Wyatt, whose finer feelings had been
entirely blotted out by tomato, as an ideal place in which to bestow the
captives.
“Let’s
chuck ‘em in there,” he said.
The
idea was welcomed gladly by all, except the prisoners. A move was made towards
the pond, and the procession had halted on the brink, when a new voice made
itself heard.
“Now
then,” it said, “what’s all this?”
A stout
figure in policeman’s uniform was standing surveying them with the aid of a
flashlight.
“What’s
all this?”
“It’s
all right,” said Wyatt.
“All
right, is it? What’s on?”
One of
the prisoners spoke.
“Make
‘em leave hold of us, Mr. Butt. They’re a-going to chuck us in the pond.”
“Ho!“
said the policeman, with a change in his voice. “Ho, are they? Come now, young
gentleman, a lark’s a lark, but you ought to know where to stop.”
“It’s
anything but a lark,” said Wyatt in the creamy voice he used when feeling
particularly savage. “We’re the Strong Right Arm of Justice. That’s what we
are. This isn’t a lark, it’s an execution.”
“I
don’t want none of your lip, whoever you are,” said Mr. Butt, understanding but
dimly, and suspecting impudence by instinct.
“This
is quite a private matter,” said Wyatt. “You run along on your beat. You can’t
do anything here.”
“Ho!”
“Shove
‘em in, you chaps.”
“Stop!”
From Mr. Butt.
“Oo-er!”
From prisoner number one.
There
was a sounding splash as willing hands urged the first of the captives into the
depths. He ploughed his way to the bank, scrambled out, and vanished.
Wyatt
turned to the other prisoner.
“You’ll
have the worst of it, going in second. He’ll have churned up the mud a bit.
Don’t swallow more than you can help, or you’ll go getting typhoid. I expect
there are leeches and things there, but if you nip out quick they may not get
on to you. Carry on, you chaps.”
It was
here that the regrettable incident occurred. Just as the second prisoner was
being launched, Constable Butt, determined to assert himself even at the
eleventh hour, sprang forward, and seized the captive by the arm. A drowning
man will clutch at a straw. A man about to be hurled into an excessively dirty
pond will clutch at a stout policeman. The prisoner did.
Constable
Butt represented his one link with dry land. As he came within reach he
attached himself to his tunic with the vigour and concentration of a limpet.
At the
same moment the executioners gave their man the final heave. The policeman
realized his peril too late. A medley of noises made the peaceful night
hideous. A howl from the townee, a yell from the policeman, a cheer from the
launching party, a frightened squawk from some birds in a neighbouring tree,
and a splash compared with which the first had been as nothing, and all was
over.
The
dark waters were lashed into a maelstrom; and then two streaming figures
squelched up the further bank.
The
school stood in silent consternation. It was no occasion for light apologies.
“Do you
know,” said Wyatt, as he watched the Law shaking the water from itself on the
other side of the pond, “I’m not half sure that we hadn’t better be moving!”
CHAPTER
IX
BEFORE THE STORM
YOUR real, devastating row
has many points of resemblance with a prairie fire. A man on a prairie lights his
pipe, and throws away the match. The flame catches a bunch of dry grass, and,
before anyone can realize what is happening, sheets of fire are racing over the
country; and the interested neighbours are following their example. (I have
already compared a row with a thunderstorm; but both comparisons may stand. In
dealing with so vast a matter as a row there must be no stint.)
The
tomato which hit Wyatt in the face was the thrown-away match. But for the
unerring aim of the town marksman great events would never have happened. A
tomato is a trivial thing (though it is possible that the man whom it hits may
not
entirely blotted out by tomato, as an ideal place in which to bestow the
captives.
“Let’s
chuck ‘em in there,” he said.
The
idea was welcomed gladly by all, except the prisoners. A move was made towards
the pond, and the procession had halted on the brink, when a new voice made
itself heard.
“Now
then,” it said, “what’s all this?”
A stout
figure in policeman’s uniform was standing surveying them with the aid of a
flashlight.
“What’s
all this?”
“It’s
all right,” said Wyatt.
“All
right, is it? What’s on?”
One of
the prisoners spoke.
“Make
‘em leave hold of us, Mr. Butt. They’re a-going to chuck us in the pond.”
“Ho!“
said the policeman, with a change in his voice. “Ho, are they? Come now, young
gentleman, a lark’s a lark, but you ought to know where to stop.”
“It’s
anything but a lark,” said Wyatt in the creamy voice he used when feeling
particularly savage. “We’re the Strong Right Arm of Justice. That’s what we
are. This isn’t a lark, it’s an execution.”
“I
don’t want none of your lip, whoever you are,” said Mr. Butt, understanding but
dimly, and suspecting impudence by instinct.
“This
is quite a private matter,” said Wyatt. “You run along on your beat. You can’t
do anything here.”
“Ho!”
“Shove
‘em in, you chaps.”
“Stop!”
From Mr. Butt.
“Oo-er!”
From prisoner number one.
There
was a sounding splash as willing hands urged the first of the captives into the
depths. He ploughed his way to the bank, scrambled out, and vanished.
Wyatt
turned to the other prisoner.
“You’ll
have the worst of it, going in second. He’ll have churned up the mud a bit.
Don’t swallow more than you can help, or you’ll go getting typhoid. I expect
there are leeches and things there, but if you nip out quick they may not get
on to you. Carry on, you chaps.”
It was
here that the regrettable incident occurred. Just as the second prisoner was
being launched, Constable Butt, determined to assert himself even at the
eleventh hour, sprang forward, and seized the captive by the arm. A drowning
man will clutch at a straw. A man about to be hurled into an excessively dirty
pond will clutch at a stout policeman. The prisoner did.
Constable
Butt represented his one link with dry land. As he came within reach he
attached himself to his tunic with the vigour and concentration of a limpet.
At the
same moment the executioners gave their man the final heave. The policeman
realized his peril too late. A medley of noises made the peaceful night
hideous. A howl from the townee, a yell from the policeman, a cheer from the
launching party, a frightened squawk from some birds in a neighbouring tree,
and a splash compared with which the first had been as nothing, and all was
over.
The
dark waters were lashed into a maelstrom; and then two streaming figures
squelched up the further bank.
The
school stood in silent consternation. It was no occasion for light apologies.
“Do you
know,” said Wyatt, as he watched the Law shaking the water from itself on the
other side of the pond, “I’m not half sure that we hadn’t better be moving!”
CHAPTER
IX
BEFORE THE STORM
YOUR real, devastating row
has many points of resemblance with a prairie fire. A man on a prairie lights his
pipe, and throws away the match. The flame catches a bunch of dry grass, and,
before anyone can realize what is happening, sheets of fire are racing over the
country; and the interested neighbours are following their example. (I have
already compared a row with a thunderstorm; but both comparisons may stand. In
dealing with so vast a matter as a row there must be no stint.)
The
tomato which hit Wyatt in the face was the thrown-away match. But for the
unerring aim of the town marksman great events would never have happened. A
tomato is a trivial thing (though it is possible that the man whom it hits may
not
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