Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.A Close Election.Ever since certain well-meaning governors, two years ago, had succeeded in forcing upon Fellsgarth the adoption of a Modern side, the School had been rent by factions whose quarrels sometimes bordered on civil war. When people squabble about the management of a school outside, the boys are pretty sure to quarrel and take sides against one another inside.The old set, consisting mostly of the Classical boys, felt very sore on the question. It was a case of sentiment, not argument. If boys, said they, wanted to learn science and modern languages, let them; but don’t let them come fooling around at Fellsgarth and spoiling the reputation of a good old classical school. There were plenty of schools where fellows could be brought up in a new-fangled way. Let them go to one of these, and leave Fellsgarth in peace to her dead authors.The boys who used such arguments, it is fair to say, were not always the most profound classical scholars. Most of them, like D’Arcy and Wally Wheatfield, had a painful acquaintance with the masterpieces of old-world literature in the way of impositions, but there their interest frequently ended. The upper Classical boys, however, though not so noisily hostile, had their own strong opinions about the new departure; and when it was discovered that the new Modern side had not only alienated one or two of their old comrades, but, so far from being apologetic, were disposed to claim equal rights with, and in certain cases superior privileges to, the old boys, the relations became strained all round.As it happened, the Modern set consisted of a number of moderate athletes who could not be wholly ignored in the School sports, and had no intention of being ignored. And to add to their crimes they numbered among them a good number of rich boys, who boasted in public of their wealth with a freedom which was particularly aggravating to the Classical seniors, who were for the most part boys to whose parents money was an important consideration.As has been said, the rivalry had been growing acute all last term, and but for Yorke’s determined indifference, it might long ago have come to a rupture. Now, every one felt that at any moment the peace might be broken, and civil war break out between the two sides at Fellsgarth.The School clubs offered a rare opportunity for an exhibition of party feeling, for they were the common ground on which every one was bound to meet every one else onlevelterms.By an old rule, every member of the House clubs was a member of the School clubs and had the privilege of electing the committee and officers for the year. It was this business which brought together the crowd that flocked into the Hall to-day; and it was in view of this critical event that Mr D’Arcy had carefully shut up five voters of the other side in his study until the election should be over.“Whatever’s to be done?” asked Ashby, with blank countenance.“Nobody but a born idiot would begin to ask riddles just now!” retorted D’Arcy surlily. “Shut up; that’s what’s to be done.”“I expect it will be all right,” persisted the dogged Ashby, venturing on a further remark. “They won’t let him in, if he’s not Wally; or if they do, they’ll go for him.”“I hope they will. Anyhow we’ve done our best. Stick near the door. We may be able to bundle a few of ’em out before the voting comes on. Look out, Yorke’s speaking. Yell as hard as you can.”Whereupon Ashby lay his head back and yelled until D’Arcy kicked him and told him it was time to shut up.Yorke was moving a resolution that the captains, vice-captains, secretaries, and treasurers of each house should form the School sports committee, whose business it would be to arrange matches, keep the ground, make rules, and generally organise the athletics of Fellsgarth. He hoped every one would agree to this.Clapperton, the Modern captain, and head of Forder’s house, rose to second the motion.“Howl away!” said D’Arcy, nudging hisprotégé. Whereupon Ashby held on to a desk and howled till the windows shook.“That’ll do,” shouted D’Arcy in his ear after a moment or two, and Ashby, thankful for the relief, shut off steam and awaited his next orders.Clapperton was a big, smirking fellow, rather loudly dressed, with a persuasive voice and what was intended to be a condescending manner. Some fellows could never make out why Clapperton did not go down in Fellsgarth. He tried to be civil, he was lavish with his pocket-money, and always disclaimed any desire to quarrel with anybody. And yet no one oared for him, while of course the out-and-out champions of the rival side hated him. He seconded with pleasure the motion of “his friend Yorke,”—(“Cheek!” exclaimed D’Arcy,sotto voce; “what business has he to call our captain his friend!”) This was the old rule of Fellsgarth, and a very good rule. It meant hard work, but he was always glad to do what he could for the old School. (It always riled the Classics to hear a Modern talking about “the old School,” and their backs went up at this.) He had been on this committee two years now, and had had the pleasure in a humble way of helping the clubs through one or two of their financial difficulties, and he should be glad to serve again. He seconded the motion.It was a trial to one or two who had listened to see that the names were being put to the vote by Yorkeen bloc, without giving them the chance of voting against anybody. Never mind, their chance for that would come!The next business was the election of captain of the clubs; and of course Yorke was chosen by acclamation. No one dared oppose him. Even “his friend Clapperton,” who had the pleasure of proposing him, was sure every one would be as glad as he would to see “his fellow-captain” (oh, how the Classics squirmed and ground their teeth at the expression!) at the head of the clubs.The pent-up feelings of D’Arcy and those of his way of thinking found some relief in the demonstration which accompanied the carrying of this resolution. It was too good a chance to be lost, and for three minutes by the clock the Classics stood on their feet and cheered their champion, glaring defiantly as they did so at the Moderns, who having held up their hands and cheered a little, relapsed into silence and left the noise in the hands of the other side.Then followed the election of vice-captain, which of course had to go to Clapperton. This time the Moderns had their demonstration amid the silence of the Classics, who thought they had never in their lives seen fellows make such asses of themselves.It was twenty minutes past the hour, and D’Arcy and Ashby were both getting uncomfortable and impatient. What did these Modern idiots want to waste the time of everybody by standing there and bellowing! It was scandalous.“Shut up—go on to the next vote,” they cried, but in vain. The Moderns were going to have their full share, if not a little more, of the row, and to stop them before their time was hopeless.“Disgusting exhibition, isn’t it?” said D’Arcy; “never mind. Hullo, I say, there’s some one at the door. It’s those chaps!”No, it was only Fisher minor, who, having waited meekly all this time outside the deserted gymnasium, now ventured, like a degenerate Casabianca, to desert his post and come and see what was going forward in the Hall.As he tried to enter, a Modern boy, seeing by his ribbon that he was on the wrong side, put his foot against the door and tried to turn him back. But his little plot dismally failed. For D’Arcy and Ashby, shocked and horrified witnesses of this scandalous act of corruption, came to the rescue with a hubbub which even made itself heard above the shouting.“Let him in!—howling cheat!—he’s trying to shut out one of our side! Ya-boo! That’s the way you elect your men, is it! Come in, Fisher minor. Let him in, do you hear? All right; come on, you fellows, and kick this Modern chap out for a wretched sneak—(that’ll be seven off their side, counting Wheatfield; and one more to us—bully!) Yah, cheats! turn ’em out!”Amid such cries of virtuous indignation, Fisher minor was hauled in, and his obstructor, by the samecoup de main, excluded. Fisher minor might have had his head turned by this triumphal entry, had he not recognised in the ejected Modern boy the gentleman to whom he had lent his half-crown on the previous evening. Any reminder of yesterday’s misfortunes was depressing to him, and his joy at finding himself on the right side of the door now was decidedly damped by the knowledge that his half-crown was on the wrong. However, there was no time for explanations, as the shouting had ceased, and an evidently important event was about to take place. This was the appointment of treasurer, for whom each of the rival sides had a candidate; that of the Classics being Fisher major, and that of the Moderns Brinkman of Forder’s house, a particular enemy of the other side, and reputed to be rich and no gentlemen.Both candidates were briefly proposed and seconded by boys of their own side, and both having declared their intention of going to the vote, a show of hands was demanded.The excitement of our young friends at the end of the Hall while this tedious operation was in progress may well be imagined. The captain had sternly ordained silence during the voting; so that all they could do was to hold up their hands to the very top of their reach, and keep a wild look-out that they were being counted, and that none of the enemy was in any way, moral or physical, circumventing them. As for Fisher minor, he simply trembled with excitement as he cast his eyes round and calculated his brother’s chances. He could not comprehend how any one could dare not to vote for Fisher major; and absorbed in that wonder he continued to hold up his hand long after the two tellers had agreed their figure, and the captain had ordered “hands down.”“Fisher major, one hundred and twenty-seven votes; now, hands up for Brinkman.”“Whew!” said D’Arcy, fanning himself with his handkerchief; “it’ll be a close shave. I say, we’d better lean up hard against the door. It’ll keep out the draughts.”“They’ve got it, I’m afraid,” said Ashby, looking round at the forest of hands; “we hadn’t as many as that.”“I say, that cad Brinkman is voting for himself,” said some one.“What a shame! My brother didn’t. He’s too honourable,” said Fisher minor.“Hullo! ‘How now’—you there?” cried Wally.Whereupon, amid great laughter, Fisher minor retired modestly behind the rest.The counting seemed interminable, and every moment, to the guilty ears of Ashby, there seemed to be a sound of footsteps without. At last, however, the cry, “hands down,” came once more, and you might have heard a pin drop.“Fisher major, one hundred and twenty-seven votes; Brinkman, one hundred and twenty-two. Fisher is elected.”Amid the terrific Classic cheers which greeted this announcement, D’Arcy and Ashby exchanged glances.Those five voters, waiting patiently in Wally’s room for the clock to strike the half-hour, would have turned the scale!Ashby wished the majority had been greater or less. But he tried to be jubilant, and in response to D’Arcy’s thumps on the back yelled and roared till he was black in the face.As he did so, he caught sight through the window of a small procession of five or six boys emerging from the door of Wakefield’s house and starting at a trot in the direction of Hall.“I say,” shouted he in D’Arcy’s ear, “here they come!”D’Arcy abruptly ceased shouting and descended from his form.“Come and squash up near the front,” said he, hurriedly; “more room, you know, up there.”“Hoo, hoo! nearly licked that time,” shouted a Modern youth near the door, as they moved forward. “Served you right!”“Never mind, we’ll take it out of you, next vote,” retorted D’Arcy. “Come on, kid; squash up.” Then a happy thought struck him. The boys immediately near the door were mostly Moderns. What a fine bit of electioneering, if he could get them to shut out their own men! So he shouted, “Look out, our side! Mind they don’t keep out any of our chaps. Just the sort of dodge they’d be up to.”Whereupon the Moderns set their backs determinedly against the door and wagged their heads at one another, and were obliged to D’Arcy for the tip.“That’ll do for ’em,” said that delighted schemer; “they won’t let ’em in, you bet. Look out—they’re going to vote for secretary now.”The Classical side candidate for this important office was Ranger, almost as great an idol in his house as the captain himself. His Modern opponent was Dangle, a clever senior, reputed to be Clapperton’s toady and man-of-all-work. It was felt that if he were secretary, there would be a strong Modern bias given to the clubs, which in the opinion of the Classic partisans would be disastrous.The show of hands had been taken for Ranger, and every one was silent to hear the figures, when a hideous clamour arose at the door, with shouts of—“Open the door I let us in. Cheats! Fair play!”To D’Arcy’s satisfaction, as from the safe shelter of a front place he peered down that way, the Moderns held their post at the door and refused to let it open. For a minute it looked as if they would succeed; when suddenly the irate Wally appeared on the scene, followed by Fisher minor, and shouting, “Cheats! cads! Let our fellows in!” went for the obstructionists.“Stupid ass!” growled D’Arcy. “It’s all up now. Why couldn’t he have let them be?”A short and sharpmêléefollowed. The Classics were reinforced rapidly, and the Moderns, seeing their plot detected and fearing the intervention of the seniors, sullenly raised the blockade, and allowed the door to open.Whereat in tumbled Percy Wheatfield with five young Moderns at his heels—the very five who had been waiting for the clock to strike in Wally’s study.“What do you mean by keeping us out!” demanded Percy of his brother, who chanced to be the first person he encountered.“What are you talking about?” retorted Wally, extremely chagrined to discover who it was he had been helping. “We were the chaps who let you in! It was your own cads who were keeping you out. Ask them.”“We thought you were Classics,” said one of the offenders, letting the cat out of the bag.“Oh, you beauty! Wait till I get some of you outside,” bellowed the outraged Percy.“Order! Shut up, you kids down there!” was the cry from the front.“Shut up, you kids down there!” echoed D’Arcy and Ashby on their own account.“Ranger one hundred and twenty-three. Hands up for Dangle; and if the youngsters down there don’t make less noise, I’ll adjourn the meeting,” said the captain. This awful threat secured silence while the counting proceeded. D’Arcy’s face grew longer and longer, and Wally at the back began to breathe vengeance on the world at large.“Hands down.”The captain turned and said something to Clapperton; and Fisher major, who overheard what was said, looked very glum. Every one knew what was coming.“Ranger one hundred and twenty-three votes, Dangle one hundred and twenty-four. Dangle is—”The shouts of the Moderns drowned the last words, and the captain had to wait a minute before he could finish what he had to say.“The votes are very close,” said he. “If any one would like, we can count again.”“No, no!” cried Ranger. “It’s all right. I don’t dispute it.”“That concludes the elections,” said the captain.And amid loud cheers and counter-cheers the meeting dispersed.The prefects of Wakefield’s house met that evening in Yorke’s study to talk over the events of the afternoon.The captain was the only person present who appeared to regard the result of the elections with equanimity.“After all,” said he, “though I’m awfully sorry about old Ranger, it seems fairer to have the officers evenly divided. There’s much less chance of a row than it we were three to their one.”“That’s all very well,” said Fisher, whose pleasure in his own election had been completely spoiled by the defeat of his friend, “if we could count on fair play. You know Dangle as well as I do. I’d sooner resign myself than have him secretary.”“What rot!” said Ranger. “You’d probably only give them another man. No, we shall have to see we get fair play.”“And give it, too,” said the captain.“They simply packed the meeting,” said Dalton, “and fetched up five juniors at the very end, who turned the scale. If our fellows had done the same, we should have been all right.”“I don’t see the use of growling now it’s well over,” said Yorke; “the great thing is to see we get the best men into the teams, and that they play up.”“We hardly need go outside Wakefield’s for that,” said Fisher major; “they’ve not a man worth his salt in a football scrimmage.”“Look out that they haven’t more than we have, that’s all,” said the captain, gloomily. “I tell you what, you fellows,” added he, with a touch of temper in his voice, “if our house is to be Cock-House at Fellsgarth, we can’t afford to make fools of ourselves. The School’s a jolly sight more important than any one house, and as long as I’m captain of the School clubs I don’t intend to inquire what house a man belongs to so long as he can play. We can keep all our jealousy for the House club if you like; but if it’s to be carried into the School sports we may as well dissolve the clubs and scratch all our matches at once.”“I wonder if Clapperton is giving vent to the same patriotic sentiments to his admirers,” said Ridgway, laughing. “Fancy him, and Dangle, and Brinkman conspiring together for the glory of the School.”“Why not!” said the captain, testily. “Why won’t you give anybody credit for being decent outside Wakefield’s?”“I’m afraid old Yorke hardly gives any one credit for being decent in it. For pity’s sake don’t lecture any more to-night, old man,” said Dalton. “I’ll agree to anything rather than that.”“There’s just one more thing,” said Yorke, “which you may take as lecture or not as you like. Clapperton said something about helping out the clubs with money. Fisher major, you are the treasurer; don’t have any of that. Don’t take more than the regular subscription from anybody, and don’t take less. If there’s a deficit let’s all stump up alike. We don’t want anybody’s charity.”This sentiment was generally applauded, and restored the captain in the good opinion of every one present. After all, old Yorke’s bark was always worse than his bite. He wasn’t going to be put upon by the other side, however much he seemed to stick up for them.Ranger waited a few minutes after the others had gone.“Look here, Ranger,” said the captain, “you must back me up in this. You can afford to do it, because you’ve been beaten. I only wish you were in my place. I know you hate those fellows, and are cut up to have lost the secretaryship.”“I’m not going to break my heart about that,” said Ranger.“Of course not. You’re going to do what will be a lot more useful. You’re going to work as hard for the School as if you were secretary and captain in one; and you’re going to back me up in keeping the peace, aren’t you?”“Would you, if you were in my shoes?” said Ranger.“I might find it hard, but I almost think I should try. And if I had your good temper, I should succeed too.”Ranger laughed.“I didn’t think you went in for flattery, Yorke. Anyhow, I believe you are right. I’ll be as affectionate as I can to those Modern chaps. Ugh! good night.”After the day’s excitement Fellsgarth went to bed early. But no one dreamed, least of all the heroes of the exploit themselves, how much was to depend during the coming months on those five small voters who had waited patiently in Wally Wheatfield’s study that afternoon to hear the clock strike 5:30.

Ever since certain well-meaning governors, two years ago, had succeeded in forcing upon Fellsgarth the adoption of a Modern side, the School had been rent by factions whose quarrels sometimes bordered on civil war. When people squabble about the management of a school outside, the boys are pretty sure to quarrel and take sides against one another inside.

The old set, consisting mostly of the Classical boys, felt very sore on the question. It was a case of sentiment, not argument. If boys, said they, wanted to learn science and modern languages, let them; but don’t let them come fooling around at Fellsgarth and spoiling the reputation of a good old classical school. There were plenty of schools where fellows could be brought up in a new-fangled way. Let them go to one of these, and leave Fellsgarth in peace to her dead authors.

The boys who used such arguments, it is fair to say, were not always the most profound classical scholars. Most of them, like D’Arcy and Wally Wheatfield, had a painful acquaintance with the masterpieces of old-world literature in the way of impositions, but there their interest frequently ended. The upper Classical boys, however, though not so noisily hostile, had their own strong opinions about the new departure; and when it was discovered that the new Modern side had not only alienated one or two of their old comrades, but, so far from being apologetic, were disposed to claim equal rights with, and in certain cases superior privileges to, the old boys, the relations became strained all round.

As it happened, the Modern set consisted of a number of moderate athletes who could not be wholly ignored in the School sports, and had no intention of being ignored. And to add to their crimes they numbered among them a good number of rich boys, who boasted in public of their wealth with a freedom which was particularly aggravating to the Classical seniors, who were for the most part boys to whose parents money was an important consideration.

As has been said, the rivalry had been growing acute all last term, and but for Yorke’s determined indifference, it might long ago have come to a rupture. Now, every one felt that at any moment the peace might be broken, and civil war break out between the two sides at Fellsgarth.

The School clubs offered a rare opportunity for an exhibition of party feeling, for they were the common ground on which every one was bound to meet every one else onlevelterms.

By an old rule, every member of the House clubs was a member of the School clubs and had the privilege of electing the committee and officers for the year. It was this business which brought together the crowd that flocked into the Hall to-day; and it was in view of this critical event that Mr D’Arcy had carefully shut up five voters of the other side in his study until the election should be over.

“Whatever’s to be done?” asked Ashby, with blank countenance.

“Nobody but a born idiot would begin to ask riddles just now!” retorted D’Arcy surlily. “Shut up; that’s what’s to be done.”

“I expect it will be all right,” persisted the dogged Ashby, venturing on a further remark. “They won’t let him in, if he’s not Wally; or if they do, they’ll go for him.”

“I hope they will. Anyhow we’ve done our best. Stick near the door. We may be able to bundle a few of ’em out before the voting comes on. Look out, Yorke’s speaking. Yell as hard as you can.”

Whereupon Ashby lay his head back and yelled until D’Arcy kicked him and told him it was time to shut up.

Yorke was moving a resolution that the captains, vice-captains, secretaries, and treasurers of each house should form the School sports committee, whose business it would be to arrange matches, keep the ground, make rules, and generally organise the athletics of Fellsgarth. He hoped every one would agree to this.

Clapperton, the Modern captain, and head of Forder’s house, rose to second the motion.

“Howl away!” said D’Arcy, nudging hisprotégé. Whereupon Ashby held on to a desk and howled till the windows shook.

“That’ll do,” shouted D’Arcy in his ear after a moment or two, and Ashby, thankful for the relief, shut off steam and awaited his next orders.

Clapperton was a big, smirking fellow, rather loudly dressed, with a persuasive voice and what was intended to be a condescending manner. Some fellows could never make out why Clapperton did not go down in Fellsgarth. He tried to be civil, he was lavish with his pocket-money, and always disclaimed any desire to quarrel with anybody. And yet no one oared for him, while of course the out-and-out champions of the rival side hated him. He seconded with pleasure the motion of “his friend Yorke,”—(“Cheek!” exclaimed D’Arcy,sotto voce; “what business has he to call our captain his friend!”) This was the old rule of Fellsgarth, and a very good rule. It meant hard work, but he was always glad to do what he could for the old School. (It always riled the Classics to hear a Modern talking about “the old School,” and their backs went up at this.) He had been on this committee two years now, and had had the pleasure in a humble way of helping the clubs through one or two of their financial difficulties, and he should be glad to serve again. He seconded the motion.

It was a trial to one or two who had listened to see that the names were being put to the vote by Yorkeen bloc, without giving them the chance of voting against anybody. Never mind, their chance for that would come!

The next business was the election of captain of the clubs; and of course Yorke was chosen by acclamation. No one dared oppose him. Even “his friend Clapperton,” who had the pleasure of proposing him, was sure every one would be as glad as he would to see “his fellow-captain” (oh, how the Classics squirmed and ground their teeth at the expression!) at the head of the clubs.

The pent-up feelings of D’Arcy and those of his way of thinking found some relief in the demonstration which accompanied the carrying of this resolution. It was too good a chance to be lost, and for three minutes by the clock the Classics stood on their feet and cheered their champion, glaring defiantly as they did so at the Moderns, who having held up their hands and cheered a little, relapsed into silence and left the noise in the hands of the other side.

Then followed the election of vice-captain, which of course had to go to Clapperton. This time the Moderns had their demonstration amid the silence of the Classics, who thought they had never in their lives seen fellows make such asses of themselves.

It was twenty minutes past the hour, and D’Arcy and Ashby were both getting uncomfortable and impatient. What did these Modern idiots want to waste the time of everybody by standing there and bellowing! It was scandalous.

“Shut up—go on to the next vote,” they cried, but in vain. The Moderns were going to have their full share, if not a little more, of the row, and to stop them before their time was hopeless.

“Disgusting exhibition, isn’t it?” said D’Arcy; “never mind. Hullo, I say, there’s some one at the door. It’s those chaps!”

No, it was only Fisher minor, who, having waited meekly all this time outside the deserted gymnasium, now ventured, like a degenerate Casabianca, to desert his post and come and see what was going forward in the Hall.

As he tried to enter, a Modern boy, seeing by his ribbon that he was on the wrong side, put his foot against the door and tried to turn him back. But his little plot dismally failed. For D’Arcy and Ashby, shocked and horrified witnesses of this scandalous act of corruption, came to the rescue with a hubbub which even made itself heard above the shouting.

“Let him in!—howling cheat!—he’s trying to shut out one of our side! Ya-boo! That’s the way you elect your men, is it! Come in, Fisher minor. Let him in, do you hear? All right; come on, you fellows, and kick this Modern chap out for a wretched sneak—(that’ll be seven off their side, counting Wheatfield; and one more to us—bully!) Yah, cheats! turn ’em out!”

Amid such cries of virtuous indignation, Fisher minor was hauled in, and his obstructor, by the samecoup de main, excluded. Fisher minor might have had his head turned by this triumphal entry, had he not recognised in the ejected Modern boy the gentleman to whom he had lent his half-crown on the previous evening. Any reminder of yesterday’s misfortunes was depressing to him, and his joy at finding himself on the right side of the door now was decidedly damped by the knowledge that his half-crown was on the wrong. However, there was no time for explanations, as the shouting had ceased, and an evidently important event was about to take place. This was the appointment of treasurer, for whom each of the rival sides had a candidate; that of the Classics being Fisher major, and that of the Moderns Brinkman of Forder’s house, a particular enemy of the other side, and reputed to be rich and no gentlemen.

Both candidates were briefly proposed and seconded by boys of their own side, and both having declared their intention of going to the vote, a show of hands was demanded.

The excitement of our young friends at the end of the Hall while this tedious operation was in progress may well be imagined. The captain had sternly ordained silence during the voting; so that all they could do was to hold up their hands to the very top of their reach, and keep a wild look-out that they were being counted, and that none of the enemy was in any way, moral or physical, circumventing them. As for Fisher minor, he simply trembled with excitement as he cast his eyes round and calculated his brother’s chances. He could not comprehend how any one could dare not to vote for Fisher major; and absorbed in that wonder he continued to hold up his hand long after the two tellers had agreed their figure, and the captain had ordered “hands down.”

“Fisher major, one hundred and twenty-seven votes; now, hands up for Brinkman.”

“Whew!” said D’Arcy, fanning himself with his handkerchief; “it’ll be a close shave. I say, we’d better lean up hard against the door. It’ll keep out the draughts.”

“They’ve got it, I’m afraid,” said Ashby, looking round at the forest of hands; “we hadn’t as many as that.”

“I say, that cad Brinkman is voting for himself,” said some one.

“What a shame! My brother didn’t. He’s too honourable,” said Fisher minor.

“Hullo! ‘How now’—you there?” cried Wally.

Whereupon, amid great laughter, Fisher minor retired modestly behind the rest.

The counting seemed interminable, and every moment, to the guilty ears of Ashby, there seemed to be a sound of footsteps without. At last, however, the cry, “hands down,” came once more, and you might have heard a pin drop.

“Fisher major, one hundred and twenty-seven votes; Brinkman, one hundred and twenty-two. Fisher is elected.”

Amid the terrific Classic cheers which greeted this announcement, D’Arcy and Ashby exchanged glances.

Those five voters, waiting patiently in Wally’s room for the clock to strike the half-hour, would have turned the scale!

Ashby wished the majority had been greater or less. But he tried to be jubilant, and in response to D’Arcy’s thumps on the back yelled and roared till he was black in the face.

As he did so, he caught sight through the window of a small procession of five or six boys emerging from the door of Wakefield’s house and starting at a trot in the direction of Hall.

“I say,” shouted he in D’Arcy’s ear, “here they come!”

D’Arcy abruptly ceased shouting and descended from his form.

“Come and squash up near the front,” said he, hurriedly; “more room, you know, up there.”

“Hoo, hoo! nearly licked that time,” shouted a Modern youth near the door, as they moved forward. “Served you right!”

“Never mind, we’ll take it out of you, next vote,” retorted D’Arcy. “Come on, kid; squash up.” Then a happy thought struck him. The boys immediately near the door were mostly Moderns. What a fine bit of electioneering, if he could get them to shut out their own men! So he shouted, “Look out, our side! Mind they don’t keep out any of our chaps. Just the sort of dodge they’d be up to.”

Whereupon the Moderns set their backs determinedly against the door and wagged their heads at one another, and were obliged to D’Arcy for the tip.

“That’ll do for ’em,” said that delighted schemer; “they won’t let ’em in, you bet. Look out—they’re going to vote for secretary now.”

The Classical side candidate for this important office was Ranger, almost as great an idol in his house as the captain himself. His Modern opponent was Dangle, a clever senior, reputed to be Clapperton’s toady and man-of-all-work. It was felt that if he were secretary, there would be a strong Modern bias given to the clubs, which in the opinion of the Classic partisans would be disastrous.

The show of hands had been taken for Ranger, and every one was silent to hear the figures, when a hideous clamour arose at the door, with shouts of—

“Open the door I let us in. Cheats! Fair play!”

To D’Arcy’s satisfaction, as from the safe shelter of a front place he peered down that way, the Moderns held their post at the door and refused to let it open. For a minute it looked as if they would succeed; when suddenly the irate Wally appeared on the scene, followed by Fisher minor, and shouting, “Cheats! cads! Let our fellows in!” went for the obstructionists.

“Stupid ass!” growled D’Arcy. “It’s all up now. Why couldn’t he have let them be?”

A short and sharpmêléefollowed. The Classics were reinforced rapidly, and the Moderns, seeing their plot detected and fearing the intervention of the seniors, sullenly raised the blockade, and allowed the door to open.

Whereat in tumbled Percy Wheatfield with five young Moderns at his heels—the very five who had been waiting for the clock to strike in Wally’s study.

“What do you mean by keeping us out!” demanded Percy of his brother, who chanced to be the first person he encountered.

“What are you talking about?” retorted Wally, extremely chagrined to discover who it was he had been helping. “We were the chaps who let you in! It was your own cads who were keeping you out. Ask them.”

“We thought you were Classics,” said one of the offenders, letting the cat out of the bag.

“Oh, you beauty! Wait till I get some of you outside,” bellowed the outraged Percy.

“Order! Shut up, you kids down there!” was the cry from the front.

“Shut up, you kids down there!” echoed D’Arcy and Ashby on their own account.

“Ranger one hundred and twenty-three. Hands up for Dangle; and if the youngsters down there don’t make less noise, I’ll adjourn the meeting,” said the captain. This awful threat secured silence while the counting proceeded. D’Arcy’s face grew longer and longer, and Wally at the back began to breathe vengeance on the world at large.

“Hands down.”

The captain turned and said something to Clapperton; and Fisher major, who overheard what was said, looked very glum. Every one knew what was coming.

“Ranger one hundred and twenty-three votes, Dangle one hundred and twenty-four. Dangle is—”

The shouts of the Moderns drowned the last words, and the captain had to wait a minute before he could finish what he had to say.

“The votes are very close,” said he. “If any one would like, we can count again.”

“No, no!” cried Ranger. “It’s all right. I don’t dispute it.”

“That concludes the elections,” said the captain.

And amid loud cheers and counter-cheers the meeting dispersed.

The prefects of Wakefield’s house met that evening in Yorke’s study to talk over the events of the afternoon.

The captain was the only person present who appeared to regard the result of the elections with equanimity.

“After all,” said he, “though I’m awfully sorry about old Ranger, it seems fairer to have the officers evenly divided. There’s much less chance of a row than it we were three to their one.”

“That’s all very well,” said Fisher, whose pleasure in his own election had been completely spoiled by the defeat of his friend, “if we could count on fair play. You know Dangle as well as I do. I’d sooner resign myself than have him secretary.”

“What rot!” said Ranger. “You’d probably only give them another man. No, we shall have to see we get fair play.”

“And give it, too,” said the captain.

“They simply packed the meeting,” said Dalton, “and fetched up five juniors at the very end, who turned the scale. If our fellows had done the same, we should have been all right.”

“I don’t see the use of growling now it’s well over,” said Yorke; “the great thing is to see we get the best men into the teams, and that they play up.”

“We hardly need go outside Wakefield’s for that,” said Fisher major; “they’ve not a man worth his salt in a football scrimmage.”

“Look out that they haven’t more than we have, that’s all,” said the captain, gloomily. “I tell you what, you fellows,” added he, with a touch of temper in his voice, “if our house is to be Cock-House at Fellsgarth, we can’t afford to make fools of ourselves. The School’s a jolly sight more important than any one house, and as long as I’m captain of the School clubs I don’t intend to inquire what house a man belongs to so long as he can play. We can keep all our jealousy for the House club if you like; but if it’s to be carried into the School sports we may as well dissolve the clubs and scratch all our matches at once.”

“I wonder if Clapperton is giving vent to the same patriotic sentiments to his admirers,” said Ridgway, laughing. “Fancy him, and Dangle, and Brinkman conspiring together for the glory of the School.”

“Why not!” said the captain, testily. “Why won’t you give anybody credit for being decent outside Wakefield’s?”

“I’m afraid old Yorke hardly gives any one credit for being decent in it. For pity’s sake don’t lecture any more to-night, old man,” said Dalton. “I’ll agree to anything rather than that.”

“There’s just one more thing,” said Yorke, “which you may take as lecture or not as you like. Clapperton said something about helping out the clubs with money. Fisher major, you are the treasurer; don’t have any of that. Don’t take more than the regular subscription from anybody, and don’t take less. If there’s a deficit let’s all stump up alike. We don’t want anybody’s charity.”

This sentiment was generally applauded, and restored the captain in the good opinion of every one present. After all, old Yorke’s bark was always worse than his bite. He wasn’t going to be put upon by the other side, however much he seemed to stick up for them.

Ranger waited a few minutes after the others had gone.

“Look here, Ranger,” said the captain, “you must back me up in this. You can afford to do it, because you’ve been beaten. I only wish you were in my place. I know you hate those fellows, and are cut up to have lost the secretaryship.”

“I’m not going to break my heart about that,” said Ranger.

“Of course not. You’re going to do what will be a lot more useful. You’re going to work as hard for the School as if you were secretary and captain in one; and you’re going to back me up in keeping the peace, aren’t you?”

“Would you, if you were in my shoes?” said Ranger.

“I might find it hard, but I almost think I should try. And if I had your good temper, I should succeed too.”

Ranger laughed.

“I didn’t think you went in for flattery, Yorke. Anyhow, I believe you are right. I’ll be as affectionate as I can to those Modern chaps. Ugh! good night.”

After the day’s excitement Fellsgarth went to bed early. But no one dreamed, least of all the heroes of the exploit themselves, how much was to depend during the coming months on those five small voters who had waited patiently in Wally Wheatfield’s study that afternoon to hear the clock strike 5:30.

Chapter Five.Percy Wheatfield, Envoy Extraordinary.The misgivings of the Classics were justified. The Moderns did not accept their victory at Elections with a meekness which augured harmony for the coming half.On the contrary, they executed that difficult acrobatic feat known as going off their heads, with jubilation.For many terms they had groaned under a sense of inferiority, partly imagined but partly well founded, in their relations with the rival side. The Classics had given themselves airs, and, what was worse, proved their right to give them. In its early days the Modern side was not “in it” at Fellsgarth. Its few members were taught to look upon themselves as altogether a lower order of creation than the pupils of the old foundation, and had accepted the position with due humility. Then certain rebellious spirits had arisen, who dared to ask why their side wasn’t as good as any other? The answer was crushing. “What can you do? Only French, and book-keeping and ‘stinks’”—(the strictly Classical nickname for chemistry). “You can’t put a man into the cricket or football field worth his salt; your houses are rowdy; your men do nothing at the University; two out of three of you are not even gentlemen.” Whereupon the Moderns went in desperately for sports, and claimed to be represented in the School clubs. They maintained that they were as good gentlemen as any who talked Latin and Greek; and to prove it they jingled their money in their trouser-pockets, and asked what the Classics could do in that line. The Classics could do very little, and fell back on their moral advantages. By degrees the new side grew in numbers, and made themselves heard rather more definitely. They put into the field one or two men who could not honestly be denied a place in the School teams; and they began to figure also among the School prefects. The present seniors, Clapperton and his friends, carried the thing a step further, and insisted on equal rights with their rivals in all the School institutions. To their surprise they found an ally in Yorke, who, as we have already said, hurt the feelings of many of his admirers by his Quixotic insistence on fair play all round.The proceedings yesterday had been the most recent instance of the flow in the tide of Modern progress at Fellsgarth. Reinforced by an unusual influx of new boys, they had aimed at, and succeeded in winning, their level half of the control of the School clubs; and Yorke had looked on and let them do it!No wonder they went off their heads as they discoursed on their triumph, and no wonder they already pictured themselves masters of Fellsgarth!It never does occur to some people that the mountain is not climbed till the top is reached.“Really, you know,” said Brinkman, “I felt half sorry for those poor beggars; they did look so sick when Dangle was elected.”“It’s my opinion,” said Clapperton, “you’d have been in too, if all our fellows had turned up. I saw four or five of our youngsters come in at the last moment.”“Yes—by the way,” said Dangle, “that ought to be looked into. It’s fishy, to say the least of it, and would have made all the difference to Brinkman’s election.”“Do you know who the fellows were?” asked Clapperton.“I believe your fag was one of them.”“Percy Wheatfield? Catch him being shut out of anything. But I’ll ask about it. Fancy poor Yorke’s feelings if we were to demand a new election!”“I tell you what,” said Dangle, “I don’t altogether understand Yorke. He tries to pass off as fair, and just, and all that sort of thing; but one can’t be sure he’s not playing a game of his own.”“We shall easily see that when it comes to choosing the football fifteen against Rendlesham. I mean to send him in a list of fellows on our side. It’s only fair we should have half of them our men.”“Half fifteen is seven and a half,” said Fullerton, a melancholy senior who had not yet spoken; “how will you manage about that?”“Shut up, you ass!”“I only asked,” said Fullerton. “It doesn’t matter to me, I don’t mind going as the half man, if you like. If you send seven names you’ll be in a minority in the fifteen, and if you send eight you’ll be in a majority. It doesn’t matter to me a bit.”“Just like Fullerton. Always asking riddles that haven’t got an answer,” said Dangle.“I wonder how Fisher will manage the treasurership,” said Brinkman, who was evidently sore at his defeat. “I shouldn’t have thought accounts were much in his line.”“He can’t have very hard work doing his own,” said Clapperton, laughing, “but that’s not his fault, poor beggar. Only I think it would be much better to have a fellow for treasurer who wasn’t in a chronic state of being hard up.”“I suppose you mean,” said Fullerton, who had a most awkwardly blunt way of putting things, “he’d have less temptation to steal. I hope Fisher’s not a thief.”“What an idiot you are, Fullerton!” said Clapperton; “whoever said he was?”“I didn’t. I only asked what you thought. It doesn’t much matter to me, except that it wouldn’t be creditable to the School.”“Of course it wouldn’t; it’s hardly creditable to our side to have a jackass in it,” said Clapperton.“Oh, all right—I’ll go. I dare say you’ll get on as well without me.”The others presently followed his example, and Clapperton, left to himself, proceeded to draw up his list.“Dear Yorke,” he wrote, “You will probably be making up the fifteen for the Rendlesham match shortly. Please put down me, Brinkman, Dangle, Fullerton, West, Harrowby, and Ramshaw major, to play from our side. This will give your side the odd man.“Yours truly,—“Geo. Clapperton.”This important epistle accomplished, he shouted for his fag to come and convey it to its destination.It was not till after several calls, on an increasing scale of peremptoriness, that Master Percy condescended to appear. When he did, he was covered with dust from head to foot, and his face, what could be seen of it, was visibly lopsided.“Why don’t you come when you’re called? Whatever have you been up to—fighting?”“Rather not,” said Percy, “only boxing. You see, it was this way; Cottle brought a pair of gloves up this term, and young Lickford had an old pair; so we three and Ramshaw have been having an eight-handed mill. It was rather jolly; only Ramshaw and Lickford had the old gloves on, and they’ve all the horse-hair out, so Cottle and I got it rather hot on the face. But we took it out of them with our body blows—above the belt, you know—not awfully above. I couldn’t come when you called, because we were wrestling out one of the rounds. It’s harder work an eight-handed wrestle than four hands. Just when you called first, I nearly had Cottle and Lickford down, but you put me off my trip, and Ramshaw had me over instead.”“All very interesting,” said Clapperton, “but you’ll have to come sharp next time or I shall trip you up myself. Take this note over to Yorke. Stop while he reads it, and if there’s any answer, bring it; if not, don’t wait.”“Can’t Cash take it? We’re not nearly finished.”“No. Cut off, sharp!”“Awful shame!” growled the messenger to himself, as he departed. “I hate Clapperton; he always waits till I’m enjoying myself, and then routs me out. I shan’t stand it much longer. What does he want with Yorke! Perhaps it’s a challenge. Yes, by the way, very good chance! I’ll see what that cad Wally’s got to say about those kids I found in his room yesterday. Nice old games he gets up to; Wally’s all very well when he’s asleep, or grubbing, or doing impositions, but he’s a sight too artful out of school, like all those Classic kids. One’s as bad as another.”As if to emphasise this sentiment, a Classic kid at that moment came violently into collision with Master Percy’s waistcoat.It was Fisher minor, who had once more caught sight in the distance of the mysterious borrower of his half-crown, and was giving chase.“Where are you coming to, you kid. You’ve nearly smashed a button. I’ll welt you for that.”“I beg your pardon, Wally, I—”“Wally—what do you mean by calling me Wally?” exclaimed Percy.“Well, Wheatfield, I beg your pardon; I was in a hurry to catch a fellow up and I didn’t see you.”“Didn’t you? Well, you’ll feel me. Take that.”Fisher minor meekly accepted the cuff, and, full of his half-crown, essayed to proceed. But Percy stopped him.“You’re that new kid, Fisher’s minor, aren’t you?”It astonished Fisher minor, that the speaker, whom he supposed he had seen only ten minutes ago, should so soon have forgotten his name.“Yes, but I say, Wally, I mean Wheatfield—”“Humph—I suppose you held up both hands for your precious brother yesterday.”“No, only one. I was nearly late, though. I waited an hour at the gymnasium, you know, and no Modern chaps came out at all.”Percy began to smell rats.“Waited at the gymnasium, did you? Who told you to do that?”“Oh, you know—it was part of the canvassing.”“Oh,youwere in that job, were you, my boy? All serene, I’ll—”“I say,” cried Fisher minor, turning pale, “aren’t you Wally Wheatfield? I thought—”“Me Wally? what do you take me for? I’ll let you know who I am. You’re a beauty, you are. Some of our chaps’ll tell you who I am, Mr Canvasser. Now, look here, you stop there till I come back from Yorke’s. If you move an inch—whew! you’ll find the weather pretty warm, I can tell you. Canvassing? You’ll get canvassed, I fancy, before you grow much taller.”And off stalked the indignant Percy, promising himself a particularly pleasant afternoon, as soon as his errand to the captain was over.Yorke was at work, with his lexicon and notebooks on the table, when the envoy entered.“Well, is that you or your brother?” inquired he.“Not my brother, if I know it,” said Percy.“That’s not much help. He says exactly the same when I put the same question to him.”“He does, does he? I owe Wally one already, now—”“Thanks—then you’re not Wally. What do you want?”“This note. Clapperton said I was to wait while you read it, and bring an answer if there was one.”Yorke read the note, and smiled as he did so. Percy wished he knew what was in it. He didn’t know Clapperton could make jokes.“Any answer?” he demanded.“Yes—there’s an answer,” said the captain.He took out a list of names from his pocket, and compared it with that on Clapperton’s letter. Then he wrote as follows:—“Dear Clapperton,—The fifteen against Rendlesham is already made up as follows,” (here followed the list). “You will see it includes six of the names you sent. We must play the best team we can; and I think we shall have it.“Yours truly,—“Cecil Yorke.”“There’s the answer. Take it over at once.”“I like his style,” growled Percy to himself. “He don’t seem to have a ‘please’ about him. Catch me hurrying myself for him; I’ve got this precious canvasser to look after.”And he returned at a leisurely pace to the rendezvous.No Fisher minor was there!That young gentleman, when left to himself, found himself in a perspiration of doubt and fear. He had made a most awkward blunder, and confessed the delinquencies of his comrades to the very last man they would wish to know of them. That was bad enough; but, to make things worse, he was to be let in for the blame of the whole affair, and, with Master Percy’s assistance, was shortly to experience warm weather among the Moderns.Happy thought! He would not stay where he was. He would retire, as the Latin book said, into winter quarters, and entrench himself in the stronghold of Wally and D’Arcy and Ashby. If hewasto get it hot, he would sooner get it from them than from the barbarians in Forder’s.With which desperate conclusion, and once more devoutly wishing himself safe at home, he made tracks, at a rapid walk, to Wally’s room. His three comrades were all there.“What’s up?” said they as he entered, with agitated face.“Oh, I say, it’s all because you and your brother are so alike. I met him just now; and—he’s heard about that canvassing, you know, and I thought you’d like to know.”“You mean to say you blabbed?” said Wally, jumping to his feet.“It’s your fault,” said D’Arcy. “I’ve made the same mistake myself. Why can’t you grow a moustache or something to distinguish you?”“Why can’t you get your brother to be a Classic! then it wouldn’t matter—either of you would do,” suggested Ashby.Ashby was beginning to feel quite at home in Wakefield’s.“I’ll let some of you see if it won’t matter,” retorted Wally. “If they’ve got wind of that affair the other side, there’ll be a fearful row. They’ll want another election. Oh, you young idiot! That comes of trusting a new kid, that sings comic songs, and parts his hair the wrong side, with a secret. D’Arcy’s nearly as big an ass as you are yourself, to trust you.”After this Philippic, Wally felt a little better, and was ready to consider what had better be done.“He’s bound to come here, you chaps,” said he. “You cut. Leave him to me—I’ll tackle him.”Fisher minor considered this uncommonly good advice, and obeyed it with alacrity. The other two followed less eagerly. They would have liked to stay and see the fun.As Wally expected, his affectionate relative, being baulked of his prey outside, came to pay a fraternal visit.“What cheer?” said he. “I say, have you seen a kid called Fisher minor? The new kid, you know, that we had a lark with at dinner on first-night.”“Oh, that chap. Bless you, he messes in our study. What about him?”“I want him. I want to say something to him.”“I’ll tell him.”“All right. He’s come and told you, has he? and you’re hiding him? Never mind; I’ll bowl him out, the beauty. I know all about that little game of yours, yesterday, you know!”“What little game?”“As if you didn’t know! Do you suppose I didn’t find five of ’em shut up here yesterday, being kept out of the way at Elections?”“Yes; and do you suppose if it hadn’t been for me they’d have got into the Hall at all? Don’t be a beast, Percy, if you can help. They stayed here of their own accord. No one kept them in. I say, have some toffee?”“Got any?”“Rather. A new brew this morning. I say, you can have half of it.”“Thanks, awfully, Wally.”“You see—oh, take more than that—these new kids are such born asses, they boss everything. You should have heard that Fisher minor at lamb’s singing the other night—like the toffee? I say, don’t be a sneak about those chaps. You’d never have got them in without me. I backed you up, and got the door open. I say—would you like a Turkish stamp? I’ve got one to swop—but you can have it if you like.”“Thanks, old man. Yes, new kinds are rot. Well, ta, ta—better make it up, I suppose. I say, I shan’t have time to write home to-day. You write this time, and I’ll do the two next week.”“All serene, if you like. Here, you’re leaving one of your bits of toffee. Ta, ta, old chappie.”And these great twin brethren, whose infirmity it was always to be fond of one another when they were together, and to scorn one another when they were apart, separated in a most amicable fashion.“Well?” asked the three exiles, putting in their heads as soon as the enemy had gone.“Choked him off,” said Wally, fanning himself. “Jolly hard work. But he came round.”Percy, meanwhile, having suddenly remembered his errand, hastened back to the house. As he did so he observed notices of the fifteen for the Rendlesham match posted on Wakefield’s door, on the school-board, and at Forder’s. He solaced himself by writing in bold characters the word “beast” against each of the names which belonged to a Classic boy, and discovered, when his task was done, that he had inscribed the word nine times out of fifteen on each notice. Whereupon he made off at a run to his senior’s.“Well,” said Clapperton, evidently anxious, “didn’t I tell you to come back at once! Any answer?”“Yes, this,” said Percy, producing the captain’s letter. “I say, Yorke grinned like anything when he read yours.”“Did he?” replied Clapperton, opening the envelope.Evidently Yorke in his reply had not been guilty of a joke, for the face of the Modern captain was dark and scowling as he read it.“Cool cheek,” muttered he. “Dangle was right, after all. You can go, youngster.”“All right. I say, they’ve got the fifteen stuck up on the boards—six of our chaps in it. We ought to lick them this year.”But as Clapperton did not do him the favour of heeding his observations, he retired, and tried vainly to collect his scattered forces to conclude the eight-handed boxing match, which had been so unfeelingly interrupted an hour ago.Clapperton, to do him justice, could not deny to himself that the team selected by the captain was the best fighting fifteen the School could put into the football field. But, having advanced his claim for half numbers, his pride was hurt at finding it almost contemptuously set aside. It would never do for him to climb down now.The Moderns, after all, had a right to have their men in; and he had a right to assume they were better players than some of the selected Classics. It was easy to work himself into a rage, and talk about favouritism, and abuse of privilege, and all that. His popularity in his own house depended on his fighting their battles, and he must do it now. So he wrote a reply to Yorke.“Dear Yorke,—I do not agree with you about the fifteen. I consider the men on our side whom you have omitted are better than the three I have marked on your list. If we are to make the clubs a success, we ought to pull together, and let there be no suspicion, however groundless, of favouritism.“Yours truly, Geo. Clapperton.”To this letter, which he sent over by another junior, more expeditious than his last, he received the following reply:—“Dear Clapperton,—Sides have nothing to do with it. If the best fifteen names were all on your side, I should have to select them. But they are not. The fifteen I have chosen are undoubtedly the best men we have, and the team most likely to win the match. I suppose that is what we play for.“Yours truly,—“Cecil Yorke.”This polite correspondence Clapperton laid before his friends. The general feeling was that the Moderns were being unfairly and disrespectfully used.“It’s the old story over again,” said Dangle. “If we don’t look after ourselves, nobody else will.”“At any rate, as long as he’s captain, I suppose he has the right to pick the team,” said Fullerton. “Ishouldn’t be particularly sorry if he were to leave me out. It wouldn’t matter to me.”“Who cares whether it matters to you? It matters to our side,” said Brinkman, “and we oughtn’t to stand it.”

The misgivings of the Classics were justified. The Moderns did not accept their victory at Elections with a meekness which augured harmony for the coming half.

On the contrary, they executed that difficult acrobatic feat known as going off their heads, with jubilation.

For many terms they had groaned under a sense of inferiority, partly imagined but partly well founded, in their relations with the rival side. The Classics had given themselves airs, and, what was worse, proved their right to give them. In its early days the Modern side was not “in it” at Fellsgarth. Its few members were taught to look upon themselves as altogether a lower order of creation than the pupils of the old foundation, and had accepted the position with due humility. Then certain rebellious spirits had arisen, who dared to ask why their side wasn’t as good as any other? The answer was crushing. “What can you do? Only French, and book-keeping and ‘stinks’”—(the strictly Classical nickname for chemistry). “You can’t put a man into the cricket or football field worth his salt; your houses are rowdy; your men do nothing at the University; two out of three of you are not even gentlemen.” Whereupon the Moderns went in desperately for sports, and claimed to be represented in the School clubs. They maintained that they were as good gentlemen as any who talked Latin and Greek; and to prove it they jingled their money in their trouser-pockets, and asked what the Classics could do in that line. The Classics could do very little, and fell back on their moral advantages. By degrees the new side grew in numbers, and made themselves heard rather more definitely. They put into the field one or two men who could not honestly be denied a place in the School teams; and they began to figure also among the School prefects. The present seniors, Clapperton and his friends, carried the thing a step further, and insisted on equal rights with their rivals in all the School institutions. To their surprise they found an ally in Yorke, who, as we have already said, hurt the feelings of many of his admirers by his Quixotic insistence on fair play all round.

The proceedings yesterday had been the most recent instance of the flow in the tide of Modern progress at Fellsgarth. Reinforced by an unusual influx of new boys, they had aimed at, and succeeded in winning, their level half of the control of the School clubs; and Yorke had looked on and let them do it!

No wonder they went off their heads as they discoursed on their triumph, and no wonder they already pictured themselves masters of Fellsgarth!

It never does occur to some people that the mountain is not climbed till the top is reached.

“Really, you know,” said Brinkman, “I felt half sorry for those poor beggars; they did look so sick when Dangle was elected.”

“It’s my opinion,” said Clapperton, “you’d have been in too, if all our fellows had turned up. I saw four or five of our youngsters come in at the last moment.”

“Yes—by the way,” said Dangle, “that ought to be looked into. It’s fishy, to say the least of it, and would have made all the difference to Brinkman’s election.”

“Do you know who the fellows were?” asked Clapperton.

“I believe your fag was one of them.”

“Percy Wheatfield? Catch him being shut out of anything. But I’ll ask about it. Fancy poor Yorke’s feelings if we were to demand a new election!”

“I tell you what,” said Dangle, “I don’t altogether understand Yorke. He tries to pass off as fair, and just, and all that sort of thing; but one can’t be sure he’s not playing a game of his own.”

“We shall easily see that when it comes to choosing the football fifteen against Rendlesham. I mean to send him in a list of fellows on our side. It’s only fair we should have half of them our men.”

“Half fifteen is seven and a half,” said Fullerton, a melancholy senior who had not yet spoken; “how will you manage about that?”

“Shut up, you ass!”

“I only asked,” said Fullerton. “It doesn’t matter to me, I don’t mind going as the half man, if you like. If you send seven names you’ll be in a minority in the fifteen, and if you send eight you’ll be in a majority. It doesn’t matter to me a bit.”

“Just like Fullerton. Always asking riddles that haven’t got an answer,” said Dangle.

“I wonder how Fisher will manage the treasurership,” said Brinkman, who was evidently sore at his defeat. “I shouldn’t have thought accounts were much in his line.”

“He can’t have very hard work doing his own,” said Clapperton, laughing, “but that’s not his fault, poor beggar. Only I think it would be much better to have a fellow for treasurer who wasn’t in a chronic state of being hard up.”

“I suppose you mean,” said Fullerton, who had a most awkwardly blunt way of putting things, “he’d have less temptation to steal. I hope Fisher’s not a thief.”

“What an idiot you are, Fullerton!” said Clapperton; “whoever said he was?”

“I didn’t. I only asked what you thought. It doesn’t much matter to me, except that it wouldn’t be creditable to the School.”

“Of course it wouldn’t; it’s hardly creditable to our side to have a jackass in it,” said Clapperton.

“Oh, all right—I’ll go. I dare say you’ll get on as well without me.”

The others presently followed his example, and Clapperton, left to himself, proceeded to draw up his list.

“Dear Yorke,” he wrote, “You will probably be making up the fifteen for the Rendlesham match shortly. Please put down me, Brinkman, Dangle, Fullerton, West, Harrowby, and Ramshaw major, to play from our side. This will give your side the odd man.

“Yours truly,—

“Geo. Clapperton.”

This important epistle accomplished, he shouted for his fag to come and convey it to its destination.

It was not till after several calls, on an increasing scale of peremptoriness, that Master Percy condescended to appear. When he did, he was covered with dust from head to foot, and his face, what could be seen of it, was visibly lopsided.

“Why don’t you come when you’re called? Whatever have you been up to—fighting?”

“Rather not,” said Percy, “only boxing. You see, it was this way; Cottle brought a pair of gloves up this term, and young Lickford had an old pair; so we three and Ramshaw have been having an eight-handed mill. It was rather jolly; only Ramshaw and Lickford had the old gloves on, and they’ve all the horse-hair out, so Cottle and I got it rather hot on the face. But we took it out of them with our body blows—above the belt, you know—not awfully above. I couldn’t come when you called, because we were wrestling out one of the rounds. It’s harder work an eight-handed wrestle than four hands. Just when you called first, I nearly had Cottle and Lickford down, but you put me off my trip, and Ramshaw had me over instead.”

“All very interesting,” said Clapperton, “but you’ll have to come sharp next time or I shall trip you up myself. Take this note over to Yorke. Stop while he reads it, and if there’s any answer, bring it; if not, don’t wait.”

“Can’t Cash take it? We’re not nearly finished.”

“No. Cut off, sharp!”

“Awful shame!” growled the messenger to himself, as he departed. “I hate Clapperton; he always waits till I’m enjoying myself, and then routs me out. I shan’t stand it much longer. What does he want with Yorke! Perhaps it’s a challenge. Yes, by the way, very good chance! I’ll see what that cad Wally’s got to say about those kids I found in his room yesterday. Nice old games he gets up to; Wally’s all very well when he’s asleep, or grubbing, or doing impositions, but he’s a sight too artful out of school, like all those Classic kids. One’s as bad as another.”

As if to emphasise this sentiment, a Classic kid at that moment came violently into collision with Master Percy’s waistcoat.

It was Fisher minor, who had once more caught sight in the distance of the mysterious borrower of his half-crown, and was giving chase.

“Where are you coming to, you kid. You’ve nearly smashed a button. I’ll welt you for that.”

“I beg your pardon, Wally, I—”

“Wally—what do you mean by calling me Wally?” exclaimed Percy.

“Well, Wheatfield, I beg your pardon; I was in a hurry to catch a fellow up and I didn’t see you.”

“Didn’t you? Well, you’ll feel me. Take that.”

Fisher minor meekly accepted the cuff, and, full of his half-crown, essayed to proceed. But Percy stopped him.

“You’re that new kid, Fisher’s minor, aren’t you?”

It astonished Fisher minor, that the speaker, whom he supposed he had seen only ten minutes ago, should so soon have forgotten his name.

“Yes, but I say, Wally, I mean Wheatfield—”

“Humph—I suppose you held up both hands for your precious brother yesterday.”

“No, only one. I was nearly late, though. I waited an hour at the gymnasium, you know, and no Modern chaps came out at all.”

Percy began to smell rats.

“Waited at the gymnasium, did you? Who told you to do that?”

“Oh, you know—it was part of the canvassing.”

“Oh,youwere in that job, were you, my boy? All serene, I’ll—”

“I say,” cried Fisher minor, turning pale, “aren’t you Wally Wheatfield? I thought—”

“Me Wally? what do you take me for? I’ll let you know who I am. You’re a beauty, you are. Some of our chaps’ll tell you who I am, Mr Canvasser. Now, look here, you stop there till I come back from Yorke’s. If you move an inch—whew! you’ll find the weather pretty warm, I can tell you. Canvassing? You’ll get canvassed, I fancy, before you grow much taller.”

And off stalked the indignant Percy, promising himself a particularly pleasant afternoon, as soon as his errand to the captain was over.

Yorke was at work, with his lexicon and notebooks on the table, when the envoy entered.

“Well, is that you or your brother?” inquired he.

“Not my brother, if I know it,” said Percy.

“That’s not much help. He says exactly the same when I put the same question to him.”

“He does, does he? I owe Wally one already, now—”

“Thanks—then you’re not Wally. What do you want?”

“This note. Clapperton said I was to wait while you read it, and bring an answer if there was one.”

Yorke read the note, and smiled as he did so. Percy wished he knew what was in it. He didn’t know Clapperton could make jokes.

“Any answer?” he demanded.

“Yes—there’s an answer,” said the captain.

He took out a list of names from his pocket, and compared it with that on Clapperton’s letter. Then he wrote as follows:—

“Dear Clapperton,—The fifteen against Rendlesham is already made up as follows,” (here followed the list). “You will see it includes six of the names you sent. We must play the best team we can; and I think we shall have it.

“Yours truly,—

“Cecil Yorke.”

“There’s the answer. Take it over at once.”

“I like his style,” growled Percy to himself. “He don’t seem to have a ‘please’ about him. Catch me hurrying myself for him; I’ve got this precious canvasser to look after.”

And he returned at a leisurely pace to the rendezvous.

No Fisher minor was there!

That young gentleman, when left to himself, found himself in a perspiration of doubt and fear. He had made a most awkward blunder, and confessed the delinquencies of his comrades to the very last man they would wish to know of them. That was bad enough; but, to make things worse, he was to be let in for the blame of the whole affair, and, with Master Percy’s assistance, was shortly to experience warm weather among the Moderns.

Happy thought! He would not stay where he was. He would retire, as the Latin book said, into winter quarters, and entrench himself in the stronghold of Wally and D’Arcy and Ashby. If hewasto get it hot, he would sooner get it from them than from the barbarians in Forder’s.

With which desperate conclusion, and once more devoutly wishing himself safe at home, he made tracks, at a rapid walk, to Wally’s room. His three comrades were all there.

“What’s up?” said they as he entered, with agitated face.

“Oh, I say, it’s all because you and your brother are so alike. I met him just now; and—he’s heard about that canvassing, you know, and I thought you’d like to know.”

“You mean to say you blabbed?” said Wally, jumping to his feet.

“It’s your fault,” said D’Arcy. “I’ve made the same mistake myself. Why can’t you grow a moustache or something to distinguish you?”

“Why can’t you get your brother to be a Classic! then it wouldn’t matter—either of you would do,” suggested Ashby.

Ashby was beginning to feel quite at home in Wakefield’s.

“I’ll let some of you see if it won’t matter,” retorted Wally. “If they’ve got wind of that affair the other side, there’ll be a fearful row. They’ll want another election. Oh, you young idiot! That comes of trusting a new kid, that sings comic songs, and parts his hair the wrong side, with a secret. D’Arcy’s nearly as big an ass as you are yourself, to trust you.”

After this Philippic, Wally felt a little better, and was ready to consider what had better be done.

“He’s bound to come here, you chaps,” said he. “You cut. Leave him to me—I’ll tackle him.”

Fisher minor considered this uncommonly good advice, and obeyed it with alacrity. The other two followed less eagerly. They would have liked to stay and see the fun.

As Wally expected, his affectionate relative, being baulked of his prey outside, came to pay a fraternal visit.

“What cheer?” said he. “I say, have you seen a kid called Fisher minor? The new kid, you know, that we had a lark with at dinner on first-night.”

“Oh, that chap. Bless you, he messes in our study. What about him?”

“I want him. I want to say something to him.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“All right. He’s come and told you, has he? and you’re hiding him? Never mind; I’ll bowl him out, the beauty. I know all about that little game of yours, yesterday, you know!”

“What little game?”

“As if you didn’t know! Do you suppose I didn’t find five of ’em shut up here yesterday, being kept out of the way at Elections?”

“Yes; and do you suppose if it hadn’t been for me they’d have got into the Hall at all? Don’t be a beast, Percy, if you can help. They stayed here of their own accord. No one kept them in. I say, have some toffee?”

“Got any?”

“Rather. A new brew this morning. I say, you can have half of it.”

“Thanks, awfully, Wally.”

“You see—oh, take more than that—these new kids are such born asses, they boss everything. You should have heard that Fisher minor at lamb’s singing the other night—like the toffee? I say, don’t be a sneak about those chaps. You’d never have got them in without me. I backed you up, and got the door open. I say—would you like a Turkish stamp? I’ve got one to swop—but you can have it if you like.”

“Thanks, old man. Yes, new kinds are rot. Well, ta, ta—better make it up, I suppose. I say, I shan’t have time to write home to-day. You write this time, and I’ll do the two next week.”

“All serene, if you like. Here, you’re leaving one of your bits of toffee. Ta, ta, old chappie.”

And these great twin brethren, whose infirmity it was always to be fond of one another when they were together, and to scorn one another when they were apart, separated in a most amicable fashion.

“Well?” asked the three exiles, putting in their heads as soon as the enemy had gone.

“Choked him off,” said Wally, fanning himself. “Jolly hard work. But he came round.”

Percy, meanwhile, having suddenly remembered his errand, hastened back to the house. As he did so he observed notices of the fifteen for the Rendlesham match posted on Wakefield’s door, on the school-board, and at Forder’s. He solaced himself by writing in bold characters the word “beast” against each of the names which belonged to a Classic boy, and discovered, when his task was done, that he had inscribed the word nine times out of fifteen on each notice. Whereupon he made off at a run to his senior’s.

“Well,” said Clapperton, evidently anxious, “didn’t I tell you to come back at once! Any answer?”

“Yes, this,” said Percy, producing the captain’s letter. “I say, Yorke grinned like anything when he read yours.”

“Did he?” replied Clapperton, opening the envelope.

Evidently Yorke in his reply had not been guilty of a joke, for the face of the Modern captain was dark and scowling as he read it.

“Cool cheek,” muttered he. “Dangle was right, after all. You can go, youngster.”

“All right. I say, they’ve got the fifteen stuck up on the boards—six of our chaps in it. We ought to lick them this year.”

But as Clapperton did not do him the favour of heeding his observations, he retired, and tried vainly to collect his scattered forces to conclude the eight-handed boxing match, which had been so unfeelingly interrupted an hour ago.

Clapperton, to do him justice, could not deny to himself that the team selected by the captain was the best fighting fifteen the School could put into the football field. But, having advanced his claim for half numbers, his pride was hurt at finding it almost contemptuously set aside. It would never do for him to climb down now.

The Moderns, after all, had a right to have their men in; and he had a right to assume they were better players than some of the selected Classics. It was easy to work himself into a rage, and talk about favouritism, and abuse of privilege, and all that. His popularity in his own house depended on his fighting their battles, and he must do it now. So he wrote a reply to Yorke.

“Dear Yorke,—I do not agree with you about the fifteen. I consider the men on our side whom you have omitted are better than the three I have marked on your list. If we are to make the clubs a success, we ought to pull together, and let there be no suspicion, however groundless, of favouritism.

“Yours truly, Geo. Clapperton.”

To this letter, which he sent over by another junior, more expeditious than his last, he received the following reply:—

“Dear Clapperton,—Sides have nothing to do with it. If the best fifteen names were all on your side, I should have to select them. But they are not. The fifteen I have chosen are undoubtedly the best men we have, and the team most likely to win the match. I suppose that is what we play for.

“Yours truly,—

“Cecil Yorke.”

This polite correspondence Clapperton laid before his friends. The general feeling was that the Moderns were being unfairly and disrespectfully used.

“It’s the old story over again,” said Dangle. “If we don’t look after ourselves, nobody else will.”

“At any rate, as long as he’s captain, I suppose he has the right to pick the team,” said Fullerton. “Ishouldn’t be particularly sorry if he were to leave me out. It wouldn’t matter to me.”

“Who cares whether it matters to you? It matters to our side,” said Brinkman, “and we oughtn’t to stand it.”

Chapter Six.Rollitt.Rollitt of Wakefield’s was a standing mystery at Fellsgarth. Though he had been three years at the school, and worked his way up from the junior form to one of the first six, no one knew him. He had no friends, and did not want any. He rarely spoke when not obliged to do so; and when he did, he said either what was unexpected or disagreeable. He scarcely ever played in the matches, but when he did he played tremendously. Although a Classic, he was addicted to scientific research and long country walks. His study was a spectacle for untidiness and grime. He abjured his privilege of having a fag. No one dared to take liberties with him, for he had an arm like an oak branch, and a back as broad as the door.All sorts of queer stories were afloat about him. It was generally whispered that his father was a common workman, and that the son was being kept at school by charity. Any reference to his poverty was the one way of exciting Rollitt. But it was too risky an amusement to be popular.His absence of mind, however, was his great enemy at school. Of him the story was current that once in the Fourth, when summoned to the front to call-over the register, he called his own name among the rest, and receiving no reply, looked to his place, and seeing the desk vacant, marked Rollitt down as absent. Another time, having gone to his room after morning school to change into his flannels for cricket, he had gone to bed by mistake, and slept soundly till call-bell next morning. “Have you heard Rollitt’s last?” came to be the common way of prefacing any unlikely story at Fellsgarth; and what with fact and fiction, the hero had come to be quite a mythical celebrity at Fellsgarth.His thrift was another of his characteristics. He had never been seen to spend a penny, unless it was to save twopence. If fellows had dared, they would have liked now and then to pay his subscriptions to the clubs; or even hand on an old pair of cricket shoes or part of the contents of a hamper for his benefit. But woe betide them if they ever tried it! The only extravagance he had ever been known to commit was some months ago, when he bought a book of trout-flies, which rumour said must have cost him as much as an ordinary Classic’s pocket-money for a whole term.To an impressionable youth like Fisher minor it was only natural that Rollitt should be an object of awe. For a day or two after his arrival, when the stories he had heard were fresh in his memory, the junior was wont to change his walk to a tip-toe as he passed the queer boy’s door. If ever he met him face to face, he started and quaked like one who has encountered a ghost or a burglar. After a week this excess of deference toned down. Finding that Rollitt neither hurt nor heeded him, he abandoned his fears, and, instead of running away, stood and stared at his man, as if by keeping his eye hard on him he could discover his mystery.It was two or three days after Elections that Fisher minor, having discovered by the absence of everybody from their ordinary haunts that it was a half-holiday, took it into his head to explore a little way down the Shargle Valley. He believed the other fellows had gone up; and he thought it a little unfriendly that they should have left him in the lurch.He was not particularly fond of woods, unless there were nuts in them; or of rivers, unless there were stones on the banks to shy in. Still, it seemed to be half-holiday form at Fellsgarth to go down valleys, so he went, quite indifferent to the beauties of Nature, and equally indifferent as to where this walk brought him.A mile below Fellsgarth, as everybody knows, the Shargle tumbles wildly into the Shayle, with a great fuss of rapids and cataracts and “narrows” to celebrate the fact; and a mile further, the united streams flow tamely out among reeds and gravel islands into Hawkswater.Fisher minor had nearly reached the junction, and was proceeding to speculate on the possibility of picking his way among the stones towards the lake, when he caught sight of a boat in the middle of the rapid stream. It was tied somewhat carelessly to the overhanging branch of a tree, which bent and creaked with every lurch of the boat in the passing rapids. Standing in the stern as unconcerned as if he was on an island in a duck-pond, was Rollitt with his fishing-rod, casting diligently into the troubled waters.For the first time the junior enjoyed an uninterrupted view of the object of his curiosity. He found it hard to recognise at first in the eager, sportsmanlike figure, with his animated face, the big shambling fellow whom he had so often eyed askance in the passages at Wakefield’s. But there was no mistaking the shabby clothes, the powerful arms, the broad, square back. Rollitt the sportsman was another creature from Rollitt the Classic, and Fisher minor was critic enough to see that the advantage was with the former.There was no chance of being detected. Rollitt was far too busy to heed anything but the six-pounder that struggled and plunged and tore away with his line to the end of the reel. Had all Fellsgarth stood congregated on the banks, he would never have noticed them.Ah! he was beginning to wind in now, gingerly and artfully, and the fish, sulking desperately among the stones, was beginning to find his master. It was a keen battle between those two. Now the captive would dive behind a rock and force the line out a yard or two; now the captor would coax it on from one hiding-place to the next, and by a cunning flank movement cut off its retreat. Then, yielding little by little, the fish would feign surrender, till just as it seemed within reach, twang would go the line and the rod bend almost double beneath the sudden plunge. Then the patient work would begin again. The man’s temper was more than a match for that of the victim, and, exhausted and despondent, the fish would, sooner or later, have to submit to the inexorable.How long it might have gone on Fisher could never tell; for once, when victory seemed on the point of declaring for the angler, and the shining fins of the fish floundered despairingly almost within his reach, a downward dash nearly wrenched the rod from his hands and sent him sprawling on to the thwarts. The sudden lurch of the boat was too much for the ill-tied rope, and to Fisher’s horror the noose gave way and sent boat and fisherman spinning down the rapids at five miles an hour.Rollitt either did not notice the accident or was too engrossed to heed it. He still had his fish, though as far off as before, and once more the tedious task of coaxing him out of his tantrums was to begin over again. It was useless to shout. The roar of the water among the stones above and over the rocks below was deafening, and Fisher’s piping voice could never make itself heard above it. He tried to throw a stone, but its little splash was lost in the hurly-burly of the rapids. It was hopeless to expect that Rollitt would see him. He had no eyes but for his rod.The last glimpse Fisher minor caught of him as the boat, side-on, swirled round the turn towards the falls below, he was standing on the seat, craning his neck for a glimpse of his prize, and winding in gingerly on the reel as he did so. Then he disappeared.With a groan of panic the small boy started to follow. The boulders were big and rough, and it was hard work to go at ordinary rate, still more to run. Happily, however, after a few steps he stumbled upon a path which, though it seemed to lead from the river, would take him, he calculated, back to it above the falls at the end of the bend in which the boat was. It was a tolerable path, and Fisher minor never got over ground so fast before or after. A few seconds brought him out of the wood on to the river-bank, where the stream, deepening and hushing, gathers itself for its great leap over the falls.Had the boat already passed, and was he too late! No; there it came, sidling along on the swift waters, the angler still at his post, leaning over with his landing-net, within reach at last of his hard-earned prize. What could Fisher minor do! The stream was fairly narrow, and the boat, sweeping round the bend, was, if anything, nearer the other side, where the banks were high. His one chance was to attract the anglers attention. Had that angler been any one but Rollitt, it might have been easy.Arming himself with a handful of stones, Fisher minor waited till the boat came within a few yards. Then with a great shout he flung with all his might at the boat.The sudden fusillade might have been unheeded, had not one stone struck the angler’s hand just as he was manoeuvring his landing-net under the fish. In the sudden start he missed his aim and looked up.“Look out!” screamed Fisher. “You’re adrift! Catch the branch!”And he pointed wildly to the branch of an ash which straggled out over the water just above the fall.Rollitt took in the situation at last. He cast a regretful glance at the fish as it gave its last victorious leap and vanished. Then, standing on the gunwale and measuring his distance from the tree, he jumped. For a moment Fisher minor thought he had missed; for the branch yielded and went under with his weight. But in a moment, just as the boat with a swoop plunged over the fall, he rose, clutching securely and hauling himself inch by inch out of the torrent. To Fisher, who watched breathlessly, it seemed as if every moment the branch would snap and send the senior back to his fate. But it held out bravely and supported him as he gradually drew himself up and finally perched high and dry above the water.Fisher minor’s difficulties now began. Having seen his man safe he would have liked to run away; for he was not at all sure how Rollitt would take it. Besides, he wouldn’t much care to be seen by fellows like Wally or D’Arcy walking back in his company to Fellsgarth. On the other hand, it seemed rather low to desert a fellow just when he was half-drowned and might be hurt. What had he better do? Rollitt decided for him.He came along the bough to where the boy stood, and dropped to the ground in front of him.“Thanks,” he said, and held out his hand.Fisher was horribly alarmed. The tone in which the word was spoken was very like that which Giant Blunderbore may have used when dinner was announced. However, he summoned up courage to hold out his hand, and was surprised to find how gently Rollitt grasped it.“I didn’t mean to hurt you with the stones,” he said.“You didn’t. Come and look for the boat, Fisher minor.”“He knows my name then,” soliloquised the minor, beginning to recover a little from his panic. “I hope nobody will see me.”The boat was found bottom upwards—a wreck, with its side stove in, entangled in a mass of flotsam and jetsam which had gathered in one of the side eddies below the waterfall.“Haul in, Fisher minor,” growled Rollitt, surveying the wreck.With difficulty they got it ashore and turned it right side up.“Rod, flies, net, all gone,” said Rollitt, half angry; “and fish too.”“It was such a beauty, the trout you hooked. I wish you’d got it. You nearly had it too when you had to jump out,” ventured Fisher.Rollitt looked down almost amiably at the speaker. Had the boy studied for weeks he could not have made a more conciliatory speech.“Can’t be helped,” said the senior. “Might have been worse. Thanks again. Come and see Mrs Wisdom.”Mrs Wisdom was a decent young widow woman in whom the Fellsgarth boys felt a considerable interest. Her husband, late gamekeeper at Shargle Lodge, had always had a civil word for the young gentlemen, especially those addicted to sport, by whom he had been looked up to as a universal authority and ally. In addition to his duties at the Lodge, which were very ill paid, he had eked out his slender income by the help of a boat, which he kept on the lower reach below the falls, and which was, in the season, considerably patronised by the schoolboys. When last season he met his death over one of the cliffs of Hawk’s Pike, every one felt sympathy for the widow and her children, who were thus left homeless and destitute. An effort was made, chiefly by the School authorities, to get her some laundry work, and find her a home in one of the little cottages on the School farm, near the river; while the boys made it almost a point of honour never to hire another boat down at the lake if Mrs Wisdom’s was to be had.Last week the boat had been brought up to the cottage on a cart, to be repainted for the coming season, and while here Rollitt had begged the use of it for this particular afternoon to fish from in the upper reach.“Take care of her, Master Rollitt,” said the widow; “she’s a’most all I’ve got left, except the children. My John, he did say the upper reach was no water for boats.”“I’ll take care,” said Rollitt.As the two boys now walked slowly, towards the cottage, Fisher minor could see that his companion’s face was working ominously. He mistook it for ill-temper at the time, for he did not know Mrs Wisdom’s history, or what the wreck meant to her.She was at her door as they approached, and as she looked up and saw their long faces, the poor woman jumped at the truth at once.“Don’t say there’s anything wrong with the boat, Master Rollitt. Don’t tell me that.”Rollitt nodded, almost sternly.“It went over the fall,” said Fisher, feeling that something ought to be said. “Rollitt only just got out in time.”“Over the fall! Then it’s smashed,” cried she, bursting into tears. “It was to keep our body and soul together this season. Now what’ll become of us! Oh, Master Rollitt, I did think you’d take care of my boat. It was all I had left—bar the children. What’lltheydo now?”Rollitt stood by grimly silent till she had had her cry and looked up.“I’m sorry,” said he, in a voice that meant what it said. “What was it worth?”“Worth? Everything to me.”“What would a new one cost?”“More than I could pay, or you either. My John gave five pound for her—and oh, how we scrimped to save it! Where’s it to come from now!” and she relapsed again into tears.Rollitt waited a little longer, but there was nothing more to add; and presently he signalled Fisher to come away.He was silent all the way home. The junior did not dare to speak to him—scarcely to look up in his face. Yet it did occur to him that if any one had a right to be in a bad temper over that afternoon’s proceedings it was Mrs Wisdom, and not Rollitt.As they neared the school, Fisher minor began to feel dreadfully compromised by his company. Rollitt’s clothes were wet and muddy; his hands and face were dirty with his scramble along the tree; his air was morose and savage, and his stride was such that the junior had to trot a step or two every few yards to keep up. What would fellows think of him! Suppose Ranger were to see him, or, still worse, the Modern Wheatfield, or—At this moment fate solved his problem. For just ahead of him, turning the corner of Fowler’s Wall, was the cadaverous individual who owed him half a crown.“Oh, excuse me, Rollitt,” said he, “there’s a fellow there I want to speak to. Good-bye.”Rollitt did not appear either to hear the words or notice the desertion, but stalked on till he reached Wakefields’. The house seemed to be empty. Evidently none of the other half-holiday makers had returned. Study doors stood open; an unearthly silence reigned in Wally’s quarters. Even the tuck-shop was deserted.The only person he met was Dangle, the clubs’ secretary, who had penetrated into the enemy’s quarter in order to confer with his dear colleague the treasurer as to calling a committee meeting, and was now returning unsuccessful.“Ah, Rollitt,” said he, “tell Fisher major, will you, I want to see him as soon as he comes in. I’d leave a line for him, but I don’t know his room.”Whether Rollitt heard or not, he had to guess. At any rate he hardly felt sanguine that his message would be delivered.As for Rollitt, he shut himself into his study with a bang, and might have been heard by any one who took the trouble to listen, pacing up and down the floor for a long time that evening. He did not put in an appearance in the common room, and although Yorke sent to ask him to tea, he forgot all about the invitation, and even if he had remembered it, would have forgotten whether he had said Yes or No.The next morning—Sunday—just as the chapel bell was beginning to ring, Widow Wisdom was startled by a loud knock at her door.“Oh, Master Rollitt,” said she, and her eyes were red still, “is the boat safe after all?”“No; but I’ve got you another. Farmer Gay’s was for sale on the lake—I’ve bought it. It’s yours now.”“Farmer Gay’s—mine? Oh, go on, Master Rollitt, how couldyoubuy a boat any more than me? You’ve no money to spare, I know.”“It’s yours—here’s the receipt,” said the boy, with almost a scowl.“But, Master Rollitt—”But Master Rollitt had gone to be in time for chapel.

Rollitt of Wakefield’s was a standing mystery at Fellsgarth. Though he had been three years at the school, and worked his way up from the junior form to one of the first six, no one knew him. He had no friends, and did not want any. He rarely spoke when not obliged to do so; and when he did, he said either what was unexpected or disagreeable. He scarcely ever played in the matches, but when he did he played tremendously. Although a Classic, he was addicted to scientific research and long country walks. His study was a spectacle for untidiness and grime. He abjured his privilege of having a fag. No one dared to take liberties with him, for he had an arm like an oak branch, and a back as broad as the door.

All sorts of queer stories were afloat about him. It was generally whispered that his father was a common workman, and that the son was being kept at school by charity. Any reference to his poverty was the one way of exciting Rollitt. But it was too risky an amusement to be popular.

His absence of mind, however, was his great enemy at school. Of him the story was current that once in the Fourth, when summoned to the front to call-over the register, he called his own name among the rest, and receiving no reply, looked to his place, and seeing the desk vacant, marked Rollitt down as absent. Another time, having gone to his room after morning school to change into his flannels for cricket, he had gone to bed by mistake, and slept soundly till call-bell next morning. “Have you heard Rollitt’s last?” came to be the common way of prefacing any unlikely story at Fellsgarth; and what with fact and fiction, the hero had come to be quite a mythical celebrity at Fellsgarth.

His thrift was another of his characteristics. He had never been seen to spend a penny, unless it was to save twopence. If fellows had dared, they would have liked now and then to pay his subscriptions to the clubs; or even hand on an old pair of cricket shoes or part of the contents of a hamper for his benefit. But woe betide them if they ever tried it! The only extravagance he had ever been known to commit was some months ago, when he bought a book of trout-flies, which rumour said must have cost him as much as an ordinary Classic’s pocket-money for a whole term.

To an impressionable youth like Fisher minor it was only natural that Rollitt should be an object of awe. For a day or two after his arrival, when the stories he had heard were fresh in his memory, the junior was wont to change his walk to a tip-toe as he passed the queer boy’s door. If ever he met him face to face, he started and quaked like one who has encountered a ghost or a burglar. After a week this excess of deference toned down. Finding that Rollitt neither hurt nor heeded him, he abandoned his fears, and, instead of running away, stood and stared at his man, as if by keeping his eye hard on him he could discover his mystery.

It was two or three days after Elections that Fisher minor, having discovered by the absence of everybody from their ordinary haunts that it was a half-holiday, took it into his head to explore a little way down the Shargle Valley. He believed the other fellows had gone up; and he thought it a little unfriendly that they should have left him in the lurch.

He was not particularly fond of woods, unless there were nuts in them; or of rivers, unless there were stones on the banks to shy in. Still, it seemed to be half-holiday form at Fellsgarth to go down valleys, so he went, quite indifferent to the beauties of Nature, and equally indifferent as to where this walk brought him.

A mile below Fellsgarth, as everybody knows, the Shargle tumbles wildly into the Shayle, with a great fuss of rapids and cataracts and “narrows” to celebrate the fact; and a mile further, the united streams flow tamely out among reeds and gravel islands into Hawkswater.

Fisher minor had nearly reached the junction, and was proceeding to speculate on the possibility of picking his way among the stones towards the lake, when he caught sight of a boat in the middle of the rapid stream. It was tied somewhat carelessly to the overhanging branch of a tree, which bent and creaked with every lurch of the boat in the passing rapids. Standing in the stern as unconcerned as if he was on an island in a duck-pond, was Rollitt with his fishing-rod, casting diligently into the troubled waters.

For the first time the junior enjoyed an uninterrupted view of the object of his curiosity. He found it hard to recognise at first in the eager, sportsmanlike figure, with his animated face, the big shambling fellow whom he had so often eyed askance in the passages at Wakefield’s. But there was no mistaking the shabby clothes, the powerful arms, the broad, square back. Rollitt the sportsman was another creature from Rollitt the Classic, and Fisher minor was critic enough to see that the advantage was with the former.

There was no chance of being detected. Rollitt was far too busy to heed anything but the six-pounder that struggled and plunged and tore away with his line to the end of the reel. Had all Fellsgarth stood congregated on the banks, he would never have noticed them.

Ah! he was beginning to wind in now, gingerly and artfully, and the fish, sulking desperately among the stones, was beginning to find his master. It was a keen battle between those two. Now the captive would dive behind a rock and force the line out a yard or two; now the captor would coax it on from one hiding-place to the next, and by a cunning flank movement cut off its retreat. Then, yielding little by little, the fish would feign surrender, till just as it seemed within reach, twang would go the line and the rod bend almost double beneath the sudden plunge. Then the patient work would begin again. The man’s temper was more than a match for that of the victim, and, exhausted and despondent, the fish would, sooner or later, have to submit to the inexorable.

How long it might have gone on Fisher could never tell; for once, when victory seemed on the point of declaring for the angler, and the shining fins of the fish floundered despairingly almost within his reach, a downward dash nearly wrenched the rod from his hands and sent him sprawling on to the thwarts. The sudden lurch of the boat was too much for the ill-tied rope, and to Fisher’s horror the noose gave way and sent boat and fisherman spinning down the rapids at five miles an hour.

Rollitt either did not notice the accident or was too engrossed to heed it. He still had his fish, though as far off as before, and once more the tedious task of coaxing him out of his tantrums was to begin over again. It was useless to shout. The roar of the water among the stones above and over the rocks below was deafening, and Fisher’s piping voice could never make itself heard above it. He tried to throw a stone, but its little splash was lost in the hurly-burly of the rapids. It was hopeless to expect that Rollitt would see him. He had no eyes but for his rod.

The last glimpse Fisher minor caught of him as the boat, side-on, swirled round the turn towards the falls below, he was standing on the seat, craning his neck for a glimpse of his prize, and winding in gingerly on the reel as he did so. Then he disappeared.

With a groan of panic the small boy started to follow. The boulders were big and rough, and it was hard work to go at ordinary rate, still more to run. Happily, however, after a few steps he stumbled upon a path which, though it seemed to lead from the river, would take him, he calculated, back to it above the falls at the end of the bend in which the boat was. It was a tolerable path, and Fisher minor never got over ground so fast before or after. A few seconds brought him out of the wood on to the river-bank, where the stream, deepening and hushing, gathers itself for its great leap over the falls.

Had the boat already passed, and was he too late! No; there it came, sidling along on the swift waters, the angler still at his post, leaning over with his landing-net, within reach at last of his hard-earned prize. What could Fisher minor do! The stream was fairly narrow, and the boat, sweeping round the bend, was, if anything, nearer the other side, where the banks were high. His one chance was to attract the anglers attention. Had that angler been any one but Rollitt, it might have been easy.

Arming himself with a handful of stones, Fisher minor waited till the boat came within a few yards. Then with a great shout he flung with all his might at the boat.

The sudden fusillade might have been unheeded, had not one stone struck the angler’s hand just as he was manoeuvring his landing-net under the fish. In the sudden start he missed his aim and looked up.

“Look out!” screamed Fisher. “You’re adrift! Catch the branch!”

And he pointed wildly to the branch of an ash which straggled out over the water just above the fall.

Rollitt took in the situation at last. He cast a regretful glance at the fish as it gave its last victorious leap and vanished. Then, standing on the gunwale and measuring his distance from the tree, he jumped. For a moment Fisher minor thought he had missed; for the branch yielded and went under with his weight. But in a moment, just as the boat with a swoop plunged over the fall, he rose, clutching securely and hauling himself inch by inch out of the torrent. To Fisher, who watched breathlessly, it seemed as if every moment the branch would snap and send the senior back to his fate. But it held out bravely and supported him as he gradually drew himself up and finally perched high and dry above the water.

Fisher minor’s difficulties now began. Having seen his man safe he would have liked to run away; for he was not at all sure how Rollitt would take it. Besides, he wouldn’t much care to be seen by fellows like Wally or D’Arcy walking back in his company to Fellsgarth. On the other hand, it seemed rather low to desert a fellow just when he was half-drowned and might be hurt. What had he better do? Rollitt decided for him.

He came along the bough to where the boy stood, and dropped to the ground in front of him.

“Thanks,” he said, and held out his hand.

Fisher was horribly alarmed. The tone in which the word was spoken was very like that which Giant Blunderbore may have used when dinner was announced. However, he summoned up courage to hold out his hand, and was surprised to find how gently Rollitt grasped it.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you with the stones,” he said.

“You didn’t. Come and look for the boat, Fisher minor.”

“He knows my name then,” soliloquised the minor, beginning to recover a little from his panic. “I hope nobody will see me.”

The boat was found bottom upwards—a wreck, with its side stove in, entangled in a mass of flotsam and jetsam which had gathered in one of the side eddies below the waterfall.

“Haul in, Fisher minor,” growled Rollitt, surveying the wreck.

With difficulty they got it ashore and turned it right side up.

“Rod, flies, net, all gone,” said Rollitt, half angry; “and fish too.”

“It was such a beauty, the trout you hooked. I wish you’d got it. You nearly had it too when you had to jump out,” ventured Fisher.

Rollitt looked down almost amiably at the speaker. Had the boy studied for weeks he could not have made a more conciliatory speech.

“Can’t be helped,” said the senior. “Might have been worse. Thanks again. Come and see Mrs Wisdom.”

Mrs Wisdom was a decent young widow woman in whom the Fellsgarth boys felt a considerable interest. Her husband, late gamekeeper at Shargle Lodge, had always had a civil word for the young gentlemen, especially those addicted to sport, by whom he had been looked up to as a universal authority and ally. In addition to his duties at the Lodge, which were very ill paid, he had eked out his slender income by the help of a boat, which he kept on the lower reach below the falls, and which was, in the season, considerably patronised by the schoolboys. When last season he met his death over one of the cliffs of Hawk’s Pike, every one felt sympathy for the widow and her children, who were thus left homeless and destitute. An effort was made, chiefly by the School authorities, to get her some laundry work, and find her a home in one of the little cottages on the School farm, near the river; while the boys made it almost a point of honour never to hire another boat down at the lake if Mrs Wisdom’s was to be had.

Last week the boat had been brought up to the cottage on a cart, to be repainted for the coming season, and while here Rollitt had begged the use of it for this particular afternoon to fish from in the upper reach.

“Take care of her, Master Rollitt,” said the widow; “she’s a’most all I’ve got left, except the children. My John, he did say the upper reach was no water for boats.”

“I’ll take care,” said Rollitt.

As the two boys now walked slowly, towards the cottage, Fisher minor could see that his companion’s face was working ominously. He mistook it for ill-temper at the time, for he did not know Mrs Wisdom’s history, or what the wreck meant to her.

She was at her door as they approached, and as she looked up and saw their long faces, the poor woman jumped at the truth at once.

“Don’t say there’s anything wrong with the boat, Master Rollitt. Don’t tell me that.”

Rollitt nodded, almost sternly.

“It went over the fall,” said Fisher, feeling that something ought to be said. “Rollitt only just got out in time.”

“Over the fall! Then it’s smashed,” cried she, bursting into tears. “It was to keep our body and soul together this season. Now what’ll become of us! Oh, Master Rollitt, I did think you’d take care of my boat. It was all I had left—bar the children. What’lltheydo now?”

Rollitt stood by grimly silent till she had had her cry and looked up.

“I’m sorry,” said he, in a voice that meant what it said. “What was it worth?”

“Worth? Everything to me.”

“What would a new one cost?”

“More than I could pay, or you either. My John gave five pound for her—and oh, how we scrimped to save it! Where’s it to come from now!” and she relapsed again into tears.

Rollitt waited a little longer, but there was nothing more to add; and presently he signalled Fisher to come away.

He was silent all the way home. The junior did not dare to speak to him—scarcely to look up in his face. Yet it did occur to him that if any one had a right to be in a bad temper over that afternoon’s proceedings it was Mrs Wisdom, and not Rollitt.

As they neared the school, Fisher minor began to feel dreadfully compromised by his company. Rollitt’s clothes were wet and muddy; his hands and face were dirty with his scramble along the tree; his air was morose and savage, and his stride was such that the junior had to trot a step or two every few yards to keep up. What would fellows think of him! Suppose Ranger were to see him, or, still worse, the Modern Wheatfield, or—

At this moment fate solved his problem. For just ahead of him, turning the corner of Fowler’s Wall, was the cadaverous individual who owed him half a crown.

“Oh, excuse me, Rollitt,” said he, “there’s a fellow there I want to speak to. Good-bye.”

Rollitt did not appear either to hear the words or notice the desertion, but stalked on till he reached Wakefields’. The house seemed to be empty. Evidently none of the other half-holiday makers had returned. Study doors stood open; an unearthly silence reigned in Wally’s quarters. Even the tuck-shop was deserted.

The only person he met was Dangle, the clubs’ secretary, who had penetrated into the enemy’s quarter in order to confer with his dear colleague the treasurer as to calling a committee meeting, and was now returning unsuccessful.

“Ah, Rollitt,” said he, “tell Fisher major, will you, I want to see him as soon as he comes in. I’d leave a line for him, but I don’t know his room.”

Whether Rollitt heard or not, he had to guess. At any rate he hardly felt sanguine that his message would be delivered.

As for Rollitt, he shut himself into his study with a bang, and might have been heard by any one who took the trouble to listen, pacing up and down the floor for a long time that evening. He did not put in an appearance in the common room, and although Yorke sent to ask him to tea, he forgot all about the invitation, and even if he had remembered it, would have forgotten whether he had said Yes or No.

The next morning—Sunday—just as the chapel bell was beginning to ring, Widow Wisdom was startled by a loud knock at her door.

“Oh, Master Rollitt,” said she, and her eyes were red still, “is the boat safe after all?”

“No; but I’ve got you another. Farmer Gay’s was for sale on the lake—I’ve bought it. It’s yours now.”

“Farmer Gay’s—mine? Oh, go on, Master Rollitt, how couldyoubuy a boat any more than me? You’ve no money to spare, I know.”

“It’s yours—here’s the receipt,” said the boy, with almost a scowl.

“But, Master Rollitt—”

But Master Rollitt had gone to be in time for chapel.

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