On three successive afternoons, O’Hara and Moriarty scoured the downs, and on each occasion they drew blank. On the fourth day, just before lock-up, O’Hara, who had been to tea with Gregson, of Day’s, was going over to the gymnasium to keep a pugilistic appointment with Moriarty, when somebody ran swiftly past him in the direction of the boarding-houses. It was almost dark, for the days were still short, and he did not recognise the runner. But it puzzled him a little to think where he had sprung from. O’Hara was walking quite close to the wall of the College buildings, and the runner had passed between it and him. And he had not heard his footsteps. Then he understood, and his pulse quickened as he felt that he was on the track. Beneath the block was a large sort of cellar-basement. It was used as a store-room for chairs, and was never opened except when prize-day or some similar event occurred, when the chairs were needed. It was supposed to be locked at other times, but never was. The door was just by the spot where he was standing. As he stood there, half-a-dozen other vague forms dashed past him in a knot. One of them almost brushed against him. For a moment he thought of stopping him, but decided not to. He could wait.
On the following afternoon he slipped down into the basement soon after school. It was as black as pitch in the cellar. He took up a position near the door.
It seemed hours before anything happened. He was, indeed, almost giving up the thing as a bad job, when a ray of light cut through the blackness in front of him, and somebody slipped through the door. The next moment, a second form appeared dimly, and then the light was shut off again.
O’Hara could hear them groping their way past him. He waited no longer. It is difficult to tell where sound comes from in the dark. He plunged forward at a venture. His hand, swinging round in a semicircle, met something which felt like a shoulder. He slipped his grasp down to the arm, and clutched it with all the force at his disposal.
IX. MAINLY ABOUT FERRETS
“Ow!” exclaimed the captive, with no uncertain voice. “Let go, you ass, you’re hurting.”
The voice was a treble voice. This surprised O’Hara. It looked very much as if he had put up the wrong bird. From the dimensions of the arm which he was holding, his prisoner seemed to be of tender years.
“Let go, Harvey, you idiot. I shall kick.”
Before the threat could be put into execution, O’Hara, who had been fumbling all this while in his pocket for a match, found one loose, and struck a light. The features of the owner of the arm—he was still holding it—were lit up for a moment.
“Why, it’s young Renford!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing down here?”
Renford, however, continued to pursue the topic of his arm, and the effect that the vice-like grip of the Irishman had had upon it.
“You’ve nearly broken it,” he said, complainingly.
“I’m sorry. I mistook you for somebody else. Who’s that with you?”
“It’s me,” said an ungrammatical voice.
“Who’s me?”
“Harvey.”
At this point a soft yellow light lit up the more immediate neighbourhood. Harvey had brought a bicycle lamp into action.
“That’s more like it,” said Renford. “Look here, O’Hara, you won’t split, will you?”
“I’m not an informer by profession, thanks,” said O’Hara.
“Oh, I know it’s all right, really, but you can’t be too careful, because one isn’t allowed down here, and there’d be a beastly row if it got out about our being down here.”
“And they would be cobbed,” put in Harvey.
“Who are they?” asked O’Hara.
“Ferrets. Like to have a look at them?”
“Ferrets!“
“Yes. Harvey brought back a couple at the beginning of term. Ripping little beasts. We couldn’t keep them in the house, as they’d have got dropped on in a second, so we had to think of somewhere else, and thought why not keep them down here?”
“Why, indeed?” said O’Hara. “Do ye find they like it?”