That night Bertie Bailey dreamed a dream. In fact, he dreamed several dreams; his slumber-time was passed in dreamland, journeying from dream to dream.
He dreamed of the Land of Golden Dreams; of Mr. Bankes and Washington Villa; of a boy traversing a road which ran right around the world; of tumbling into ponds and scrambling out of them; of some mysterious country, peopled by a race of giants, to which there came a boy, who, single-handed, brought them low, and claimed the country for his own, and the soil of that land consisted of gold and silver, with judicious variations of precious stones. In his dreams he saw weapons flashing in the air, and he heard the sound of strange instruments of music.
Just before he woke he dreamed the most vivid dream of all. A moment before all had been a chaos of bewilderment, but all at once he found himself alone, in the centre of some wild place, not quite sure what sort of place it was, nor where, nor of anything about it, but he knew that it was wild. A voice was heard in the air, and he knew that it was the voice of Mr. George Washington Bankes. The voice kept repeating, "A life of adventure's the life for me!" and every time the words were uttered the boy's heart leapt up within him, and he went bounding on. The one voice became several, the world was full of voices, yet he knew that they all belonged to the original Mr. George Washington Bankes; and over and over again they repeated the same refrain, "A life of adventure's the life for me!" till the whole world was alive with it, and birds and beasts and sticks and stones caught up the same refrain, "A life of adventure's the life for me!" and the boy's heart was filled with a great and wondrous exultation. But all at once the voices ceased; all was still; and the boy found that he was standing in front of a mighty mountain, which filled the world with darkness, and barred the way in front of him. And he was beginning to be afraid, when out of the silence and the darkness came, in a still small whisper--which he knew to be the whisper of Mr. George Washington Bankes--the words, "A life of adventure's the life for me!" and they put courage into his heart, and he stretched out his arm and touched the mountain, and, behold! at his touch it was cleft asunder, and in its bosom were all the treasures of the earth.
But it was unfortunately at this point that he awoke. It was not unnatural that for some moments he should have refused to have acknowledged the fact--to confess that he really was awake, and that it had been nothing but a dream.
It was broad daylight. The sun was peeping through the windows, along the edges of the ill-fitting blinds. It was nothing but a dream. As he began to realize the fact of the gleaming sunshine, even he was obliged to admit that it had been nothing but a dream. He turned in his bed with a dissatisfied grunt.
"I never dreamed anything like that before, nothing half so real! It seemed as if I had only to put out my hand to touch that mountain now."
But it only seemed, for there was no mountain there, only a coverlet, and a sheet, and a blanket or two, and a bolster, and a mattress, and a bed. Bertie lay on his back, with his eyes closed, attempting, by an effort of his will, to bring back the vanished dream. And to some extent he succeeded, for as he lay quiescent he seemed to hear, ringing in his ears, the words he had heard in his dream--
"A life of adventure's the life for me!"
He seemed so certainly to hear them that, just as they had done in his dream, they filled him with a sudden fire. Thoroughly aroused, he sat up in bed, grasping the bedclothes with eager hands. And to himself he said, half beneath his breath, "A life of adventure's the life for me!"
The other boys were still asleep in the little iron bedsteads on either side of him, but he made no attempt to recompose himself to slumber. He remained sitting up in bed, his knees huddled up to his chin, engaged in a very unwonted act for him, the act of thinking.
The events of the night before were vividly before him, but principally among them, a giant in the foreground, was the figure of Mr. George Washington Bankes.
"Why don't you run away?" Mr. Bankes' question rang in his ears.
"A life of adventure's the life for me!" Those other words of Mr. Bankes, which had been with him through the dream-haunted night, still danced before his eyes.
Than Bertie Bailey a less romantic-looking youth one could scarce conceive. But history tells us that some of the greatest heroes of romance, real, live, flesh-and-blood heroes, who actually at some time or other did exist, were anything but romantic in their persons. Perhaps Bailey was one of these. Anyhow, stowed away in some out-of-the-way corner of his unromantic-looking person was a vein of romance of the most pronounced and unequivocal kind.
His range of reading was not wide, yet he had his heroes of fiction none the less. They were rather a motley crew, and if he had been asked the question, say in an examination paper, "Who is your favourite hero? give a short sketch of his life," he would have hesitated once or twice before he would have written Dick Turpin, Robin Hood, Robinson Crusoe, or Jack the Giant-Killer. Perhaps he would have hesitated still longer before he had attempted to sketch the life of any one of them. Yet, had he told the truth, the gentleman selected would have been one of these.
Possibly in the act of selection his greatest difficulty would have lain. He never could quite make up his mind which of the four gentlemen named above he liked the best. There were points about Dick Turpin which struck his fancy. He would rather have ridden that ride to York than have had ten thousand pounds. It would have been worth his while to have been Dick Turpin if only to possess that horse of horses, Black Bess, the coal-black steed of his heart's desire, though it may be mentioned in passing that up to the present moment Bertie Bailey had never figured upon a horse's back. He had once ridden a donkey from Ramsgate to Pegwell Bay, but a donkey was not Black Bess.
On the other hand, there was no part of England with which he was better acquainted--theoretically--than the glades of Sherwood Forest. To have lived in those glades with Robin Hood, Bailey would heave a great sigh at the prospect; ah, that he only could! Yet certainly one had only to speak of the desert island, and of Robinson Crusoe on its lonely shore, for Bertie to feel a wild longing to plough the distant main, a longing which was scarcely consistent with his desire for the glades of Sherwood Forest. It is the fashion to sneer at fairy tales, and to speak of them as though they were beneath the supposititious dignity of the common noun boy, and certainly the marvellous history and adventures of Jack the Giant-Killer belong to the domain of the fairies. Possibly Bertie would have been himself ashamed to own his partiality for that hero of the nursery; and yet, to have had Jack's courage and strength and skill, to have slaughtered giants and taken castles and rescued maidens--Bertie sometimes dreamt of himself as another Jack, and then always with a rapture too deep for words.
Perhaps his real, ideal, and favourite hero would have consisted of a judicious combination of the four--something of Dick Turpin, and something of Robin Hood, and something of Robinson Crusoe, and something of Jack the Giant-Killer. Take all these somethings and mix them well together, and you would have had the man for Bailey. Emphatically, although almost unconsciously, in all his waking dreams, a life of adventure had been the life for him.
Mr. George Washington Bankes had applied the match to the powder. As he thought of all that gentleman had said, even in the cool of the morning, all his soul was on fire. Seeing him in his nightshirt of doubtful cleanliness, and with his touzled hair, you might not have supposed that there was fire in his soul, but there was. Run away! He had heard of boys running away from school before to-day.
Boys had run away from Mecklemburg House, and there were stories of one who, within quite recent times, had made a dash for liberty. Some said he had got as far as Windsor, some said Dorking, before he had changed his mind and decided to come back again. But he had come back again. Bailey made up his mind that when he ran away he would never come back again; never! or, at any rate, not till he had traversed the world in several different directions, as Mr. George Washington Bankes had done.
It had already become a question ofwhenhe ran away. With that quickness in arriving at a decision which, so some tell us, is the sure sign of a commanding intellect, he had already decided that he would; there only remained the question of time and opportunity.
"Why don't you run away?" Mr. Bankes had asked. Yes, why, indeed? especially if one had only to run away to step at once into the Land of Golden Dreams!
When the boys took their places in the schoolroom after breakfast, prepared for morning school, a startling announcement was made to them by Mr. Fletcher. Bailey and his friends had expected that something would be said to them on the subject of their escapade of the night before; but so far, so far as those in authority were concerned, their expectations had been disappointed. They had been sufficiently cross-examined by their fellow-pupils, and in spite of a slight suggestive foreboding of something unpleasant to come, when they perceived how their proceedings appeared in the eyes of their colleagues, they were almost inclined to look upon themselves somewhat in the light of heroes. Griffin, indeed, had not heard the last of the pond, and it was not of the tragic side of his misadventure that he heard the most. There were some disagreeable remarks made by personal friends who would not see that he had run imminent risk of being drowned. He almost began to wish that he had been.
"You wouldn't have laughed at it then," he said. But they laughed at it now.
But neither from Mr. Till, nor from Mr. Shane, nor from Mr. Fletcher, nor from the far more terrible Mrs. Fletcher, had either of the young gentlemen heard a word.
And just when they were preparing for morning school Mr. Fletcher made his startling announcement.
At first the quartett thought, not unreasonably, that his remarks were going to have particular reference to them and to their misdoings, but they were wrong. The headmaster was seated at his desk, in a seemingly more than usually preoccupied mood; but he too often was preoccupied in school, so they paid no heed, and got out their books and slates, and other implements of study, with the ordinary din and clatter. Suddenly he spoke.
"Boys, I want to speak to you."
The boys looked at him, and the quartett looked at each other. Mr. Fletcher did not raise his head, but with his eyes fixed on the desk in front of him continued to speak as though he found considerable difficulty in saying what he had to say.
"I have had heavy losses lately in carrying on the school. Some of you know that the number of boys has grown smaller by degrees and beautifully less."
There was a faint smile about Mr. Fletcher's mouth which did not quite betoken mirth.
"But I do not complain. I should not have mentioned it, only"--he paused, raised his head, and looked round the room, his eyes resting for a moment on each of the boys as they passed--"only when one has no boys one can keep no school. I have found, very certainly, that without boys school cannot keep me--my wife and I. Our wants are not large--they have grown even smaller of recent years--but to satisfy the most modest wants something is required, and we have nothing."
Again he paused, and again something like the ghost of a smile flitted across his face. By this time the boys were listening with their eyes and ears, and Mr. Shane and Mr. Till listened with the rest.
"I am a ruined schoolmaster. I should not have told you this--it is not a pleasant thing to have to tell--only my ruin is so complete, and so near. It will necessitate your returning home at once. Mecklemburg House will no longer be able to offer shelter to either you or I, and I--I was born here; you will perhaps be able to go with lighter hearts. I have communicated with your parents. You must pack your things at once; some of you will, perhaps, be fetched in an hour or two. I have advised your parents that you had better be all of you removed by to-morrow morning at the latest. Under these circumstances there will, of course, be no morning school; nor, indeed, in Mecklemburg House any more school at any time."
Perhaps, in that schoolroom, the silence had never been so marked as it was when Mr. Fletcher ceased. The boys looked at each other, and at their master, scarcely understanding what it was that he had said, and by no means certain that they were entitled to believe their ears. No morning school! Mecklemburg House ceased to exist! Pack up! Going home at once! These things were marvellous in their eyes. There were those among them who had not failed to see the way in which things were tending, who knew that Mecklemburg House was very far from being what it was, that the glory was departed; but for such a thunderclap as this they were wholly unprepared. Pack up! Going home at once! The boys could do nothing else but stare.
"You will disperse now, and go into the playground. Put your books away quietly You will be called in as you are wanted to assist in packing."
They put their books away. It was unnecessary to bid them do it quietly; their demeanour had never been so decorous. Then they filed out silently, one after the other, and the headmaster and his ushers were left alone.
One boy there was who walked out of that schoolroom as though he were walking in a dream. This was Bailey. It was all wonderful to him. He was watching for an opportunity to fly--he knew not why, he knew not where; but that is by the way. He had only begun to watch an hour or two ago, and here was the opportunity thrust into his hand. He never doubted for an instant that here was the opportunity thrust into his hand.
It was now or never. He had reasons of his own for knowing that when he had left Mecklemburg House he had left boarding-school for ever. He might have a term or two at a day-school, but what was the use of running away from a school of that description? It was heroic to run away from boarding-school, but from day-school--where was the heroic quantity in that? No, it was now or never, and Bertie Bailey resolved it should be now. So in a secluded corner of the playground he matured his adventurous scheme; for even he was not prepared to rush through the playground gate and dash into the world upon the spot.
"I must get some money."
So much he decided. It may be mentioned that he arrived at this decision first of all. It may be added that his consciousness of the desirability of getting money was not lessened by the fact that he possessed none now; no, not so much as a specimen of the smallest copper coinage of the realm.
"I must try to borrow some from some of the chaps." He was aware that this was not a hopeful field. "But a fellow can't go without any money at all; even Mr. Bankes said he had ninepence-halfpenny." He remembered every word which Mr. Bankes had said. "Wheeler had sevenpence, and he promised to lend me twopence, but he's such a selfish beast I shouldn't be surprised if he's changed his mind. Besides, I ought to have more than twopence, or sevenpence, either. Perhaps he might lend me the lot; he's not a bad sort sometimes. Anyhow, I'll try."
He tried. Slipping his arm through Wheeler's he drew him on one side. He approached the matter diplomatically.
"I say, Wheeler, I know you're a trump."
This sort of diplomacy was a mistake; Wheeler was at once on the alert.
"What are you buttering me up for? Don't you think you're going to get anything out of me, because you just aren't; so now you know it."
This was abrupt, not to say a little brutal, perhaps. Bailey perceived the error he had made; he changed his tone with singular presence of mind.
"Look here, Wheeler, I want you to lend me that sevenpence of yours."
"Then you'll have to want; I like your cheek!"
"Lend me sixpence."
"I won't lend you a sight of a farthing."
"You promised to lend me twopence."
"Oh, did I? Then I won't. I'm going to buy sevenpenn'orth of cocoanut candy, and perhaps I'll give you a bit of that, though I don't promise, mind; and it'll only be a little bit, anyhow."
"But look here, I want it for something--I do, I really do, or else I wouldn't ask you for it."
"What do you want it for?" asked Wheeler, struck by something in the other's tone.
"Oh! for something particular."
"What do you want it for? If you tell me, perhaps I'll lend it."
This was a bait; but Bailey did not trust his friend so completely as he might have done. He suspected that if he told him what it really was wanted for, the story might be all over the playground in a minute; and it was possible that his friends might not view his intended flight from the heroic point of view from which it appeared to him. So he temporized.
"If you'll lend me the sevenpence first, I'll tell you afterwards."
"You catch me at it! What do I want to know what you want it for? I know I want it myself, and that's quite enough for me."
Wheeler turned away; Bailey caught him by the arm.
"Lend me the twopence which you promised."
"I won't lend you a brass farthing."
Bertie felt the moment was not propitious. It occurred to him that he might pick a quarrel with his friend and fight him, and that when he had fought him long enough his friend might see things in a different light, and a loan might be arranged. But of this he was by no means certain. He was not clear in his own mind as to the amount of hammering which would be required to bring about a conversion. He had never measured his strength with Wheeler; and it even occurred to him that he might be the hammered one, and not his friend. On the whole, he thought that he had better leave that scheme untried; sevenpence might be bought too dearly.
Baffled in one quarter he tried another. In quest of money he buttonholed all the school. But this, again, was a mistaken step. It soon got about that Bailey was in search of some one to devour, and, in consequence, those who were worth devouring took the hint--they by no means showed themselves anxious to be devoured. In spite of his repeated efforts, he only met with one success, and that was one of which he was scarcely entitled to be proud.
Willie Seymour, Bailey's cousin, has been already mentioned. He was the youngster who led Mr. Shane's German grammar on its final road to ruin. A little pale-faced boy, certainly not more than nine years old, and without even the strength of his years.
Bertie caught him by the jacket.
"Now then, where's that money of yours?"
His temper was not improved by the want of confidence his friends had shown, and this was not a case in which he thought delicacy was required.
"What money? Bertie, don't! you're hurting my arm!"
"Yes, and I'll hurt it, too! Where's that money of yours? I know you've got some."
"I've only got one and fivepence. Mamma sent it me last week to buy a birthday present. It was my birthday, you know."
"Oh, was it! Then I'll buy you a birthday present--something spiffing. Fork it up!"
"But, Bertie----"
"Fork it up!"
"It's in my desk."
"Then just you let me see your desk. It's never safe to leave money in your desk; it might get stolen."
And Bailey dragged his relative indoors. It may be mentioned that Willie's mother (Bertie's aunt) had particularly commended her lad to Bertie's care. This was the first symptom of a careful disposition he had shown.
With tears and sighs Willie Seymour produced his desk for his relative's inspection. It was a little rosewood desk which his mother had given him to keep his papers in, and envelopes, and his own particular pens, and his stamps, and his money, and his treasures. Bailey proceeded to inspect it.
"Where's the key?"
"Don't take the money, Bertie. Mamma sent it me to buy a birthday present with, and I've spent sevenpence already. It was two shillings she sent."
"Oh, you've spent sevenpence, have you! Then I've half a mind to give you a licking for spending such a lot. Do you think your mother sent you money to chuck about all over the place? She told me to look after you, and so I will. Give me the key."
From a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends, which bulged out the pockets of his knickerbockers, the key was produced.
"Don't take the money, Bertie!"
Bailey unlocked the desk with a magisterial air.
"If your mother knew that you'd spent sevenpence, what d'ye think she'd say to me? She'd say, 'I told you to look after him, and here you let him go chucking the money I sent him to buy a birthday present into his stomach, and making himself as ill as I don't know what! Is that the way to buy a birthday present? Nice affectionate lad you are!'"
At this point Bailey, having discovered the one and fivepence, held it in his hand.
"I shall put this money into my pockets, and I shall take care of it for you, and when you want it, you come to me and ask for it. D'ye hear?"
At this point he slipped the money into his trousers pocket.
Willie wept.
"What are you snivelling for? If you don't stop I'll take care of your desk as well. Now I think of it, Wheeler wants just such a desk as this. I shouldn't be surprised if he gave me sevenpence for it; it would just come in handy."
Bailey subjected the desk to a critical examination.
"I'll tell Mr. Fletcher if you take my desk away."
"What, sneak, would you? As it happens, I don't care for you or Mr. Fletcher either."
Bertie tucked the desk under his arm and moved to the door. Willie flung his head upon his arms and burst into a passion of tears. At the door Bertie turned and surveyed the child.
"Here, take your desk. Think I want the thing!"
He flung the desk towards his cousin. Falling on the edge of a form, it burst open, and the contents were thrown out of it. Leaving Willie to make the best of a bad case, and pick up his ill-used property, Bertie marched away with the one and fivepence in his pocket.
That one and fivepence was all the cash he could secure. He made one or two efforts in the course of the day to increase his capital by the addition of a penny or two, but the efforts were in vain. None of the smaller boys had any money; some of the seniors he suspected were in possession of funds, but in face of their refusal to oblige him with a temporary loan he did not feel justified in taking them by the throats and putting into practice any theory of their money or their life. He suspected he might get neither; sundry knocks and bruises he might be the richer for, but they were riches for which he had no longing. One particularly gallant attack he made upon a suspected seat of capital does not deserve to go unchronicled.
The suspected seat of capital was Mr. Shane. Chancing to pass the schoolroom on his way downstairs, a glimpse he caught of some one within brought him to a standstill. He entered; he shut the door behind him for precaution's sake, being unwilling that his friends should intrude upon what he perceived might be a delicate interview.
In a corner of the schoolroom was Mr. Shane. He sat with his elbows resting on the desk and his head resting on his hands. So absorbed was he in his own meditations that he paid no heed to Bailey's entrance. Bertie watched him in silence for a moment or two, then he made his presence known.
"I say, Mr. Shane."
Mr. Shane started and looked up. His face was very pale, there were traces of what were suspiciously like tears about his eyes, and his whole appearance was as of one who had received a sudden blow. Without speaking he stared at Bailey, whose presence evidently took him by surprise. Seeing that the other held his peace, Bertie came to the point.
"Can you lend me a shilling or two?"
"Lend you a shilling or two!"
"I daresay you'll think it like my cheek to ask you, and so it is; but--I'm in an awful hole, I really am. I know I've not been such a civil beggar as I might have been, but--I never meant any harm; and--I'm sorry about that grammar, I really am; I'd buy you another if I'd got the money, upon my word I would--I don't know what I wouldn't do for you if you'd lend me a shilling or two--especially if you'd make it three."
In spite of himself Bertie grinned, and his eyes glistened at the idea of spoiling the usher. Mr. Shane stared at him, as well he might. He spoke with a sort of little pause between each word, as though he were doubtful if he had heard aright.
"You want me to lend you a shilling or two?--me?"
"Yes. I'll let you have it back as soon as, I can, and I'm in an awful hole, or I wouldn't ask you. Do lend it me!"
Mr. Shane stood up, with a curious agitation in his air.
"I haven't got it."
"Not got it I Not got a shilling or two! Oh, I say, come!"
"I haven't got a penny in the world."
"Not got a penny in the world! Oh, I say, aren't you piling it on!"
"Not a penny; not a penny in the world; not one. I'm a beggar!"
Mr. Shane's agitation was so curious, and the air with which he proclaimed himself a beggar was so wild, that Bertie's surprise grew apace. He wondered whether, as he might himself have phrased it, the usher had a tile loose in his head.
"See!" Mr. Shane turned his coat-tail pockets inside out. There was nothing in them. "See!" He followed suit with the pockets in his trousers. They also were void and empty. "Nothing! nothing! not a sou! Mr. Fletcher engaged to pay me sixteen pounds a year. There's fifteen shillings owing from last term. I couldn't afford to buy myself a pair of boots when I came back. Look at my boots." Mr. Shane held up his boots, one after the other. Bertie stared at them; they were very much the worse for wear. "And now he tells me that I'm to leave this very day, leave in the very middle of the term, without a penny-piece. He says he cannot let me have a penny-piece. I've worked hard for my money; he knows I've worked hard for my money; he knows I've been cruelly used; and yet he sends me away in the middle of the term a beggar, and with fifteen shillings owing from last term. What am I to do! My mother lives at Braintree. I can't walk all the way to Braintree in Essex, especially in such boots as these; and she hasn't any money to give me when I get there, and I can't get another situation in the middle of the term. It's cruel, cruel, cruel! I'm a beggar, and I shall have to go to the workhouse and sleep in the casual ward, and break stones before they let me leave in the morning. It's wicked cruelty! I don't care who hears me say it, so it is!"
Mr. Shane's agitation, though real enough, was also sufficiently grotesque. With his pockets turned inside out, and his collar and necktie all awry, he paced about the schoolroom, swinging his arms, speaking in his thin, cracked tones, the tears running down his cheeks, half choked with passion. It was the grotesque side of the usher's woe which appealed to Bailey.
"You don't mean to say Mr. Fletcher won't pay you your wages?"
"I do, I do! He says he hasn't got it; he says he doubts if he has five shillings to call his own. What right has he to engage an usher if he has not got five shillings of his own? How does he expect to pay me, and fifteen shillings owing from last term? How am I to walk to Braintree in Essex in these boots without a penny in my pocket? and what will my mother say when I get home--if I ever do get home--with no money in my pocket, and turned out of a situation in the middle of a term? It's a cruel, wicked shame, and I'll shout it out in the middle of the road! I don't care what they say, I will! I won't go without my money, if it's only the fifteen shillings left owing from last term!"
"Then I suppose you can't lend me a shilling or two?"
"Lend you a shilling or two! How can I? It's for you to advance a loan to me. Bailey, you've been a wicked boy to me ever since I came, and now to come and ask me to lend you money! You're all wicked about the place."
"I've got one and fivepence." Bailey held the money in his hand.
"One and fivepence! Bailey, it's your duty to lend me that one and fivepence. You can't want money, your parents will send you the means to take you home. And here am I without a penny. How am I to walk all the way to Braintree in Essex in these boots without a penny in my pocket? It is a wicked thing that I should ever have been induced to accept such a situation. It's your duty to make amends for your uniform bad conduct, and to sympathise with me in my distress. You ought to lend me that one and fivepence. Won't you lend it to me, Bailey?"
Bertie went through the familiar pantomime of putting his fingers to his nose.
"Me lend you one and fivepence--ax your grandmother! You must think me jolly green."
He thrust the hand which still held the one and fivepence into his trousers pocket, and turning on his heel marched with an air of great deliberation to the door. At the door he turned, and again addressed the usher.
"If I were you, old Shane, I'd go to Fletcher, and I'd say, 'Fork up, Fletcher, or I'll give you one in the eye;' and then if he didn't fork up I'd give him a couple of good fine black ones. He'd look nice with a couple of black eyes, would Fletcher; and, if you like, I'll come with you now and see you do it."
He paused; but seeing that Mr. Shane gave no immediate signs of acting on this useful hint he went on,--
"You haven't got the spirit of an old dead donkey. You'd let anybody have a kick at you. You're a regular all-round Molly, Shane."
With this frank expression of heart-felt sympathy for Mr. Shane's distress he left the room, and banged the door behind him. His enterprise, though displaying boldness, had been a failure; he had not succeeded in adding to his capital. As he walked away from the schoolroom he meditated upon the matter.
"One and fivepence isn't much--not to run away with--but Mr. Bankes said he'd only ninepence-halfpenny; I'm better than that. Still, I'd like another shilling or two; one and fivepence doesn't go far, stretch it how you will. But if I can't get more I'll make it do, somehow. If Mr. Bankes managed with ninepence-halfpenny I don't see why I shouldn't do with one and fivepence. Something is sure to turn up directly I am off."
It occurred to him that perhaps Mr. Bankes might have had something else besides his ninepence-halfpenny--something in the shape of food, valuables, or extra clothing, or some other unconsidered trifle of that kind. Bertie perceived that if he put into execution his plan of immediate flight he would have to go as he was, with his one and fivepence and nothing else. He had a misty recollection of having read somewhere of a young gentleman, just such another hero as himself, who started on his exploration of the world with baggage in the shape of a red cotton handkerchief, which contained a clean shirt, some bread and cheese, and, if his memory served him, a pair of socks which his little sister had neatly darned for him on the night before his setting out.
Bertie would have to start without even this amount of luggage. Nor could he understand that he would be much worse off on that account; the bread and cheese might be useful--if he remembered rightly, the young gentleman referred to had eaten his bread and cheese about ten minutes after starting--but for the shirt and socks he could perceive no use whatever. He had a sort of idea that either those sort of things would not be required, or else that they could be had for asking when he was once out in the world.
But his chief fear was, and it kept him on tenter hooks throughout the day, that his grand exploit would be nipped in the bud, altogether frustrated, by his being prematurely fetched home. He lived at Upton, a little town in Berkshire, not twenty miles away. It would not take long for Mr. Fletcher's communication to reach his home, and it was quite within the range of possibility that a messenger would be immediately despatched to fetch him. In that case he would sleep that night in a paternal bed, and farewell to the Land of Golden Dreams.
The flitting had already commenced. By the afternoon some of the boys, who lived close by, had already gone. The packing progressed briskly. He had seen with his own eyes his boxes locked and corded. It was with very mixed sensations that he had himself assisted at the process. Within those well-worn receptacles was he locking and cording the Land of Golden Dreams! At the mere thought of such a thing he could have shed unheroic tears. At any moment he might be called, he might be greeted by a familiar face, he might be whirled away in a cab at the rate of four or five miles an hour, with his luggage on the roof of the vehicle, and then--farewell to the Land of Golden Dreams.
He might have put an end to his uncertainty by starting at once on his progress through the world. But he had made up his mind that that was not the thing. To run away in broad daylight, like an urchin who had stolen a twopenny loaf, with half a dozen yelping curs at his heels and not impossibly the country folks all grinning--who could connect romance with such an undignified departure? No, night was the thing for him--silent, mysterious night; and, above all, the witching hour. That was the time for romance! Under the cold white moon, and across the moonlit meadows, when all the world was sleeping--then he could conceive a flight into the world of mystery and of magic, and of Lands of Golden Dreams. So he had decided that as nearly as possible midnight should be the moment for his adventures to begin.
The choice of such an hour put difficulties in his way. First of all, there was the difficulty of being sure of the time. He did not himself possess a watch, and he could not rely upon some distant church clock informing him of the passage of the night. Fortunately he remembered that Tom Graham, who slept in a bed next door but one to his, possessed a watch. He would time his departure by Tom Graham's watch. Then there was the difficulty of egress--how was he to get away? In his strong desire to play the more heroic part, he would have liked to have dropped from the window of his bedroom some thirty-five feet on to the paving-stones of the courtyard below. But then he reflected that he would not improbably break his neck, and it would be just as well not to begin his adventures by doing that; that sort of thing would come in its proper place a little later on. He might knot his sheets together, and form an impromptu rope, and descend by means of that: there were charms about the idea which commended themselves to him. He had seen a picture somewhere of a gallant youth descending by means of such a rope a tower apparently a mile or two in height; it was an unpleasant night and the youth was whirled hither and thither by the tempestuous winds. Had his bedroom been a couple of miles from the ground, why then--Bailey smacked his lips, and his eyes glistened--but as it wasn't he discarded the idea. He sighed to think that they build none of those lofty towers now--at least, so far as he was aware.
No; for the present it was sufficient to get away. Let him first get clear away, and then he would have adventures fast enough. He decided that the old familiar schoolroom window would suffice for the occasion. He would get out of that.
But the chief difficulty he had to face was the terrible risk which existed of his being fetched away. One boy after another went; hour after hour passed; a bare handful of young gentlemen remained. They had dinner, such as it was; but Bertie had lost his appetite, and was for the nonce contented with meagre fare. They had tea, which was postponed to the latest possible hour, and which when it came consisted of a liquid which such boys as partook of it declared was concocted of the tea leaves which had remained at breakfast, and which was accompanied by thick slices of unbuttered bread. But Bertie never grumbled; he ate his bread and he drank his tea without suggesting anything against its quality.
The evening passed. The number of boys was still more diminished, yet for Bailey no one came. The clock pointed to an hour at which it was declared that no one could come now--it was half-past nine. The usual hour for bed was half-past eight, but the boys had been kept up in the expectation and possible hope that at Mecklemburg House it would not be necessary for them to go to bed at all. Now they were ordered to their rooms.
Bertie could have danced, and sung, and stood on his head, and comported himself generally like a juvenile madman; but he refrained, His time was coming; he would be able to comport himself as he liked in two hours and a half, but at present the word was caution.
It was arranged that all the boys who remained should sleep in the same room. There were only five: Edgar Wheeler, Tom Graham, little Willie Seymour, a boy whose parents were in India named Hagen, and commonly called Blackamoor, and Bertie Bailey. The first into bed was Bailey. Not a word was to be got out of him edgeways. He was a model of good behaviour. He even pressed the others to hurry into bed, to go to sleep, to let him sleep. They slept long before he did. He lay awake tingling all over. He listened to their regular respirations--Hagen was a loud snorer and always set up a signal of distress--and when he was sure they were asleep he hugged himself in bed. Then he sat up, being careful to make as little noise as possible, and in the darkness peered at his sleeping comrades. Their gentle breathing and Hagen's stentorian snores were music in his ears. Then he lay back in bed again, biding his time.
He heard a clock strike the half-hour--half-past ten. It was a church clock. He wondered which. The night was calm, and the sound travelled clearly through the air; it might have been a long way off. And then--then he went to sleep.
It was not at all what he intended--very much the other way. He had supposed that he had only to make up his mind to lie awake till twelve o'clock to do it. But he was wrong; the strain at which he had kept his faculties through the day had told upon him more than he had supposed.
He awoke with a start--with a consciousness that something was wrong. He listened for a moment, wondering what strange thing had roused him. Then he remembered with a flash. The time had gone and he had slept.
With a half-stifled cry he sprang up in bed. What time was it? Had he really slept? Only for a minute or two, he felt sure. He groped his way to Graham's bed. That young gentleman slept with his watch beneath his pillow; Bailey was awkward in his attempts to get at it without waking the sleepy owner.
He got it, and took it to the window that he might see the time. Half-past two! soon it would be light--Bertie was almost inclined to think it was getting lighter now. He gave a cry of rage, and the watch dropped from his hand to the floor. Startled, he turned to see if the sleepers were awakened by the noise. He held his breath to listen. They slumbered as before. He picked up the watch and placed it on the mantelshelf, not caring to run the risk of rousing Graham by replacing it beneath his pillow. As he did so, he noticed that the glass was broken, shattered in the fall.
With great rapidity he dressed himself, only pausing for a moment to see that the one and fivepence was safe. His slippers were packed; he had come to bed in his boots. Holding them in his hand, in his stockinged feet he stole across the room, carefully turned the handle of the door, went out, and shut the door behind him.
He met with no accident on his way to the schoolroom. Within five minutes of his leaving his bed he was standing among the desks and forms. The blinds had not been drawn: the moonlight flooded the room--at any rate, the moon had not gone down. He was going to carry out so much of his plans--he was to fly through a moonlit world. Perhaps after all the little accident which had caused him to shut his eyes was not of much importance. Certainly, the sleep had refreshed him; he felt capable of making for the Land of Golden Dreams without requiring to pause upon the way.
Among the moonlit desks and forms he put his boots on; laced them up; then, with a careful hand, slipped the hasp of the familiar window, raised the sash, got out, and lowered himself to the ground. It was only when he was on the ground that he remembered that he was without a cap. He put his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced an old cricket cap which he had privately secured when he was supposed to be assisting at the packing.
Then he started for the Land of Golden Dreams.