The Weathercock, Being the Adventures of a Boy with a Bias, by George Manville Fenn.
________________________________________________________________________
There is actually another title to this book, "The Boy Inventer", and that is just the character of our sixteen-year-old hero. He is living with his uncle, who is a doctor in a small Lincolnshire village. He is friendly, after a fashion, with three boys who are living in the Rector's house, where they are being educated.
Our hero, Vane Lee, is also a bit of a naturalist, as is the author of this book. But some of his inventions have a way of going wrong, as for example when he decides to make the defective church clock work. He takes it all to pieces, cleans all the parts up, and puts it all together again--with the exception of two vital wheels. In the middle of the night the clock's bell begins to strike without cease--the signal in the village for a fire. Everybody turns out and rushes about with fire hoses looking for the fire, and it takes a while before they find out that there never was a fire at all.
But one day Vane is set upon by two gipsy boys, and beaten nearly to death. Nobody knows who did the deed, as Vane is for a long while unconscious. Eventually he comes round, and things become a little bit clearer, but exactly how I will not reveal here.
The typography of the book we used was not very good, and there were a number of spelling inconsistencies. For instance "gipsy" is sometimes spelt "gipsey" and sometimes "gypsy". And the unfortunate Mr Deering is sometimes spelt "Dearing" and sometimes "Dereing". I hope we have ironed these things out, as well as making the hyphenation more consistent throughout the book.
Read it, or listen to it--you'll enjoy it.
________________________________________________________________________
THE WEATHERCOCK, BEING THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY WITH A BIAS, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.
Three salutations shouted at a lad of about sixteen, who had just shown himself at the edge of a wood on the sunny slope of the Southwolds, one glorious September morning, when the spider-webs were still glittering with iridescent colours, as if every tiny strand were strung with diamonds, emeralds and amethysts, and the thick green moss that clothed the nut stubbs was one glorious sheen of topaz, sapphire and gold. Down in the valley the mist still hung in thick patches, but the sun's rays were piercing it in many directions, and there was every promise of a hot day, such as would make the shade of the great forest with its acorn-laden oaks welcome, and the whole place tempting to one who cared to fill pocket or basket with the bearded hazelnuts, already beginning to show colour in the pale green husks, while the acorns, too, were changing tint slightly, and growing too big for their cups.
The boy, who stood with his feet deep in moss, was framed by the long lithe hazel stems, and his sun-browned face looked darker in the shade as, bareheaded, his cap being tucked in the band of his Norfolk jacket, he passed one hand through his short curly hair, to remove a dead leaf or two, while the other held a little basket full of something of a bright orange gold; and as he glanced at the three youths in the road, he hurriedly bent down to rub a little loam from the knees of his knickerbockers--loam freshly gathered from some bank in the wood.
"Morning," he said, as the momentary annoyance caused by the encounter passed off. "How is it you chaps are out so early?"
"Searching after you, of course," said the first speaker. "What have you got there?"
"These," said the lad, holding up his basket, as he stepped down amongst the dewy grass at the side of the road. "Have some?"
"Have some? Toadstools?"
"Toad's grandmothers!" cried the lad. "They're all chanterelles--for breakfast. Delicious."
The first of the three well-dressed youths, all pupils reading with the Reverend Morton Syme, at the Rectory, Mavis Greythorpe, Lincolnshire, gave a sidelong glance at his companions and advanced a step.
"Let's look," he said.
The bearer of the basket raised his left hand with his fungoid booty, frankly trusting, and his fellow-pupil delivered a sharp kick at the bottom of the wicker receptacle--a kick intended to send the golden chalice-like fungi flying scattered in the air. But George Vane Lee was as quick in defence as the other was in attack, and his parry was made in the easiest and most effortless way.
It was just this:--
He let the basket swing down and just passed his right hand forward, seeming only to brush the assailant's ankle--in fact it was the merest touch, but sufficient to upset the equilibrium of a kicker on one leg, and the next moment Lance Distin was lying on his back in a perfect tangle of brambles, out of which he scrambled, scratched and furious, amidst a roar of laughter from his companions.
"You beggar!" he cried, with his dark eyes flashing, and a red spot in each of his sallow cheeks.
"Keep off!" cried the mushroom bearer, backing away. "Lay hold of him, Gilmore--Aleck!"
The lads addressed had already caught at the irate boy's arms.
"Let go, will you!" he yelled. "I'll let him know."
"Be quiet, or we'll all sit on you and make you."
"I'll half kill him--I'll nearly break his neck."
"No, don't," said the boy with the basket, laughing. "Do you want your leave stopped? Nice you'd look with a pair of black eyes."
"You can't give them to me," roared the lad, passionately, as he still struggled with those who held him, but giving them little trouble in keeping him back.
"Don't want to. Served you right. Shouldn't have tried to kick over my basket. There, don't be in such a temper about that."
"I'll pay you for it, you miserable cad!"
"Don't call names, Distie," said the lad coolly. "Those who play at bowls must expect rubbers. Let him go, boys; he won't hurt me."
It was a mere form that holding; but as the detaining pair loosened their hold, Lance Distin gave himself a violent wrench, as if he were wresting himself free, and then coloured to the roots of his hair, as he saw the laugh in his adversary's eyes.
"Distie's got no end of Trinidad sun in him yet.--What a passionate fellow you are, Cocoa. I say, these are good, really. Come home with me and have breakfast."
Lance Distin, son of a wealthy planter in the West Indies, turned away scornfully, and the others laughed.
"Likely," said Fred Gilmore, showing his white teeth. "Why, I wouldn't poison a cat with them."
"No," said Aleck Macey; "I know."
"Know what?"
"It's a dodge to make a job for his uncle, because the doctor can't get any practice."
"Don't want any," said the lad, good-humouredly. "If he did, he'd go back to Savile Row."
"Not he," snarled Distin, pausing in his occupation of removing thorns from his jacket. "Killed all his patients, and was obliged to run away into the country."
