THE BLACK STAR

A SCHOOL STORY FOR BOYS

By ANDREW H. WALPOLE

AUSTRALIA
CORNSTALK PUBLISHING COMPANY

ARNOLD PLACE, SYDNEY

1925

Wholly set up and printed in Australia by
Eagle Press, Ltd., Allen Street, Waterloo 1925

Registered by the Postmaster-General for
transmission through the post as a book.

Obtainable in Great Britain at the British Australian Bookstore,
51 High Holborn, London, W.C.1, the Bookstall in the
Central Hall of Australia House, Strand, W.C., and from
all other Booksellers: and (wholesale only) from the Australian
Book Company, 16 Farringdon Avenue. London. E.C.4.

First Edition, September, 1925
Second Edition, November, 1925

"I wasn't trying to get out!"

CONTENTS

THE BLACK STAR

[CHAPTER I]

FARADAY'S BAG

Jack Symonds' regret at the holidays' ending had now definitely passed, and, strolling along the wide departure platform, he looked forward with considerable excitement to the reunion with his pals. The train was already crowded with his schoolfellows, who shouted at him many noisy greetings.

"Hullo, Jack!"

"Hullo, yourself! Where did you get that colour?"

"Surfing, old boy. Coming in here? No?"

"Waiting for Billy Faraday," said Jack, and continued his stroll. The Melbourne train had not yet arrived, and Billy consequently had not put in his appearance.

Jack Symonds stood with his back to one of the great station pillars, gazing upon the animated scene with interest. There were scores of the Deepwater College boys, in their blue-and-gold caps, drawn to the city from far and near, to catch the school train.

New juniors, unnaturally silent, were hustled into carriages under the care of Mr. Kemp, the mathematics master; old friends, all smiles and laughter, greeted one another boisterously. Porters bustled to and fro with immense stacks of luggage.

Jack's eye fell idly upon a tall, rather sinister-looking man standing with folded arms, pulling occasionally at a heavy cherrywood pipe. The man's eyes were very deep-set and dark; the mouth was thin-lipped. In all, hardly an attractive, although certainly a striking, personality.

As Jack's glance held the fellow casually for an instant, he was surprised to see him start and pale perceptibly.

"Funny," mused the boy, and turned his head to see what had caused the change in the other's demeanour.

It was another man—and a man, in his own way, quite as remarkable as the first. He was short and very broad, with an immense neck; his nose was twisted permanently to the right, as if he had been struck at some time, a terrific blow in the face.

Jack smiled to himself. "Retired pug," he thought, noting that the man also carried a cauliflower ear—the left, and that his eyes were the narrow, quick eyes of the boxer.

"By Jove," exclaimed the tall man, as the two came together, with mutual expressions of surprise, "what brings you here, Tiger? Thought you were in America."

"Business," said the bent-nosed man, shortly. "Business, my dear old Doctor Daw—do they still call you that?"

"Hush," said the tall man, abruptly; "... that name...."

The rest was lost to Jack, for Doctor Daw spoke in a low whisper. The man he had called Tiger laughed in a short, sharp manner.

"Anyhow, whither away?" he asked.

"Deepwater—down the coast. You getting this train?"

The other nodded, and they both strolled in the direction of the smoking carriages. Jack gazed after them curiously. It was peculiar that the tall man should have said that he was going to Deepwater, for the only sign of civilization at Deepwater Bay was the College—and he could hardly be going there.

"Anyhow," said Jack out loud, "here's Billy, old Bill Faraday himself, and looking about as cheerful as an exhausted codfish."

He slapped the newcomer on the back; but Billy did not brighten appreciably. He was a tall, rather thin youth, with dark eyes and hair that emphasized the present pallor of his face.

"How are things, Jack?"

"Top-hole, old bean—but, I say, what's the matter?"

"Do I look bad? Fact is, old chap, I've been having a pretty rough passage these hols. The pater died, and I'm feeling—"

"I say! I'm awfully sorry. That band on your arm—I didn't notice."

He gripped his pal's arm in silent sympathy. Billy understood. There were never many words between the two, but their understanding was perfect.

Billy's father had been an eminent naturalist. Beyond that, the boy knew very little of him. That he had made explorations into Central Australia, and had attained to considerable fame in scientific circles, Jack was also aware. Billy, however, was a quiet, reserved sort of chap, and no one ever found out much about him or his people. To most of the fellows at the school, indeed, he was a bit of a mystery.

"Don't let us get in with the crowd," said Billy, nodding to an uproariously-cheerful throng at the train windows. "Try this smoker."

Jack followed his chum into the smoking compartment, and they had barely stowed their bags in the rack when Symonds observed, that sitting opposite were the two men he knew as "Doctor Daw" and "Tiger."

There was nothing remarkable in that, but Jack noted with intense surprise that Tiger was staring at Billy with an air of recognition. Jack wondered. Did Billy, by any chance, happen to know him? It did not seem likely, and yet—

At that moment Billy turned from the rack and sat down beside his pal. Tiger instantly averted his gaze and looked out of the window. He did not look at Billy again, although Jack watched him closely; and, what was more surprising, he did not seem to know the tall man at his side—Doctor Daw, as he had called him. Jack was puzzled more and more by this singularity as the train left Sydney and passed down the coast, for it seemed as if the two men knew nothing whatever of each other, and were even deliberately ignoring each other. This, despite the fact that Jack had overheard their recognition on the station, and had seen them enter the train in company.

Mystified as he was, the boy had for the present, other things to think of. Soon he was engrossed in conversation with Billy, and the train had halted at a little station some miles north of Deepwater, before anything occurred to disturb the even run of their journey.

The train had commenced to steam out of the station, when all at once the man Tiger, as if he had suddenly remembered something, leapt from his seat, grabbed a handbag from the rack, opened the door, and sprang out.

Jack, though taken aback by the suddenness of the move, was alert enough, mentally, to recall that the man had not had a bag at Sydney. The bag, therefore, was not his own; it was—

"Billy!" he yelled, "he's got your bag!"

Never was there a more magical transformation. Billy Faraday had been half dozing, moodily leaning back at the window, answering his chum mechanically. At Jack's words, he jumped as if a red-hot coal had been dropped down his collar, kicked open the door, and in a single bound gained the platform.

Jack was utterly amazed. Billy's action had been so quick, so marvellously prompt, that it had left him barely time to gasp. But then, Billy was always a fellow of impulse. Jack felt bound to follow his pal; Billy would be sure to get into some trouble or other.

And so Jack Symonds, prefect at Deepwater College, brilliant three-quarter and athlete, laughed his reckless laugh and followed suit.

He landed lightly, with perfect control of himself, despite the fact that the train had gathered speed, and was now moving quickly. He wheeled round, caught sight of the hurrying figure of Billy Faraday, and followed at a run.

The township into which Fate had thus strangely deposited the chums was very much a one-horse affair, and a few scattered houses and rutted country roads represented the sketchiest outlines of civilization.

The little man had made a quick exit from the station, but obviously he had not counted on the rapid pursuit of Jack and Billy. His coup had been planned to allow the train to get well under way before the loss was discovered, and the chase began. He ran swiftly along the road, and for some minutes made very good going of it. But the bag was a heavy handicap. In pursuit were two lithe, springy youngsters, practised athletes and runners, and they were gaining upon him.

Just then Fate played another card. Around the corner came the sound of a car, and then the motor shot into view, with a professional-looking man, clad in white dust-coat, at the wheel. He was evidently the local doctor, but he was probably a most astonished man in the next few seconds.

For Tiger jumped upon the running-board and flung the handbag into the tonneau. At the same time he presented a wicked-looking little pistol at the doctor's head.

"Turn her," he commanded, peremptorily. "Quickly—or I'll fire."

The doctor was a sensible man, and the cold contact of the steel at his temple quenched any rash attempts at resistance that might have suggested themselves. Obediently he turned the car about.

"Full speed—hit her up," added the man on the running-board, curtly, and the doctor's unsteady hand reached for his levers.

Jack Symonds uttered a groan of despair and chagrin.

"Done us, Billy!" he panted, as the car, responsive to her driver, shot forward at increased speed. "It's no good—we're beaten."

And he slackened his run. But just when it seemed that the bag was finally lost, Billy Faraday sprang another surprise—a surprise even for Jack, who imagined he knew his chum so well. It was the most amazing, most preposterous thing, and Jack was almost convinced that he was dreaming. Faraday plunged his hand into his hip-pocket, and produced an automatic revolver of the latest pattern!

Standing boldly in the middle of the road, he commenced firing at the doctor's back tyres. At the third shot there was an audible effect, and the car slowed up. Tiger turned about, furious and desperate, and for a moment Jack feared that the pistol would be directed upon them. But no; Tiger was not anxious to run the risk of murder, and seeing that there was no chance of his escaping with the handbag, there was nothing left now but to make good his own departure.

While the boys were yet some distance off, he leapt from the car and disappeared into the scrub at the roadside.

"Suffering cats!" exclaimed Jack, as he and Billy hurried up to the car. "Pinch me, someone—I'm dreaming. Or am I acting in a Wild West movie drama? Please tell me, Billy! And, dear old chap, what on earth are you doing with that gun?"

"Let you know afterwards," said Faraday coolly, replacing the amazing weapon in his hip-pocket.

[CHAPTER II]

DOCTOR DAW AGAIN

Unsatisfactory as was this postponement, Jack was destined to meet with a further disappointment. The doctor had been pacified and given an explanation of the affair, and Billy Faraday had declared that he did not want to be worried further with the man Tiger. He had recovered the bag, and he was willing to let the matter rest there. But when they got into a later train, Jack's curiosity prompted more questioning.

"By Jingo, Billy," he said, "that was a great sprint you made for the bag. Anyone would have thought you had a purse of sovereigns in it, or something."

Billy sniffed. "Well, perhaps hardly a purse of sovereigns, but something—"

"Well?" prompted Jack.

"I don't know whether I ought to tell you," said Billy, enigmatically. He ran his fingers through his thick, black hair, and stared out of the window.

"Hang it all," protested Jack, "you're starting this term in a jolly mysterious way! What's the giddy joke? What have you got up your sleeve—or in your bag?"

Billy shot a look of sharp inquiry at his friend.

"You're cute, Jack," was all he said. "You've dropped to it that there's something."

"Also that our friend Tiger is interested in your bag. Perhaps he knows what's in it."

"Knows—or guesses," said Billy, with a queer smile.

"But this is a bit too thick. And there's that revolver, too, just to make a real, nice, soupy mystery of it. I tell you, Billy, when you came out with the canister I—"

He opened his mouth, spread his hands, and indicated immense surprise.

"Perhaps I was a bit of a fool to bring it," Billy admitted. "But—it came in jolly handy!"

"Still, that doesn't account for it all. What is it, Billy? Can't you tell me?"

Billy shook his head slowly, uncertainly. "No, Jack—not yet. I promised I'd tell you, but—I won't. I don't want to alarm you without need, see? I may be wrong about this—all this business. The bag, the revolver, all our little adventure may be quite meaningless, and I don't want to be dragging you after any mares' nests—not yet awhile. But if anything happens—"

"Don't mind me," said Jack, weakly. "The Sphinx is a sort of uncle of mine. I'm good at riddles! No more explanations, Billy. I'm in a knot with them already. Don't overload my young mind any further." And he laughed, quite falling in with his pal's present reluctance to divulge, and dismissed the subject.

All the same, he realized that there was indeed something behind Billy's reticence. The two were good friends; anything in the ordinary way they shared as a matter of course. But this—this was something important, something serious. Strangely enough, he had an odd feeling that this term was going to be a remarkable one—and certainly it was opening well. Billy had hinted at further events. What was he to expect? Truly there might be adventures in the near future.

Or yet, on the other hand, perhaps the whole affair was nothing at all—a mere mare's nest, as Billy had said. Either way, there was nothing to be gained by thinking any more about it.

When, finally, they reached the College, there were lots of things to be done, and they spent the afternoon in the study that they shared with two other fellows. Last term the two study-mates had left the College, and consequently there would be two new boys this term.

"Nobody here," said Billy Faraday, opening the door and glancing round the room. "Place looks bare, doesn't it, with all their things gone?"

"Wonder who's going to step into their shoes?" queried Jack thoughtfully.

"No idea." Billy was absorbed in unlocking his cupboard, and Jack, glancing over his shoulder, saw the light fall on the blue barrel of that mysterious revolver.

"Leaving it there, Billy?"

Billy nodded. "For the present. I'm not one of those asses that'd go round swanking with a thing like this. Don't think I brought it for that, old chap."

"I don't, Billy!"

Billy looked at his friend, and seemed on the verge of giving away at last the real reason why he had brought the revolver. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Billy quickly thrust a small black cash-box into the far corner of the cupboard, and shut it hurriedly.

"Come in," said Jack, sitting on the table swinging his legs; and there promptly entered a most amazing apparition.

A tall, very thin youth, with horn-rimmed spectacles, stood at the door. He carried stacks of luggage, baskets, odd bundles in paper, a portmanteau or two, which, with an air of great relief, he proceeded to distribute impartially over the floor of the study.

"What—what—?" gasped Billy.

"Ah, comrade!" demanded the new arrival, "how are you?" He fingered a red tie of extraordinary brilliance of design. "I trust you have spent your holidays in quiet enjoyment, and have returned flowing over with vigour to—" At this stage a cushion struck him in the face, and he fell gracefully backwards over a suit-case.

He arose with the expression of a resigned martyr, and dusted his trousers. "Comrades both," he declared, "that was unkind of you—really it was. However, perhaps I was unduly long in coming to the point. I should have announced," he beamed broadly, "that hence-forward I am to be your study-mate."

"Our what?" demanded Jack, incredulously.

"Why, your study-mate, comrade. Come, come, where are your tongues? What, no congratulations? Aren't you overjoyed to have me? Think how well we are sure to get on together—think of the evenings of happy and profitable study, self-help, also co-operation, everything pleasant—No, I implore you, no more cushions."

"Well, cut out the oratory," warned Jack, lowering the missile. "Do you think we are a bally political meeting? Aren't you Patch, though—weren't you in Cooper's House last term?"

"That is my poor name." The newcomer executed a profound bow. "Septimus Patch, socialist, inventor, friend of the downtrodden and oppressed—"

"Cheese it," said Billy. "Why on earth did they move you to this house?"

"Ah, why?" said Patch blandly, gazing at the ceiling.

"And why, on top of that, did they pick upon this study?"

"Who knows?" The inventor gazed dreamily out of the window. "Fate, perhaps."

"And, anyway," Symonds took up the tale, "what have you got in all these traps?"

"My chemicals—my models of invention—my books—my goods generally," said Septimus Patch gloomily.

Horror deepened upon the faces of the two chums.

"Do you mean to say—?" said Billy.

"—Rotten chemicals?" finished Jack.

"In this study?" Billy could scarcely believe it.

"Why not?" asked Patch, with his conciliatory smile, polishing his enormous spectacles. "Is it not comforting to be companioned by a man of science—I will not say genius? When time drags, you may find infinite enjoyment in mixing up things for me, and solace in wandering through the dark forest of science under my guidance."

"Oh, help!" moaned Jack.

"Moses!" gasped Billy.

"'Dark forest of science,'" quoted Jack, throwing himself weakly into Billy's easy chair. "This place is going to be a little paradise, isn't it just?"

"More like a ward in a lunatic asylum," corrected Billy with bitterness.

"You are unduly severe on yourselves," Patch assured them blandly. He was unpacking an enormous number of things, and distributing them pell-mell over the floor. Jack and Billy could only sit and stare, goggle-eyed, at the spreading disorder on their one and only carpet.

"Pictures, too, comrades," said Septimus enthusiastically, bringing to light a huge bundle of frames wrapped in brown paper. He exhibited the top one proudly.

"Good grief! What on earth's that?" demanded Jack in astonishment. "Side elevation of a poached egg, or—"

"That," said the owner, indignantly, dusting it with his handkerchief, "is a diagram of the anatomy of the common flea. Much magnified, of course. Rather good, don't you think? Where shall I put it?"

"In the fireplace," suggested Billy, cruelly. "Do you think we want to be gazing all day at that horror? And what's this?"

"Butterflies."

"Not so bad. Put them up there over that shelf."

Septimus hoisted the huge frame into place, and got down, beaming broadly.

"Comrade," he said, "we are getting on quite well. Only one or two more; here's a portrait of Sir Isaac Newton."

"It's a good frame," commented Jack. "I've a photo of Trumper that'd just fit in. I'll dig it out. Here, we'll put it up high for the present." So saying he balanced a big dictionary on a chair, and climbed up with Sir Isaac Newton in his hands.

"Hope I can reach," he said, while Septimus Patch and Billy Faraday watched him anxiously. It did not seem as if he could reach. He raised himself cautiously on tiptoe, but the frame was heavy and the risk great. The dictionary tottered.

"Look out, Jack—you'll be over," said Billy. "Whoa!" He made a frantic grab at his pal, but missed by about a foot.

Jack came down with a tremendous crash, scattering a pile of Patch's bottles right and left. There was a tinkle of broken glass and the sound of a mild explosion; through the ensuing cloud of smoke Septimus could be seen seated on the floor, vainly endeavouring to release his head from the photograph frame that Jack had let fall.

It was fortunate that Sir Isaac had had no glass in front of him, or the results might have been serious. As it was, he was hopelessly punctured now; the frame hung about Patch's neck like a grotesque collar.

"Ha, ha, ha!" The sight was so absurd that Billy could not check a laugh at the comicality of it all, but his laugh ended abruptly. At that moment the door opened, and a stern voice spoke.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Billy looked up in surprise. The voice was a strange one, but it carried a ring of authority.

"Just a slight accident, comrade," replied Patch. "We were hanging this picture, and regrettably it fell. Ah, off it comes at last! But I am afraid Sir Isaac is disfigured," he added sadly. "Yes, he does look rather cut up."

"I am your new history master," said the other, interrupting him. His rasping voice made Jack swing round with a gasp of surprise. "Daw is my name."

"Doctor Daw!" murmured Jack. The words were literally jerked out of him by surprise. He regretted them instantly, but it was too late. The amazing fact was that the man now standing in the doorway was actually the man who had travelled with them in the train—the fellow who had been so familiar with the bag-snatching Tiger on the station, and who had completely ignored him afterwards. Jack recalled now that the man had said that he was going to Deepwater. It was a somewhat startling coincidence, and it was no wonder that he had been impelled to whisper the name that Tiger had given the new history master.

Slight as that whisper had been, it had not escaped the ears of Doctor Daw, who gave a violent start and took a step forward. His mouth opened, as if he were about to say something, but no words followed. His eyes met Jack's in a troubled, questioning stare. He seemed to say, "How much do you know? What have you got hold of?" And then, on the verge of an outburst, he recovered himself.

"I have a new study-mate for you," said he quietly, although his eyes still glittered angrily. "A new boy to the college, and from New Zealand, who will be in your form. Fane is his name—but no doubt he will introduce himself."

With that he ushered in the boy Fane, and let himself out. Only, before he closed the door, he eyed Jack narrowly—and his glance seemed to convey a threat, a warning. There was no mistaking the malignant nature of the look. Jack felt chilled, he knew not why. Then, the door closed, and Mr. Daw was gone.

"Cheerful-looking chap," commented Billy. "How are you, Fane?"

"Well, thanks," said Fane, who was a short and rather nervous-looking boy. He came forward and shook hands all round. "Hope we get on well together."

"My sentiments exactly, comrade," said Septimus Patch. "I'm new myself, but I'll sort of father you. What are your interests? Know anything about Science? Or Socialism?"

Fane smiled nervously. "Neither, I'm afraid. Where can I put my things?"

"Here you are," said Billy. "What shall we call you?"

"My first name's Swinnerton," he admitted. "Silly name, of course—call me Swin, if you like."

And while Billy and Patch were attempting to make the newcomer feel at home, Jack was looking idly out of the window. He did not know the connection between Doctor Daw and Tiger, but he felt vaguely that he had made an enemy.

[CHAPTER III]

THE BULLY-KILLER

Salmon's House, to which division of Deepwater College Jack Symonds and his study-mates belonged, was famous for its exclusive set of youngsters—a band who had clubbed together for their own advancement, and the confusion of everybody else, and had named themselves the Crees. It amounted in the long run to a sort of secret society; it had its president, but no one outside its numbers knew who he was. It was never known for certain who the members were, either; and that gave a delightful uncertainty to everything connected with it.

It so happened that both Jack and his friend Billy Faraday were members. With the others, they were notified that on a certain afternoon a special meeting would be held. They knew well enough the object of the meeting. Dick Richard, the founder of the Crees, and the society's first president, had left at the end of the previous term, and there would be some hot contention for his position.

"Do you mean to go for the job, Jack?" asked Billy, as they strolled across the fields to the appointed spot—a secluded position in the rear of a waste of scrub-land.

"Why not? It'd give me a bit of a pull, and there's no end of fun to be got out of it," returned Jack, in his practical manner. "I don't see anyone to give me much of a run for it."

"Except Cummles."

"Except Cummy, of course. And he can't do anything but bluster and kick up a dickens of a row. What sort of a time would we have under him?"

"No sort of a time at all. The man's got no initiative."

"No—but any amount of push and brute strength!" Jack laughed.

When they arrived at Three Skull Hollow—an entirely fanciful name bestowed upon it by the Crees—they discovered that most of the Crees were already assembled, and the loud voice of Les Cummles was dominating the assembly.

"Of course," he was saying, "there's absolutely no question—I'm putting in for the job, and if anyone else thinks he'd like it, let him say so." He stared round with a somewhat truculent expression. "Here's Symonds and Faraday—they'll bear me out in this, I know."

It was a direct challenge.

"Bear you out in what?" asked Symonds quietly.

"Why, my filling Dick's place as president—you're agreeable, aren't you?"

"I don't know so much about that, I was thinking of taking it over myself."

"Hear, hear!" said an invisible Cree, behind Cummy's back. He wheeled round and frowned upon the party.

"Now, what are the laws of electing the president?" he asked.

"Nominations first, and then a show of hands—that's all we've got to do. It's quite simple." He took a seat and addressed the assembled Crees. "I'm in the chair—any nominations for Chief Cree?"

"I propose Les Cummles," said one of the bully's toadies, with clockwork readiness.

"Good—seconded? Thank you. Now, anybody else?"

He looked round fiercely, as if defying anybody else to speak. But, finally, it was shown that he could not carry off the bluff. Billy Faraday spoke in his quiet voice.

"Jack Symonds—my nomination," he said.

"I second that," another Cree spoke quickly, and there was a murmur of approval.

"Anybody else?" Cummles's tone was distinctly nasty by now, and he glared at Bill savagely. "No—well, we'll have a show of hands."

This time he frowned round on the Crees with real anger. He was not a bad general, and he thought that by this show of force he would intimidate any wavering members, and make them feel that it was perhaps better to vote for him and feel safe.

The upraised hands for Cummles were counted slowly; there were twenty-one. And then the Symonds vote was counted.

"Twenty-one also," said the Cree deputed to tell the votes.

"Dead heat!"

"Wait a moment," said Cummles. "As chairman, I have right to a casting vote, and I—"

"Rot—it's a swindle!"

"All right, Moore—I'll settle with you afterwards," said Cummles wickedly. "I've every right to settle—"

"You're a big bluff!"

Feeling was certainly running very high. Lots of the fellows who had timidly voted for Cummles now regretted their action. Moore was an excitable little fellow, and Cummles's threats had roused him to defiance.

"Enough said. I—"

"Yah! Who do we want?"

"Symonds!" There was no mistaking the volume of the shout.

"Casting vote—" roared Cummles.

"Bluffer! Another counting! Another counting!"

"—chairman's right—"

"It's a swindle!"

"—therefore declare that—"

"Symonds, Chief Cree!"

"—I am elected to the position—"

A tremendous hullaboloo arose from the Cree meeting, and about a dozen free fights between heated partisans were taking place. Upright on a raised spot Cummles was endeavouring to state that, giving his casting vote to himself, he was elected Chief Cree. Jack and Billy were more like amused spectators, than anything else. The furious Crees were not anxious to be ruled by the heavy hand of Cummles, but many sought favour in his eyes by endeavouring to quell the insurgents.

There is no saying what might not have followed, but for the fact that a strange diversion had been preparing itself, and now burst upon the meeting of the Crees with no sort of warning. There was not even any preliminary noise; but even if there had been, the uproar in the meeting would have sufficed to drown it. Something darkened the sky with startling abruptness; then, there was an immense crackling and crashing in the scrub near by.

"Look out—coming over!" yelled a voice.

Only one or two heard the cry; Cummles, who was raging like a bull, certainly did not. So that, when some weighty object smashed into his back and hurled him to the ground with violence, he was taken completely by surprise. He was precipitated into the waistcoats of a couple of fellow-Crees who were seated upon the ground.

"Here—help!" shouted the assaulted ones, taking his action for one of personal violence. "What have we—"

"Ouch!" bellowed Cummles, struggling in vain to free himself from the tangle of arms and legs into which he had been so rudely thrown.

"Ha, ha, ha!" When the amazed Crees had collected their wits sufficiently to be able to take in what was happening, the humour of the situation was apparent. The object that had collided with Cummles tugged and clung on to a rope—and at the other end of the rope was an immense kite-like affair that flapped and ducked in the air twenty feet above them. The plight of the astounded Cummles and the dangling and racing legs was farcical in the extreme.

"Help!" came the cry of the aviator. "Grab the rope—she's getting away. Catch hold, quickly!"

Several of the Crees flung themselves on the rope, and, hauling manfully, brought the big kite to the ground. It was tugging with the strength of several bulls, and it required all their strength to bring it to earth. It was quite a big affair, of weird construction, something along the lines of a box-kite, and Septimus Patch himself was seated in a light saddle in the centre of it.

"Patch!" exclaimed Jack Symonds in astonishment.

"That same, comrade! I fear I startled you somewhat—eh? But the machine would not behave."

His assistant, the boy who had been swinging on the rope in an endeavour to hold the kite down was discovered to be Fane, the shy New Zealander. Evidently he and Patch had struck up a friendship.

"Yes," he said, mopping his forehead, "I had my work cut out to keep her down—I've been dragged over a mile and a half of scrub. The blessed thing rises quicker than the price of eggs. Old Septimus nearly had a wetting—didn't you, Patchie, old boy?"

"It looked like it for quite a while," admitted the inventor modestly. "I must allow that I'd forgotten to provide for coming down again, once I'd got up. In the future, I'll have to have about twenty juniors hanging on to the rope. Or I might remedy that before the next ascent."

The Crees had gathered around the big kite, examining it with evident curiosity.

"I say," said one of them, "she must be pretty strong to lift you up like that."

"Well, she's not badly designed, comrade," said Patch, with lordly condescension. "This is Flying Fox III. Numbers I and II, I regret to state, would not fly. They absolutely refused. Why, I don't know. But they—"

He found himself gripped hard by the shoulder, and turned to front the crimson face of Cummles, who, angered as he had been by the opposition to his presidency, had been doubly enraged by his ignominious fall. His dignity had been injured, and as he had a certain prestige among his fellows, he wanted redress.

"Look here," he said, shaking Patch's shoulder till the inventor's horn-rimmed spectacles shivered on his nose. "Look here, what the dickens do you mean by it?"

"Mean by what?"

"Why, barging into my back like that, and sending me flying? It was your wretched kite thingummy, and like your cheek!"

"My dear fellow," said Patch.

"Dear fellow, nothing! It's an apology I want, you glass-eyed goat! Down on your knees, too, and repeat what I say."

"I'm sure it wouldn't be worth repeating," said Patch coldly. "Anyway, there was no need to flare up like that over a simple accident. Reflect, comrade, on the injustice you are doing to yourself, and—"

"If you don't apologize the way I say," said Cummles inflexibly, "then you're going to be put through it."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you'll get bashed," said Cummles, who was obviously in a dangerous mood. His dignity had been injured, and he meant to show the Crees just how he could impose his will on others. It should make an impression, he thought. "If you think you can play your silly fool tricks on me, then you're making the mistake of your young life! See? Now, what about that apology?"

"No," murmured Patch, with a worried air. He had gone very white, for the idea of a physical encounter hardly appealed to him. "You mean you're going to fight me?"

"I don't fight fools like you," said Cummles trenchantly, still bent on showing the Crees what he was made of. "I don't fight them—I just whip them. Apologize?"

For answer, Patch gave one look round on the circle of still, watching faces, and then sighed. Then, with a deliberate movement, he began to take off his coat. A gasp went up, for Cummles was a big, bull-necked sort of fellow, and a regular terror in a fight. Poor Patch, it seemed, was in for a very torrid time; but the spectators were forced to admire his courage. What sort of a chance would he have, though, with a smashing hitter like Cummles?

It was quite unfair, and Jack Symonds for one was dead against it. Cummles would have to learn to control his temper; it was too bad that Patch should get whipped for a pure accident. Just as Jack was on the point of protesting—just as, indeed, he had stepped forward to check the fight preparations, a new voice cut in before he could utter a word.

"Wait a moment." It was Fane, the quiet New Zealander, and he looked shyer than ever as he introduced himself, blushing, into the circle.

"Well?" Cummles demanded, with the truculence of a dog interrupted in worrying a bone.

"Patch mustn't fight—can't fight," said Fane, still in that uneasy, self-conscious manner. "You see—it wasn't his fault, really. I was the one that actually barged into you, and so—"

"Are you ready to take his place then?" demanded Cummles, with brutal directness.

"If necessary."

The Crees were even more disturbed at this, for if Patch was a hopeless opponent for the bully, Fane was even more so. He was half a head shorter than the big fellow, and his appearance was altogether quiet and inoffensive. He removed his coat and, with the air of a veteran, rolled up his sleeves.

"I'll see if I can't justify my title of bully-killer," he said, without any appearance of boasting. "Will one of you give me a knee?"

"But look here—" said Jack.

"Where?"

"It's all absurd. You don't know what you're up against. Cummles here is a fighter—"

"You wouldn't have me back down, would you?"

"No; but—"

"The fight will go on," said Fane simply. "I know how to take care of myself. Cummles was anxious to pick a quarrel, and as Patch can't fight for sour apples—"

Patch was standing by, with a little criss-cross mark of puzzlement showing between his eyes.

"I ought really—" he began.

The sardonic voice of the bully interrupted him. "When you fellows have finished gassing to save time," he said, "I'll be ready to thrash you. Both, if you like—it doesn't matter to me a bit. One after the other—who's first? But hurry up."

He had not troubled to remove his coat, anticipating an easy time with Patch; but now he did so, and rolled up his sleeves, moved by something in the bearing of the quiet boy before him.

Without any further argument, without any courtesies of combat, he and Fane flew at each other, and there was the sound of a collision and heavy blows. For a moment the spectators looked on with dismay, fearing that Fane would pay dearly for his temerity and get hopelessly smashed about. But in a minute or two their apprehension changed to excitement, and they set up a volley of cheering.

Fane was a dark horse—everybody recognized that at a glance. He quite obviously knew more than a little about boxing—and fighting, too. He had a good stance, and hit long and straight, and with both hands, like a professional.

Cummles was vastly shocked when, at the end of the first furious rush, he ran fairly upon a stiff left jab that split his lip instantly. Again and again he strove to get past that propped-out fist, but try as he would he could not get his head out of the way, and every time it was as if he had jammed his face against a beam of wood.

Then, too, Fane's right hand, with heavy body-swing behind it, followed up the left like a piston and thudded upon every portion of Cummles's anatomy in solid drives, until he began to feel acutely miserable, and, stung to desperation like a tormented bear, he commenced to hit with all his force, in wild swings that Fane dodged in good style. It was a magnificent exhibition of pluck and skill of the first water, opposed to brute force and doggedness. Fane seemed to be able to land hits at will. A trickle of blood from the bully's split lip coursed down that fellow's chin, and added nothing to his appearance.

"Go on, the bully-killer!"

The name had caught on, and the Crees yelled it in pure enjoyment, for they had all suffered more or less at Cummles's hands, and they appreciated to the full this repayment of his own medicine.

"Look at him—he's blowing like a grampus!"

Cummles was not in the best of training at this early stage of the term, and he was feeling the disadvantages of his condition. He was puffing badly and perspiring profusely. His movements slowed down and he seemed tired. Fane could not hit hard enough to knock the bigger boy over; but there was no doubt that he was cutting him about badly.

"Hand it out," yelled the bully's enemies, eager for the downfall of their tyrant. "You know, Fane!"

The Crees went simply wild with delight, for Cummles was getting the worst trouncing of his life. They cheered the New Zealander on with loud cries of encouragement, although it would have been impossible to have added to the sting and venom of his attack.

"Go on, Fane!"

"Give it to him—he's been looking for this for a long time!"

The bully-killer, as he had called himself, propped off another of Cummles's blind rushes, with stinging hits.

"Had enough?" he gasped, lowering his hands momentarily.

"No!" wheezed Cummles, lurching forward; and with a tremendous swing he clouted his opponent on the side of the head, sending him flying head over heels to the ground, where he lay outstretched.

[CHAPTER IV]

THE BROKEN BOOTLACE

Cummles stood back from his antagonist, a twisted grin of triumph on his face, and, in the tense silence that followed, the loud and fast sound of his breathing could be distinctly heard.

And then, all the horror of the Crees found voice, and they exclaimed together:

"Foul—it's a foul!"

"Scrag the dirty fouler!"

The ring pressed round about Cummles with angry cries, for the bully had offended all rules of fair play by his action in striking Fane when that youngster had lowered his hands. For a moment Cummles thought that he was to be mobbed, and he drew back on the defensive; then Fane slowly rose from the ground.

"Stand back," said Fane, "this is my job—let me finish it!"

With the words he again attacked the bully furiously. His blows were hard and fast, but he did not lose his head. Grimly Cummles strove to turn the tide, to repeat that one tremendous blow; but always Fane was just a little too quick for him.

Finally Cummles came to the end of his resources, and bitterly bitter though the admission was to him, he had to grant that he was beaten. Thoroughly exhausted, and much damaged by Fane's blows, he dropped his hands.

"Good enough," he mumbled through swollen lips. "I'm done—hold off."

Then for the first time Fane smiled; and like a cloak, his old nervous manner fell about him once more.

"You'll shake hands?" he asked. "Yes?"

Cummles shook the proffered hand grumpily, for he could not easily forgive the fellow who had lowered his colours so decisively in the presence of his fellow-Crees. Then, pulling on his coat, he left the circle without another word, followed by two or three of his intimate cronies, who even now would not desert him.

"Well done, Fane," said Jack Symonds, patting the New Zealander on the shoulder. "That's just what Cummles has been looking for for months. Now, you fellows," he went on, turning to the Crees, who stood round murmuring congratulations, "I propose that Fane here and his friend Patch be made members of the society. For one thing, Fane is a jolly useful member, and—"

"Hear, hear!" they interrupted him.

"And what about Symonds for Chief Cree?" demanded another of them in a loud voice.

The reply was a burst of cheering, and Jack was duly elected. Amid much excitement, he was presented with the Eagle feather, the emblem of office that the founder of the Crees had left behind him when he had left Deepwater College. Jack put it in his pocket, and then turned to the business of getting the two new Crees elected to the band.

They were unanimously elected, and the four occupants of Study 9 that evening were fast friends. Even Patch was allowed to hang one or two more of his scientific diagrams on the walls, and to place his bottles and apparatus along the top of his cupboard.

In the middle of the night Fane awoke with a slight groan, and felt his face with tender touch. His right cheek-bone, where Cummles had landed a hit during their fight, was painful; the skin had been taken off, and now the wound was a hot, throbbing graze that worried him.

He turned over and over again, but found sleep impossible. The wound was worrying him too much.

"I've got some ointment," he murmured, "and that might cool it off a bit. But the stuff's down in the study, worse luck."

He bore the pain in silence for a few minutes longer, and then determined to go down to the study for the ointment. Silently he got out of bed, and left the sleeping dormitory behind him. The great corridors were cold and deserted, but, hurrying downstairs in his bare feet, he quickly arrived at Study 9. Then he threw open the door.

"Jiminy!" he gasped, involuntarily.

The study was in darkness but for a flood of light that streamed in a definite band from the end of what was evidently an electric torch. And the cupboards were open, and their contents partly emptied on the floor.

"What—who are you?" he demanded, as the glow of the torch fell upon a big figure in a pulled-down cap and a scarf that hid the lower part of the face. The bright eyes above the scarf challenged his, and for a moment they stood face to face, both held immovable in surprise. Fane realized at once that the man he had surprised was a burglar.

He flung himself without the slightest warning upon the intruder. No fellow at Deepwater College ever had more lion-like courage than Fane. The man bulked much bigger than himself, but the bully-killer sprang forward with all the vim of an attacking bulldog.

Swift and unexpected as was his move, the burglar was a fraction swifter. The torch went out silently, and it was as if a velvet curtain had fallen before Fane's eyes. The man must have twisted aside with lightning celerity, for Fane could not touch him. For a moment there was silence, each listening for the other. Then a large black shape blotted out the pale square of the window, and the boy realized that the burglar was escaping.

He ran forward, but fell over some invisible object on the floor. When he had picked himself up, he heard the thud of the intruder's feet alighting on the garden-beds outside, and the quick following sound of rapid footsteps. The man had got away!

Fane knew that pursuit was out of the question. He had no hope of following with success; and he wondered now whether the next step would be to inform the masters of what had occurred. On second thoughts he determined to consult with his pals, and returning to the dormitory he awoke Jack and Patch, and together they went to the bed where Billy Faraday lay asleep.

"Billy!" said Jack, shaking his chum by the shoulder.

"Look out—the Black Star!" said Billy. "The Black Star—take care of it!"

"What on earth?" said Jack. "The beggar's talking in his sleep. Black star? What does he mean?" He shook the sleeping Billy again. "Here, you old sleeping beauty, arise! Come up!"