The Young Buglers | Page 3

demanded what reason the man had for
suspecting the boys, and the bargeman acknowledged that he had that
afternoon upset a boat with four or five boys in her. "They would not
bear you malice on that account," the Provost said; "they don't think
much of a swim such weather as this, unless indeed you did it on
purpose."
The man hesitated in his answer, and the Provost continued, "You
evidently did do it on purpose, and in that case, although it was carried
too far, for I hear you had a very narrow escape of being stifled, still
you brought it upon yourself, and I hope it will be a lesson to you not to
risk the lives of Eton boys for your amusement. I know nothing about
this affair, but if you can point out the boys you suspect I will of course
inquire into it."
The bargeman departed, grumbling that he did not know one of the
young imps from another, but if he did find them, he'd wring their
necks for them to a certainty. The Provost had some inquiries made as
to the boys who had been upset, and whether they had all been in at
lock-up time; finding that they had all answered to their names, he
made no further investigation.
This affair had taken place in the summer before this story begins, on
the 15th of October, 1808. On that day a holiday was granted in
consequence of the head-master's birthday, and the boys set off, some
to football, some for long walks in the country.
The Scudamores, with several of their friends, strolled down the

towing-path for some miles, and walked back by the road. As they
entered their dames-house on their return, Tom Scudamore said for the
twentieth time, "Well, I would give anything to be a soldier, instead of
having to go in and settle down as a banker--it's disgusting!"
As they entered a boy came up. "Oh, Scudamore, Jackson's been asking
for you both. It's something particular, for he has been out three or four
times, and he wanted to send after you, but no one knew where you had
gone."
The boys at once went into the master's study, where they remained all
the afternoon. A short time after they went in, Mr. Jackson came out
and said a word or two to one of the senior boys, and the word was
quickly passed round, that there was to be no row, for the Scudamores
had just heard of the sudden death of their father. That evening, Mr.
Jackson had beds made up for them in his study, so that they might not
have the pain of having to talk with the other boys. The housekeeper
packed up their things, and next morning early they started by the
coach for London.
Mr. Scudamore, the father of the young Etonians, was a banker. He was
the elder of two brothers, and had inherited his father's business, while
his brother had gone into the army. The banker had married the
daughter of a landowner in the neighborhood, and had lived happily
and prosperously until her death, seven years before this story begins.
She had borne him three children, the two boys, now fifteen and
fourteen years old respectively, and a girl, Rhoda, two years younger
than Peter. The loss of his wife afflicted him greatly, and he received
another shock five years later by the death of his brother, Colonel
Scudamore, to whom he was much attached. From the time of his
wife's death he had greatly relaxed in his attention to his business, and
after his brother's death he left the management almost entirely in the
hands of his cashier, in whom he had unlimited confidence. This
confidence was wholly misplaced. For years the cashier had been
carrying on speculation upon his own account with the monies of the
bank. Gradually and without exciting the least suspicion he had
realized the various securities held by the bank, and at last gathering all

the available cash he, one Saturday afternoon, locked up the bank and
fled.
On Monday it was found that he was missing; Mr. Scudamore went
down to the bank, and had the books taken into his parlor for
examination. Some hours afterwards a clerk went in and found his
master lying back in his chair insensible. A doctor on arriving
pronounced it to be apoplexy. He never rallied, and a few hours
afterwards the news spread through the country that Scudamore, the
banker, was dead, and that the bank had stopped payment.
People could believe the former item of news, but were incredulous as
to the latter. Scudamore's bank was looked upon in Lincolnshire as at
least as safe as the Bank of England itself. But the sad truth