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No Wings
Whether anyone cried or not, there was certainly an interval during which none of the party was quite itself. When they grew calmer, Anthea put her handkerchief in her pocket and her arm round Jane, and said—
"It can't be for more than one night. We can signal with our handkerchiefs in the morning. They'll be dry then. And someone will come up and let us out"—
"And find the syphon," said Cyril gloomily; "and we shall be sent to prison for stealing"—
"You said it wasn't stealing. You said you were sure it wasn't."
"I'm not sure now," said Cyril shortly.
"Let's throw the thing away among the trees," said Robert, "then no one can do anything to us."
"Oh yes,"—Cyril's laugh was not a hearted one,—"and hit some chap on the head, and be murderers as well as—as the other thing."
"But we can't stay up here all night," said Jane; "and I want my tea."
"You can't want your tea," said Robert; "you've only just had your dinner."
"But I do want it," she said; "especially when you begin talking about stopping up here all night. Oh, Panther—I want to go home! I want to go home!"
"Hush, hush," Anthea said. "Don't, dear. It'll be all right, somehow. Don't, don't"—
"Let her cry," said Robert desperately; "if she howls loud enough, someone may hear and come and let us out."
"And see the soda-water thing," said Anthea swiftly. "Robert, don't be a brute. Oh, Jane, do try to be a man! It's just the same for all of us."
Jane did try to "be a man"—and reduced her howls to sniffs.
There was a pause. Then Cyril said slowly, "Look here. We must risk that syphon. I'll button it up inside my jacket—perhaps no one will notice it. You others keep well in front of me. There are lights in the clergyman's house. They've not gone to bed yet. We must just yell as loud as ever we can. Now all scream when I say three. Robert, you do the yell like a railway engine, and I'll do the coo-ee like father's. The girls can do as they please. One, two, three!"
A four-fold yell rent the silent peace of the evening, and a maid at one of the Vicarage windows paused with her hand on the blindcord.
"One, two, three!" Another yell, piercing and complex, startled the owls and starlings to a flutter of feathers in the belfry below. The maid flew from the Vicarage window and ran down the Vicarage stairs and into the Vicarage kitchen, and fainted as soon as she had explained to the man-servant and the cook and the cook's cousin that she had seen a ghost. It was quite untrue, of course, but I suppose the girl's nerves were a little upset by the yelling.
"One, two, three!" The Vicar was on his doorstep by this time, and there was no mistaking the yell that greeted him.
"Goodness me," he said to his wife, "my dear, someone's being murdered in the church! Give me my hat and a thick stick, and tell Andrew to come after me. I expect it's the lunatic who stole the tongue."
The children had seen the flash of light when the Vicar opened his front door. They had seen his dark form on his doorstep, and they had paused for breath, and also to see what he would do.
When he turned back for his hat, Cyril said hastily—
"He thinks he only fancied he heard something. You don't half yell! Now! One, two, three!"
It was certainly a whole yell this time, and the Vicar's wife flung her arms round her husband and screamed a feeble echo of it.
"You shan't go!" she said, "not alone. Jessie!"—the maid unfainted and came out of the kitchen,—"send Andrew at once. There's a dangerous lunatic in the church, and he must go immediately and catch him."
"I expect he will catch it too," said Jessie to herself as she went through the kitchen door. "Here, Andrew," she said, "there's someone screaming like mad in the church, and the missus says you're to go along and catch it."
"Not alone, I don't," said Andrew in low firm tones. To his master he merely said, "Yis sir."
"You heard those screams?"
"I did think I noticed a sort of something," said Andrew.
"Well, come on, then," said the Vicar. "My dear, I must go!" He pushed her gently into the sitting-room, banged the door, and rushed out, dragging Andrew by the arm.
A volley of yells greeted them. Then as it died into silence Andrew shouted, "Hullo, you there! Did you call?"
"Yes," shouted four far-away voices.
"They seem to be in the air," said the Vicar.
"Very remarkable."
"Where are you?" shouted Andrew; and Cyril replied in his deepest voice, very slow and loud—
"CHURCH! TOWER! TOP!"
"Come down, then!" said Andrew; and the same voice replied—
"Can't! Door locked!"
"My goodness!" said the Vicar. "Andrew, fetch the stable lantern. Perhaps it would be as well to fetch another man from the village."
"With the rest of the gang about, very likely. No, sir; if this 'ere ain't a trap—well, may I never! There's cook's cousin at the back door now. He's a keeper, sir, and used to dealing with vicious characters. And he's got his gun, sir."
"Hullo there!" shouted Cyril from the church-tower; "come up and let us out."
"We're a-coming," said Andrew. "I'm a-going to get a policeman and a gun."
"Andrew, Andrew," said the Vicar, "that's not the truth."
"It's near enough, sir, for the likes of them."
So Andrew fetched the lantern and the cook's cousin; and the Vicar's wife begged them all to be very careful.
They went across the churchyard—it was quite dark now—and as they went they talked. The Vicar was certain a lunatic was on the church-tower—the one who had written the mad letter, and taken the cold tongue and things. Andrew thought it was a "trap"; the cook's cousin alone was calm. "Great cry, little wool," said he; "dangerous chaps is quieter." He was not at all afraid. But then he had a gun. That was why he was asked to lead the way up the worn, steep, dark steps of the church-tower. He did lead the way, with the lantern in one hand and the gun in the other. Andrew went next. He pretended afterwards that this was because he was braver than his master, but really it was because he thought of traps and he did not like the idea of being behind the others for fear someone should come softly up behind him and catch hold of his legs in the dark. They went on and on, and round and round the little corkscrew staircase—then through the bell- ringers' loft, where the bell-ropes hung with soft furry ends like giant caterpillars—then up another stair into the belfry, where the big quiet bells are—and then on up a ladder with broad steps—and then up a little stone stair. And at the top of that there was a little door. And the door was bolted on the stair side.
The cook's cousin, who was a gamekeeper, kicked at the door, and said—
"Hullo, you there!"
The children were holding on to each other on the other side of the door, and trembling with anxiousness—and very hoarse with their howls. They could hardly speak, but Cyril managed to reply huskily—
"Hullo, you there!"
"How did you get up there?"
It was no use saying "We flew up," so Cyril said—
"We got up—and then we found the door was locked and we couldn't get down. Let us out—do."
"How many of you are there?" asked the keeper.
"Only four," said Cyril.
"Are