Tom, Dick and Harry | Page 5

itself, I am sorry to say, a strong presumption
in favour of Tempest having one. Besides, I had myself once heard him
speak about shooting rooks at home with a pistol.
Oddly enough, chance was to put in my way a means of setting my
mind at rest almost immediately.
"I say, kid," said the Dux, as I entered the schoolroom just before the
time, "I've left my Latin grammar in my locker upstairs. Look sharp, or
you'll be late again and catch it."
That was his style all over--insult and injury hand in hand. He only
practised it on fellows he really liked, too.
"I say, I can't," pleaded I. "Plummer will give it me hot if he catches me
again. I've got it pretty bad as it is."
"I know you have; that's why I tell you to look sharp." It was no good
arguing with Tempest. I knew he would risk his neck for me any day.
That would be much less exertion to him than running upstairs. So I
went.

The Dux's locker, I grieve to say, was a model of untidiness. Cricket
flannels, eatables, letters, tooth-powders, books, and keepsakes were all
huddled together in admired disorder to the full extent of the capacity
of the box. The books being well in the rear of the heap, and time being
precious, I availed myself of the rough-and-ready method of emptying
out the entire contents at one fell swoop and extracting the particular
object of my quest from the debris.
I had done so, and was proceeding to huddle up the other things into a
compact block of a size to fit once more into the receptacle, when
something fell from the pocket of one of the garments with a clatter to
the floor. It was a pistol!
With a face as white and teeth as chattering as if I had seen a ghost, I
instinctively pounced upon the tell-tale weapon, and whisked it, with a
shudder, into my own pocket. Then, with decidedly impaired energy, I
punched the bundle back into its place, slammed down the lid, and
returned to the schoolroom just in time to regain my place before Dr
Plummer made his entry.
"You'll give yourself heart-disease if you rush up and down stairs like
that," said Tempest as I handed him the book. "You look fishier than
ever."
"Latin grammar, juniors," announced the doctor. "Close books. Jones,
stand up and decline gradus."
I declined, and fell. The excitements of the past six hours had
demoralised me altogether. I could not remember who or what gradus
was--whether it was an active noun or a feminine verb or a plural
conjunction, or what. In vain the faithful Dicky prompted me from
behind and Graham minor from the side. As they both prompted at the
same time, and each suggested different things, I only floundered
deeper. I felt myself smiling vacantly first at one, then at the other, then
at the doctor. I moved one hand feebly behind me in token of my
despairing gratitude to Dicky, and the other I laid convulsively on the
collar of Graham's coat. It was all of no avail, and finally, when I had
almost reached the stage of laughing aloud, my mother wit came to my

rescue and I sat down.
This was the beginning of a tragedy of errors. With the ghost of Hector
haunting us, none of us, except the Dux, who always kept his head,
could do anything. The doctor's favours were lavishly and impartially
distributed. Watkins, the "baby" of the class, made an ingenious
calculation that if all the "lines" which were doled out as the result of
that morning's work were to be extended in one unbroken length, they
would reach exactly from Plummer's desk to the late Hector's kennel.
Hector again! Every one's thoughts veered round to the unlucky
quadruped and the storm that was brewing over his mangled remains.
Morning school passed, however, without any further official
announcement on the subject. When class was dismissed half an hour
earlier than usual, it was tacitly understood that this was in
consequence of the obsequies of the late lamented, which were attended
by the Plummer family and the errand boy, not indeed in crape, but
amid every sign of mourning.
We young gentlemen were not invited. Had we been, it is doubtful
whether the alacrity with which some of us would have obeyed the
summons would have been altogether complimentary to the memory of
the deceased.
As it was, we loafed about dismally, discussing the topic of the hour in
corners, and wished the storm would break and be done with.
We had not long to wait!
CHAPTER TWO.
A CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE.
As for me, I was very poor company for any one that afternoon