russet apples are not everyone's fancy. they need to be well-ripened before they are palatable, and most boys prefer a larger, juicier kind.
which of the squirms had bought russet apples on the day of the robin hood concert? apples too green for him to eat with relish, seeing that he had thought fit to waste one by throwing it on the stage. therein lay the clue to the particular squirm who had caused the fire, cheated the performers of their well-earned applause, and left the majority of them with scorched costumes and slightly-burnt fingers.
"whoever the little bounder is, it isn't right that he should get off scot-free," said robin, a few days after the trouble.
"but how are you going to discover him? osbody's an oyster. he wouldn't tell who squirted acid on the bonfire, even when you were blackening his face with the ashes."
"true, dave: he's no blabmouth. best of the bunch, by far. shan't ask him who threw the apple—we'll find it out ourselves."
"take a bit of doing," little john observed.
"chance for the amateur detectives amongst you," robin answered. "what are the squirms doing all day long? stuffing themselves. even gorging under cover of their desk-lids. watch 'em. see what they eat. if any one more than another grinds up russet apples, he's our man."
the plan seemed delightfully simple. anybody might be a scotland yard 'tec with such a straight-forward clue to work on. every merry man became a sleuth from that moment. after meals, when it was the custom of the school to throng into the common room for fifteen minutes or so before restarting work, they watched the squirms out of the corners of their eyes, noting with what kind of apple each of them supplemented his diet. the cores of several varieties of both eating and cooking apples, and even those of sour crab apples, were picked clean and cast into the fire, but never once was a squirm detected in the act of eating a russet.
"no good," declared robin; "it's 'nix', as the yankees say. the chap who flung the russet is too 'fly' to go on eating that kind. we must try another way. let us fare forth, little john, old son, to ye olde village tuck-shop. i would have speech with the stout dame that selleth prog therein."
the proprietress of the little village tuck-shop was waxing fat on the proceeds of what she sold to the hungry foxes. she received robin and little john with an expansive smile, her hand going mechanically to the tin containing robin's favourite biscuits. robin chatted pleasantly as she weighed out his customary purchase.
politely offering her a biscuit before passing the bag to little john, robin said:
"mother, i heard our matron talking about you the other day. she said she'd give her ears, or something like that, for a complexion as nice as yours."
"did she now? not really? ah, well, i expect she does feel it, poor dear, with her so pale and thin—almost green as you might say—and my cheeks like—like——"
"apples," robin promptly put in. "perhaps you eat a lot of apples, mrs. roe, to keep your cheeks rosy."
"never touch 'em, master robin. can't ever get sufficient to keep you foxenby boys going, let alone myself."
"you don't seem to have any to-day, mrs. roe?"
the proprietress pointed to some empty baskets.
"them was half-full an hour ago," she declared, "but a dozen or more young gentlemen came in and took the lot."
"hard lines! i particularly wanted some apples. haven't you a few russets left?"
"given up stocking them, master robin. no demand. sold the last pound to one of your young friends a few days ago. he was about the only one who ever bought any, and catering for one person alone doesn't pay."
"certainly not, mrs. roe. still, i did so fancy a russet apple to-day. i wonder if the chap who bought 'em will have one or two left? just possible, isn't it, flenton? could you describe him to me, mother?"
"i'm a bit short-sighted, lovey, without much memory for faces. he's a biggish boy, about your age, but stouter. if he were my son, i'd see that he kept himself cleaner and smarter."
"ah, well, perhaps he was born with a sallow skin, mother. can't you describe him a little better than that? what name did the other fellows give him?"
"there, you're asking me something! i've such a poor memory for names. let me see, what did they call him? barley—no; wheat—no; bless me, something like that, but not quite."
"was it grain, mother?"
"grain, that's it! i thought i couldn't be far out."
"have another biscuit, mother. no? then little john will, won't you, old chap? you're quite sure grain was the boy who bought the russet apples, mother? i do so fancy a juicy russet!"
"they weren't what you might call juicy, lovey—rather green, i should say. master grain certainly bought all i had left. he might just have one by him still."
"thank you, mother—i'll speak to him about it. good-day."
he took little john's arm and walked quietly from the shop, crunching a gingerbread between his firm, white teeth. outside, he slapped flenton gleefully on the shoulder.
"flenton, old kid, we've got this apple mystery whipped to a froth," he cried. "grain it is who knocked over the lamp with his russet apple, and grain it will be who'll go through the hoop for it."
"seems as plain as a pikestaff," little john agreed. "but how shall we catch grain alone?"
"leave it to me. i'll think out a scheme. we'll make the beggar sorry he upset our applecart with his russet, never fear!"
all unconscious of the rod in pickle for him, grain went about his blustering way, pinching and prodding the luckless nippers who chanced across his path, forcing his fellow squirms into episodes they would fain have funked, and generally making himself openly feared and secretly hated. the only way to "buy him off" was with food and sweetmeats, he being so greedily fond of both that he seemed, like some animals, to be always chewing.
one half-holiday, passing through an empty class-room, he saw by the other door a paper-bag, through a slit in which a biscuit peeped.
"hello!" he muttered. "some clumsy idiot's dropped a bagful of fodder." picking it up he opened the bag. "half-a-pound of mixed biscuits, mostly chocolate ones! whew! what a find! nobody about. impossible to know who owns them. might be any one of the four hundred kids in foxenby. grain, old son, you've stumbled on a good thing."
glancing quickly round to make sure he was unobserved, he turned his back on the door and popped a chocolate biscuit into his mouth.
"scrumptious!" he murmured. "any more little waifs and strays in want of a good home? a dozen of you? walk right in!"
his hand was in the bag again, when the sound of a soft footfall behind him caused him to swing round nervously. then all the toothsome biscuits went crashing to the floor as he found himself engulfed by a resistless wave of merry men, who, led by robin, spread themselves round him and half-smothered him in their tight embraces.
"another beastly trap, you cowardly cads!" he cried. "let go of me, or i'll half kill somebody!"
considering that he was as firmly trussed up as a turkey at yuletide, this threat was empty and vainglorious. his immediate captors numbered half a dozen, and there were so many more in reserve that a strong man might have despaired of breaking away.
"shut up, you greedy food-sneak," said robin. "you're our prisoner, and you're going out to the forest. there you will be tried as a robber and a knave. bring him along, my merry men."
"i'll yell the house down," grain declared.
"not you! little john, throw thy muffler round his mouth if the varlet maketh the slightest sound. across the yard with him, lads; there's no time to waste."
vigorously they pushed grain out of the house, and as unceremoniously propelled him across the yard towards the shrubbery. half-way there the captive caught sight of roger cayton, who was walking about with his hands behind his back—the prefect's characteristic attitude. nobody else was about, and grain, terrified now of what was in front of him, chanced a yell.
"hi, cayton, stop them, please!" he bawled.
roger's head seemed to twitch a little, but he did not turn it in their direction, nor did he move his hands from behind his back. he continued his placid walk, and, before grain could call out again, little john's muffler had done its work in silencing him.
once within the forest he knew himself to be entirely at the mercy of his captors, and ceased to throw his limbs about in wasted effort.
"now, by my troth, thou shalt answer for much thou hast done in the past," said robin, assuming the post of judge. "didst thou, on the night of our entertainment, see an oil-lamp on the stage knocked over by an apple, and tongues of fire burst therefrom?"
"carrots!" was grain's irreverent reply.
"thou art a right saucy varlet, sirrah! answer me 'yea' or 'nay'. didst see the apple thrown?"
"fish and fiddlesticks!" snorted grain, looking more defiant than he felt.
"thou wilt not answer sensibly, but preferreth to play the right-down giddy goat. so be it. my merry men, jerk up the prisoner's head. he squinteth upon the ground as though still seeking for grub that is not his own. that's better! now, caitiff, watch me carefully. dost recognize this?"
with a dramatic jerk, robin drew from his pocket the russet apple which little john had picked up from the stage after the fire.
grain wriggled again in the hands of his captors, colouring with surprise, and frowning with annoyance. never could a face have betrayed guilty knowledge more clearly than his did at that moment.
"more play-acting," he managed to sneer. "what has all this rot to do with me?"
"more than thou wottest of. i tell thee to thy face that thou didst hurl this very apple at the stage, smashing a lamp and setting the scenery afire. didst then come to help to put out the flames thou hadst caused? no, like the cowardly squirm thou art, thou tookest to thy heels, and left us to battle with the fire as best we could."
"cut it short," growled grain.
"i will," said robin, promptly. "boys, tie his hands firmly behind his back. little john, bring forth the bucket of ice-cold water."
the bucket was produced and robin dropped the apple into it.
"now, caitiff, kneel," he commanded, "and with thy mouth pick thy precious russet from the water. quick, or thou wilt rue it!"
"i knew you'd be up to some dirty trick or other," grain growled. "i won't play bob-apple to please you or anybody, that's flat."
"then put his face in, my merry men," said robin. "'twill take no harm from an extra wash, i'll warrant ye."
ready hands thrust grain to his knees and immersed his face in the bucket. the water was freezing cold, and one dose was quite enough. swallowing his pride, he began frantically trying to snatch out the apple with his mouth. each time it bobbed serenely away from him, to the vast amusement of the spectators, who felt no pity for this helpless squirm, himself a far greater tormentor of younger boys than they now were of him. it was a very small price he was paying for the cruel "fun" he had given himself for so long a time.
if any of you have tried, at the sports, for the sheer jollity of the thing, to stop with your mouth the swimming of an apple in a pail of water, you will know how tantalizing a task it is. you will have attempted it in summer, too, in sun-warmed water, whereas grain had to dip his face into water that had previously been covered with ice. the more frantically he tried to end the ordeal the farther away did the maddening apple float. finally, he did what he had so often seen the little victims of his own tormenting do. he burst into tears.
"i c—can't c—catch it!" he wailed. "lemme go!"
the merry men ceased laughing at once and looked at one another rather foolishly. grain, the swaggerer, crying like a baby! what a hollow fraud he was—a pricked balloon!
"that'll do, chaps," said robin. "wipe his face with a handkerchief, somebody. grain, if i untie your hands and let you go, will you confess to having thrown that apple?"
"yes, i d—did it."
"and was it you who squirted acid on our bonfire, nearly suffocating us all?"
"oh, yes—yes; lemme loose!"
"untie his hands, chaps. stop blubbing, grain; you'll be free in a minute. nice chap you are to want to be leader of any band, even of the stupid squirms. osbody's a swankpot, but he's got pluck to back it up. you're a bully, a cad, and a baby. here's your cap. put it on—scoot!"
