  Wolf Cub Pat Shannon awoke with a start, and sat up in bed. He had been far away in the glorious land of dreams, driving a Rolls-Royce motor car. It must have been the happy week he had spent since Christmas, riding on his scooter, that had made him dream this, for his Uncle Patrick had brought him a scooter from London for a Christmas present. It was a real beauty, with solid rubber tires and nice big wheels, and it had cost 7s. 6d.! Pat had learned to get up a tremendous speed upon it. “Shure, it’s a danger ye are to the pedestrians!” his uncle had said one day, on meeting him rushing down the street of the little Irish town where he lived. Pat had not a notion what a pedestrian was; all he knew was that it made his uncle buy him a real bicycle bell and screw it on the handle of his scooter! Now he had been suddenly roused from his dreams. He sat up in the darkness and listened. Yes, it was his mother’s voice. She was sitting up, he knew, with baby, who had bronchitis. He was the only man in the house, his father being at the front with his regiment, the Royal Irish Fusiliers. He had wanted to sit up, but his mother had told him to go to bed, and she would call if she wanted help. Now he heard her. “Pat—Pat—Patrick Michael!” Her voice seemed somehow frightened. “Yes, mother!” he called, scrambling out of bed. In a moment he was pattering down to the kitchen, barefooted, in his little nightshirt. “Pat,” said his mother, “Baby’s very ill, he is. He’s after takin’ a sudden turn for the worse. I must have the doctor this minute, or it’s dead he’ll be before morning.” “Right, mother,” said Pat in a business-like way. “If the doctor is at his house, I’ll have him here in half an hour!” He ran upstairs again. In three minutes he was back dressed and searching in the back kitchen for his scooter. “What d’you be after fetchin’, dearie?” said his mother. “Sure, an’ you aren’t goin’ to take out yer scooter this dark night?” “Yes, mother,” said Pat. “It’s as fast as a motor bike, I can be goin’ on my scooter. I shall be down the hill at the doctor’s house in ten minutes from now.” Softly he let himself out, and set off down the lonely road. There was a small moon, and he knew every inch of the way. It was all down hill to the doctor’s house. The road was smooth and quite empty. Pat got up a great speed. It was glorious! The night air rushed past him. He reached the bottom of the first hill. There was rather a lonely piece of road to go along, here. At the end of it stood a great house, with a high wall round it. The owner of the house had been away from it for many years. Only a very old caretaker lived in it. People said it was full of treasures and great wealth—jewels and silver plate, priceless china and beautiful pictures. The shutters were always closed, and many were the tales about it. Pat’s heart beat rather fast as he reached the wall. Great black trees grew in the garden and stretched their branches like great hands over it. All the stories he had ever heard of ghosts and banshees and the “little people” came into his head. He half wished he hadn’t come. The shadows were so very black, and all was so still. There was no one about, and not the faintest sound to be heard. “A Cub does not give in to himself.” The words of the Cub Law suddenly came into his head. He felt the little brass badge in his buttonhole, and it gave him courage. With a kick he sent his scooter on, and passed out of the moonlight into the shadow of the trees. Hullo! what was that sound? A noise of breaking glass and splintering wood, as if someone had jumped through a window—running feet in the garden—a hoarse shout—now a long, shrill blast from a policeman’s whistle—more running behind the wall—then the sound of another policeman running down the road to the help of his comrade! Pat forgot his fears. Here was a real adventure! Then, suddenly, just ahead, a dark figure appeared in the moonlight, crouching on the top of the wall. A moment later the policeman had dashed up. Like a tiger springing on his prey, the man leapt down on him, knocking him flat, and then began running down the hill at top speed. A second policeman had come up, and, seeing the running figure, made after him. But it was a hopeless chase. The man had had a good start, and he was a swift runner. Besides, the policeman was rather fat. Suddenly a thought flashed into Pat’s mind, and his heart grew big with courage. He would help the policeman in his work—that would be some good turn! Placing his right foot firmly on his scooter, he kicked off violently with his left. In a moment he was shooting like a flash down the steep hill. It was a dangerous job. He squatted down and balanced carefully. He had never been at such a speed in his life. In half a minute he had overtaken the policeman. The man, hearing the following footsteps flagging, had reduced his speed a little. Pat’s rubber wheels made no sound on the smooth road. Nearer and nearer he drew to the flying thief. Now he was very near. He set his teeth and steered his scooter straight for the man. Crash! The scooter and its small rider had hurled themselves against his legs. With a yell of terror and pain the great figure crashed to the ground, Pat on top of it, the scooter flying out into the road. Without a moment’s hesitation he scrambled free of the man’s legs, and sat with all his weight on the furious burglar’s head. The man struggled violently, but one of his arms was caught under him, and Pat was bending the other back in a most painful position. Before long the policeman was up, and had the prisoner handcuffed. Pat felt as if he were one great bruise all over! Blood was streaming from a cut on his chin, where it had come into violent contact with the burglar’s boot. But his first thought was for baby and the doctor. Picking up his scooter, he did not wait for a word from the policeman, but dashed on down the hill. Half an hour later Dr. Byrne was up at the cottage in his car, with Pat and his scooter on the seat beside him. Of course the cut on the chin had to be explained. And, when baby was fixed up, it was stitched and bandaged. The next day Dr. Byrne drove his small patient to the Police Court. “Crash! The scooter and its small rider had hurled themselves against the burglar’s legs” Ten pounds reward! Why, the very excitement of the adventure would have been enough reward in itself! But, all the same, it’s rather jolly to have £10 of your very own, earned by your own pluck and the help of your scooter! |
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