Chapter Eight.A Quarrel and a Cricket Match.The first number of theDominicanhad undoubtedly caused a sensation; and it would have created far more sensation but for the fact that the Alphabet Match was to be played on the following day. But even this counter-attraction could not wholly divert the mind of Saint Dominic’s from this new literary marvel; and a skirmish took place on the very afternoon of its appearance.Pembury and his friends had quite expected that the Sixth would attempt a high-handed blow at their paper, and they were not disappointed. For no sooner had Loman and his peers stalked away from the scene of their indignation, and found themselves in the retirement of their own room, than they fell to talking in terms the reverse of pleasant about the event of the morning. The least important of their number was specially wroth.“There’s a great row out in the passage to-day,” said Raleigh, who was blissfully ignorant of the whole matter; “why can’t some of you monitors keep a little better order? The Doctor will be wanting to know what it’s all about!”“All very well,” said Raikes, one of the monitors; “but if the Fifth will stick their tomfoolery out in the passage, there’s sure to be a row.”“What tomfoolery? Some of you are for ever grumbling at the Fifth.”“And so would you if you saw the complimentary remarks they make about you in this precious newspaper of theirs.”“Oh, theDominican? I must have a look at it by and by; but meanwhile something had better be done to stop that row, or we shall catch it ourselves.”And so saying, the captain left these injured youths to their own counsels, which it is to be feared were moved more by dislike for theDominicanthan by a burning desire for the good order of the school.However, they must do something; and there would be nothing inconsistent with their dignity in demanding the withdrawal of the obnoxious broadside on account of the noise it caused. This would be a safe move, and might be checkmate. Loman was deputed to wait upon the Fifth with the demand of the monitors, and lost no time in carrying out this welcome task. Class was just over, and the Fifth were just about to clear out of their room when Loman entered. It was not often that a Sixth Form fellow penetrated into their camp, and had they not guessed his mission they might have resented the intrusion.“Oh, you fellows,” began Loman, feeling not quite so confident now as he had felt five minutes ago, “we can’t have that thing of yours hanging out in the passage like that. It makes a crowd—too much row. Whose is it?”“Not mine,” said Wraysford, laughing; “ask Bully—perhaps it’s his.”“Not a bit of it,” said Bullinger; “it’s yours, isn’t it, Simon?”“Only part,” said the poet of the “Love-Ballad,” “and I presented that to the paper.”“Suppose it was mine?” said Oliver, with a drawl.“Then,” said Loman, losing his temper, “all I can say is, the sooner you clear it away the better.”“Oh! all right; only it’s not mine.”“Look here,” said Loman, “I’m not going to fool about with you. You may think it all very funny, but I’ll report it to the Doctor, and then you’ll look foolish.”“How nice! So pleasant it will be to look for once like what you look always,” observed Pembury, gnawing the top of his crutch.At that moment there was a loud shout of laughter in the passage outside, confirming the monitor’s complaint. Wraysford walked hastily to the door.“The next time there’s a row like that outside our door,” called he to the group outside, “we’ll—what do you mean by it, you young blackguard?”So saying, he caught Master Bramble, who happened to be the nearest offender within reach, by the collar of his coat, and lugged him bodily into the class-room.“There, now! Do you know this gentleman? He’s a monitor. Have a good look at him. He’s been complaining of the row you are making, and quite rightly. Take that, and tell all the little Pigs outside that if they don’t hold their noise they will find themselves, every man jack of them,mentioned by namein the next number!”So saying, with a gentle cuff he handed the ill-starred Master Bramble out again to his fellows, and from that time there was scarcely a sound audible from the passage.“Good-bye,” said Pembury, kissing his hand to Loman, who all this time had been standing in the middle of the room, in a white heat, and perplexed what to do or say next.“You aren’t going to live here, are you?” asked Bullinger.“Any one got a toffee-drop?” drily inquired Oliver. To his surprise, and to the surprise of every one, Loman wheeled round towards the last speaker, and without a word struck him a blow on the mouth with his hand.He saw he had made a mistake, and looked ashamed the moment the deed was done. All eyes turned to Oliver, whose face was crimson with a sudden flush of pain and anger. He sprang to his feet, and Braddy, the bully, was already beginning to gloat over the prospect of a fight, when, to every one’s amazement, Oliver coolly put his hands back into his pockets, and walking up to Loman said, quietly, “Hadn’t you better go?”Loman stared at him in astonishment. He had at least expected to be knocked down, and this, behaviour was quite incomprehensible.He turned on his heel and quitted the room without a word; and somehow or other from that time the Fifth heard no more protests from the monitors on the subject of theDominican.But Oliver’s conduct, much as it had astonished the person chiefly concerned, had astonished the Fifth still more. For the first time in the history of their class, as far as they could recollect, a blow struck had not been returned, and they could not tell what to make of it.The blow had been a cowardly one, and certainly unmerited, and by all schoolboy tradition one fairly demanding a return. Could it be possible their man was lacking in courage? The idea was a shock to most present, who, although Oliver was never very popular among them, as has been said, had never before suspected his pluck. In fact, it was an awkward moment for all, and it was quite a relief when Simon broke silence by asking Oliver, “Why didn’t you knock him down, I say?”“Because I did not choose, if you want to know,” replied Oliver, shortly.“Oh! I beg your pardon,” replied Simon, rather taken aback by this brusque answer.This was not satisfactory. Had the offender been a Guinea-pig, one could have understood the thing; but when it was a Sixth Form fellow—a good match in every respect, as well as a rival—the Fifth were offended at their man for drawing back as he had done.“I suppose youwillfight him?” said Ricketts, in a voice which implied that there was no doubt about it.“Do you?” replied Oliver, briefly.The boy’s manner was certainly not winsome, and, when once put out, it was evident he took no trouble to conceal the fact. He refused to answer any further questions on the subject, and presently quitted the room, leaving more than half his class-fellows convinced that, after all, hewasa coward.An angry discussion followed his departure.“He ought to be made to fight, whether he likes or not,” said Braddy the bully.“Some one ought to pay Loman out,” suggested Ricketts, “if Greenfield doesn’t.”“A nice name we shall get, all of us,” said Bullinger, “when it gets abroad all over the school.”“It’s a shame, because one fellow funks, for the whole Form to be disgraced; that’s what I say,” said some one else.There were, however, two boys who did not join in this general cry of indignation against Oliver, and they were Wraysford and Pembury. The latter was always whimsical in his opinions, and no one was surprised to see him come out on the wrong side. As for Wraysford, he always backed his friend up, whether others thought him right or wrong. These two scouted the idea of Oliver being a coward; the one with his usual weapon of ridicule, the other with all the warmth of friendship.“Who calls him a coward?” exclaimed Wraysford, glaring at the last speaker.Wraysford was not a coward, and looked so ready to avenge his friend by hard knocks, that the boy who had insinuated that Greenfield was afraid withdrew his charge as mildly as he could. “I only meant, it looks as if he didn’t like to fight,” he said.“And what business of yours is it what it looks like?” demanded Wraysford.“Come, old man,” said Pembury; “don’t eat him up! I fancy Greenfield might screw up courage to pullhisnose, whoever else he lets off, eh? It’s my private opinion, though, Oliver knew what he was about.”“Of course he did,” sneered Braddy; “he knew jolly well what he was about.”“Dear me! Is that you, Mr Braddy? I had not noticed you here, or I should not have ventured to speak on a matter having to do with pluck and heroism. I’m glad you agree with me, though, although I didn’t say he knewjollywell what he was about. That is an expression of your own.”Braddy, who as usual felt and looked extinguished when Pembury made fun of him, retired sulkily, and the editor of theDominicanthereupon turned his attack on another quarter. And so the dispute went on, neither party being convinced, and all satisfied only on one point—that a cloud had arisen to mar the hitherto peaceful horizon of Fifth Form existence.The cricket match of the following day, however, served to divert the thoughts of all parties for a time.As it was only the prelude to a much more important match shortly to follow, I shall not attempt to describe it fully here, as the reader will probably be far more interested in the incidents of Sixth versus School Match when it comes off.The Alphabet Match was, to tell the truth, not nearly as interesting an affair as it promised to be, for from the very first the N’s to Z’s had the best of it. Stephen, who with a company of fellow-Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs was perched on the palings, looking on, felt his heart sink within him as first one and then another of his brother’s side lost their wickets without runs. For once he and Bramble were in sympathy, and he and Paul were at difference. The row these small boys kicked up, by the way, was one of the most notable features of the whole match. Every one of them yelled for his own side. There had, indeed, been a question whether every Guinea-pig, whatever his private initial, ought not to yell for the G’s, and every Tadpole for the T’s; but it was eventually decided that each should yell “on his own hook,” and the effect was certainly far more diverting.The first four men of the A to M went out for two runs between them, and Stephen and Bramble sat in gloomy despair. The next man in knocked down his wicket before he had played a single ball. It was frightful, and the jeers of the Z’s were hateful to hear.But Stephen brightened as he perceived that the next batsman was his brother. “Now they’ll pick up!” said he.“No they won’t! Greenfield senior skies his balls too much for my taste,” cheeringly replied the small Bramble.But Stephen was right. For the first time that afternoon the A’s made a stand. Oliver’s partner at the wickets was Callonby, of the Sixth, a steady, plodding player, who hardly ever hit out, and got all his runs (if he got any) from the slips. This afternoon he hardly scored at all, but kept his wicket carefully while Oliver did the hitting.Things were looking up. The telegraph went up from 2 to 20. Wraysford, who had hitherto been bowling with Ricketts against his friend, gave up the ball to Raikes, and the field generally woke up to the importance of getting rid of this daring player.Stephen’s throat was too hoarse to roar any more, so he resigned that duty to Bramble, and looked on in delighted silence. The score crept up, till suddenly Callonby tipped a ball into cover-slip’s hand and was caught, to the great delight of the Z’s, who guessed that, once a separation had been effected, the survivor would soon be disposed of.The next man in was Loman. He was better as a bowler than a batsman; but he followed Callonby’s tactics and played a steady block, leaving the boy he had struck yesterday to do the hitting.Oliver was certainly playing in fine form, and for a moment his class-fellows forgot their resentment against him in applauding his play. The score was at 35, and the new coalition promised to be as formidable as the last, when Oliver cut a ball past point.“Run! no! yes, run!” he shouted. Loman started, then hesitated, then started again—but it was too late. Before he could get across, the ball was up and he was run out. He was furious, and it certainly was hard lines for him, although there would have been time enough for the run had he not pulled up in the middle. Forgetful of all the rules of cricket, he turned round to Oliver and shouted, “You are a fool!” as he left the wicket.Stephen luckily was too much engrossed in watching the telegraph to hear or notice this remark; which, however, was not lost on the Fifth generally, who experienced a return of their former discontent when they observed that Oliver (though he must have heard it) took not the slightest notice of the offensive expression.The match passed off without further incident. The Z’s won in the end by two wickets, after a closer match than it had promised to be at first, and Stephen was comforted for the reverse by feeling sure that his brother at any rate had played his best, and would certainly get his place in the School Eleven.
The first number of theDominicanhad undoubtedly caused a sensation; and it would have created far more sensation but for the fact that the Alphabet Match was to be played on the following day. But even this counter-attraction could not wholly divert the mind of Saint Dominic’s from this new literary marvel; and a skirmish took place on the very afternoon of its appearance.
Pembury and his friends had quite expected that the Sixth would attempt a high-handed blow at their paper, and they were not disappointed. For no sooner had Loman and his peers stalked away from the scene of their indignation, and found themselves in the retirement of their own room, than they fell to talking in terms the reverse of pleasant about the event of the morning. The least important of their number was specially wroth.
“There’s a great row out in the passage to-day,” said Raleigh, who was blissfully ignorant of the whole matter; “why can’t some of you monitors keep a little better order? The Doctor will be wanting to know what it’s all about!”
“All very well,” said Raikes, one of the monitors; “but if the Fifth will stick their tomfoolery out in the passage, there’s sure to be a row.”
“What tomfoolery? Some of you are for ever grumbling at the Fifth.”
“And so would you if you saw the complimentary remarks they make about you in this precious newspaper of theirs.”
“Oh, theDominican? I must have a look at it by and by; but meanwhile something had better be done to stop that row, or we shall catch it ourselves.”
And so saying, the captain left these injured youths to their own counsels, which it is to be feared were moved more by dislike for theDominicanthan by a burning desire for the good order of the school.
However, they must do something; and there would be nothing inconsistent with their dignity in demanding the withdrawal of the obnoxious broadside on account of the noise it caused. This would be a safe move, and might be checkmate. Loman was deputed to wait upon the Fifth with the demand of the monitors, and lost no time in carrying out this welcome task. Class was just over, and the Fifth were just about to clear out of their room when Loman entered. It was not often that a Sixth Form fellow penetrated into their camp, and had they not guessed his mission they might have resented the intrusion.
“Oh, you fellows,” began Loman, feeling not quite so confident now as he had felt five minutes ago, “we can’t have that thing of yours hanging out in the passage like that. It makes a crowd—too much row. Whose is it?”
“Not mine,” said Wraysford, laughing; “ask Bully—perhaps it’s his.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Bullinger; “it’s yours, isn’t it, Simon?”
“Only part,” said the poet of the “Love-Ballad,” “and I presented that to the paper.”
“Suppose it was mine?” said Oliver, with a drawl.
“Then,” said Loman, losing his temper, “all I can say is, the sooner you clear it away the better.”
“Oh! all right; only it’s not mine.”
“Look here,” said Loman, “I’m not going to fool about with you. You may think it all very funny, but I’ll report it to the Doctor, and then you’ll look foolish.”
“How nice! So pleasant it will be to look for once like what you look always,” observed Pembury, gnawing the top of his crutch.
At that moment there was a loud shout of laughter in the passage outside, confirming the monitor’s complaint. Wraysford walked hastily to the door.
“The next time there’s a row like that outside our door,” called he to the group outside, “we’ll—what do you mean by it, you young blackguard?”
So saying, he caught Master Bramble, who happened to be the nearest offender within reach, by the collar of his coat, and lugged him bodily into the class-room.
“There, now! Do you know this gentleman? He’s a monitor. Have a good look at him. He’s been complaining of the row you are making, and quite rightly. Take that, and tell all the little Pigs outside that if they don’t hold their noise they will find themselves, every man jack of them,mentioned by namein the next number!”
So saying, with a gentle cuff he handed the ill-starred Master Bramble out again to his fellows, and from that time there was scarcely a sound audible from the passage.
“Good-bye,” said Pembury, kissing his hand to Loman, who all this time had been standing in the middle of the room, in a white heat, and perplexed what to do or say next.
“You aren’t going to live here, are you?” asked Bullinger.
“Any one got a toffee-drop?” drily inquired Oliver. To his surprise, and to the surprise of every one, Loman wheeled round towards the last speaker, and without a word struck him a blow on the mouth with his hand.
He saw he had made a mistake, and looked ashamed the moment the deed was done. All eyes turned to Oliver, whose face was crimson with a sudden flush of pain and anger. He sprang to his feet, and Braddy, the bully, was already beginning to gloat over the prospect of a fight, when, to every one’s amazement, Oliver coolly put his hands back into his pockets, and walking up to Loman said, quietly, “Hadn’t you better go?”
Loman stared at him in astonishment. He had at least expected to be knocked down, and this, behaviour was quite incomprehensible.
He turned on his heel and quitted the room without a word; and somehow or other from that time the Fifth heard no more protests from the monitors on the subject of theDominican.
But Oliver’s conduct, much as it had astonished the person chiefly concerned, had astonished the Fifth still more. For the first time in the history of their class, as far as they could recollect, a blow struck had not been returned, and they could not tell what to make of it.
The blow had been a cowardly one, and certainly unmerited, and by all schoolboy tradition one fairly demanding a return. Could it be possible their man was lacking in courage? The idea was a shock to most present, who, although Oliver was never very popular among them, as has been said, had never before suspected his pluck. In fact, it was an awkward moment for all, and it was quite a relief when Simon broke silence by asking Oliver, “Why didn’t you knock him down, I say?”
“Because I did not choose, if you want to know,” replied Oliver, shortly.
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” replied Simon, rather taken aback by this brusque answer.
This was not satisfactory. Had the offender been a Guinea-pig, one could have understood the thing; but when it was a Sixth Form fellow—a good match in every respect, as well as a rival—the Fifth were offended at their man for drawing back as he had done.
“I suppose youwillfight him?” said Ricketts, in a voice which implied that there was no doubt about it.
“Do you?” replied Oliver, briefly.
The boy’s manner was certainly not winsome, and, when once put out, it was evident he took no trouble to conceal the fact. He refused to answer any further questions on the subject, and presently quitted the room, leaving more than half his class-fellows convinced that, after all, hewasa coward.
An angry discussion followed his departure.
“He ought to be made to fight, whether he likes or not,” said Braddy the bully.
“Some one ought to pay Loman out,” suggested Ricketts, “if Greenfield doesn’t.”
“A nice name we shall get, all of us,” said Bullinger, “when it gets abroad all over the school.”
“It’s a shame, because one fellow funks, for the whole Form to be disgraced; that’s what I say,” said some one else.
There were, however, two boys who did not join in this general cry of indignation against Oliver, and they were Wraysford and Pembury. The latter was always whimsical in his opinions, and no one was surprised to see him come out on the wrong side. As for Wraysford, he always backed his friend up, whether others thought him right or wrong. These two scouted the idea of Oliver being a coward; the one with his usual weapon of ridicule, the other with all the warmth of friendship.
“Who calls him a coward?” exclaimed Wraysford, glaring at the last speaker.
Wraysford was not a coward, and looked so ready to avenge his friend by hard knocks, that the boy who had insinuated that Greenfield was afraid withdrew his charge as mildly as he could. “I only meant, it looks as if he didn’t like to fight,” he said.
“And what business of yours is it what it looks like?” demanded Wraysford.
“Come, old man,” said Pembury; “don’t eat him up! I fancy Greenfield might screw up courage to pullhisnose, whoever else he lets off, eh? It’s my private opinion, though, Oliver knew what he was about.”
“Of course he did,” sneered Braddy; “he knew jolly well what he was about.”
“Dear me! Is that you, Mr Braddy? I had not noticed you here, or I should not have ventured to speak on a matter having to do with pluck and heroism. I’m glad you agree with me, though, although I didn’t say he knewjollywell what he was about. That is an expression of your own.”
Braddy, who as usual felt and looked extinguished when Pembury made fun of him, retired sulkily, and the editor of theDominicanthereupon turned his attack on another quarter. And so the dispute went on, neither party being convinced, and all satisfied only on one point—that a cloud had arisen to mar the hitherto peaceful horizon of Fifth Form existence.
The cricket match of the following day, however, served to divert the thoughts of all parties for a time.
As it was only the prelude to a much more important match shortly to follow, I shall not attempt to describe it fully here, as the reader will probably be far more interested in the incidents of Sixth versus School Match when it comes off.
The Alphabet Match was, to tell the truth, not nearly as interesting an affair as it promised to be, for from the very first the N’s to Z’s had the best of it. Stephen, who with a company of fellow-Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs was perched on the palings, looking on, felt his heart sink within him as first one and then another of his brother’s side lost their wickets without runs. For once he and Bramble were in sympathy, and he and Paul were at difference. The row these small boys kicked up, by the way, was one of the most notable features of the whole match. Every one of them yelled for his own side. There had, indeed, been a question whether every Guinea-pig, whatever his private initial, ought not to yell for the G’s, and every Tadpole for the T’s; but it was eventually decided that each should yell “on his own hook,” and the effect was certainly far more diverting.
The first four men of the A to M went out for two runs between them, and Stephen and Bramble sat in gloomy despair. The next man in knocked down his wicket before he had played a single ball. It was frightful, and the jeers of the Z’s were hateful to hear.
But Stephen brightened as he perceived that the next batsman was his brother. “Now they’ll pick up!” said he.
“No they won’t! Greenfield senior skies his balls too much for my taste,” cheeringly replied the small Bramble.
But Stephen was right. For the first time that afternoon the A’s made a stand. Oliver’s partner at the wickets was Callonby, of the Sixth, a steady, plodding player, who hardly ever hit out, and got all his runs (if he got any) from the slips. This afternoon he hardly scored at all, but kept his wicket carefully while Oliver did the hitting.
Things were looking up. The telegraph went up from 2 to 20. Wraysford, who had hitherto been bowling with Ricketts against his friend, gave up the ball to Raikes, and the field generally woke up to the importance of getting rid of this daring player.
Stephen’s throat was too hoarse to roar any more, so he resigned that duty to Bramble, and looked on in delighted silence. The score crept up, till suddenly Callonby tipped a ball into cover-slip’s hand and was caught, to the great delight of the Z’s, who guessed that, once a separation had been effected, the survivor would soon be disposed of.
The next man in was Loman. He was better as a bowler than a batsman; but he followed Callonby’s tactics and played a steady block, leaving the boy he had struck yesterday to do the hitting.
Oliver was certainly playing in fine form, and for a moment his class-fellows forgot their resentment against him in applauding his play. The score was at 35, and the new coalition promised to be as formidable as the last, when Oliver cut a ball past point.
“Run! no! yes, run!” he shouted. Loman started, then hesitated, then started again—but it was too late. Before he could get across, the ball was up and he was run out. He was furious, and it certainly was hard lines for him, although there would have been time enough for the run had he not pulled up in the middle. Forgetful of all the rules of cricket, he turned round to Oliver and shouted, “You are a fool!” as he left the wicket.
Stephen luckily was too much engrossed in watching the telegraph to hear or notice this remark; which, however, was not lost on the Fifth generally, who experienced a return of their former discontent when they observed that Oliver (though he must have heard it) took not the slightest notice of the offensive expression.
The match passed off without further incident. The Z’s won in the end by two wickets, after a closer match than it had promised to be at first, and Stephen was comforted for the reverse by feeling sure that his brother at any rate had played his best, and would certainly get his place in the School Eleven.
Chapter Nine.A Rod in Pickle.Loman, who had arrived at the same conclusion respecting Oliver’s bravery as the majority in the Fifth, did not allow his conscience to trouble him as to his share of the morning’s business. He never had liked Oliver, and lately especially he had come to dislike him. He was therefore glad to have made him smart; and now, since the blunder in the cricket match, he felt greatly inclined to repeat the blow, particularly as there did not seem much to fear if he did so.He was quick, too, to see that Oliver had lost favour with his comrades, and had no hesitation in availing himself of every opportunity of widening the breach. He affected to be sorry for the poor fellow, and to feel that he had been too hard on him, and so on, in a manner which, while it offended the Fifth, as applied to one of their set, exasperated them all the more against Oliver. And so matters went on, getting more and more unsatisfactory.Loman, however, had other things to think of than his rival’s cowardice, and foremost among these was his new fishing-rod—or rather, the rod which he coveted for his own. Until the day after the Alphabet Match he had not even had time to examine his treasure. Three pounds ten was an appalling figure to pay for a rod; “But then,” thought Loman, “if it’s really a good one, and worth half as much again, it would be a pity to miss such a bargain;” and every one knew the Crippses, father and son, were authorities on all matters pertaining to the piscatorial art. Loman, too, was never badly off for pocket-money, and could easily raise the amount, he felt sure, when he represented the case at home. So he took the rod out of its canvas bag, and began to put it together.Now, a boy’s study is hardly the place in which to flourish a fishing-rod, and Loman found that with the butt down in one bottom corner of the room, the top joint would have to be put on up in the opposite top corner. When this complicated operation was over, there was no room to move it from its position, still less to judge of its weight and spring, or attach the winch and line. Happy thought! the window! He would have any amount of scope there. So, taking it to pieces, and putting it together again in this new direction, he had the satisfaction of testing it at its full length. He was pleased with the rod, on the whole. He attached the line, with a fly at the end, in order to give it a thorough trial, and gave a scientific “cast” into an imaginary pool. It was a splendid rod, just right for him; how he wished he was up above Gusset Weir at that moment! Why, he could—Here he attempted to draw up the rod. There was an ugly tug and a crack as he did so, and he found, to his disgust, that the hook, having nothing else to catch, had caught the ivy on the wall, and, what was worse, that the top joint of the rod had either snapped or cracked in its inability to bring this weighty catch to shore. It was a long time before Loman was able to disengage his line, and bring the rod in again at the window. The top joint was cracked. It looked all right as he held it, but when he tried to bend it it had lost its spring, and the crack showed only too plainly. Another misfortune still was in store. The reel in winding up suddenly stuck. Loman, fancying it had only caught temporarily, tried to force it, and in so doing the spring broke, and the handle turned uselessly round and round in his hand. Thiswasa streak of bad luck, and no mistake! The rod was not his, and what was worse, it was (so Cripps said) a rod of extraordinary excellence and value. Loman had his doubts now about this. A first-rate top-piece would bend nearly double and then not break, and a reel that broke at the least pressure could hardly be of the best kind. Still, Cripps thought a lot of it, and Loman had undoubtedly himself alone to blame for the accidents which had occurred. As it was, the rod was now useless. He knew there was no place in Maltby where he could get it repaired, and it was hardly to be expected that Cripps would take it back.What was to be done? Either he must pay 3 pounds 10 shillings for a rod of no value, or—He slowly took the rod to pieces and put it back into the canvas bag. The top joint after all did not look amiss; and, yes, there was alittlebit of elasticity in it. Perhaps the crack was only his fancy; or perhaps the crack was there when he got it. As to the reel, it looked as if itoughtto work, and perhaps it would if he only knew the way. Ah! suppose he just sent the rod back to Cripps with a message that he found he did not require it? He would not say he had not used it, but if Cripps chose to imagine he received it back just as he sent it, well, what harm? Cripps would be sure to sell it to some one else, or else put it by (he had said he possessed a rod of his own). If he, Loman, had felt quite certain that he had damaged the rod himself, of course he would not think of such a thing; but he was not at all certain the thing was not defective to begin with. In any case it was an inferior rod—that he had no doubt about—and Cripps was not acting honestly by trying to pass it off on him as one of the best make. Yes, it would serve Cripps right, and be a lesson to him, and he was sure, yes, quite sure now, it had been damaged to begin with.And so the boy argued with himself and coquetted with the tempter. Before the afternoon was over he felt (as he imagined) quite comfortable in his own mind over the affair. The rod was tied up again in its bag exactly as it had been before, and only wanted an opportunity to be returned to Mr Cripps.After that Loman settled down to an evening’s study. But things were against him again. Comfortable as his conscience was, that top joint would not let him alone. It seemed to get into his hand in place of the pen, and to point out the words in the lexicon in place of his finger. He tried not to mind it, but it annoyed him, and, what was worse, interfered with his work. So, shutting up his books, and imagining a change of air might be beneficial, he went off to Callonby’s study, there to gossip for an hour or two, and finally rid himself of his tormentor.Stephen, meanwhile, had had Mr Cripps on his mind too, for that afternoon his bat had come home. It was addressed to “Mr Greenfield, Saint Dominic’s,” and of course taken to Oliver, who wondered much to receive a small size cricket-bat in a parcel. Master Paul, however, who was in attendance, was able to clear up the mystery.“Oh! that’s your young brother’s, I expect; he said he had got a bat coming.”“All I can say is, he must be more flush of cash than I am, to go in for a thing like this. Send him here, Paul.”So Paul vanished, and presently Stephen put in an appearance, blushing, and anxious-looking.“Is this yours?” asked the elder brother.“Yes; did Mr Cripps send it?”“Mr Cripps the lock-keeper?”“No, his son. He said he would get it for me. I say, is that a good bat, Oliver?”“Nothing out of the way. But, I say, young ’un, how much have you given for it?”“Not anything yet. Mr Cripps said I could pay in June, when I get my next pocket-money.”“What on earth has he to do with when you get your pocket-money?” demanded Oliver. “Who is this young Cripps? He’s a cad, isn’t he?”“He seemed a very nice man,” said Stephen.“Well, look here! the less you have to do with men like him the better. What is the price of the bat?”“I don’t know; it’s one Mr Cripps had himself when he was a boy. He says it’s a beauty! I say, it looks as good as new, Oliver.”“You young muff!” said the elder brother; “I expect the fellow’s swindling you. Find out what he wants for it at once, and pay him; I’m not going to let you run into debt.”“But I can’t; I’ve only two shillings left,” said Stephen, dejectedly.“Why, whatever have you done with the five shillings you had last week?”Stephen blushed, and then faltered, “I spent sixpence on stamps and sixpence on—on brandy-balls!”“I thought so. And what did you do with the rest?”“Oh! I—I—that is—I—gave them away.”“Gave them away! Who to—to Bramble?”“No,” said Stephen, laughing at the idea; “I gave them to a poor old man!”“Where?—when? Upon my word, Stephen, youarea jackass—who to?”And then Stephen confessed, and the elder brother rated him soundly for his folly, till the little fellow felt quite miserable and ashamed of himself. In the end, Oliver insisted on Stephen finding out at once what the price of the bat was, and promised he would lend his brother the money for it. In return for this, Stephen promised to make no more purchases of this kind without first consulting Oliver, and at this juncture Wraysford turned up, and Stephen beat a retreat with his bat over his shoulder.The two friends had not been alone together sincethe fracasin the Fifth two days before, and both now appeared glad of an opportunity of talking over that and subsequent events.“I suppose you know a lot of the fellows are very sore at you for not thrashing Loman?” said Wraysford.“I guessed they would be. Are you riled, too, Wray?”“Not I! I know whatIshould have done myself, but I suppose you know your own business best.”“I was greatly tempted to let out,” said Oliver, “but the fact is—I know you’ll jeer, Wray—the fact is, I’ve been trying feebly to turn over a new leaf this term.”Wraysford said “Oh!” and looked uncomfortable.“And one of the things I wanted to keep out of was losing my temper, which you know is not a good one.”“Not at all,” said Wraysford, meaning quite the opposite to what he said.“Well, if you’ll believe me, I’ve lost my temper oftener in trying to keep this resolution than I ever remember to have done before. But on Friday it came over me just as I was going to thrash Loman. That’s why I didn’t.”Wraysford looked greatly relieved when this confession was over. “You are a rum fellow, Noll,” said he, after a pause, “and of course it is all right; but the fellows don’t know your reason, and think you showed the white feather.”“Let them think!” shouted Oliver, in a voice so loud and angry that Master Paul came to the door and asked what he wanted.“What do I care what they think?” continued Oliver, forgetting all about his temper; “they can think what they like, but they had better let me alone. I’d like to knock all their heads together! so I would!”“Steady, old man!” said Wraysford, good-humouredly; “I quite agree with you. But I say, Noll, I think it’s a pity you don’t put yourself right with them and the school generally, somehow. Everybody heard Loman call you a fool yesterday, and you know our fellows are so clannish that they think, for the credit of the Fifth, something ought to be done.”“Let them send Braddy to thrash him, then; I don’t intend to fight to pleasethem!”“Oh! that’s all right. And if they all knew what you’ve told me they would understand it; but as it is, they don’t.”“They’ll find out some day, most likely,” growled Oliver; “I’m not going to bother any more about it. I say, Wray, do you know anything of Cripps’s son?”“Yes. Don’t you know he keeps a dirty public-house in Maltby?—a regular cad, they say. The fishing-fellows have seen him up at the Weir now and then.”“I don’t know how he came across him, but my young brother has just been buying a bat from him, and I don’t much fancy it.”“No, the youngster won’t get any good with that fellow; you had better tell him,” said Wraysford.“So I have, and he won’t do it again.”Shortly after this Pembury hobbled in on his way to bed.“You’re a pretty fellow,” said he to Oliver; “not one of our fellows cares a rush about theDominicansince you made yourself into the latest sensation.”“Oh, don’t let us have that up again,” implored Oliver.“All very well, but what is to become of theDominican?”“Oh, have a special extra number about me. Call me a coward, and a fool, and a Tadpole, any mortal thing you like, only shut up about the affair now!”Pembury looked concerned.“Allow me to feel your pulse,” said he to Oliver.“Feel away,” said Oliver, glad of any diversion.“Hum! As I feared—feverish. Oliver, my boy, you are not well. Wandering a bit in your mind, too; get to bed. Be better soon. Able to talk like an ordinary rational animal then, and not like an animated tom-cat. Good-bye!”And so saying he departed, leaving the friends too much amused to be angry at his rudeness.The two friends did a steady evening’s work after this, and the thought of the Nightingale Scholarship drove away for the time all less pleasant recollections.They slept, after it all, far more soundly than Loman, whose dreams were disturbed by that everlasting top joint all the night long.The reader will no doubt have already decided in his own mind whether Oliver Greenfield did rightly or wrongly in putting his hands into his pockets instead of using them to knock down Loman. It certainly did not seem to have done him much good at the time. He had lost the esteem of his comrades, he had lost the very temper he had been trying to keep—twenty times since the event—and no one gave him credit for anything but “the better part of valour” in the whole affair.And yet that one effort of self-restraint was not altogether an unmanly act. At least, so thought Wraysford that night, as he lay meditating upon his friend’s troubles, and found himself liking him none the less for this latest singular piece of eccentricity.
Loman, who had arrived at the same conclusion respecting Oliver’s bravery as the majority in the Fifth, did not allow his conscience to trouble him as to his share of the morning’s business. He never had liked Oliver, and lately especially he had come to dislike him. He was therefore glad to have made him smart; and now, since the blunder in the cricket match, he felt greatly inclined to repeat the blow, particularly as there did not seem much to fear if he did so.
He was quick, too, to see that Oliver had lost favour with his comrades, and had no hesitation in availing himself of every opportunity of widening the breach. He affected to be sorry for the poor fellow, and to feel that he had been too hard on him, and so on, in a manner which, while it offended the Fifth, as applied to one of their set, exasperated them all the more against Oliver. And so matters went on, getting more and more unsatisfactory.
Loman, however, had other things to think of than his rival’s cowardice, and foremost among these was his new fishing-rod—or rather, the rod which he coveted for his own. Until the day after the Alphabet Match he had not even had time to examine his treasure. Three pounds ten was an appalling figure to pay for a rod; “But then,” thought Loman, “if it’s really a good one, and worth half as much again, it would be a pity to miss such a bargain;” and every one knew the Crippses, father and son, were authorities on all matters pertaining to the piscatorial art. Loman, too, was never badly off for pocket-money, and could easily raise the amount, he felt sure, when he represented the case at home. So he took the rod out of its canvas bag, and began to put it together.
Now, a boy’s study is hardly the place in which to flourish a fishing-rod, and Loman found that with the butt down in one bottom corner of the room, the top joint would have to be put on up in the opposite top corner. When this complicated operation was over, there was no room to move it from its position, still less to judge of its weight and spring, or attach the winch and line. Happy thought! the window! He would have any amount of scope there. So, taking it to pieces, and putting it together again in this new direction, he had the satisfaction of testing it at its full length. He was pleased with the rod, on the whole. He attached the line, with a fly at the end, in order to give it a thorough trial, and gave a scientific “cast” into an imaginary pool. It was a splendid rod, just right for him; how he wished he was up above Gusset Weir at that moment! Why, he could—
Here he attempted to draw up the rod. There was an ugly tug and a crack as he did so, and he found, to his disgust, that the hook, having nothing else to catch, had caught the ivy on the wall, and, what was worse, that the top joint of the rod had either snapped or cracked in its inability to bring this weighty catch to shore. It was a long time before Loman was able to disengage his line, and bring the rod in again at the window. The top joint was cracked. It looked all right as he held it, but when he tried to bend it it had lost its spring, and the crack showed only too plainly. Another misfortune still was in store. The reel in winding up suddenly stuck. Loman, fancying it had only caught temporarily, tried to force it, and in so doing the spring broke, and the handle turned uselessly round and round in his hand. Thiswasa streak of bad luck, and no mistake! The rod was not his, and what was worse, it was (so Cripps said) a rod of extraordinary excellence and value. Loman had his doubts now about this. A first-rate top-piece would bend nearly double and then not break, and a reel that broke at the least pressure could hardly be of the best kind. Still, Cripps thought a lot of it, and Loman had undoubtedly himself alone to blame for the accidents which had occurred. As it was, the rod was now useless. He knew there was no place in Maltby where he could get it repaired, and it was hardly to be expected that Cripps would take it back.
What was to be done? Either he must pay 3 pounds 10 shillings for a rod of no value, or—
He slowly took the rod to pieces and put it back into the canvas bag. The top joint after all did not look amiss; and, yes, there was alittlebit of elasticity in it. Perhaps the crack was only his fancy; or perhaps the crack was there when he got it. As to the reel, it looked as if itoughtto work, and perhaps it would if he only knew the way. Ah! suppose he just sent the rod back to Cripps with a message that he found he did not require it? He would not say he had not used it, but if Cripps chose to imagine he received it back just as he sent it, well, what harm? Cripps would be sure to sell it to some one else, or else put it by (he had said he possessed a rod of his own). If he, Loman, had felt quite certain that he had damaged the rod himself, of course he would not think of such a thing; but he was not at all certain the thing was not defective to begin with. In any case it was an inferior rod—that he had no doubt about—and Cripps was not acting honestly by trying to pass it off on him as one of the best make. Yes, it would serve Cripps right, and be a lesson to him, and he was sure, yes, quite sure now, it had been damaged to begin with.
And so the boy argued with himself and coquetted with the tempter. Before the afternoon was over he felt (as he imagined) quite comfortable in his own mind over the affair. The rod was tied up again in its bag exactly as it had been before, and only wanted an opportunity to be returned to Mr Cripps.
After that Loman settled down to an evening’s study. But things were against him again. Comfortable as his conscience was, that top joint would not let him alone. It seemed to get into his hand in place of the pen, and to point out the words in the lexicon in place of his finger. He tried not to mind it, but it annoyed him, and, what was worse, interfered with his work. So, shutting up his books, and imagining a change of air might be beneficial, he went off to Callonby’s study, there to gossip for an hour or two, and finally rid himself of his tormentor.
Stephen, meanwhile, had had Mr Cripps on his mind too, for that afternoon his bat had come home. It was addressed to “Mr Greenfield, Saint Dominic’s,” and of course taken to Oliver, who wondered much to receive a small size cricket-bat in a parcel. Master Paul, however, who was in attendance, was able to clear up the mystery.
“Oh! that’s your young brother’s, I expect; he said he had got a bat coming.”
“All I can say is, he must be more flush of cash than I am, to go in for a thing like this. Send him here, Paul.”
So Paul vanished, and presently Stephen put in an appearance, blushing, and anxious-looking.
“Is this yours?” asked the elder brother.
“Yes; did Mr Cripps send it?”
“Mr Cripps the lock-keeper?”
“No, his son. He said he would get it for me. I say, is that a good bat, Oliver?”
“Nothing out of the way. But, I say, young ’un, how much have you given for it?”
“Not anything yet. Mr Cripps said I could pay in June, when I get my next pocket-money.”
“What on earth has he to do with when you get your pocket-money?” demanded Oliver. “Who is this young Cripps? He’s a cad, isn’t he?”
“He seemed a very nice man,” said Stephen.
“Well, look here! the less you have to do with men like him the better. What is the price of the bat?”
“I don’t know; it’s one Mr Cripps had himself when he was a boy. He says it’s a beauty! I say, it looks as good as new, Oliver.”
“You young muff!” said the elder brother; “I expect the fellow’s swindling you. Find out what he wants for it at once, and pay him; I’m not going to let you run into debt.”
“But I can’t; I’ve only two shillings left,” said Stephen, dejectedly.
“Why, whatever have you done with the five shillings you had last week?”
Stephen blushed, and then faltered, “I spent sixpence on stamps and sixpence on—on brandy-balls!”
“I thought so. And what did you do with the rest?”
“Oh! I—I—that is—I—gave them away.”
“Gave them away! Who to—to Bramble?”
“No,” said Stephen, laughing at the idea; “I gave them to a poor old man!”
“Where?—when? Upon my word, Stephen, youarea jackass—who to?”
And then Stephen confessed, and the elder brother rated him soundly for his folly, till the little fellow felt quite miserable and ashamed of himself. In the end, Oliver insisted on Stephen finding out at once what the price of the bat was, and promised he would lend his brother the money for it. In return for this, Stephen promised to make no more purchases of this kind without first consulting Oliver, and at this juncture Wraysford turned up, and Stephen beat a retreat with his bat over his shoulder.
The two friends had not been alone together sincethe fracasin the Fifth two days before, and both now appeared glad of an opportunity of talking over that and subsequent events.
“I suppose you know a lot of the fellows are very sore at you for not thrashing Loman?” said Wraysford.
“I guessed they would be. Are you riled, too, Wray?”
“Not I! I know whatIshould have done myself, but I suppose you know your own business best.”
“I was greatly tempted to let out,” said Oliver, “but the fact is—I know you’ll jeer, Wray—the fact is, I’ve been trying feebly to turn over a new leaf this term.”
Wraysford said “Oh!” and looked uncomfortable.
“And one of the things I wanted to keep out of was losing my temper, which you know is not a good one.”
“Not at all,” said Wraysford, meaning quite the opposite to what he said.
“Well, if you’ll believe me, I’ve lost my temper oftener in trying to keep this resolution than I ever remember to have done before. But on Friday it came over me just as I was going to thrash Loman. That’s why I didn’t.”
Wraysford looked greatly relieved when this confession was over. “You are a rum fellow, Noll,” said he, after a pause, “and of course it is all right; but the fellows don’t know your reason, and think you showed the white feather.”
“Let them think!” shouted Oliver, in a voice so loud and angry that Master Paul came to the door and asked what he wanted.
“What do I care what they think?” continued Oliver, forgetting all about his temper; “they can think what they like, but they had better let me alone. I’d like to knock all their heads together! so I would!”
“Steady, old man!” said Wraysford, good-humouredly; “I quite agree with you. But I say, Noll, I think it’s a pity you don’t put yourself right with them and the school generally, somehow. Everybody heard Loman call you a fool yesterday, and you know our fellows are so clannish that they think, for the credit of the Fifth, something ought to be done.”
“Let them send Braddy to thrash him, then; I don’t intend to fight to pleasethem!”
“Oh! that’s all right. And if they all knew what you’ve told me they would understand it; but as it is, they don’t.”
“They’ll find out some day, most likely,” growled Oliver; “I’m not going to bother any more about it. I say, Wray, do you know anything of Cripps’s son?”
“Yes. Don’t you know he keeps a dirty public-house in Maltby?—a regular cad, they say. The fishing-fellows have seen him up at the Weir now and then.”
“I don’t know how he came across him, but my young brother has just been buying a bat from him, and I don’t much fancy it.”
“No, the youngster won’t get any good with that fellow; you had better tell him,” said Wraysford.
“So I have, and he won’t do it again.”
Shortly after this Pembury hobbled in on his way to bed.
“You’re a pretty fellow,” said he to Oliver; “not one of our fellows cares a rush about theDominicansince you made yourself into the latest sensation.”
“Oh, don’t let us have that up again,” implored Oliver.
“All very well, but what is to become of theDominican?”
“Oh, have a special extra number about me. Call me a coward, and a fool, and a Tadpole, any mortal thing you like, only shut up about the affair now!”
Pembury looked concerned.
“Allow me to feel your pulse,” said he to Oliver.
“Feel away,” said Oliver, glad of any diversion.
“Hum! As I feared—feverish. Oliver, my boy, you are not well. Wandering a bit in your mind, too; get to bed. Be better soon. Able to talk like an ordinary rational animal then, and not like an animated tom-cat. Good-bye!”
And so saying he departed, leaving the friends too much amused to be angry at his rudeness.
The two friends did a steady evening’s work after this, and the thought of the Nightingale Scholarship drove away for the time all less pleasant recollections.
They slept, after it all, far more soundly than Loman, whose dreams were disturbed by that everlasting top joint all the night long.
The reader will no doubt have already decided in his own mind whether Oliver Greenfield did rightly or wrongly in putting his hands into his pockets instead of using them to knock down Loman. It certainly did not seem to have done him much good at the time. He had lost the esteem of his comrades, he had lost the very temper he had been trying to keep—twenty times since the event—and no one gave him credit for anything but “the better part of valour” in the whole affair.
And yet that one effort of self-restraint was not altogether an unmanly act. At least, so thought Wraysford that night, as he lay meditating upon his friend’s troubles, and found himself liking him none the less for this latest singular piece of eccentricity.
Chapter Ten.The Fourth Junior at home.Stephen, before he had been a fortnight in the school, found himself very much at home at Saint Dominic’s. He was not one of those exuberant, irrepressible boys who take their class-fellows by storm, and rise to the top of the tree almost as soon as they touch the bottom. Stephen, as the reader knows, was not a very clever boy, or a very dashing boy, and yet he somehow managed to get his footing among his comrades in the Fourth Junior, and particularly among his fellow Guinea-pigs.He had fought Master Bramble six times in three days during his second week, and was engaged to fight him again every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday during the term. He had also taken the chair at one indignation meeting against the monitors, and spoken in favour of a resolution at another. He had distributed brandy-balls in a most handsome manner to his particular adherents, and he had been the means of carrying away no less than two blankets from the next dormitory. This was pretty good for a fortnight. Add to this that he had remained steadily at the bottom of his class during the entire period, and that once he had received an “impot” (or imposition) from Mr Rastle, and it will easily be understood that he soon gained favour among his fellows.This last cause of celebrity, however, was one which did not please Stephen. He had come to Saint Dominic’s with a great quantity of good resolutions, the chief of which was that he would work hard and keep out of mischief, and it grieved him much to find that in neither aim was he succeeding.The first evening or two he had worked very diligently at preparation. He had taken pains with his fractions, and looked out every word in his Caesar. He had got Oliver to look over his French, and Loman had volunteered to correct the spelling of his “theme;” and yet he stuck at the bottom of the class. Other boys went up and down. Some openly boasted that they had had their lessons done for them, and others that they had not done them at all. A merry time they had of it; but Stephen, down at the bottom, was in dismal dumps. He could not get up, and he could not get down, and all his honest hard work went for nothing.And so, not content to give that system a longer trial, he grew more lax in his work. He filched the answers to his sums out of the “Key,” and copied his Caesar out of the “crib.” It was much easier, and the result was the same. He did not get up, and he could not get down.Oliver catechised him now and then as to his progress, and received vague answers in reply, and Loman never remembered a fag that pestered him less with lessons. Stephen was, in fact, settling down into the slough of idleness, and would have become an accomplished dunce in time, had not Mr Rastle come to the rescue. That gentleman caught the new boy in an idle mood, wandering aimlessly down the passage one afternoon.“Ah, Greenfield, is that you? Nothing to do, eh? Come and have tea with me, will you, in my room?”Stephen, who had bounded as if shot on hearing the master’s unexpected voice behind him, turned round and blushed very red, and said “Thank you,” and then looked like a criminal just summoned to the gallows.“That’s right, come along;” and the master took the lad by the arm and marched him off to his room.Here the sight of muffins and red-currant jam, in addition to the ordinary attractions of a tea-table, somewhat revived Stephen’s drooping spirits.“Make yourself comfortable, my boy, while the tea is brewing,” said Mr Rastle, cheerily. “Have you been playing any cricket since you came?”“Only a little, sir,” said Stephen.“Well, if you only turn out as good a bat as your brother—how well he played in the Alphabet Match!”Stephen was reviving fast now, and embarked on a lively chat about his favourite sport, by the end of which the tea was brewed, and he and Mr Rastle sitting “cheek by jowl” at the table, with the muffins and jam between them.Presently Mr Rastle steered the talk round to Stephen’s home, a topic even more delightful than cricket. The boy launched out into a full account of the old house and his mother, till the tears very nearly stood in his eyes and the muffins very nearly stuck in his throat. Mr Rastle listened to it all with a sympathetic smile, throwing in questions now and then which it charmed the boy to answer.“And how do you like Saint Dominic’s?” presently inquired the master. “I suppose you’ve made plenty of friends by this time?”“Oh yes, sir. It’s not as slow as it was at first.”“That’s right. You’ll soon get to feel at home. And how do you think you are getting on in class?”Stephen was astonished at this question. If any one knew how he was getting on in class Mr Rastle did, and, alas! Mr Rastle must know well enough that Stephen was getting on badly.“Not very well, I’m afraid, sir, thank you,” replied the boy, not feeling exactly comfortable.“Not? That’s a pity. Are the lessons too hard for you?” kindly inquired Mr Rastle.“No, I don’t think so—that is—no, they’re not, sir.”“Ah, your Latin exercise I thought was very fair in parts to-day.”Stephen stared at his master, and the master looked very pleasantly at Stephen.“I copied it off Raddleston,” said the boy, in a trembling voice, and mentally resigning himself to his fate.“Ah!” said Mr Rastle, laughing; “it’s a funny thing, now, Greenfield, I knew that myself. No two boys could possibly have translated ‘nobody’ into ‘nullus corpus’ without making common cause!”Stephen was desperately perplexed. He had expected a regular row on the head of his confession, and here was his master cracking jokes about the affair!“I’m very sorry I did it. I won’t do it again,” said he. “That’s right, my boy; Raddleston isn’t infallible. Much better do it yourself. I venture to say, now, you can tell me what the Latin for ‘nobody’ is without a dictionary.”“Nemo,” promptly replied Stephen.“Of course! and therefore if you had done the exercise yourself you wouldn’t have made that horrid—that fearful mistake!”Stephen said, “Yes, sir,” and meditated.“Come now,” said Mr Rastle, cheerily, “I’m not going to scold you. But if you take my advice you will try and do the next exercise by yourself. Of course you can’t expect to be perfect all at once, but if you always copy off Raddleston, do you see, you’llneverget on at all.”“I’ll try, sir,” said Stephen, meaning what he said.“I know you will, my boy. It’s not easy work to begin with, but it’s easier far in the long run. Try, and if you have difficulties, as you are sure to have, come to me. I’m always here in the evenings, and we’ll hammer it out between us. School will not be without its temptations, and you will find it hard always to do your duty. Yet you have, I hope, learnt the power of prayer; and surely the Saviour is able not only to forgive us our sins, but also to keep us from falling. At school, my boy, as elsewhere, it is a safe rule, whenever one is in doubt, to avoid everything, no matter who may be the tempter, of which one cannot fearlessly speak to one’s father or mother, and above all to our Heavenly Father. Don’t be afraid of Him—He will always be ready to help you and to guide you with His Holy Spirit. Have another cup of tea?”This little talk, much as he missed at the time its deeper meaning, saved Stephen from becoming a dunce. He still blundered and boggled over his lessons, and still kept pretty near to the bottom form in his class, but he felt that his master had an interest in him, and that acted like magic to his soul. He declined Master Raddleston’s professional assistance for the future, and did the best he could by himself. He now and then, though hesitatingly, availed himself of Mr Rastle’s offer, and took his difficulties to head-quarters; and he always, when he did so, found the master ready and glad to help, and not only that, but to explain as he went along, and clear the way of future obstacles of the same sort.And so things looked up with Stephen. He wrote jubilant letters home; he experienced all the joys of an easy conscience, and he felt that he had a friend at court.But as long as he was a member of the honourable fraternity of Guinea-pigs, Stephen Greenfield was not likely to be dull at Saint Dominic’s.The politics of the lower school were rather intricate. The Guinea-pigs were not exactly the enemies of the Tadpoles, but the rivals. They were always jangling among themselves, it was true; and when Stephen, for the second time in one week, had hit Bramble in the eye, there was such jubilation among the Guinea-pigs that any one might have supposed the two clans were at daggers drawn. But it was not so—at least, not always—for though they fell out among themselves, they united their forces against the common enemy—the monitors!Monitors, in the opinion of these young republicans, were an invention of the Evil One, invented for the sole purpose of interfering with them. But for the monitors they could carry out their long-cherished scheme of a pitched battle on the big staircase, for asserting their right to go down the left side, when they chose, and up on the right. As it was, the monitors insisted that they should go up on the left and come down on the right. It was intolerable tyranny! And but for the monitors their comb-and-paper musical society might give daily recitals in the top corridor and so delight all Saint Dominic’s. What right had the monitors to forbid the performance and confiscate the combs? Was it to be endured? And but for the monitors, once more, they might perfect themselves in the art of pea-shooting. Was such a thing ever heard of, as that fellows should be compelled to shoot peas at the wall in the privacy of their own studies, instead of at one another in the passages? It was a shame—it was a scandal—it was a crime!On burning questions such as these, Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles sunk all petty differences, and thought and felt as one man; and not the least ardent among them was Stephen.“Come on, quick! Greenfield junior,” squeaked the voice of Bramble, one afternoon, as he and Stephen met on the staircase.Stephen had fought Bramble yesterday at four o’clock, and was to fight him again to-morrow at half-past twelve, but at the call of common danger he forgot the feud and tore up the stairs, two steps at a time, beside his chronic enemy.“What’s the row?” he gasped, as they flew along.“Row? Why, what do you think? Young Bellerby has been doctored for tying a string across the passage!”“Had up before the Doctor? My eye, Bramble!”“It is your eye indeed! One of the monitors tripped over it, and got in a rage, and there’s Bellerby now catching it in the Black Hole. Come on to the meeting; quick!”The two rushed on, joined by one and another of their fellows who had heard the terrible news. The party rushed pellmell into the Fourth Junior class-room, where were already assembled a score or more youths, shouting, and stamping, and howling like madmen. At the sight of Bramble, the acknowledged leader of all malcontents, they quieted down for a moment to hear what he had to say.“Here’s a go!” classically began that hero.At this the clamour, swelled twofold by the new additions, rose louder than ever. Itwasa go!“I wish it had beenme!” again yelled Bramble; “I have let them know.”Once more the shouts rose high and loud in approval of this noble sentiment.“I’dhave kicked their legs!” once more howled Bramble, as soon as he could make himself heard.“So would we; kicked their legs!”“They ought to be hanged!” screamed Bramble.“I’llnot fag any more for Wren!” bellowed Bramble.“I’ll not fag any more for Greenfield senior!” thundered Paul.“I’ll not fag any more for Loman!” shrieked Stephen.“Why don’t some of you put poison in their teas?” cried one.“Or blow them up when they’re in bed with gunpowder?”“Or flay them alive?”“Or boil them in tar?”“Or throw them into the lions’ den?”“Those who say we won’t stand it any longer,” shouted Bramble, jumping up on to a form, “hold up your hands!”A perfect forest of inky hands arose, and a shout with them that almost shook the ceiling.At that moment the door opened, and Wren appeared. The effect was magical; every one became suddenly quiet, and looked another way.“The next time there’s a noise like that,” said the monitor, “the whole class will be detained one hour,” and, so saying, departed.After that the indignation meeting was kept up in whispers. Now and then the feelings of the assembly broke out into words, but the noise was instantly checked.“If young Bellerby has been flogged,” said Bramble, in a most sepulchral undertone, “I’ve a good mind to fight every one of them!”“Yes, every one of them,” whispered the multitude.“They’re all as bad as each other!” gasped Bramble.“We’lllet them know,” muttered the audience.“I’ll tell you what I’ve a good mind to—to—ur—ur—I’ve a good mind to—ugh!”Again the door opened. This time it was Callonby.“Where’s young Raddleston?—Whatareyou young beggars up to?—is Raddleston here?”“Yes,” mildly answered the voice of Master Raddleston, who a moment ago had nearly broken a blood-vessel in his endeavours to scream in a whisper.“Come here, then.”The fag meekly obeyed.“Oh, and Greenfield junior,” said Callonby, as he was turning to depart, “Loman wants to know when you are going to get his tea; you’re to go at once, he says.”Stephen obeyed, and was very humble in explaining to Loman that he had forgotten (which was the case) the time. The meeting in the Fourth class-room lasted most of the afternoon; but as oratory in whispers is tedious, and constant repetition of the same sentiments, however patriotic, is monotonous, it flagged considerably in spirit towards the end, and degenerated into one of the usual wrangles between Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, in the midst of which Master Bramble left the chair, and went off in the meekest manner possible to get Wren to help him with his sums for next day.Stephen meanwhile was engaged in doing a little piece of business for Loman, of which more must be said in a following chapter.
Stephen, before he had been a fortnight in the school, found himself very much at home at Saint Dominic’s. He was not one of those exuberant, irrepressible boys who take their class-fellows by storm, and rise to the top of the tree almost as soon as they touch the bottom. Stephen, as the reader knows, was not a very clever boy, or a very dashing boy, and yet he somehow managed to get his footing among his comrades in the Fourth Junior, and particularly among his fellow Guinea-pigs.
He had fought Master Bramble six times in three days during his second week, and was engaged to fight him again every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday during the term. He had also taken the chair at one indignation meeting against the monitors, and spoken in favour of a resolution at another. He had distributed brandy-balls in a most handsome manner to his particular adherents, and he had been the means of carrying away no less than two blankets from the next dormitory. This was pretty good for a fortnight. Add to this that he had remained steadily at the bottom of his class during the entire period, and that once he had received an “impot” (or imposition) from Mr Rastle, and it will easily be understood that he soon gained favour among his fellows.
This last cause of celebrity, however, was one which did not please Stephen. He had come to Saint Dominic’s with a great quantity of good resolutions, the chief of which was that he would work hard and keep out of mischief, and it grieved him much to find that in neither aim was he succeeding.
The first evening or two he had worked very diligently at preparation. He had taken pains with his fractions, and looked out every word in his Caesar. He had got Oliver to look over his French, and Loman had volunteered to correct the spelling of his “theme;” and yet he stuck at the bottom of the class. Other boys went up and down. Some openly boasted that they had had their lessons done for them, and others that they had not done them at all. A merry time they had of it; but Stephen, down at the bottom, was in dismal dumps. He could not get up, and he could not get down, and all his honest hard work went for nothing.
And so, not content to give that system a longer trial, he grew more lax in his work. He filched the answers to his sums out of the “Key,” and copied his Caesar out of the “crib.” It was much easier, and the result was the same. He did not get up, and he could not get down.
Oliver catechised him now and then as to his progress, and received vague answers in reply, and Loman never remembered a fag that pestered him less with lessons. Stephen was, in fact, settling down into the slough of idleness, and would have become an accomplished dunce in time, had not Mr Rastle come to the rescue. That gentleman caught the new boy in an idle mood, wandering aimlessly down the passage one afternoon.
“Ah, Greenfield, is that you? Nothing to do, eh? Come and have tea with me, will you, in my room?”
Stephen, who had bounded as if shot on hearing the master’s unexpected voice behind him, turned round and blushed very red, and said “Thank you,” and then looked like a criminal just summoned to the gallows.
“That’s right, come along;” and the master took the lad by the arm and marched him off to his room.
Here the sight of muffins and red-currant jam, in addition to the ordinary attractions of a tea-table, somewhat revived Stephen’s drooping spirits.
“Make yourself comfortable, my boy, while the tea is brewing,” said Mr Rastle, cheerily. “Have you been playing any cricket since you came?”
“Only a little, sir,” said Stephen.
“Well, if you only turn out as good a bat as your brother—how well he played in the Alphabet Match!”
Stephen was reviving fast now, and embarked on a lively chat about his favourite sport, by the end of which the tea was brewed, and he and Mr Rastle sitting “cheek by jowl” at the table, with the muffins and jam between them.
Presently Mr Rastle steered the talk round to Stephen’s home, a topic even more delightful than cricket. The boy launched out into a full account of the old house and his mother, till the tears very nearly stood in his eyes and the muffins very nearly stuck in his throat. Mr Rastle listened to it all with a sympathetic smile, throwing in questions now and then which it charmed the boy to answer.
“And how do you like Saint Dominic’s?” presently inquired the master. “I suppose you’ve made plenty of friends by this time?”
“Oh yes, sir. It’s not as slow as it was at first.”
“That’s right. You’ll soon get to feel at home. And how do you think you are getting on in class?”
Stephen was astonished at this question. If any one knew how he was getting on in class Mr Rastle did, and, alas! Mr Rastle must know well enough that Stephen was getting on badly.
“Not very well, I’m afraid, sir, thank you,” replied the boy, not feeling exactly comfortable.
“Not? That’s a pity. Are the lessons too hard for you?” kindly inquired Mr Rastle.
“No, I don’t think so—that is—no, they’re not, sir.”
“Ah, your Latin exercise I thought was very fair in parts to-day.”
Stephen stared at his master, and the master looked very pleasantly at Stephen.
“I copied it off Raddleston,” said the boy, in a trembling voice, and mentally resigning himself to his fate.
“Ah!” said Mr Rastle, laughing; “it’s a funny thing, now, Greenfield, I knew that myself. No two boys could possibly have translated ‘nobody’ into ‘nullus corpus’ without making common cause!”
Stephen was desperately perplexed. He had expected a regular row on the head of his confession, and here was his master cracking jokes about the affair!
“I’m very sorry I did it. I won’t do it again,” said he. “That’s right, my boy; Raddleston isn’t infallible. Much better do it yourself. I venture to say, now, you can tell me what the Latin for ‘nobody’ is without a dictionary.”
“Nemo,” promptly replied Stephen.
“Of course! and therefore if you had done the exercise yourself you wouldn’t have made that horrid—that fearful mistake!”
Stephen said, “Yes, sir,” and meditated.
“Come now,” said Mr Rastle, cheerily, “I’m not going to scold you. But if you take my advice you will try and do the next exercise by yourself. Of course you can’t expect to be perfect all at once, but if you always copy off Raddleston, do you see, you’llneverget on at all.”
“I’ll try, sir,” said Stephen, meaning what he said.
“I know you will, my boy. It’s not easy work to begin with, but it’s easier far in the long run. Try, and if you have difficulties, as you are sure to have, come to me. I’m always here in the evenings, and we’ll hammer it out between us. School will not be without its temptations, and you will find it hard always to do your duty. Yet you have, I hope, learnt the power of prayer; and surely the Saviour is able not only to forgive us our sins, but also to keep us from falling. At school, my boy, as elsewhere, it is a safe rule, whenever one is in doubt, to avoid everything, no matter who may be the tempter, of which one cannot fearlessly speak to one’s father or mother, and above all to our Heavenly Father. Don’t be afraid of Him—He will always be ready to help you and to guide you with His Holy Spirit. Have another cup of tea?”
This little talk, much as he missed at the time its deeper meaning, saved Stephen from becoming a dunce. He still blundered and boggled over his lessons, and still kept pretty near to the bottom form in his class, but he felt that his master had an interest in him, and that acted like magic to his soul. He declined Master Raddleston’s professional assistance for the future, and did the best he could by himself. He now and then, though hesitatingly, availed himself of Mr Rastle’s offer, and took his difficulties to head-quarters; and he always, when he did so, found the master ready and glad to help, and not only that, but to explain as he went along, and clear the way of future obstacles of the same sort.
And so things looked up with Stephen. He wrote jubilant letters home; he experienced all the joys of an easy conscience, and he felt that he had a friend at court.
But as long as he was a member of the honourable fraternity of Guinea-pigs, Stephen Greenfield was not likely to be dull at Saint Dominic’s.
The politics of the lower school were rather intricate. The Guinea-pigs were not exactly the enemies of the Tadpoles, but the rivals. They were always jangling among themselves, it was true; and when Stephen, for the second time in one week, had hit Bramble in the eye, there was such jubilation among the Guinea-pigs that any one might have supposed the two clans were at daggers drawn. But it was not so—at least, not always—for though they fell out among themselves, they united their forces against the common enemy—the monitors!
Monitors, in the opinion of these young republicans, were an invention of the Evil One, invented for the sole purpose of interfering with them. But for the monitors they could carry out their long-cherished scheme of a pitched battle on the big staircase, for asserting their right to go down the left side, when they chose, and up on the right. As it was, the monitors insisted that they should go up on the left and come down on the right. It was intolerable tyranny! And but for the monitors their comb-and-paper musical society might give daily recitals in the top corridor and so delight all Saint Dominic’s. What right had the monitors to forbid the performance and confiscate the combs? Was it to be endured? And but for the monitors, once more, they might perfect themselves in the art of pea-shooting. Was such a thing ever heard of, as that fellows should be compelled to shoot peas at the wall in the privacy of their own studies, instead of at one another in the passages? It was a shame—it was a scandal—it was a crime!
On burning questions such as these, Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles sunk all petty differences, and thought and felt as one man; and not the least ardent among them was Stephen.
“Come on, quick! Greenfield junior,” squeaked the voice of Bramble, one afternoon, as he and Stephen met on the staircase.
Stephen had fought Bramble yesterday at four o’clock, and was to fight him again to-morrow at half-past twelve, but at the call of common danger he forgot the feud and tore up the stairs, two steps at a time, beside his chronic enemy.
“What’s the row?” he gasped, as they flew along.
“Row? Why, what do you think? Young Bellerby has been doctored for tying a string across the passage!”
“Had up before the Doctor? My eye, Bramble!”
“It is your eye indeed! One of the monitors tripped over it, and got in a rage, and there’s Bellerby now catching it in the Black Hole. Come on to the meeting; quick!”
The two rushed on, joined by one and another of their fellows who had heard the terrible news. The party rushed pellmell into the Fourth Junior class-room, where were already assembled a score or more youths, shouting, and stamping, and howling like madmen. At the sight of Bramble, the acknowledged leader of all malcontents, they quieted down for a moment to hear what he had to say.
“Here’s a go!” classically began that hero.
At this the clamour, swelled twofold by the new additions, rose louder than ever. Itwasa go!
“I wish it had beenme!” again yelled Bramble; “I have let them know.”
Once more the shouts rose high and loud in approval of this noble sentiment.
“I’dhave kicked their legs!” once more howled Bramble, as soon as he could make himself heard.
“So would we; kicked their legs!”
“They ought to be hanged!” screamed Bramble.
“I’llnot fag any more for Wren!” bellowed Bramble.
“I’ll not fag any more for Greenfield senior!” thundered Paul.
“I’ll not fag any more for Loman!” shrieked Stephen.
“Why don’t some of you put poison in their teas?” cried one.
“Or blow them up when they’re in bed with gunpowder?”
“Or flay them alive?”
“Or boil them in tar?”
“Or throw them into the lions’ den?”
“Those who say we won’t stand it any longer,” shouted Bramble, jumping up on to a form, “hold up your hands!”
A perfect forest of inky hands arose, and a shout with them that almost shook the ceiling.
At that moment the door opened, and Wren appeared. The effect was magical; every one became suddenly quiet, and looked another way.
“The next time there’s a noise like that,” said the monitor, “the whole class will be detained one hour,” and, so saying, departed.
After that the indignation meeting was kept up in whispers. Now and then the feelings of the assembly broke out into words, but the noise was instantly checked.
“If young Bellerby has been flogged,” said Bramble, in a most sepulchral undertone, “I’ve a good mind to fight every one of them!”
“Yes, every one of them,” whispered the multitude.
“They’re all as bad as each other!” gasped Bramble.
“We’lllet them know,” muttered the audience.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve a good mind to—to—ur—ur—I’ve a good mind to—ugh!”
Again the door opened. This time it was Callonby.
“Where’s young Raddleston?—Whatareyou young beggars up to?—is Raddleston here?”
“Yes,” mildly answered the voice of Master Raddleston, who a moment ago had nearly broken a blood-vessel in his endeavours to scream in a whisper.
“Come here, then.”
The fag meekly obeyed.
“Oh, and Greenfield junior,” said Callonby, as he was turning to depart, “Loman wants to know when you are going to get his tea; you’re to go at once, he says.”
Stephen obeyed, and was very humble in explaining to Loman that he had forgotten (which was the case) the time. The meeting in the Fourth class-room lasted most of the afternoon; but as oratory in whispers is tedious, and constant repetition of the same sentiments, however patriotic, is monotonous, it flagged considerably in spirit towards the end, and degenerated into one of the usual wrangles between Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, in the midst of which Master Bramble left the chair, and went off in the meekest manner possible to get Wren to help him with his sums for next day.
Stephen meanwhile was engaged in doing a little piece of business for Loman, of which more must be said in a following chapter.
Chapter Eleven.In the Toils.The afternoon of the famous “indignation meeting” in the Fourth Junior was the afternoon of the week which Mr Cripps the younger, putting aside for a season the anxieties and responsibilities of his “public” duties in Maltby, usually devoted to the pursuit of the “gentle craft,” at his worthy father’s cottage by Gusset Weir. Loman, who was aware of this circumstance, and on whose spirit that restless top joint had continued to prey ever since the evening of the misadventure a week ago, determined to avail himself of the opportunity of returning the unlucky fishing-rod into the hands from which he had received it.He therefore instructed Stephen to take it up to the lock-house with a note to the effect that having changed his mind in the matter since speaking to Cripps, he found he should not require the rod, and therefore returned it, with many thanks for Mr Cripps’s trouble.Stephen, little suspecting the questionable nature of his errand, undertook the commission, and duly delivered both rod and letter into the hands of Mr Cripps, who greatly astonished him by swearing very violently at the contents of the letter. “Well,” said he, when he had exhausted his vocabulary (not a small one) of expletives—“well, of all the grinning jackanapeses, this is the coolest go! Do you take me for a fool?”Stephen, to whom this question appeared to be directly applied, disclaimed any idea of the kind, and added, “I don’t know what you mean.”“Don’t you, my young master? All right! Tell Mr Loman I’ll wait upon him one fine day, see if I don’t! Here’s me, given up a whole blessed day to serve him, and a pot of money out of my pocket, and here he goes! not a penny for my pains! Chucks the thing back on my ’ands as cool as a coocumber, all because he’s changed his mind. I’ll let him have a bit of my mind, tell him, Mr Gentleman Schoolboy, see if I don’t. I ain’t a-going to be robbed, no! not by all the blessed monkeys that ever wrote on slates!I’llwait upon him, see if I don’t!”Stephen, to whom the whole of this oration, which was garnished with words that we can hardly set down in print, or degrade ourselves by suggesting, was about as intelligible as if it had been Hebrew, thought it better to make no reply, and sorrowed inwardly to find that such a nice man as Mr Cripps should possess so short a temper. But the landlord of the Cockchafer soon recovered from his temporary annoyance, and even proceeded to apologise to Stephen for the warmth of his language.“You’ll excuse me, young gentleman,” said he, “but I’m a plain-spoken man, and I was—there, I won’t deny it—I was a bit put out about this here rod first go off. You’ll excuse me—of course I don’t mean no offence to you or Mister Loman neither, who’s one of the nicest young gentlemen I ever met. Of course if you’d a’ paid seventy bob out of your own pocket it would giveyoua turn; leastways, if you was a struggling, honest working man, like me.”“That’s it,” snivelled, old Mr Cripps, who had entered during this last speech; “that’s it, Benny, my boy, honest Partisans, that’s what we is, who knows what it are to be in want of a shillin’ to buy a clo’ or two for the little childer.”What particular little “childer” Mr Cripps senior and his son were specially interested in no one knew, for neither of them was blessed with any. However, it was one of old Mr Cripps’s heart-moving phrases, and no one was rude enough to ask questions.Stephen did not, on the present occasion, feel moved to respond to the old man’s lament, and Cripps junior, with more adroitness than filial affection, hustled the old gentleman out of the door.“Never mind him,” said he to Stephen. “He’s a silly old man, and always pretends he’s starvin’. If you believe me, he’s a thousand pounds stowed away somewheres. I on’y wish,” added he, with a sigh, “he’d give me a taste of it, for its ’ard, up-’ill work makin’ ends meet, particular when a man’s deceived by parties. No matter. I’ll pull through; you see!”Stephen once more did not feel called upon to pursue this line of conversation, and therefore changed the subject.“Oh, Mr Cripps, how much is that bat?”“Bat! Bless me if I hadn’t nearly forgot all about it. Ain’t it a beauty, now?”“Yes, pretty well,” said Stephen, whose friends had one and all abused the bat, and who was himself a little disappointed in his expectations.“Pretty well! I like that. You must be a funny cricketer, young gentleman, to call that bat only pretty well. I suppose you want me to takethatback, too?” and here Mr Cripps looked very fierce.“Oh, no,” said Stephen, hurriedly. “I only want to know what I am to pay for it.”“Oh, come now, we needn’t mind about that. That’ll keep, you know. As if I wanted the money. Ha, ha!”Even a green boy like Stephen could not fail to wonder why, if Mr Cripps was as hard up as he had just described himself, he should now be so anxious to represent himself as not in want of money.“Please, I want to know the price.”“As if I was a-going to name prices to a young gentleman like you! Please yourself about it. I shall not be disappointed if you gives me only eighteenpence, and ifyouthinks twelve bob is handsome, well, let it be.Ican struggle on somehow.”This was uncomfortable for Stephen, who, too green, fortunately, to comprehend the drift of Mr Cripps’s gentle hints, again asked that he would name a price.This time Mr Cripps answered more precisely.“Well, that there bat is worth a guinea, if you want to know, but I’ll say a sovereign for cash down.”Stephen whistled a long-drawn whistle of dismay.“A sovereign! I can’t pay all that! I thought it would be about seven shillings!”“Did you? You may think what you like, but that’s my price, and you are lucky to get it at that.”“I shall have to send it back. I can’t afford so much,” said Stephen, despondingly.“Not if I know it! I’ll have none of your second-hand bats, if I know it. Come, young gentleman, I may be a poor man, but I’m not a fool, and you’ll find it out if I’ve any of your nonsense. Do you suppose I’ve nothing to do but wait on jackanapeses like you and your mates? No error! There you are. That’ll do, and if you don’t like it—well, the governor shall know about it!”Stephen was dreadfully uncomfortable. Though, to his knowledge, he had done nothing wrong, he felt terribly guilty at the bare notion of the Doctor being informed of his transactions with Mr Cripps, besides greatly in awe of the vague threats held out by that gentleman. He did not venture on further argument, but, bidding a hasty farewell, returned as fast as he could to Saint Dominic’s, wondering whatever Oliver would say, and sorely repenting the day when first he was tempted to think of the unlucky bat.He made a clean breast of it to his brother that evening, who, of course, called him an ass, and everything else complimentary, and was deservedly angry. However, Stephen had reason to consider himself lucky to possess an elder brother at the school who had a little more shrewdness than himself. Oliver was determined the debt should be paid at once, without even waiting to write home, and by borrowing ten shillings from Wraysford, and adding to it the residue of his own pocket-money, the sovereign was raised and dispatched that very night to Mr Cripps; after which Oliver commanded his brother to sit down and write a full confession of his folly home, and ask for the money, promising never to make such a fool of himself again. This task the small boy, with much shame and trembling at heart, accomplished; and in due time an answer came from his mother which not only relieved his mind but paid off his debts to Oliver and Wraysford, and once for all closed the business of the treble-cane splice bat.It would have been well for Loman if he could have got out of his difficulties as easily and as satisfactorily.Ever since he had gathered from Stephen Mr Cripps’s wrath on receiving the returned rod, he had been haunted by a dread lest the landlord of the Cockchafer should march up to Saint Dominic’s, and possibly make an exposure of the unhappy business before the Doctor and the whole school. He therefore, after long hesitation and misgiving, determined himself to call at the Cockchafer, and try in some way to settle matters. One thing reassured him. If Cripps had discovered the crack or the fracture in the rod, he would have heard of it long before now; and if he had not, then the longer the time the less chance was there of the damage being laid at his door. So he let three weeks elapse, and then went to Maltby. The Cockchafer was a small, unpretentious tavern, frequented chiefly by carriers and tradesmen, and, I regret to say, not wholly unknown to some of the boys of Saint Dominic’s, who were foolish enough to persuade themselves that skittles, and billiards, and beer were luxuries worth the risk incurred by breaking one of the rules of the school. No boy was permitted to enter any place of refreshment except a confectioner’s in Maltby under the penalty of a severe punishment, which might, in a bad case, mean expulsion. Loman, therefore, a monitor and a Sixth Form boy, had to take more than ordinary precautions to reach the Cockchafer unobserved, which he succeeded in doing, and to his satisfaction—as well as to his trepidation—found Mr Cripps the younger at home.“Ho, he! my young shaver,” was that worthy’s greeting, “here you are at last.”This was not encouraging to begin with. It sounded very much as if Mr Cripps had been looking forward to this visit. However, Loman put as bold a face as he could on to it, and replied, “Hullo, Cripps, how are you? It’s a long time since I saw you; jolly day, isn’t it?”“Jolly!” replied Mr Cripps, looking very gloomy, and drawing a glass of beer for the young gentleman before he ordered it. Loman did not like it at all. There was something about Cripps’s manner that made him feel very uncomfortable.“Oh, Cripps,” he presently began, in as off-hand a manner as he could assume under the depressing circumstances—“Oh, Cripps, about that rod, by the way. I hope you didn’t mind my sending it back. The fact is,” (and here followed a lie which till that moment had not been in the speaker’s mind to tell)—“the fact is, I find I’m to get a present of a rod this summer at home, or else of course I would have kept it.”Mr Cripps said nothing, but began polishing up a pewter pot with a napkin.“I hope you got it back all right,” continued Loman, who felt as if he must say something. “They are such fragile things, you know. I thought I’d just leave it in the bag and not touch it, but send it straight back, for fear it should be damaged.”There was a queer smile about Mr Cripps’s mouth as he asked, “Then you didn’t have a look at it even?”“Well, no, I thought I would—I thought I wouldn’t run any risk.”Loman was amazed at himself. He had suddenly made up his mind to tell one lie, but here they were following one after another, as if he had told nothing but lies all his life! Alas, there was no drawing back either!“The fact is,” he began again, speaking for the sake of speaking, and not even knowing what he was going to say—“the fact is—” Here the street door opened, and there entered hurriedly a boy whom Loman, to his confusion and consternation, recognised as Simon of the Fifth, the author of the “Love-Ballad.” What could the monitor say for himself to explain his presence in this prohibited house?“Hullo, Loman, I say, is that you?” remarked Simon.“Oh, Simon, how are you?” faltered the wretched Loman; “I’ve just popped in to speak to Cripps about a fishing-rod. You’d better not come in; you might get into trouble.”“Oh, never mind. You won’t tell of me, and I won’t tell of you. Glass of the usual, please, Cripps. I say, Loman, was that the fishing-rod you were switching about out of your window that afternoon three weeks ago?”Loman turned red and white by turns, and wished the earth would swallow him! And to think of this fellow, the biggest donkey in Saint Dominic’s, blurting out the very thing which of all things he had striven to keep concealed!Mr Cripps’s mouth worked up into a still more ugly smile.“I was below in the garden, you know, and could not make out what you were up to. You nearly had my eye out with that hook. I say, what a smash you gave it when it caught in the ivy. Was it broken right off, or only cracked, eh? Cripps will mend it for you, won’t you, Cripps?”Neither Mr Cripps nor Loman spoke a word. The latter saw that concealment was no longer possible; and bitterly he rued the day when first he heard the name of Cripps.That worthy, seeing the game to have come beautifully into his own hands, was not slow to take advantage of it. He beckoned Loman into the inner parlour, whither the boy tremblingly followed, leaving Simon to finish his glass of “the usual” undisturbed.I need not repeat the painful conversation that ensued between the sharper and the wretched boy. It was no use for the latter to deny or explain. He was at the mercy of the man, and poor mercy it was. Cripps, with many oaths and threats, explained to Loman that he could, if he chose, have him up before a magistrate for fraud, and that he would do so for a very little. Loman might choose for himself between a complete exposure, involving his disgrace for life, or paying the price of the rod down and 20 besides, and he might consider himself lucky more was not demanded.The boy, driven to desperation between terror and shame, implored mercy, and protested with tears in his eyes that he would do anything, if only Cripps did not expose him.“You know what it is, then,” replied Cripps.“But how am I to get the 20 pounds? I daren’t ask for it at home, and there’s no one here will lend it me. Oh, Cripps, what shall I do?” and the boy actually caught Mr Cripps’s hand in his own as he put the question.“Well, look here,” said Mr Cripps, unbending a little, “that 20 pounds I must have, there’s no mistake about it; but I don’t want to be too hard on you, and I can put you up to raising the wind.”“Oh, can you?” gasped Loman, eager to clutch at the faintest straw of hope. “I’ll do anything.”“Very good; then it’s just this: I’ve just got a straight tip about the Derby that I know for certain no one else has got—that is, that Sir Patrick won’t win, favourite and all as he is. Now there’s a friend of mine I can introduce you to, who’s just wanting to put a twenty on the horse, if he can find any one to take it. It wouldn’t do for me to make the wager, or he’d smell a rat; but if you put your moneyagainstthe horse, you’re bound to win, and all safe. What do you say?”“I don’t know anything about betting,” groaned Loman. “Are you quite sure I’d win?”“Certain. If you lose I’ll only ask 10 pounds of you, there! that’s as good as giving you 10 pounds myself on the horse, eh?”“Well,” said Loman, “I suppose I must. Where is he?”“Wait here a minute, and I’ll bring him round.”Loman waited, racked by a sense of ignominy and terror. Yet this seemed his only hope. Could he but get this 20 pounds and pay off Cripps he would be happy. Oh, how he repented listening to that first temptation to deceive!In due time Mr Cripps returned with his friend, who was very civil on hearing Loman’s desire to bet against Sir Patrick.“Make it a 50 pounds note while you are about it,” said he.“No, 20 pounds is all I want to go for,” replied Loman.“Twenty then, all serene, sir,” said the gentleman, booking the bet. “What’ll you take to drink?”“Nothing, thank you,” said Loman, hurriedly rising to leave.“Good-day, sir,” said Cripps, holding out his hand.Loman looked at the hand and then at Mr Cripps’s face. There was the same ugly leer about the latter, into which a spark of anger was infused as the boy still held back from the proffered hand.With an inward groan Loman gave the hand a spiritless grasp, and then hurried back miserable and conscience-stricken to Saint Dominic’s.
The afternoon of the famous “indignation meeting” in the Fourth Junior was the afternoon of the week which Mr Cripps the younger, putting aside for a season the anxieties and responsibilities of his “public” duties in Maltby, usually devoted to the pursuit of the “gentle craft,” at his worthy father’s cottage by Gusset Weir. Loman, who was aware of this circumstance, and on whose spirit that restless top joint had continued to prey ever since the evening of the misadventure a week ago, determined to avail himself of the opportunity of returning the unlucky fishing-rod into the hands from which he had received it.
He therefore instructed Stephen to take it up to the lock-house with a note to the effect that having changed his mind in the matter since speaking to Cripps, he found he should not require the rod, and therefore returned it, with many thanks for Mr Cripps’s trouble.
Stephen, little suspecting the questionable nature of his errand, undertook the commission, and duly delivered both rod and letter into the hands of Mr Cripps, who greatly astonished him by swearing very violently at the contents of the letter. “Well,” said he, when he had exhausted his vocabulary (not a small one) of expletives—“well, of all the grinning jackanapeses, this is the coolest go! Do you take me for a fool?”
Stephen, to whom this question appeared to be directly applied, disclaimed any idea of the kind, and added, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you, my young master? All right! Tell Mr Loman I’ll wait upon him one fine day, see if I don’t! Here’s me, given up a whole blessed day to serve him, and a pot of money out of my pocket, and here he goes! not a penny for my pains! Chucks the thing back on my ’ands as cool as a coocumber, all because he’s changed his mind. I’ll let him have a bit of my mind, tell him, Mr Gentleman Schoolboy, see if I don’t. I ain’t a-going to be robbed, no! not by all the blessed monkeys that ever wrote on slates!I’llwait upon him, see if I don’t!”
Stephen, to whom the whole of this oration, which was garnished with words that we can hardly set down in print, or degrade ourselves by suggesting, was about as intelligible as if it had been Hebrew, thought it better to make no reply, and sorrowed inwardly to find that such a nice man as Mr Cripps should possess so short a temper. But the landlord of the Cockchafer soon recovered from his temporary annoyance, and even proceeded to apologise to Stephen for the warmth of his language.
“You’ll excuse me, young gentleman,” said he, “but I’m a plain-spoken man, and I was—there, I won’t deny it—I was a bit put out about this here rod first go off. You’ll excuse me—of course I don’t mean no offence to you or Mister Loman neither, who’s one of the nicest young gentlemen I ever met. Of course if you’d a’ paid seventy bob out of your own pocket it would giveyoua turn; leastways, if you was a struggling, honest working man, like me.”
“That’s it,” snivelled, old Mr Cripps, who had entered during this last speech; “that’s it, Benny, my boy, honest Partisans, that’s what we is, who knows what it are to be in want of a shillin’ to buy a clo’ or two for the little childer.”
What particular little “childer” Mr Cripps senior and his son were specially interested in no one knew, for neither of them was blessed with any. However, it was one of old Mr Cripps’s heart-moving phrases, and no one was rude enough to ask questions.
Stephen did not, on the present occasion, feel moved to respond to the old man’s lament, and Cripps junior, with more adroitness than filial affection, hustled the old gentleman out of the door.
“Never mind him,” said he to Stephen. “He’s a silly old man, and always pretends he’s starvin’. If you believe me, he’s a thousand pounds stowed away somewheres. I on’y wish,” added he, with a sigh, “he’d give me a taste of it, for its ’ard, up-’ill work makin’ ends meet, particular when a man’s deceived by parties. No matter. I’ll pull through; you see!”
Stephen once more did not feel called upon to pursue this line of conversation, and therefore changed the subject.
“Oh, Mr Cripps, how much is that bat?”
“Bat! Bless me if I hadn’t nearly forgot all about it. Ain’t it a beauty, now?”
“Yes, pretty well,” said Stephen, whose friends had one and all abused the bat, and who was himself a little disappointed in his expectations.
“Pretty well! I like that. You must be a funny cricketer, young gentleman, to call that bat only pretty well. I suppose you want me to takethatback, too?” and here Mr Cripps looked very fierce.
“Oh, no,” said Stephen, hurriedly. “I only want to know what I am to pay for it.”
“Oh, come now, we needn’t mind about that. That’ll keep, you know. As if I wanted the money. Ha, ha!”
Even a green boy like Stephen could not fail to wonder why, if Mr Cripps was as hard up as he had just described himself, he should now be so anxious to represent himself as not in want of money.
“Please, I want to know the price.”
“As if I was a-going to name prices to a young gentleman like you! Please yourself about it. I shall not be disappointed if you gives me only eighteenpence, and ifyouthinks twelve bob is handsome, well, let it be.Ican struggle on somehow.”
This was uncomfortable for Stephen, who, too green, fortunately, to comprehend the drift of Mr Cripps’s gentle hints, again asked that he would name a price.
This time Mr Cripps answered more precisely.
“Well, that there bat is worth a guinea, if you want to know, but I’ll say a sovereign for cash down.”
Stephen whistled a long-drawn whistle of dismay.
“A sovereign! I can’t pay all that! I thought it would be about seven shillings!”
“Did you? You may think what you like, but that’s my price, and you are lucky to get it at that.”
“I shall have to send it back. I can’t afford so much,” said Stephen, despondingly.
“Not if I know it! I’ll have none of your second-hand bats, if I know it. Come, young gentleman, I may be a poor man, but I’m not a fool, and you’ll find it out if I’ve any of your nonsense. Do you suppose I’ve nothing to do but wait on jackanapeses like you and your mates? No error! There you are. That’ll do, and if you don’t like it—well, the governor shall know about it!”
Stephen was dreadfully uncomfortable. Though, to his knowledge, he had done nothing wrong, he felt terribly guilty at the bare notion of the Doctor being informed of his transactions with Mr Cripps, besides greatly in awe of the vague threats held out by that gentleman. He did not venture on further argument, but, bidding a hasty farewell, returned as fast as he could to Saint Dominic’s, wondering whatever Oliver would say, and sorely repenting the day when first he was tempted to think of the unlucky bat.
He made a clean breast of it to his brother that evening, who, of course, called him an ass, and everything else complimentary, and was deservedly angry. However, Stephen had reason to consider himself lucky to possess an elder brother at the school who had a little more shrewdness than himself. Oliver was determined the debt should be paid at once, without even waiting to write home, and by borrowing ten shillings from Wraysford, and adding to it the residue of his own pocket-money, the sovereign was raised and dispatched that very night to Mr Cripps; after which Oliver commanded his brother to sit down and write a full confession of his folly home, and ask for the money, promising never to make such a fool of himself again. This task the small boy, with much shame and trembling at heart, accomplished; and in due time an answer came from his mother which not only relieved his mind but paid off his debts to Oliver and Wraysford, and once for all closed the business of the treble-cane splice bat.
It would have been well for Loman if he could have got out of his difficulties as easily and as satisfactorily.
Ever since he had gathered from Stephen Mr Cripps’s wrath on receiving the returned rod, he had been haunted by a dread lest the landlord of the Cockchafer should march up to Saint Dominic’s, and possibly make an exposure of the unhappy business before the Doctor and the whole school. He therefore, after long hesitation and misgiving, determined himself to call at the Cockchafer, and try in some way to settle matters. One thing reassured him. If Cripps had discovered the crack or the fracture in the rod, he would have heard of it long before now; and if he had not, then the longer the time the less chance was there of the damage being laid at his door. So he let three weeks elapse, and then went to Maltby. The Cockchafer was a small, unpretentious tavern, frequented chiefly by carriers and tradesmen, and, I regret to say, not wholly unknown to some of the boys of Saint Dominic’s, who were foolish enough to persuade themselves that skittles, and billiards, and beer were luxuries worth the risk incurred by breaking one of the rules of the school. No boy was permitted to enter any place of refreshment except a confectioner’s in Maltby under the penalty of a severe punishment, which might, in a bad case, mean expulsion. Loman, therefore, a monitor and a Sixth Form boy, had to take more than ordinary precautions to reach the Cockchafer unobserved, which he succeeded in doing, and to his satisfaction—as well as to his trepidation—found Mr Cripps the younger at home.
“Ho, he! my young shaver,” was that worthy’s greeting, “here you are at last.”
This was not encouraging to begin with. It sounded very much as if Mr Cripps had been looking forward to this visit. However, Loman put as bold a face as he could on to it, and replied, “Hullo, Cripps, how are you? It’s a long time since I saw you; jolly day, isn’t it?”
“Jolly!” replied Mr Cripps, looking very gloomy, and drawing a glass of beer for the young gentleman before he ordered it. Loman did not like it at all. There was something about Cripps’s manner that made him feel very uncomfortable.
“Oh, Cripps,” he presently began, in as off-hand a manner as he could assume under the depressing circumstances—“Oh, Cripps, about that rod, by the way. I hope you didn’t mind my sending it back. The fact is,” (and here followed a lie which till that moment had not been in the speaker’s mind to tell)—“the fact is, I find I’m to get a present of a rod this summer at home, or else of course I would have kept it.”
Mr Cripps said nothing, but began polishing up a pewter pot with a napkin.
“I hope you got it back all right,” continued Loman, who felt as if he must say something. “They are such fragile things, you know. I thought I’d just leave it in the bag and not touch it, but send it straight back, for fear it should be damaged.”
There was a queer smile about Mr Cripps’s mouth as he asked, “Then you didn’t have a look at it even?”
“Well, no, I thought I would—I thought I wouldn’t run any risk.”
Loman was amazed at himself. He had suddenly made up his mind to tell one lie, but here they were following one after another, as if he had told nothing but lies all his life! Alas, there was no drawing back either!
“The fact is,” he began again, speaking for the sake of speaking, and not even knowing what he was going to say—“the fact is—” Here the street door opened, and there entered hurriedly a boy whom Loman, to his confusion and consternation, recognised as Simon of the Fifth, the author of the “Love-Ballad.” What could the monitor say for himself to explain his presence in this prohibited house?
“Hullo, Loman, I say, is that you?” remarked Simon.
“Oh, Simon, how are you?” faltered the wretched Loman; “I’ve just popped in to speak to Cripps about a fishing-rod. You’d better not come in; you might get into trouble.”
“Oh, never mind. You won’t tell of me, and I won’t tell of you. Glass of the usual, please, Cripps. I say, Loman, was that the fishing-rod you were switching about out of your window that afternoon three weeks ago?”
Loman turned red and white by turns, and wished the earth would swallow him! And to think of this fellow, the biggest donkey in Saint Dominic’s, blurting out the very thing which of all things he had striven to keep concealed!
Mr Cripps’s mouth worked up into a still more ugly smile.
“I was below in the garden, you know, and could not make out what you were up to. You nearly had my eye out with that hook. I say, what a smash you gave it when it caught in the ivy. Was it broken right off, or only cracked, eh? Cripps will mend it for you, won’t you, Cripps?”
Neither Mr Cripps nor Loman spoke a word. The latter saw that concealment was no longer possible; and bitterly he rued the day when first he heard the name of Cripps.
That worthy, seeing the game to have come beautifully into his own hands, was not slow to take advantage of it. He beckoned Loman into the inner parlour, whither the boy tremblingly followed, leaving Simon to finish his glass of “the usual” undisturbed.
I need not repeat the painful conversation that ensued between the sharper and the wretched boy. It was no use for the latter to deny or explain. He was at the mercy of the man, and poor mercy it was. Cripps, with many oaths and threats, explained to Loman that he could, if he chose, have him up before a magistrate for fraud, and that he would do so for a very little. Loman might choose for himself between a complete exposure, involving his disgrace for life, or paying the price of the rod down and 20 besides, and he might consider himself lucky more was not demanded.
The boy, driven to desperation between terror and shame, implored mercy, and protested with tears in his eyes that he would do anything, if only Cripps did not expose him.
“You know what it is, then,” replied Cripps.
“But how am I to get the 20 pounds? I daren’t ask for it at home, and there’s no one here will lend it me. Oh, Cripps, what shall I do?” and the boy actually caught Mr Cripps’s hand in his own as he put the question.
“Well, look here,” said Mr Cripps, unbending a little, “that 20 pounds I must have, there’s no mistake about it; but I don’t want to be too hard on you, and I can put you up to raising the wind.”
“Oh, can you?” gasped Loman, eager to clutch at the faintest straw of hope. “I’ll do anything.”
“Very good; then it’s just this: I’ve just got a straight tip about the Derby that I know for certain no one else has got—that is, that Sir Patrick won’t win, favourite and all as he is. Now there’s a friend of mine I can introduce you to, who’s just wanting to put a twenty on the horse, if he can find any one to take it. It wouldn’t do for me to make the wager, or he’d smell a rat; but if you put your moneyagainstthe horse, you’re bound to win, and all safe. What do you say?”
“I don’t know anything about betting,” groaned Loman. “Are you quite sure I’d win?”
“Certain. If you lose I’ll only ask 10 pounds of you, there! that’s as good as giving you 10 pounds myself on the horse, eh?”
“Well,” said Loman, “I suppose I must. Where is he?”
“Wait here a minute, and I’ll bring him round.”
Loman waited, racked by a sense of ignominy and terror. Yet this seemed his only hope. Could he but get this 20 pounds and pay off Cripps he would be happy. Oh, how he repented listening to that first temptation to deceive!
In due time Mr Cripps returned with his friend, who was very civil on hearing Loman’s desire to bet against Sir Patrick.
“Make it a 50 pounds note while you are about it,” said he.
“No, 20 pounds is all I want to go for,” replied Loman.
“Twenty then, all serene, sir,” said the gentleman, booking the bet. “What’ll you take to drink?”
“Nothing, thank you,” said Loman, hurriedly rising to leave.
“Good-day, sir,” said Cripps, holding out his hand.
Loman looked at the hand and then at Mr Cripps’s face. There was the same ugly leer about the latter, into which a spark of anger was infused as the boy still held back from the proffered hand.
With an inward groan Loman gave the hand a spiritless grasp, and then hurried back miserable and conscience-stricken to Saint Dominic’s.