In fact, it looked very much as if—from a purely commercial point of view—the great Lines Supplying Trust was going to be what is known in theatrical circles as a frost.
For two whole days the public refused to bite, and Dunstable and Linton, turning over the stacks of lines in their studies, thought gloomily that this world is no place for original enterprise.
Then things began to move.
It was quite an accident that started them. Jackson, of Dexter's, was teaing with Linton, and, as was his habit, was giving him a condensed history of his life since he last saw him. In the course of this he touched on a small encounter with M. Gaudinois which had occurred that afternoon.
"So I got two pages of 'Quatre-Vingt Treize' to write," he concluded, "for doing practically nothing."
All Jackson's impositions, according to him, were given him for doing practically nothing. Now and then he got them for doing literally nothing—when he ought to have been doing form-work.
"Done 'em?" asked Linton.
"Not yet; no," replied Jackson. "More tea, please."
"What you want to do, then," said Linton, "is to apply to the Locksley Lines Supplying Trust. That's what you must do."
"You needn't rot a chap on a painful subject," protested Jackson.
"I wasn't rotting," said Linton. "Why don't you apply to the Lines Trust?"
"Then do you mean to say that there really is such a thing?" Jackson said incredulously. "Why I thought it was all a rag."
"I know you did. It's the rotten sort of thing you would think. Rag, by Jove! Look at this. Now do you understand that this is a genuine concern?"
He got up and went to the cupboard which filled the space between the stove and the bookshelf. From this resting-place he extracted a great pile of manuscript and dumped it down on the table with a bang which caused a good deal of Jackson's tea to spring from its native cup on to its owner's trousers.
"When you've finished," protested Jackson, mopping himself with a handkerchief that had seen better days.
"Sorry. But look at these. What did you say your impot was? Oh, I remember. Here you are. Two pages of 'Quatre-Vingt Treize.' I don't know which two pages, but I suppose any will do."
Jackson was amazed.
"Great Scott! what a wad of stuff! When did you do it all?"
"Oh, at odd times. Dunstable's got just as much over at Day's. So you see the Trust is a jolly big show. Here are your two pages. That looks just like your scrawl, doesn't it? These would be fourpence in the ordinary way, but you can have 'em for nothing this time."
"Oh, I say," said Jackson gratefully, "that's awfully good of you."
After that the Locksley Lines Supplying Trust, Ltd. went ahead with a rush. The brilliant success which attended its first specimen—M. Gaudinois took Jackson's imposition without a murmur—promoted confidence in the public, and they rushed to buy. Orders poured in from all the houses, and by the middle of the term the organisers of the scheme were able to divide a substantial sum.
"How are you getting on round your way?" asked Linton of Dunstable at the end of the sixth week of term.
"Ripping. Selling like hot cakes."
"So are mine," said Linton. "I've almost come to the end of my stock. I ought to have written some more, but I've been a bit slack lately."
"Yes, buck up. We must keep a lot in hand."
"I say, did you hear that about Merrett in our house?" asked Linton.
"What about him?"
"Why, he tried to start a rival show. Wrote a prospectus and everything. But it didn't catch on a bit. The only chap who bought any of his lines was young Shoeblossom. He wanted a couple of hundred for Appleby. Appleby was on to them like bricks. Spotted Shoeblossom hadn't written them, and asked who had. He wouldn't say, so he got them doubled. Everyone in the house is jolly sick with Merrett. They think he ought to have owned up."
"Did that smash up Merrett's show? Is he going to turn out any more?"
"Rather not. Who'd buy 'em?"
It would have been better for the Lines Supplying Trust if Merrett had not received this crushing blow and had been allowed to carry on a rival business on legitimate lines. Locksley was conservative in its habits, and would probably have continued to support the old firm.
As it was, the baffled Merrett, a youth of vindictive nature, brooded over his defeat, and presently hit upon a scheme whereby things might be levelled up.
One afternoon, shortly before lock-up, Dunstable was surprised by the advent of Linton to his study in a bruised and dishevelled condition. One of his expressive eyes was closed and blackened. He also wore what is known in ring circles as a thick ear.
"What on earth's up?" inquired Dunstable, amazed at these phenomena. "Have you been scrapping?"
"Yes—Merrett—I won. What are you up to—writing lines? You may as well save yourself the trouble. They won't be any good." Dunstable stared.
"The Trust's bust," said Linton.
He never wasted words in moments of emotion.
"What!"
"'Bust' was what I said. That beast Merrett gave the show away."
"What did he do? Surely he didn't tell a master?"
"Well, he did the next thing to it. He hauled out that prospectus, and started reading it in form. I watched him do it. He kept it under the desk and made a foul row, laughing over it. Appleby couldn't help spotting him. Of course, he told him to bring him what he was reading. Up went Merrett with the prospectus."
"Was Appleby sick?"
"I don't believe he was, really. At least, he laughed when he read the thing. But he hauled me up after school and gave me a long jaw, and made me take all the lines I'd got to his house. He burnt them. I had it out with Merrett just now. He swears he didn't mean to get the thing spotted, but I knew he did."
"Where did you scrag him!"
"In the dormitory. He chucked it after the third round."
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," shouted Dunstable.
Buxton appeared, a member of Appleby's house.
"Oh, Dunstable, Appleby wants to see you."
"All right," said Dunstable wearily.
Mr. Appleby was in facetious mood. He chaffed Dunstable genially about his prospectus, and admitted that it had amused him. Dunstable smiled without enjoyment. It was a good thing, perhaps, that Mr. Appleby saw the humorous rather than the lawless side of the Trust; but all the quips in the world could not save that institution from ruin.
Presently Mr. Appleby's manner changed. "I am a funny dog, I know," he seemed to say; "but duty is duty, and must be done."
"How many lines have you at your house, Dunstable?" he asked.
"About eight hundred, sir."
"Then you had better write me eight hundred lines, and show them up to me in this room at—shall we say at ten minutes to five? It is now a quarter to, so that you will have plenty of time."
Dunstable went, and returned five minutes later, bearing an armful of manuscript.
"I don't think I shall need to count them," said Mr. Appleby. "Kindly take them in batches of ten sheets, and tear them in half, Dunstable."
"Yes, sir."
The last sheet fluttered in two sections into the surfeited waste-paper basket.
"It's an awful waste, sir," said Dunstable regretfully.
Mr. Appleby beamed.
"We must, however," he said, "always endeavour to look on the bright side, Dunstable. The writing of these eight hundred lines will have given you a fine grip of the rhythm of Virgil, the splendid prose of Victor Hugo, and the unstudied majesty of the Greek Numerals. Good-night, Dunstable."
"Good-night, sir," said the President of the Locksley Lines Supplying Trust, Ltd.