pleasures had worn off, rather repented of the Raffles' connection, and
would gladly have exchanged it for the old, easy, open, and above-board
society of his chums. Grim, Rogers, Wilson, Poulett, etc., were, on their
side, rather sore at Jack's continual desertion of them and their causes.
They had just seen him pedalling easily after Acton, throwing them a
rather mirthless joke as he ran past, and they had, naturally, held a
council to consider matters.

"Wherever can the beggar get to is what I want to know," said Wilson.

"Can any one tell me what he wants with Acton?" said Grim.

"I think that it's Acton that wants him," said Rogers. "Come to think of
it, Grimmy, you're Acton's man. Why doesn't he lag you?"

"Grimmy's not to be trusted. He'd read the _billet-doux_"

"I don't believe that there's any notes, Wilson," said Grim,
impressively, "in this business. It's something deeper than that."

"What's the mystery, Mr. Grimmy Sherlock Combs?"

"Poachin'," said Grim, solemnly.

"What!" exclaimed the other, with breathless interest.

"Dunno, quite," said Grim; "but that young ass dropped a cartridge from
his pocket the other day."

"There's nothing to poach here, Grimmy."