Penelope and the Others - Amy Walton (best book club books .txt) 📗

or not, because we can't ask them now."

"They wouldn't," repeated David decidedly.

"Mother would like the museum to be full," continued Ambrose; "we know that. And we can't get things anywhere else. She never said we were not to go to Rumborough alone."

David sat cross-legged on the floor beside his tool-box in an attitude of the deepest thought. The idea began to be attractive, but he had not the least doubt that it was wrong.

"We know, all the same, that she wouldn't let us go if we did ask her," he said at last.

Ambrose felt that it was time to strike a decided blow.

"Well," he said, with the air of one who has made up his mind, "_I_ shall go--and of course you needn't if you're afraid. I shall bring home the things and put my name on all the labels, because they'll all belong to me. It'll scarcely be your museum at all."

David's face fell. A vision rose before him of Ambrose returning from Rumborough laden with antiquities, and writing his name large upon each. He, David, would have no right to any of them. Besides, how could he miss the intense joy of digging in Rumborough Camp, of hearing his spade strike with a hollow "clink" against some iron casket or rusty piece of armour? Perhaps they might even be lucky enough to find a skull! It was too much to resist.

"I'll come," he said slowly. "I know it's wrong, but I'll come. And I'm not a bit afraid, so you needn't think that."

This settled, they continued to talk over the details of the expedition--the time, the tools, and so on. Here, as Ambrose had hoped, David proved of much service. He fixed at once on the best hour to start. It must be quite early in the morning, between five and six o'clock, so that they might be there and back before they were missed.

"We can get out by the garden door," he said; "and if they do see us coming back it won't matter much, because we shall have got the things."

David further suggested that a sack would be useful to bear home the treasure, laid a deep plan for the capture of Andrew's pickaxe, and threw himself by degrees heart and soul into the project.

Ambrose had not the least fear now that he would draw back or relax his efforts. He knew that once David had made up his mind he would prove a stout support all the way through, and this was a great relief, for he began to see that there were dangers attending the expedition, and would not have gone alone on any account. It occurred to him, especially when he was in bed and it was quite dark, that Rumborough Common was a favourite haunt of gypsies, tramps, and all sorts of lawless wandering people.

In old days it had been a noted spot for highwaymen, and though Ambrose liked to read about them and their daring exploits, he shivered to think of meeting them in person alone. It was some comfort to remember that there were no highwaymen now, but there were plenty of perils left to think of and make him uncomfortable, and at such times he half regretted having planned the expedition at all. Now, however, he could fall back on the thought that David was going too, and there was such support in this that it lost half its terrors.

On the evening before the day fixed for the expedition all was ready. The pickaxe, secured in one of Andrew's unguarded moments, two spades, and a large sack lay hidden in the thick ivy which covered the wall near the garden gate. Nothing remained but to wake early enough the next morning, before anyone was up, and creep out unobserved. The person most to be feared was Andrew, who had an awkward habit of coming to his work at all sorts of odd hours. The boys were inclined to doubt sometimes if he ever went to bed, for he seemed to know exactly what kind of weather it had been all night. However that must be risked, although it would be most undesirable to meet him with the pickaxe in their possession.

Ambrose went to bed in a fever of excitement, with a mind firmly fixed on keeping his eyes wide open until morning, for that was the only way to be sure of being awake at the right time. It depended on him alone, for David was such a profound sleeper that he could not be relied on at all: it would most likely be very difficult even to rouse him at the proper hour. Very soon, from the little bed next to him, Ambrose heard the deep regular breathing, which showed that he was in the land of dreams. How could he sleep on such an exciting occasion?

Hour after hour sounded from the old church tower; shadows from the sprays of ivy outside danced on the window-blind in the moonlight; now and then a dog barked a long way off, and was answered by a nearer one. What a long, long while the night lasted if you were not asleep! Ambrose tossed restlessly on his pillow, and longed for the morning to come. It seemed very soon after this that the next hour sounded. He counted the strokes: these ought to have been 12, but there were only 5. Could the clock be wrong? He started up and looked round the room; it was not lighted by the moon now; it was broad daylight, and he had been to sleep after all!

The first thing was to waken David, who was lying in a tranquil slumber with a smile on his face, as though Rumborough Camp had no existence. Ambrose called him gently and then shook him, but though he half-opened his eyes he immediately shut them again, turned on his side with a deep and comfortable sigh, and was faster asleep than ever. Some decided step must be taken. Without an instant's hesitation Ambrose got a wet sponge and laid it on his brother's face. David woke with a snort of disgust and started up.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Hush-sh-ush!" said Ambrose, holding up a warning finger; "it's time to start. _Rumborough_, you know."

Thoroughly wakened by these words David was out of bed in an instant, and the two boys, creeping stealthily about the room, quickly huddled on their clothes. Then they went on tiptoe down the stairs, which creaked under their guilty footsteps as though they cried "Stop thief!" and on through the wide, silent hall, where Snuff the terrier, coiled on his mat, looked at them with an air of sleepy surprise, but did not stir.

But then came a difficulty. The garden door closed with a bolt high above their reach, so that David had to mount upon his brother's back to get at it. Even then he could not manage to move it at first, for it was rusty, and when he did succeed it shot back with sudden violence and made enough noise to waken the whole household. The boys stared horror-stricken at each other, but there was no movement to be heard in the house. Recovering courage they quickly picked up their tools, and were soon fairly started on their way. This led for a short distance along the high-road until, crossing a stile, they came to broad meadows, where Farmer Hatchard's cows were munching peacefully away at the short dewy grass. So far they were not beyond the allowed limits, and though they instinctively drew closer together as they passed through the herd of cows, they felt that none of the perils of the adventure had begun.

It was all familiar ground until they had passed the farm. Then came Blackberry Lane, which was a short cut to Rumborough Common. Blackberry Lane was so narrow that the straggling brambles and honeysuckles in the tall hedges almost met overhead. It was very steep, very stony, and always rather dark, a place, where it was easy to imagine any number of robbers lying in wait. The boys climbed slowly up the steep ascent, casting awed glances to right and left. The pickaxe weighed heavily on Ambrose's shoulder, and David had quite as much as he could do to trudge along with two spades and a sack.

It was a relief when they came suddenly out of the gloomy shadows of the lane on to the broad expanse of Rumborough Common. There it lay stretched out before them, with a rough cart track across the middle of it. A lonely, cheerless-looking place! Bare of trees, except for one group of ragged firs, which marked the position of what was called the Camp. Not a house in sight, not a sign of life anywhere, nothing to break its even surface but some pools of water glimmering coldly grey in the morning light.

A sudden fear seized on Ambrose as he and David stood still for a moment to take breath. Brought face to face with Rumborough Common in this way, it seemed to present all manner of possible perils, which might come to light at any moment. He would willingly have turned back, and had he been alone would certainly have done so; but--David was there. It would not do to show any want of courage before his younger brother, who, moreover, had given no sign of wishing to give up the expedition. They must go on; they must cross that wide space which lay between them and the camp; they must reach those dark threatening fir-trees, and encounter, very likely, some desperate characters lying there in ambush, ready to spring upon the lonely traveller. All the romantic tales he had ever read, all the worst stories of bloodshed and horrors crowded upon Ambrose's mind as the two boys plodded steadily along the cart track, bending a little under their burdens.

"Andrew said once that there used to be a ghost here," said David, breaking the silence.

"Don't," said Ambrose, giving him a sharp dig with his elbow.

"He was a tinker," continued David, "and he drowned himself in one of the ponds."

"I wish you wouldn't be so silly," said Ambrose impatiently. "You know there aren't any ghosts. You know father says so--and besides they never stay out after cock-crow--and besides, if there were they couldn't hurt us."

"Mother says nothing will hurt us if we're not doing wrong," said David; "but we are doing wrong, aren't we?"

Ambrose gave a nervous laugh, which sounded to himself very thin and funny.

"If there are any ghosts here, I should think they'd be Roman ghosts," he said.

A Roman ghost was a new idea to David. He dwelt on it a little before he asked:

"How should you think a Roman ghost would look?"

"Oh, how should I know?" exclaimed Ambrose irritably. "I wish you'd talk about something else."

"Well," concluded David thoughtfully, "if there are any Roman ghosts about, I shouldn't think they'd like to see us digging up their things."

The Camp reached, they stood still a moment gravely surveying it. It was formed by two low banks of turf, one within the other, almost complete circles, but broken here and there; the tall, black fir-trees stood near like sentinels on guard.