner.

"Come on!" shouted Rasper, who led.
"So we are!" cried we, and hue and cry was made for Cad Prog
forthwith.
We sighted him as we turned the corner. He was making straight for the
market. Perhaps to get an axe, I thought, or to hide, or to tell my uncle!
"Come on!" was the shout.
It's wonderful how a short sharp chase warms up the blood even of a
small boy of twelve. Before we were half down the street, even Bates
had no thought left of deserting, and we all four pressed on, each
determined not to be last.
The fugitive Prog kept his course to the market, but there doubled
suddenly and bolted down Side Street. That was where he lived; he was
going to run into his hole then, like a rabbit.
We gained no end on him in the turn, and were nearly up to him as he
reached the door of his humble home.
He bolted in--so did we. He bolted up stairs--so did we. He plunged
headlong into a room where was a little girl rocking a cradle--so did we.
Then began a wild scuffle.
"Catch him! Take his cap off!" cried Bobbins.
"He hasn't got a cap!" cried Rasper--"butcher-boys never have!"
"Then pull off his apron!" was the cry.
In the scuffle the little girl was trodden on, and the cradle clean upset.
A crowd collected in the street. Cad Prog roared as loud as he could, so
did his little sister, so did the baby, so did Jimmy Bates, so did Joe
Bobbins, so did Harry Rasper, so did I. I did not care what happened; I
went for Cad Prog, and have a vague idea of my hand and his nose
being near together, and louder yells still.

Then all of a sudden there was a tramp of heavy footsteps on the stairs,
and all I can remember after that was receiving a heavy cuff on my
head, being dragged down into the street, where--so it seemed to me for
the moment--at least a million people must have been congregated; and,
finally, I know not how, I was standing in the middle of my uncle's
study floor, with my coat gone, my mouth bleeding, and my cap, after
all, clean vanished!
It was a queer plight to be in. I heard a dinning in my ears of loud
voices, and when I looked at the bust on the top of the bookcase it
seemed to be toppling about anyhow. Some people were talking in the
room, but the only voice I could recognise was my uncle's. He was
saying something about "not wanting to shield me," and "locking-up,"
the drift of which I afterwards slowly gathered, when the village
policeman--we only had one at Brownstroke--addressing my uncle as
"your honour," said he would look in in the morning for further orders.
At this interesting juncture the bust began to wobble about again, and I
saw and heard no more till I woke next morning, and found Mrs
Hudson mopping my forehead with something, and saying, "There now,
Master Freddy, lie quite still, there's a good boy."
"What's the matter?" said I, putting up my hand to the place she was
washing.
It was something like a bump!
"It's only a bruise, Master Freddy--no bones broken, thank God!" said
she, motioning me to be silent.
But I was in no mood to be silent. Slowly the recollection of yesterday's
events dawned on me.
"Did they get off Cad Prog's apron," I inquired, "after all?"
Of course, the good old soul thought this was sheer wandering of the
mind, and she looked very frightened, and implored me to lie still.

It was a long time before I perceived any connection between our chase
of the redoubtable Cad Prog up Side Street yesterday and my lying here
bruised and in a darkened room to-day. At last I supposed Mr Prog
must have conquered