Whispering Mountain

1 On a sharp autumn evening a boy stood waiting inside the high stone pillars which flanked the gateway of the Jones Academy for the Sons of Gentlemen and Respectable Tradesmen in the small town of Pennygaff. School had finished for the day some time since, and all the other scholars had gladly streamed away into the windy dusk, but still the boy hesitated, shivering with cold and indecision. Once or twice he edged close against one of the soot-blackened pillars, so that his form was almost invisible, and, leaning forward, peered out through the close-set iron railings. The street outside seemed empty. But was it really so? Very little daylight now remained. A thin yellow strip of light in the west made the shadows along the narrow cobbled way even blacker; there were too many doorways, porches, passages, and flights of steps in or behind which any number of enemies could lurk unseen. And a great bank of purple-black cloud was advancing steadily west-ward across the sky, blotting out what little light yet lingered. In a minute, torrents of rain would fall. The sound of quick footsteps behind him rang in the paved yard and the boy swung round sharply, but it was only the schoolmaster, Mr. Price, on his way home to tea. "Owen Hughes!" the teacher said with displeasure. "What are you doing here? Run along, boy, run along; you should not be loitering in the grounds after school has ended. Where are you books? And why have you no coat? It will rain directly. Your good grandfather will be wondering where you have got to. Hurry along now." Mr. Price said all this as he passed the boy at a rapid pace, without pausing, meanwhile buttoning his own great-coat against the huge drops of rain which were beginning to strike heavily on the flagged pavement. Owen's "Yes, sir," followed him, but he did not turn his head to see whether he had been obeyed, and Owen did not move from his position by the gate despite the downpour, which, now commencing in good earnest, soon drenched his thin nankeen jacket. Intent on his scrutiny of the empty street, Owen did not even notice that he had begun to shiver with wet and cold, and that the scrap of paper which he rolled between his fingers had become sodden and indecipherable. Its short message was printed on his memory. WE SHALL BE WAITING FOR YOU AFTER SCHOOL The message, written in large, uneven capitals, was unsigned, but Owen was in no doubt as to where it had come from: only one of his seven persecutors could write. "Dove Thurbey," he said to himself. "Dove Thurbey, Dick Abrystowe, Luggins Cadwallader, Mog Glendower, Follentine Hylles, Soth Gard, and Hwfa Morgan. They'll all be waiting, and they'll have stones and stakes and broken bottles. What had I better do?" He simply did not know. He could probably run faster than any of the seven, but he could not escape from a hail of cobblestones, and his chief dread was that his spectacles should be broken, for he possessed only one pair, and there was no means of repairing them. He was not a coward but he knew, too, that once Dove, Dick Luggins, Mog, Follentine, Soth and Hwfa had him down there would be little hope for him. They wore metal-tipped clogs and they were all twice his sizeHwfa was nearly six footand big and brawny. Mog was going to work next month, Dick, Dove, and Luggins played in the town football team. The seven of them sat together at the back of the school and paid no heed to Mr. Price, who had long ago given up trying to teach them. Nor was there much chance of aid. The citizens of Pennygaff were all snug in their kitchens by now, with doors and windows shut; if they heard a sound of fighting they were more likely to pull the curtains tighter than to leave their firesides in defenceAiken, Joan is the author of 'Whispering Mountain', published 2002 under ISBN 9780765342416 and ISBN 0765342413.