Tom, Dick and Harry | Page 8

came, I think," said I.
Dicky laughed unfeelingly.
"I mean the chap who cut the Suez Canal," said he.
"Oh! I beg your pardon," said I. "No, I don't know him."
"Well, I've been having a go in at the same kind of job," continued Dicky. "You know what a drop there is at the end of the pond, where you saw me yesterday, in the shrubbery? Well, it struck me it wouldn't take much engineering to empty it."
"What!" I exclaimed, "empty the pond! You'll get in an awful row, Dicky. Don't think of it."
"Think--it's done, I tell you," said the man of science. "That was what I was at when you saw me."
"I thought you were digging up primroses."
"Digging up grandmothers! I was letting in a pipe to drain it. It was a rare job to shove it in from the bottom corner of the pond through the bank into the shrubbery. But I managed it. It was coming through like one o'clock when I left. I expect the pond will be empty by this time."
I quailed with horror. If so, I should be discovered. I was tempted to turn tail: but that would be even worse. The only thing was to stay and see it through.
I confronted myself with the reflection that Dicky's experiments so rarely succeeded, that in all probability the pistol still lay safe under four feet of water. If not--
"Hooray!" exclaimed Dicky, as we came in sight of the place; "it's done the trick this time. See, Tom!"
I did see. In place of the water I left there in the morning was a large empty basin of mud, with a few large puddles of water lying at the bottom, and a few hillocks of mud denoting the places which had once been shallows.
My quick eye hurriedly took in the dismal landscape. For a moment my spirits rose, for I could nowhere discern the compromising object I dreaded to see. It was no doubt buried in the mud, and as safe as if the pond were full to the brim.
"Isn't it ripping?" said Dicky. "It wasn't easy to do, but it only wanted a little management. I mean to go in for engineer-- Hullo, what's that rummy stone out there? or is it a stone, or a fish, or-- I say, Tom," he added, clutching my arm, "I'm bothered if that's not a pistol!"
My white face and chattering teeth made reply unnecessary. There, snugly perched on a little heap of stones, as if set up for inspection, lay the unlucky pistol, gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Dicky looked first at the pistol, then at me; and began slowly to take in the state of affairs.
He took a cautious step out in the mud in the direction of the weapon, but came back.
"I thought you could hardly be chucking in all those things for fun," said he presently.
I stood gaping in an imbecile way, and said nothing.
"I know whose it is. He had it up here once before."
"I say," gulped I, "can't you let the water in again?" Dick had not considered this. His triumph had been letting the water out. However, he would see what could be done.
We went down into the shrubbery. About a foot of water lay on the ground, promising great fertility some day, but decidedly muddy-looking to-day.
"The thing will be to bung up the hole first," said Dicky.
So we set to work to hammer up the end of the zinc pipe and stuff the aperture round with sods and stones. I even sacrificed my cap to the good cause.
The bell began to ring before we had well completed the task. "That ought to keep any more from running out," said Dicky. "If we're lucky, the water will come in on its own hook at the other end."
The theory was not exactly scientific, for scientific men do not believe in luck. Still, it was the best we could think of as we turned to go.
"Stop a bit," said I, as we were leaving. "May as well tidy up a bit in there before we go, eh?"
"In there" was the bed of the pond.
"It might look better," said Dick, turning up his trousers. We decently interred the pistol in the mud, and raised a small heap of stones to keep it down; and then cautiously obliterating our footsteps in the mud, we made for terra firma, and scuttled back to school as fast as our legs would carry us.
Fortunately we entered unobserved, and disencumbered ourselves of our muddy boots without attracting attention to their condition. Ten minutes later we were deep in our work in the big schoolroom.
Preparation that night was a solemn and gloomy ceremony. Dicky and I kept catching one another's eyes, and then glancing on to where the Dux, cool as a cucumber, sat turning over