Читать книгу The Fritz Strafers - Percy F. Westerman - Страница 4

"QUITE right for once, Moke. Young brothers are unmitigated nuisances," declared Hugh Holcombe. "If I hadn't been such a silly owl to let my young brother try his luck with my motor-bike, I wouldn't be sitting here in this muggy carriage. Any sign of Slogger yet?"

The youth addressed as Moke thrust his bulky head and shoulders out of the open window and made a deliberate survey of the road that ran steadily down the hillside until it merged into the station yard of the little town of Lynbury.

It was a case of somewhat regrettable inadvertence when fifteen years previously Sylvester's parents had had him christened in the name of Anthony Alexander; for when, in due course, the lad entered Claverdon College the fellows, the moment they saw his initials painted boldly upon his trunk and tuck-box, dubbed him "Moke," and the name stuck like tar.

He did not resent it, which showed tact. In fact, he rather rejoiced in the nickname. It harmonised with his slow, plodding, deliberate ways. Imprimis, he was a swot; modern languages were his forte, although he was no mean classical scholar for his age. Anything of a mechanical nature failed to interest him. He knew a motor-bike when he saw one, but that was all. Ask him "how it worked"—a question to which his companion would reply by a fusillade of highly technical explanations—and he was "bowled middle stump."

Hugh Holcombe was cast in a different mould. Except in point of age there was little in common between the two lads. Holcombe was tall for his age, and possessed the appearance of a budding athlete. Although in mufti—he was spending the last week of the Christmas vacation with an uncle at Southsea before rejoining Osborne College—there was a certain self-assurance that the natural outcome of a training that inspires manliness, self-reliance, and courage from the first moment that an embryo Nelson sets foot in the cradle of the Royal Navy.

And the still absent Slogger——?

Slogger must wait until he enters this narrative. Sufficient to say that the three lads—as yet mere strands in the vast fabric of Empire—were to make their mark in the titanic struggle that was to convulse the whole world, each working in a different manner to one and the same just purpose.

It was in those halcyon, far-off days preceding the fateful 4th day of August 1914. To be more precise, it was January of the preceding year. Little did hundreds, nay thousands, of doting parents then imagine that on land and sea, in the air and in the waters under the earth, would their sons risk, and often give their young lives, for King, Country, and Freedom's Cause.

"Not the suspicion of a sign," replied Sylvester to his companion's inquiry. "He'll miss the train if he doesn't buck up. Here's the guard toddling along the platform."

"Hope that silly cuckoo of a Slogger won't miss it!" exclaimed Holcombe, resting his hands on the Moke's back and peering through the narrow space betwixt the latter's broad shoulders and the top of the carriage window. "He promised he'd bring an accumulator along with him, and I want to have some fun with the beastly thing during the next few days."

It was nearly eight o'clock in the morning. The sun was on the point of rising, while over the town the retreating shadow of night still contended with the grey dawn of another day. Passengers in twos and threes, most of them carrying luggage, were hurrying towards the station in the knowledge that the 8 a.m., although it was usually later in starting, sometimes did steam out at five minutes to the hour. Still no signs of Slogger.

"Dash it all, the train's starting!" exclaimed the Moke, as a cloud of white vapour drifted from under the carriages.

"Not much," corrected Holcombe. "It's only the steam from the heating apparatus. The guard isn't ready yet."

He indicated the venerable official on whom under Providence depended the safety and welfare of such of His Majesty's lieges who adventured themselves upon the Lynbury and Marshton Branch Line. Usually the guard would walk along the platform, exchanging scraps of conversation with his patrons, most of whom he knew by name, but on this occasion he was seated on a large wicker hamper and was studiously and laboriously writing in a note-book.

Curiosity was one of the Moke's failings, in that he was unable to restrain an outward display of a desire for knowledge. The mere fact that the guard was seated within four yards of the carriage-window and yet failed to exchange the usual pleasantries with the hefty youth wearing the Claverdon College cap rather puzzled him.

"Hullo, guard!"

At this greeting the official raised his eyes, looked at Sylvester for a brief instant and resumed his absorbing task. It was too much for the Moke's curiosity.

"Hullo, guard!" he repeated. "You look busy."

It was just what the guard was waiting for. Slowly and deliberately he rose and walked up to the carriage window.

"I am, young gentleman," he replied. "I'm looking up the names of those passengers who remembered me last Christmas."

Holcombe chuckled audibly. His companion, striving to hide his confusion, fumbled in his pocket.

"Sorry, guard——" he began.

"Quite all right, sir," interposed the guard, waving aside the proffered sixpence. "I take the will for the deed. When you come to Lynbury as a member of the Diplomatic Corpse (the guard knew Moke's ambitions, although his rendering of the title of that branch of the Civil Service was a trifle gruesome and wide of the mark), an' you, young gentleman (indicating Holcombe), as a full-blown captain, then perhaps, if I'm still here to see you, I'll drink your health in a bottle of Kentish-brewed ale—best in the world, bar none."

He pulled out and consulted a large silver watch.

"Time we're off, young gents," he announced, as the clanging of the station bell resounded along the now almost deserted platform.

"Slogger's missed it," declared Holcombe as the whistle blew.

With a jerk the little train started on its five-mile journey. Already the last carriage was half way down the platform when a loud shout of "Stand-back, sir!" attracted the two lads' attention.

The next instant the door was thrown open, and with an easy movement the missing Slogger swung himself into the compartment and waved a friendly salute to the baffled porter who had vainly attempted to detain him.

"By Jove, Slogger!" exclaimed Hoke, "you've cut it fine. Incurring penalties, too, under the company's bye-laws."

"P'r'aps," rejoined the unruffled arrival. "What's more to the point, I've caught the train—see? Oh, by the by, Holcombe, here's that blessed accumulator I promised you. 'Fraid I've spilt some of the acid, but that can't be helped. Had to shove it in my pocket when I sprinted."

Holcombe took the proffered gift and, reluctantly sacrificing an advertisement paper from a recently purchased motor-journal, carefully wiped off the residue of the spilt acid, while Slogger, perfunctorily turning the lining of his pocket inside out and shaking it against the sill of the window, dismissed from his mind the possibilities of the corrosive action on his clothes.

Nigel Farrar, otherwise Slogger, was a tall, broad-shouldered youth of sixteen. His nom-de-guerre was singularly appropriate, as indeed most nicknames bestowed by one's chums in a public school usually are. He won it on the cricket field; upheld it in every sport and game in which he took part. His remark to the Moke was characteristic of his thoroughly practical manner. To attain a desired end he would, even at his present age, "force his way through a hedge of hide-bound regulations." It was on this account, and to a certain extent because he did not shine at studious work, that he did not wear a prefect's badge on his cap, although by far and away the most athletic youth at Claverdon.

Farrar and Holcombe were similar in more than one respect. Both were physically and morally strong; both were deeply interested in things mechanical and practical. They were typical examples of the modern boy. Even at an early age fairy tales would have "bored them stiff." Show them an exact model of an intricate piece of machinery they would probably pronounce it to be ripping, and almost in the same breath put forth sound theories as to how the mechanism actuated. But Farrar was rather inclined to be what is popularly described as "slap-dash." With him everything had to be done in a violent hurry, while Holcombe was slow and precise in his movements, although far in advance of the painstaking Moke, who stood an excellent chance of passing the "Civil Service Higher" provided he could speed up sufficiently to get his examination questions answered within the specified time limit.

As the train rattled and jolted on its journey the three travellers fell to discussing the still remote summer holidays.

"I'm off to Germany," announced the Moke. "The governor takes me every year, you know."

"You'll be nabbed one of these fine days, my festive, and clapped into a German prison," declared the naval cadet with the air of a man who enjoys the confidence of High Officialdom and is actually in the know.

"What for?" inquired Sylvester. "I don't run up against regulations every time I get the chance, either here or abroad," he added. "I'm not like Slogger, you know."

"Thanks for small mercies," rejoined Farrar. "As a matter of fact, Holcombe, my governor talks of taking the yacht to the Baltic. How about it? Like to come along too. Spiffing rag we can have."

"Thanks, no," replied Holcombe ungraciously. "When war with Germany breaks out I want to have a look in. It's on the cards that the Dartmouth cadets will be embarked for duty with the fleet if there's a scrap, and by that time I hope I'll have passed through Osborne."

"There'll be no war with Germany," declared the Moke with a firm conviction based upon his father's views upon the subject. "Germany is our very best friend at the present day."

"A good many fools think that," said Holcombe bluntly. "Those are the fellows who would barter our naval supremacy for the sake of a paltry six or eight millions a year."

"You talk as if you were a millionaire yourself," remarked Sylvester, with thinly veiled sarcasm. "Of course the navy's your firm that is to be. You're only a cadet yet, Holcombe, an' don't you forget it. What's the use of an expensive navy when disputes can be settled by arbitration?"

"Arbitration!" snorted Slogger. "What's the use of arbitration? It's all right for little nations when the big ones are on the spot to keep order. I guess Holcombe's right. There'll be a most unholy scrap some day between England and Germany, and we'll all have to chip in—every man-jack of us."

"Think so?" inquired Holcombe with professional jealousy. "The navy'll manage the business properly, and you civilian chaps can stop at home and thank your lucky stars there is a navy."

"Of course we'll return grateful thanks," agreed Farrar; "but all the same, the navy won't be able to see the business through without the assistance of the Naval Reserve and all that jolly crowd, you know. So it's just possible, my dear Holcombe, that you and I may be in the same scrap. Before that comes off I want to work in that trip to the Baltic this summer, so don't induce the Government to declare war just at present, will you, old sport?"

Half seriously, half in jest, the trio continued the discussion, unconscious of the fact that the subject was the shadow cast by coming events.