Haviland's Chum Part 6

This was pertinent, and Haviland was nonplussed, but only for a moment.

"I've got some extra specimens I'll give you," he answered. "Come on, leave these, and let the bird come back."

The other looked somewhat wistfully at the smooth olive-hued eggs lying there temptingly in their shallow bowl of dry leaves and gra.s.s. Then he turned away.

"We'll find plenty of others," said Haviland. "Last time I was here I took a nest of blackcap's, and the eggs were quite pink instead of brown. That's awfully rare. We'll see if there are any more in the same place."

Round the cover they went, then across it, then back again, all with a regular system, and soon their collecting boxes were filled--including some good sorts.

"There! Big bird go away up there," whispered Anthony pointing upward.

They were standing under a clump of dark firs. Over their tops Haviland glimpsed the quick arrowy flight.

"A sparrow-hawk, by Jingo!" he said. "Sure to have a nest here too."

A keen and careful search revealed this, though it was hidden away so snugly in the fir-top, that it might have been pa.s.sed by a hundred times. The Zulu boy begged to be allowed to go up.

"I think not this time, Cetchy," decided Haviland. "It's an easy climb, but then you haven't had enough practice in stowing the eggs, and these are too good to get smashed."

It was not everything to get up the tree: half the point was to do so as noiselessly as possible, both of which feats were easy enough to so experienced a climber as Haviland. He was soon in the fir-top, the loose untidy pile of sticks just over his head; another hoist--and then--most exciting moment of all, the smooth warm touch of the eggs.

The while the parent bird, darting to and fro in the air, came nearer and nearer his head with each swoop. But for this he cared nothing.

"Look, Cetchy," he whispered delightedly as he stood once more on _terra firma_ and exhibited the bluish-white treasures with their rich sepia blotches. "Three of them, and awfully good specimens. Couple days later there'd have been four or five, still three's better than none.

You shall have these two to start your collection with, and I'll stick to this one with the markings at the wrong end. What's the row?"

For the Zulu boy had made a sign for silence, and was standing in an att.i.tude of intense listening.

"Somebody coming," he whispered. "One man."

Haviland's nerves thrilled. But listen as he would his practised ear could hear nothing.

"Quick, hide," breathed the other, pointing to a thick patch of bramble and fern about a dozen yards away, and not a moment too early was the warning uttered, for scarcely had they reached it and crouched flat to the earth, when a man appeared coming through the wood. Peering from their hiding-place, they made out that he was clad in the velveteen suit and leather leggings of a keeper, and, moreover, he carried a gun.

He was looking upward all the time, otherwise he could not have failed to see them, and to Haviland, at any rate, the reason of this was plain.

He had sighted the sparrow-hawk, and was warily stalking her, hence the noiselessness of his approach. The situation was becoming intensely exciting. The keeper was coming straight for their hiding-place, still, however, looking upward. If he discovered them, they must make a dash for it that moment, Haviland explained in a whisper scarcely above a breath. The gun didn't count, he daren't fire at them in any event.

Suddenly the man stopped. Up went the gun, then it was as quickly lowered. He had sighted the flight of the hawk above the tree tops, but the chance was not good enough. And he had sighted something else, the nest to wit. The bird was sure to come back to it, and so give him a much better chance. Accordingly he squatted down among the undergrowth, his gun held ready, barely twenty yards from the concealed pair, but with his back to them.

That sparrow-hawk, however, was no fool of a bird. She seemed possessed of a fine faculty for discrimination, and manifestly knew the difference between a brace of egg-collecting schoolboys, and a ruthless, death-dealing gamekeeper, and although at intervals she swooped overhead it was always out of range, but still the latter sat there with a patience that was admirable, save to the pair whom all unconsciously it menaced with grave consequences.

For, as time fled, these loomed nearer and nearer. As it was, they would need all their time to get back, and were they late for evening chapel, especially after being granted leave from calling-over, it was a dead certainty that the Doctor himself would have something to say in the matter, at any rate in Haviland's case. And still that abominable keeper lurked there, showing no sign whatever of moving within the next half-hour, in which event it mattered little if he did not move at all.

A thin, penetrating drizzle had begun to fall, which bade fair to wet them to the skin, but for this they cared nothing, neither apparently did their enemy, who furthermore was partly sheltered beneath a great fir. Haviland grew desperate.

"We shall have to make a run for it, Cetchy," he breathed. "Look,"

showing his watch. "If the beast doesn't make a move in five minutes, we must run and chance it. I'll give the word."

The hand of the watch moved slowly on--one minute--two--three--four.

Haviland replaced it in his pocket, and drew a long breath: but before he could give the word, his companion touched him and whispered.

"No run. He run. I make him."

"What?"

"I make him run. I flighten him. I ghost. You'll see."

For a great idea had occurred to Mpukuza, christened Anthony, named by Saint Kirwin's "Cetchy"--and exactly one minute and as rapid a metamorphosis in his personal appearance was all he needed to put it into execution.

Darker and darker had grown the lowering skies, and now the wind began to moan dismally through the tree trunks. Anything more drear and depressing than the brooding gloom of the haunted wood could hardly be imagined. The keeper, however, was of the dogged order of rustic, and doubtless lacking in imagination, for he remained patiently at his self-appointed post. Then, suddenly, he started to his feet and faced quickly round.

A sight met his gaze, transfixing him with terror, seeming to turn him to stone. Reared above the undergrowth, an awful head, covered with dust, and bristling with brambles--a black face with lolling, swollen tongue, and huge eyeb.a.l.l.s protruding from their sockets rolling their vivid whites in most hideous fas.h.i.+on--yes, and there, round the neck, a strand of cord, while from the throat of this horrifying apparition there proceeded the most hollow, half-strangled moan that ever curdled mortal blood. For a moment the appalled keeper stood with livid countenance, and his knees knocking together--then with a wild hoa.r.s.e cry, and dropping his gun--he turned and fled away down the ride of the wood as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Come, Haviland, we'll go now," chuckled the ghost, dropping down into the undergrowth again. But Haviland made no reply, being powerless alike for speech or movement. He lay there gasping, choking back with superhuman effort the scarcely repressible roars of laughter that he dared not let out.

"Come quick. We be off," urged the Zulu boy. "Praps he come back."

"Not he," gurgled Haviland faintly. "Oh Cetchy, that's about the most deadly thing I ever saw in my life. Oh, it'll be the death of me."

Then recovering himself with a mighty effort:

"Come along, Cetchy. You're right, by Jingo! We'll have to put our best leg forward as it is. Oh, but we mustn't think about this or it'll kill me again."

Cautiously and in silence, and ever keeping a bright look-out lest mayhap their dupe should recover from his scare and return, they made their way out of the haunted wood, then across country at a hard swinging trot, and the far-away roofs of Saint Kirwin's seemed painfully remote.

"I say, Cetchy," said Haviland as they sat beneath a hedge for a brief but necessary breather. "Supposing the chap had let off his gun at you?

Eh? We never thought of that."

"He not shoot--he too much funk."

"So he was. I dare say, too, he thought it wasn't any good firing at a ghost. No, I mustn't start laughing again. Come along."

And indeed they needed to make the most of their time, for the bell was already ringing during the last five minutes of their run. However, they got through by a narrow shave.

After chapel, as he was walking across the quadrangle, a scurry of feet and a rustle of long garments behind him caused Haviland to turn. He beheld Mr Sefton.

"Did you find lots of eggs this afternoon, Haviland?" said the master, who was still in his canonicals and square cap.

"Yes, sir. A grand lot. Thanks so much for giving us leave."

"Are you teaching Cetchy bird-nesting?"

"Yes, sir. He wants to collect. He's a good hand at finding them too."

"Ah! Don't get him into mischief. Eh? And keep out of it yourself.

D'you hear? Keep out of it yourself."

There was a warning note underlying the quaint, dry quizzical tone which was not lost upon the hearer. He was wondering how much Sefton suspected, but at the same time was thinking how dearly he would have liked to tell Sefton the joke about the ghost, but that of course he dared not. Yet Sefton would have appreciated it so keenly--no one more so. But he only answered:

"I'll try to, sir. Yes, we had a real ripping afternoon--thanks to you."

"Ha!" With which enigmatical e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n the master nodded and went his way.