Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Twelve.The “Dominican” again.The circumstances which had attended the publication of the first number of theDominicanhad been such as to throw a damper over the future success of that valuable paper. It was most uncomfortably connected in the minds of the Fifth with the cowardice of Oliver Greenfield, and with the stigma which his conduct had cast upon the whole Form, and they one and all experienced a great diminution of interest in its future.The Fifth were far more intent on vindicating their reputation with the Sixth—and, indeed, with the rest of the school. They sought every opportunity of bringing on a collision with the monitors. One or two of their number went, so far as to pick quarrels with members of the rival class, in hopes of a fight. But in this they were not successful. The Sixth chose to look upon this display of feeling among their juniors as a temporary aberration of mind, and were by no means to be tempted into hostilities. They asserted their authority wherever they could enforce it, and sacrificed it whenever it seemed more discreet to do so. Only one thing evoked a temporary display of vexation from them, and that was when Ricketts and Braddy appeared one day, arm-in-arm, in the passages withtall hatson their heads. Now, tall hats on week-days were the exclusive privilege of the Sixth at Saint Dominic’s, and, worn by them during school hours, served as the badge of monitorship. This action on the part of the Fifth, therefore, was as good as a usurpation of monitorial rights, and that the Sixth were not disposed to stand. However, Raleigh, the captain, when appealed to, pooh-poohed the matter. “Let them be,” said he; “what do you want to make a row about it for? If the boys do mistake them for monitors, so much the less row in the passages.”Raleigh was always a man of peace—though it was rumoured he could, if he chose, thrash any two Dominicans going—and the monitors were much disgusted to find that he did not authorise them to interfere with the Fifth in the matter. But the Fifthwereinterfered with in another quarter, and in a way which caused them to drop their chimney-pots completely. One afternoon the entire Fourth Junior appeared in the corridors in their Sunday tiles! In their Sunday tiles they slid down the banisters; in their Sunday tiles they played leapfrog; in their Sunday tiles they executed a monster tug-of-war in the bottom corridor! Stephen and Bramble fought their usual battle in top hats, and Master Paul insisted on wearing the same decoration while washing up Oliver’s tea-things. It was a splendid hit, and for once in a way Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles scored one, for the Fifth appeared next day in their ordinary “boilers,” and the dignity of the monitors was vindicated.But the blood was up between Fifth and Sixth, and each Form looked forward to the match, SixthversusSchool, with redoubled interest.“Were not these boys fools?” some one asks.To be sure they were, sir. But what of that? they were none the less boys, and most of them fine young fellows, too, with all their nonsense.However, as has been said, all this came out of the circumstances which attended the bringing out of the first number of theDominican, and there seemed but a poor look-out for Number 2, which was now nearly due, in consequence.“What on earth am I to do?” asked Pembury of Tom Senior one day; “I’ve not got a single contribution yet. There’s you making out you’re too busy, and Rick the same. It’s all humbug, I know! What are you busy at I’d like to know? I never saw you busy yet.”“Upon my word, old man,” said Tom, “I’m awfully sorry, but I’ve got a tremendous lot to do. I’m going to try for the French prize; I am, really.”“And you’ll get it, too; rather! Wasn’t it you who translated ‘I know the way to write’ into ‘Je non le chemin a writer’ eh? Oh, stick to French by all means, Tom; it’s in your line! But you might just as well write for Number 2.”“I really can’t this time,” said Tom.Ricketts had an excuse very similar. Bullinger had hurt his foot, he said, and could not possibly write; and Braddy had begun to study fossils, he said, and was bound to devote all his spare time to them. To all of whom Master Pembury gave a piece of his mind.“Wray, old man,” said he, that evening, “you and Noll and I shall have to do the whole thing between us, that’s all about it.”“Awfully sorry!” said Wraysford; “you’ll have to let me off this time. I’m working like nails for the Nightingale.”“Bother the Nightingale, I say! What is it to theDominican? Come, I say, old man, that won’t do! you aren’t going to leave me in the lurch like all the rest?”But Wraysford was; he would gladly have helped if he could, but he really must not this time; perhaps he would for the next.Oliver was as bad; he declared the things he had written before—even with Pembury’s assistance—had taken him such ages to do, that he wasn’t going in for the next number. He was very sorry to disappoint, and all that; but if Tony was in for a scholarship next Michaelmas he would understand the reason. Why not let the thing drop this month?This, however, by no means met Tony’s views. A pretty figure he would cut if it were to be said he couldn’t keep up a paper for two numbers running! No! his mind was made up. Number 2shouldcome out, even if he wrote every word of it himself! And with that determination he hobbled off to his study. Here he met Simon waiting for him.“Oh,” said the poet; “I only brought this, if you’ll put it in. I think it’s not bad. I could make it longer if you like. I find poetry comes so easily, you know!”Tony glanced over the paper and grinned. “Thanks, awfully! This will do capitally; it would spoil it to make it any longer. You’re a brick, Simon! I wishIcould write poetry.”“Oh, never mind. I could do some more bits about other things, you know, if you like.”Pembury said he didn’t think he should require any more “bits,” but was awfully obliged by this one, which was first-rate, a recommendation which sent Simon away happy to his study, there immediately to compose the opening stanza of his famous epic, “The Sole’s Allegery—a sacred Poem.”With one contribution in hand, Tony locked his door and sat down to write. There was something out of the common about Pembury. With the body of a cripple he had the heart of a lion, and difficulties only made it more dauntless. Any one else would have thought twice, indeed, before undertaking the task he was now setting himself to do, and ninety-nine out of every hundred would have abandoned it before it was half done. But Tony was indomitable. Every night that week he locked his study-door, and threats and kicks and entreaties would not open it even to his dearest friends. And slowly the huge white sheet before him showed the signs of his diligence. The great long columns, one after another, filled up; paragraph followed paragraph, and article article. He coolly continued the “History of Saint Dominic’s” begun last month by Bullinger, and the “Reports of the Sixth Form Debates” commenced by Tom Senior. And the “Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse” went on just as if Wraysford had never abandoned it; and the poem on the Guinea-pigs, promised in Number 1, by the author of “To a Tadpole,” duly appeared also. Besides this, there were the continuations of Tony’s own articles, and his “Personal Notes,” and “Squeaks from Tadpoleopolis,” and advertisements just as usual; until, in due time, the last column was filled up, the sheet triumphantly fixed in its frame, and as triumphantly hung up on its own particular nails on the wall outside the Fifth Form door.It was a feat to be proud of, and Tony was justly and pardonably proud. It was at least a gratification next morning to see not only that the school generally took unabated interest in theDominican, but that he had fairly astonished his own class-fellows. Their admiration of the editor was unbounded and undisguised. Their consciences had all, more or less, reproached them for backing out of their responsibilities in the way they had; and now it quite touched them to see how, notwithstanding, Anthony had by his own labour made up for their defect, and sustained the reputation of the Fifth before all the school.The crush outside the door was greater than ever this time, and Master Paul, who again acted as policeman, was obliged to summon Stephen to his assistance in watching to see that no damage came to the precious document.The account of the Alphabet Match was very graphic, and written quite in the usual absurd “sporting style,” greatly to the amusement of most of those who had taken part in it. Here is a specimen:—“At 4.30, sharp, the leather was taken into custody by ‘Gamey’ Raikes, at the wash-house end, who tried what his artful ‘yorkers’ could do in the way of dissolving partnership. But Teddy Loman kept his willow straight up, and said ‘Not at home’ to every poser, leaving Noll to do all the smacking. This pretty business might have gone on till to-morrow week had the men’s upper stories been as ‘O.K.’ as their timbers, but they messed about over a pretty snick of Noll’s, and, after popping the question three times, Teddy got home just in time to see his two bails tumble out of their groove. Teddy didn’t like this, and bowled his partner a wide compliment, which Noll, like a sensible man, didn’t walk out to, and Teddy was astonished to find his party could get on without him;” and so on.This version of the incident was by no means pleasant to Loman, but to every one else it was highly diverting, and it actually made one or two of the Fifth think that Oliver, after all, had not done such a very discreditable thing in taking that angry word in silence. If only he had shown more spirit about the blow, they could have forgiven the rest.Then followed more from the “Sixth Form Mouse”:—“The Sixth held a Cabinet Council to-day to discuss who should go out for nuts. The choice fell on Callonby. I wonder why the Sixth are so fond of nuts. Why, monkeys eat nuts. Perhaps that is the reason. What a popular writer Mr Bohn is with the Sixth! they even read him at lesson time! I was quite sorry when the Doctor had to bone Wren’s Bohn. I wonder, by the way, why that bird found it so hard to translate the simplest sentence without his Bohn! The Doctor really shouldn’t—I hope he will restore to Wren his backbone by giving him back his Bohn. Hum! I heard some one smiling. I’ll go.”The Sixth, a good many of them, were imprudent enough to look very guilty at the reading of this extract, a circumstance which appeared to afford keenest delight to the Fifth. But as Simon’s poem followed, they had other food for thought at the moment. The poem was entitled—A Revverie.I.I walked me in the garden, all in the garden fair,And mused upon my hindmost sole all in the open air.When lo! I heard above my head a sound all like a wisk,I stepped me aside thereat out of the way so brisk.(Hindmost sole, possibly “inmost soul”; wisk, possibly “whisk.”)II.I looked me up, and there behold! and lo! a window broad,And out thereof I did dizzern a gallant fishing-rod,All sporting in the breaze untill the hook in ivy caught,And then the little lad he tried to pull it harder than he ought.III.It broke, alas! and so messeems fades life’s perplecksing dreems,And vanish like that fishing-rod all in the dark messeems.I wonder if my perplecksing dreems will vanish like the rod in the dark,And I shall rise and rise and rise and rise all like a lark.IV.Oh wood I was a lark, a lark all lofty in the sky,I do not know what I should do to quench my blazing eye.I’d look me down on Dominic’s, and think of the days when I was young,Or would I was an infant meek all sucking of my thumb.Again Simon, who had watched with intense interest the reception of his poem, was perplexed to notice the amusement it had caused. Even Pembury had mistaken its “inmost soul,” for he had placed it in the column devoted to “Facetiae.” Nor could Simon understand why, for the next week, every one he met had his thumb in his mouth. It was very queer—one of life’s mysteries—and he had thoughts of embodying the fact in his “Sole’s Allegery,” which was now rapidly approaching completion.After this bubbling up of pure verse there followed a few remarks about Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, which had the effect of highly incensing those young gentlemen. The paragraph was entitled—“Market Intelligence.“Half a dozen mixed Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were offered for sale by auction on the centre landing yesterday. There was only a small attendance. The auctioneer said he couldn’t honestly recommend the lot, but they must be got rid of at any cost. He had scrubbed their faces and combed their hair for the occasion, but couldn’t guarantee that state of things to last. But they might turn out to be of use as substitutes in case worms should become scarce; and, any way, by boiling down their fingers and collars, many gallons of valuable ink could be obtained. The first bid was a farthing, which seemed to be far beyond the expectation of the salesman, who at once knocked the lot down. The sale was such a success that it is proposed to knock down several more lots in a like manner.”The rage of the Fourth Junior on reading this paragraph was something awful to witness. Bramble, feeling he must kick somebody on the legs, kicked Stephen, who, forgetting that he was on police duty, seized Bramble by the hair of his head and rushed off with him to the “meeting,” closely followed by Paul and the whole swarm. That meeting lasted from three to five. What awful threats were uttered, and what awful vows taken, no one knew. At five o’clock Stephen’s fight with Bramble came off as usual, and all that evening Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles did nothing but make paper darts. It was certain a crisis had come in their history. The “dogs of war” were let loose! They would be revenged on somebody! So they at once began to be revenged on one another, till it should be possible to unite their forces against the common foe.But the remainder of the crowd stayed on to read one more extract from theDominican. Under the title of “Reviews of Books,” Anthony had reviewed in style the last number of theSixth Form Magazineas follows:—“This book appears to be the praiseworthy attempt of some ambitious little boys to enter the field of letters. We are always pleased to encourage juvenile talent, but we would suggest that our young friends might have done better had they kept to their picture-books a little longer before launching out into literature on their own account. In the words of the poet we might say—“Babies, wait a little longer,Till the little wings are stronger,Then you’ll fly away.”“Nevertherless, we would refer to one or two of these interesting attempts. Take, for example, the essay on the ‘Character of Julius Caesar,’ by one who signs himself Raleigh. This is very well written. Pains have been taken about the formation of the letters, and some of the capitals are specially worthy of praise. For one so young, we rarely saw the capital D so well done. Dr Smith, were he alive, would be pleased to see his remarks on Caesar so well and accurately copied out. Master Wren gives us some verse—a translation out of Horace. We wonder if Mr Wren is any relation to the late Jenny Wren who married Mr Cock Robin. We should imagine from these verses that Mr Wren must be well acquainted withRobbin. Take one more, Master Loman’s ‘A Funny Story.’ We are sorry to find Master Loman tells stories. Boys shouldn’t tell stories; it’s not right. But Master Loman unfortunately does tell stories, and this is one. He calls it ‘A Funny Story.’ That is a story to begin with, for it is not funny. We don’t know what Master Loman thinks funny; perhaps he calls being run out at cricket funny, or hitting another boy in the mouth when he’s looking another way. In any case, we can’t make out why he calls this story funny. The only funny thing about it is its title, and his spelling ‘attach’ ‘attatch.’ The last is really funny. It shows how partial Mr Loman is totea. If this funny story is the result of his partiality to tea, we are afraid it was very weak stuff.”Loman, who had already been made dreadfully uncomfortable by Simon’s poem, made no secret of his rage over this number of theDominican. He was one of those vain fellows who cannot see a jest where it is levelled at themselves. The rest of the Sixth had the sense, whatever they felt, to laugh at Anthony’s hard hits. But not so Loman; he lost his temper completely. He ordered theDominicanto be taken down; he threatened to report the whole Fifth to the Doctor. He would not allow the junior boys to stand and read it. In short, he made a regular ass of himself.Undoubtedly Anthony had put a great deal of venom into his pen. Still, by taking all the poison and none of the humour to himself Loman made a great mistake, and displayed a most unfortunate amount of weakness.He shut himself up in his study in a fume; he boxed Stephen’s ears for nothing at all, and would see no one for the rest of the evening. He knew well he could not have given his enemies a greater crow over him than such conduct, and yet he could not command his vanity to act otherwise.But that evening, just before tea-time, something happened which gave Loman more to think about than theDominican. A letter marked “Immediate” came to him by the post. It was from Cripps, to say that, after all, Sir Patrickhadwon the Derby!

The circumstances which had attended the publication of the first number of theDominicanhad been such as to throw a damper over the future success of that valuable paper. It was most uncomfortably connected in the minds of the Fifth with the cowardice of Oliver Greenfield, and with the stigma which his conduct had cast upon the whole Form, and they one and all experienced a great diminution of interest in its future.

The Fifth were far more intent on vindicating their reputation with the Sixth—and, indeed, with the rest of the school. They sought every opportunity of bringing on a collision with the monitors. One or two of their number went, so far as to pick quarrels with members of the rival class, in hopes of a fight. But in this they were not successful. The Sixth chose to look upon this display of feeling among their juniors as a temporary aberration of mind, and were by no means to be tempted into hostilities. They asserted their authority wherever they could enforce it, and sacrificed it whenever it seemed more discreet to do so. Only one thing evoked a temporary display of vexation from them, and that was when Ricketts and Braddy appeared one day, arm-in-arm, in the passages withtall hatson their heads. Now, tall hats on week-days were the exclusive privilege of the Sixth at Saint Dominic’s, and, worn by them during school hours, served as the badge of monitorship. This action on the part of the Fifth, therefore, was as good as a usurpation of monitorial rights, and that the Sixth were not disposed to stand. However, Raleigh, the captain, when appealed to, pooh-poohed the matter. “Let them be,” said he; “what do you want to make a row about it for? If the boys do mistake them for monitors, so much the less row in the passages.”

Raleigh was always a man of peace—though it was rumoured he could, if he chose, thrash any two Dominicans going—and the monitors were much disgusted to find that he did not authorise them to interfere with the Fifth in the matter. But the Fifthwereinterfered with in another quarter, and in a way which caused them to drop their chimney-pots completely. One afternoon the entire Fourth Junior appeared in the corridors in their Sunday tiles! In their Sunday tiles they slid down the banisters; in their Sunday tiles they played leapfrog; in their Sunday tiles they executed a monster tug-of-war in the bottom corridor! Stephen and Bramble fought their usual battle in top hats, and Master Paul insisted on wearing the same decoration while washing up Oliver’s tea-things. It was a splendid hit, and for once in a way Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles scored one, for the Fifth appeared next day in their ordinary “boilers,” and the dignity of the monitors was vindicated.

But the blood was up between Fifth and Sixth, and each Form looked forward to the match, SixthversusSchool, with redoubled interest.

“Were not these boys fools?” some one asks.

To be sure they were, sir. But what of that? they were none the less boys, and most of them fine young fellows, too, with all their nonsense.

However, as has been said, all this came out of the circumstances which attended the bringing out of the first number of theDominican, and there seemed but a poor look-out for Number 2, which was now nearly due, in consequence.

“What on earth am I to do?” asked Pembury of Tom Senior one day; “I’ve not got a single contribution yet. There’s you making out you’re too busy, and Rick the same. It’s all humbug, I know! What are you busy at I’d like to know? I never saw you busy yet.”

“Upon my word, old man,” said Tom, “I’m awfully sorry, but I’ve got a tremendous lot to do. I’m going to try for the French prize; I am, really.”

“And you’ll get it, too; rather! Wasn’t it you who translated ‘I know the way to write’ into ‘Je non le chemin a writer’ eh? Oh, stick to French by all means, Tom; it’s in your line! But you might just as well write for Number 2.”

“I really can’t this time,” said Tom.

Ricketts had an excuse very similar. Bullinger had hurt his foot, he said, and could not possibly write; and Braddy had begun to study fossils, he said, and was bound to devote all his spare time to them. To all of whom Master Pembury gave a piece of his mind.

“Wray, old man,” said he, that evening, “you and Noll and I shall have to do the whole thing between us, that’s all about it.”

“Awfully sorry!” said Wraysford; “you’ll have to let me off this time. I’m working like nails for the Nightingale.”

“Bother the Nightingale, I say! What is it to theDominican? Come, I say, old man, that won’t do! you aren’t going to leave me in the lurch like all the rest?”

But Wraysford was; he would gladly have helped if he could, but he really must not this time; perhaps he would for the next.

Oliver was as bad; he declared the things he had written before—even with Pembury’s assistance—had taken him such ages to do, that he wasn’t going in for the next number. He was very sorry to disappoint, and all that; but if Tony was in for a scholarship next Michaelmas he would understand the reason. Why not let the thing drop this month?

This, however, by no means met Tony’s views. A pretty figure he would cut if it were to be said he couldn’t keep up a paper for two numbers running! No! his mind was made up. Number 2shouldcome out, even if he wrote every word of it himself! And with that determination he hobbled off to his study. Here he met Simon waiting for him.

“Oh,” said the poet; “I only brought this, if you’ll put it in. I think it’s not bad. I could make it longer if you like. I find poetry comes so easily, you know!”

Tony glanced over the paper and grinned. “Thanks, awfully! This will do capitally; it would spoil it to make it any longer. You’re a brick, Simon! I wishIcould write poetry.”

“Oh, never mind. I could do some more bits about other things, you know, if you like.”

Pembury said he didn’t think he should require any more “bits,” but was awfully obliged by this one, which was first-rate, a recommendation which sent Simon away happy to his study, there immediately to compose the opening stanza of his famous epic, “The Sole’s Allegery—a sacred Poem.”

With one contribution in hand, Tony locked his door and sat down to write. There was something out of the common about Pembury. With the body of a cripple he had the heart of a lion, and difficulties only made it more dauntless. Any one else would have thought twice, indeed, before undertaking the task he was now setting himself to do, and ninety-nine out of every hundred would have abandoned it before it was half done. But Tony was indomitable. Every night that week he locked his study-door, and threats and kicks and entreaties would not open it even to his dearest friends. And slowly the huge white sheet before him showed the signs of his diligence. The great long columns, one after another, filled up; paragraph followed paragraph, and article article. He coolly continued the “History of Saint Dominic’s” begun last month by Bullinger, and the “Reports of the Sixth Form Debates” commenced by Tom Senior. And the “Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse” went on just as if Wraysford had never abandoned it; and the poem on the Guinea-pigs, promised in Number 1, by the author of “To a Tadpole,” duly appeared also. Besides this, there were the continuations of Tony’s own articles, and his “Personal Notes,” and “Squeaks from Tadpoleopolis,” and advertisements just as usual; until, in due time, the last column was filled up, the sheet triumphantly fixed in its frame, and as triumphantly hung up on its own particular nails on the wall outside the Fifth Form door.

It was a feat to be proud of, and Tony was justly and pardonably proud. It was at least a gratification next morning to see not only that the school generally took unabated interest in theDominican, but that he had fairly astonished his own class-fellows. Their admiration of the editor was unbounded and undisguised. Their consciences had all, more or less, reproached them for backing out of their responsibilities in the way they had; and now it quite touched them to see how, notwithstanding, Anthony had by his own labour made up for their defect, and sustained the reputation of the Fifth before all the school.

The crush outside the door was greater than ever this time, and Master Paul, who again acted as policeman, was obliged to summon Stephen to his assistance in watching to see that no damage came to the precious document.

The account of the Alphabet Match was very graphic, and written quite in the usual absurd “sporting style,” greatly to the amusement of most of those who had taken part in it. Here is a specimen:—

“At 4.30, sharp, the leather was taken into custody by ‘Gamey’ Raikes, at the wash-house end, who tried what his artful ‘yorkers’ could do in the way of dissolving partnership. But Teddy Loman kept his willow straight up, and said ‘Not at home’ to every poser, leaving Noll to do all the smacking. This pretty business might have gone on till to-morrow week had the men’s upper stories been as ‘O.K.’ as their timbers, but they messed about over a pretty snick of Noll’s, and, after popping the question three times, Teddy got home just in time to see his two bails tumble out of their groove. Teddy didn’t like this, and bowled his partner a wide compliment, which Noll, like a sensible man, didn’t walk out to, and Teddy was astonished to find his party could get on without him;” and so on.

This version of the incident was by no means pleasant to Loman, but to every one else it was highly diverting, and it actually made one or two of the Fifth think that Oliver, after all, had not done such a very discreditable thing in taking that angry word in silence. If only he had shown more spirit about the blow, they could have forgiven the rest.

Then followed more from the “Sixth Form Mouse”:—

“The Sixth held a Cabinet Council to-day to discuss who should go out for nuts. The choice fell on Callonby. I wonder why the Sixth are so fond of nuts. Why, monkeys eat nuts. Perhaps that is the reason. What a popular writer Mr Bohn is with the Sixth! they even read him at lesson time! I was quite sorry when the Doctor had to bone Wren’s Bohn. I wonder, by the way, why that bird found it so hard to translate the simplest sentence without his Bohn! The Doctor really shouldn’t—I hope he will restore to Wren his backbone by giving him back his Bohn. Hum! I heard some one smiling. I’ll go.”

The Sixth, a good many of them, were imprudent enough to look very guilty at the reading of this extract, a circumstance which appeared to afford keenest delight to the Fifth. But as Simon’s poem followed, they had other food for thought at the moment. The poem was entitled—

A Revverie.I.I walked me in the garden, all in the garden fair,And mused upon my hindmost sole all in the open air.When lo! I heard above my head a sound all like a wisk,I stepped me aside thereat out of the way so brisk.(Hindmost sole, possibly “inmost soul”; wisk, possibly “whisk.”)II.I looked me up, and there behold! and lo! a window broad,And out thereof I did dizzern a gallant fishing-rod,All sporting in the breaze untill the hook in ivy caught,And then the little lad he tried to pull it harder than he ought.III.It broke, alas! and so messeems fades life’s perplecksing dreems,And vanish like that fishing-rod all in the dark messeems.I wonder if my perplecksing dreems will vanish like the rod in the dark,And I shall rise and rise and rise and rise all like a lark.IV.Oh wood I was a lark, a lark all lofty in the sky,I do not know what I should do to quench my blazing eye.I’d look me down on Dominic’s, and think of the days when I was young,Or would I was an infant meek all sucking of my thumb.

A Revverie.I.I walked me in the garden, all in the garden fair,And mused upon my hindmost sole all in the open air.When lo! I heard above my head a sound all like a wisk,I stepped me aside thereat out of the way so brisk.(Hindmost sole, possibly “inmost soul”; wisk, possibly “whisk.”)II.I looked me up, and there behold! and lo! a window broad,And out thereof I did dizzern a gallant fishing-rod,All sporting in the breaze untill the hook in ivy caught,And then the little lad he tried to pull it harder than he ought.III.It broke, alas! and so messeems fades life’s perplecksing dreems,And vanish like that fishing-rod all in the dark messeems.I wonder if my perplecksing dreems will vanish like the rod in the dark,And I shall rise and rise and rise and rise all like a lark.IV.Oh wood I was a lark, a lark all lofty in the sky,I do not know what I should do to quench my blazing eye.I’d look me down on Dominic’s, and think of the days when I was young,Or would I was an infant meek all sucking of my thumb.

Again Simon, who had watched with intense interest the reception of his poem, was perplexed to notice the amusement it had caused. Even Pembury had mistaken its “inmost soul,” for he had placed it in the column devoted to “Facetiae.” Nor could Simon understand why, for the next week, every one he met had his thumb in his mouth. It was very queer—one of life’s mysteries—and he had thoughts of embodying the fact in his “Sole’s Allegery,” which was now rapidly approaching completion.

After this bubbling up of pure verse there followed a few remarks about Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, which had the effect of highly incensing those young gentlemen. The paragraph was entitled—

“Market Intelligence.

“Half a dozen mixed Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were offered for sale by auction on the centre landing yesterday. There was only a small attendance. The auctioneer said he couldn’t honestly recommend the lot, but they must be got rid of at any cost. He had scrubbed their faces and combed their hair for the occasion, but couldn’t guarantee that state of things to last. But they might turn out to be of use as substitutes in case worms should become scarce; and, any way, by boiling down their fingers and collars, many gallons of valuable ink could be obtained. The first bid was a farthing, which seemed to be far beyond the expectation of the salesman, who at once knocked the lot down. The sale was such a success that it is proposed to knock down several more lots in a like manner.”

The rage of the Fourth Junior on reading this paragraph was something awful to witness. Bramble, feeling he must kick somebody on the legs, kicked Stephen, who, forgetting that he was on police duty, seized Bramble by the hair of his head and rushed off with him to the “meeting,” closely followed by Paul and the whole swarm. That meeting lasted from three to five. What awful threats were uttered, and what awful vows taken, no one knew. At five o’clock Stephen’s fight with Bramble came off as usual, and all that evening Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles did nothing but make paper darts. It was certain a crisis had come in their history. The “dogs of war” were let loose! They would be revenged on somebody! So they at once began to be revenged on one another, till it should be possible to unite their forces against the common foe.

But the remainder of the crowd stayed on to read one more extract from theDominican. Under the title of “Reviews of Books,” Anthony had reviewed in style the last number of theSixth Form Magazineas follows:—

“This book appears to be the praiseworthy attempt of some ambitious little boys to enter the field of letters. We are always pleased to encourage juvenile talent, but we would suggest that our young friends might have done better had they kept to their picture-books a little longer before launching out into literature on their own account. In the words of the poet we might say—

“Babies, wait a little longer,Till the little wings are stronger,Then you’ll fly away.”

“Babies, wait a little longer,Till the little wings are stronger,Then you’ll fly away.”

“Nevertherless, we would refer to one or two of these interesting attempts. Take, for example, the essay on the ‘Character of Julius Caesar,’ by one who signs himself Raleigh. This is very well written. Pains have been taken about the formation of the letters, and some of the capitals are specially worthy of praise. For one so young, we rarely saw the capital D so well done. Dr Smith, were he alive, would be pleased to see his remarks on Caesar so well and accurately copied out. Master Wren gives us some verse—a translation out of Horace. We wonder if Mr Wren is any relation to the late Jenny Wren who married Mr Cock Robin. We should imagine from these verses that Mr Wren must be well acquainted withRobbin. Take one more, Master Loman’s ‘A Funny Story.’ We are sorry to find Master Loman tells stories. Boys shouldn’t tell stories; it’s not right. But Master Loman unfortunately does tell stories, and this is one. He calls it ‘A Funny Story.’ That is a story to begin with, for it is not funny. We don’t know what Master Loman thinks funny; perhaps he calls being run out at cricket funny, or hitting another boy in the mouth when he’s looking another way. In any case, we can’t make out why he calls this story funny. The only funny thing about it is its title, and his spelling ‘attach’ ‘attatch.’ The last is really funny. It shows how partial Mr Loman is totea. If this funny story is the result of his partiality to tea, we are afraid it was very weak stuff.”

Loman, who had already been made dreadfully uncomfortable by Simon’s poem, made no secret of his rage over this number of theDominican. He was one of those vain fellows who cannot see a jest where it is levelled at themselves. The rest of the Sixth had the sense, whatever they felt, to laugh at Anthony’s hard hits. But not so Loman; he lost his temper completely. He ordered theDominicanto be taken down; he threatened to report the whole Fifth to the Doctor. He would not allow the junior boys to stand and read it. In short, he made a regular ass of himself.

Undoubtedly Anthony had put a great deal of venom into his pen. Still, by taking all the poison and none of the humour to himself Loman made a great mistake, and displayed a most unfortunate amount of weakness.

He shut himself up in his study in a fume; he boxed Stephen’s ears for nothing at all, and would see no one for the rest of the evening. He knew well he could not have given his enemies a greater crow over him than such conduct, and yet he could not command his vanity to act otherwise.

But that evening, just before tea-time, something happened which gave Loman more to think about than theDominican. A letter marked “Immediate” came to him by the post. It was from Cripps, to say that, after all, Sir Patrickhadwon the Derby!

Chapter Thirteen.Company at the Cockchafer.Cripps’s letter was as follows:“Hon. Sir,—This comes hoping you are well. You may like to know Sir Patrick won. The tip was all out. Honourable Sir,—My friend would like his ten pounds sharp, as he’s a poor man. Please call in on Saturday afternoon. Your very humble servant, Ben Cripps.”This letter was startling enough to drive fiftyDominicansout of Loman’s head, and for a long time he could hardly realise how bad the news it contained was.He had reckoned to a dead certainty on winning the bet which Cripps had advised him to make with his friend. Not that Loman knew anything about racing matters, but Cripps had been so confident, and it seemed so safe to bet against this one particular horse, that the idea of events turning out otherwise had never once entered his head.He went to the door and shouted for Stephen, who presently appeared with a paper dart in his hand.“Greenfield,” said Loman, “cut down at once to Maltby and bring me a newspaper.”Stephen stared.“I’ve got my lessons to do,” he said.“Leave them here, I’ll do them,” replied Loman; “look sharp.”Still Stephen hesitated.“We aren’t allowed out after seven without leave,” he faltered, longing to get back to the war preparations in the Fourth Junior.“I know that, and I give you leave—there!” said Loman, with all the monitorial dignity he could assume. This quite disarmed Stephen. Of course a monitor could do no wrong, and it was no use objecting on that score.Still he was fain to find some other excuse.“I say, will it do in the morning?” he began.Loman’s only reply was a book shied at his fag’s head—quite explicit enough for all practical purposes. So Stephen hauled down his colours and prepared to start.“Look sharp back,” said Loman, “and don’t let any one see you going out. Look here, you can get yourself some brandy-balls with this.”Stephen was not philosopher enough to argue with himself why, if he had leave to go out, he ought to avoid being seen going out. He pocketed Loman’s extra penny complacently, and giving one last longing look in the direction of the Fourth Junior, slipped quietly out of the school and made the best of his way down to Maltby.It was not easy at that time of day to get a paper. Stephen tried half a dozen stationers’ shops, but they were all sold out. They were evidently more sought after than brandy-balls, of which he had no difficulty in securing a pennyworth at an early stage of his pilgrimage. The man in the sweet-shop told him his only chance of getting a paper was at the railway station.So to the station he strolled, with a brandy-ball in each cheek. Alas! the stall was closed for the day.Stephen did not like to be beaten, but there was nothing for it now but to give up this “paper-chase,” and return to Loman with a report of his ill-success.As he trotted back up High Street, looking about everywhere but in the direction in which he was going (as is the habit of small boys), and wondering in his heart whether his funds could possibly stand the strain of another pennyworth of brandy-balls, he suddenly found himself in sharp collision with a man who expressed himself on the subject of clumsy boys generally in no very measured terms.Stephen looked up and saw Mr Cripps the younger standing before him.“Why!” exclaimed that worthy, giving over his irascible expletives, and adopting an air of unfeigned pleasure, “why, if it ain’t young Master Greenhorn. Ha, ha! How do, my young bantam? Pretty bobbish, eh?”Stephen did not know exactly what was meant by “bobbish,” but replied that he was quite well, and sorry he had trodden on Mr Cripps’s toes.“Never mind,” said Mr Cripps, magnanimously, “you’re a light weight. And so you’re taking a dander down town, are you? looking for lollipops, eh?”Stephen blushed very red at this. However had Mr Cripps guessed about the brandy-balls?“I came to get a paper for Loman,” he said, “but they’re all sold out.”“No, are they? I wonder what Mr Loman wants with a paper, now?”“He said it was very important, and I was to be sure to get one of to-day’s,” said Stephen. “Do you know where I can get one?”“Of course. Come along with me; I’ve got one at home you can have. And so he said it was very important, did he? That’s queer. There’s nothing in to-day’s paper at all. Only something about a low horse-race. He don’t want it for that, I guess; eh?”“Oh, no, I shouldn’t think,” said Stephen, trotting along beside his amiable acquaintance.Mr Cripps was certainly a very friendly man, and as he conducted Stephen to the Cockchafer, Stephen felt quite a liking for him, and couldn’t understand why Oliver and Wraysford both ran him down.True, Mr Cripps did use some words which didn’t seem exactly proper, but that Stephen put down to the habit of men in that part. The man seemed to take such an interest in boys generally, and in Stephen in particular, and was so interested and amused to hear all about the Guinea-pigs, and theDominican, and the SixthversusSchool, that Stephen felt quite drawn out to him. And then he told Stephen such a lot of funny stories, and treated him with such evident consideration, that the small boy felt quite flattered and delighted.So they reached the Cockchafer. Here Stephen, whose former visits had all been to the lock-house, pulled up.“I say,” said he, “is this a public-house?”“Getting on that way,” said Mr Cripps.“We aren’t allowed to go in public-houses,” said Stephen, “it’s one of the rules.”“Ah, quite right too; not a good thing for boys at all. We’ll go in by the private door into my house,” said Mr Cripps.Stephen was not quite comfortable at this evasion, but followed Mr Cripps by the side door into his bar parlour.“You won’t forget the paper,” he said, “please. I’ve got to be back in school directly.”“I’ll have a look for it. Now, I guess you like ginger-beer, don’t you?”Stephen was particularly partial to ginger-beer, as it happened, and said so.“That’s the style,” said Mr Cripps, producing a bottle. “Walk into that while I go and get the paper.”Stephen did walk into it with great relish, and began to think Mr Cripps quite a gentleman. He was certain, even if that bat had been a poor one, it was quite worth the money paid for it, and Oliver was unjust in calling Cripps hard names.The landlord very soon returned with the paper.“Here you are, young governor. Now don’t hurry away. It’s lonely here all by myself, and I like a young gentleman like you to talk to. I knew a nice little boy once, just your age, that used to come and see me regular once a week and play bagatelle with me. He was a good player at it too!”“Could he get clear-board twice running with two balls?” asked Stephen, half jealous of the fame of this unknown rival.“Eh!—no, scarcely that. He wasn’t quite such a dab as that.”“I can do it,” said Stephen with a superior smile.“You? Not a bit of you!” said Mr Cripps, incredulously.“Yes, I can,” reiterated Stephen, delighted to have astonished his host.“I must see it before I can believe that,” said Mr Cripps. “Suppose you show me on my board.”Stephen promptly accepted the challenge, and forgetting in his excitement all about school rules or Loman’s orders accompanied Cripps to the bagatelle-room, with its sanded floor, smelling of stale tobacco and beer-dregs. His first attempt, greatly to Mr Cripps’s glee, was unsuccessful.“I knew you couldn’t,” exclaimed that worthy.“I know I can do it,” said Stephen, excitedly. “Let’s try again.”After a few more trials he made the two clear-boards, and Mr Cripps was duly astonished and impressed.“That’s what I call smart play,” said he. “Now, if I was a betting man, I’d wager a sixpence you couldn’t do it again.”“Yes, I can, but I won’t bet,” said Stephen. He did do it again, and Mr Cripps said it was a good job for him the young swell didn’t bet, or he would have lost his sixpence. Stephen was triumphant.How long he would have gone on showing off his prowess to the admiring landlord of the Cockchafer, and how far he might have advanced in the art of public-house bagatelle, I cannot say, but the sudden striking of a clock and the entry of visitors into the room reminded him where he was.“I must go back now,” he said, hurriedly.“Must you? Well, come again soon. I’ve a great fancy to learn that there stoke. I’m a born fool at bagatelle. What do you say to another ginger-beer before you go?”Stephen said “Thank you,” and then taking the newspaper in his hand bade Cripps good-bye.“Good-bye, my fine young fellow. You’re one of the right sort, you are. No stuck-up nonsense about you. That’s why I fancy you. Bye-bye. My love to Mr Loman.”Stephen hurried back to Saint Dominic’s as fast as his legs would carry him. He was not quite comfortable about his evening’s proceedings, although he was not aware of having done anything wicked. Loman, a monitor, had given him leave to go down to Maltby, so that was hardly a crime; and as to the Cockchafer—well, he had only been in the private part of the house, and not the public bar, and surely there had been no harm in drinking ginger-beer and playing bagatelle, especially when he had distinctly refused to bet on the latter. But, explain it as he would, Stephen felt uncomfortable enough to determine him to say as little as possible about his expedition.He found Loman impatiently awaiting him.“Wherever have you been to all this time?” he demanded.“The papers were all sold out,” said Stephen. “I tried seven places.”Loman had eagerly caught up and opened the paper while Stephen nervously made this explanation, and he took no further heed of his fag, who presently, seeing he was no longer wanted, and relieved to get out of reach of questions, prudently retired.A glance sufficed to confirm the bad news about the Derby. Sir Patrick had won, and it was a fact therefore that Loman owed Cripps and his friend between them thirty pounds, without the least possibility of paying them.One thing was certain. He must see Cripps on Saturday, and trust to his luck (though that of late had not been very trustworthy) to pull him through, somehow.Alas! what a spirit this, in which to meet difficulties! Loman had yet to learn that it is one thing to regret, and another thing to repent; that it is one thing to call one’s self a fool, and another thing, quite, to cease to be one.But, as he said to himself, he must go through with it now, and the first step took him deeper than ever into the mire.For the coming Saturday was the day of the great cricket match, Sixth versus School, from which a Dominican would as soon think of deserting as of emigrating.But Loman must desert if he was to keep his appointment, and he managed the proceeding with his now characteristic untruthfulness; a practice he would have scorned only a few months ago. How easy the first wrong step! What a long weary road when one, with aching heart, attempts to retrace the way! And at present Loman had made no serious effort in that direction.On the Friday morning, greatly to the astonishment of all his class-fellows, he appeared in his place with his arm in a sling.“Hullo, Loman!” said Wren, the first whom he encountered, “what’s the row with you?”“Sprained my wrist,” said Loman, to whom, alas!—so easy is the downward path when once entered on—a lie had become an easy thing to utter.“How did you manage that?” exclaimed Callonby. “Mind you get it right by to-morrow, or weshallbe in a fix.”This little piece of flattery pleased Loman, who said, “I’m afraid I shan’t be able to play.”“What! Who’s that won’t be able to play?” said Raleigh, coming up in unwonted excitement.“Loman; he’s sprained his wrist.”“Have you shown it to Dr Splints?” said Raleigh.“No,” said Loman, beginning to feel uncomfortable. “It’s hardly bad enough for that.”“Then it’s hardly bad enough to prevent your playing,” said Raleigh, drily.Loman did not like this. He and Raleigh never got on well together, and it was evident the captain was more angry than sympathetic now.“Whatever shall we do for bowlers?” said some one.“I’m awfully sorry,” said Loman, wishing he was anywhere but where he was; “but how am I to help?”“Whatever induced you to sprain your wrist?” said Wren. “You might just as well have put it off till Monday.”“Just fancy how foolish we shall look if those young beggars beat us, as they are almost sure to do,” said Winter.Loman was quickly losing his temper, for all this was, or seemed to be, addressed pointedly to him.“What’s the use of talking like that?” he retorted. “You ass, you! as if I could help.”“Shouldn’t wonder if you could help,” replied Winter.“Perhaps,” suggested some one, “it was theDominicanput him out of joint. It certainly did give him a rap over the knuckles.”“What do you mean?” exclaimed Loman, angrily, and half drawing his supposed sprained hand out of the sling.“Shut up, you fellows,” interposed Raleigh, authoritatively. “Baynes will play in the eleven to-morrow instead of Loman, so there’s an end of the matter.”Loman was sorely mortified. He had expected his defection would create quite a sensation, and that his class-fellows would be inconsolable at his accident. Instead of that, he had only contrived to quarrel with nearly all of them, alienating their sympathy; and in the end he was to be quietly superseded by Baynes, and the match was to go on as if he had never been heard of at Saint Dominic’s.“Never mind; I’m bound to go and see Cripps. Besides,” said he to himself, “they’ll miss me to-morrow, whatever they say to-day.”Next day, just when the great match was beginning, and the entire school was hanging breathless on the issue of every ball, Loman quietly slipped out of Saint Dominic’s, and walked rapidly and nervously down to the Cockchafer in Maltby.“WhatshallI say to Cripps?” was the wild question he kept asking himself as he went along; and the answer had not come by the time he found himself standing within that worthy’s respectable premises.Mr Cripps was in his usual good humour.“Why, it’s Mr Loman! so it is!” he exclaimed, in a rapture. “Now whowouldhave thought of seeingyouhere?”Loman was perplexed.“Why, you told me to come this afternoon,” said he.“Did I? Ah, I dare say! Never mind. Very kind of a young gentleman like you to come and see the likes of me. What’ll you take?”Loman did not know what to make of this at all.“I came to see you about that—that horse you told me to bet against,” he said.“I remember. What’s his name? Sir Patrick, wasn’t it? My friend told me that he’d had the best of that. What was it? Ten bob?”This affected ignorance of the whole matter in hand was utterly bewildering to Loman, who had fully expected that, instead of having to explain himself, he would have the matter pretty plainly explained to him by his sportive acquaintance.“No, ten pounds. That was what I was to pay if the horse won; and, Cripps, I can’t pay it, or the twenty pounds either, to you.”Cripps whistled.“That’s a go and no mistake!” he said. “Afraid it won’t do, mister.”“You told me Sir Patrick was sure not to win,” said Loman.“Ah, there was several of us took in over that there horse,” coolly said Mr Cripps. “I lost a shilling myself over him. Nice to be you, flush of cash, and able to pay straight down.”“I can’t pay,” said Loman.“Ah, but the governor can, I’ll wager,” insinuated Cripps.“He would never do it! It’s no use asking him,” said Loman.Cripps whistled again.“That’s awkward. And my friend wants his money, too, and so do I.”“I really can’t pay,” said Loman. “I say, Cripps, let us off that twenty pounds. I really didn’t mean about that rod.”Mr Cripps fired up in righteous indignation.“Ah, I dare say, mister. You’ll come and snivel now, will you? But you were ready enough to cheat a honest man when you saw a chance. No, I’ll have my twenty or else there’ll be a rumpus. Make no mistake of that!”The bare idea of a “rumpus” cowed Loman at once. Anything but that.“Come, now,” said Cripps, encouragingly, “I’ll wager you can raise the wind somewheres.”“I wish I knew how. I see no chance whatever, unless—” and here a brilliant idea suddenly struck him—“unless I get the Nightingale. Of course; I say, Cripps, will you wait till September?”“What! Three months! And how do you suppose I’m to find bread to eat till then?” exclaimed Mr Cripps.“Oh, do!” said Loman. “I’m certain to be able to pay then. I forgot all about the Nightingale.”“The Nightingale? It must be an uncommon spicy bird to fetch in thirty pound!”“It’s not a bird,” said Loman, laughing; “it’s a scholarship.”“A what?”“A scholarship. I’m in for an exam, you know, and whoever’s first gets fifty-pounds a year for three years.”“But suppose you ain’t first? what then?”“Oh, but I’msureto be. I’ve only got Fifth Form fellows against me, and I’m certain to beat them!”“Well,” said Mr Cripps, “I don’t so much care about your nightingales and cock-sparrows and scholarships, and all them traps, but I’d like to oblige you.”“Oh, thank you!” cried Loman, delighted, and feeling already as if the debt was paid. “And you’ll get your friend to wait too, won’t you?”“Can’t do that. I shall have to square up with him and look to you for the lot, and most likely drop into the workhouse for my pains.”“Oh, no. You can be quite certain of getting the money.”“Well, blessed if I ain’t a easy-going cove,” said Mr Cripps, with a grin. “It ain’t every one as ’ud wait three months on your poll-parrot scholarships, or whatever you call ’em. Come, business is business. Give us your promise on a piece of paper—if you must impose upon me.” Loman, only too delighted, wrote at Mr Cripps’s dictation a promise to pay the thirty pounds, together with five pounds interest, in September, and quitted the Cockchafer with as light a heart as if he had actually paid off every penny of the debt.“Of course I’m safe to get it! Why ever didn’t I think of that before? Won’t I just work the rest of the term! Nothing like having an object when you’re grinding.”With this philosophical reflection he re-entered Saint Dominic’s, and unobserved rejoined the spectators in the cricket-field, just in time to witness a very exciting finish to a fiercely contested encounter.

Cripps’s letter was as follows:

“Hon. Sir,—This comes hoping you are well. You may like to know Sir Patrick won. The tip was all out. Honourable Sir,—My friend would like his ten pounds sharp, as he’s a poor man. Please call in on Saturday afternoon. Your very humble servant, Ben Cripps.”

This letter was startling enough to drive fiftyDominicansout of Loman’s head, and for a long time he could hardly realise how bad the news it contained was.

He had reckoned to a dead certainty on winning the bet which Cripps had advised him to make with his friend. Not that Loman knew anything about racing matters, but Cripps had been so confident, and it seemed so safe to bet against this one particular horse, that the idea of events turning out otherwise had never once entered his head.

He went to the door and shouted for Stephen, who presently appeared with a paper dart in his hand.

“Greenfield,” said Loman, “cut down at once to Maltby and bring me a newspaper.”

Stephen stared.

“I’ve got my lessons to do,” he said.

“Leave them here, I’ll do them,” replied Loman; “look sharp.”

Still Stephen hesitated.

“We aren’t allowed out after seven without leave,” he faltered, longing to get back to the war preparations in the Fourth Junior.

“I know that, and I give you leave—there!” said Loman, with all the monitorial dignity he could assume. This quite disarmed Stephen. Of course a monitor could do no wrong, and it was no use objecting on that score.

Still he was fain to find some other excuse.

“I say, will it do in the morning?” he began.

Loman’s only reply was a book shied at his fag’s head—quite explicit enough for all practical purposes. So Stephen hauled down his colours and prepared to start.

“Look sharp back,” said Loman, “and don’t let any one see you going out. Look here, you can get yourself some brandy-balls with this.”

Stephen was not philosopher enough to argue with himself why, if he had leave to go out, he ought to avoid being seen going out. He pocketed Loman’s extra penny complacently, and giving one last longing look in the direction of the Fourth Junior, slipped quietly out of the school and made the best of his way down to Maltby.

It was not easy at that time of day to get a paper. Stephen tried half a dozen stationers’ shops, but they were all sold out. They were evidently more sought after than brandy-balls, of which he had no difficulty in securing a pennyworth at an early stage of his pilgrimage. The man in the sweet-shop told him his only chance of getting a paper was at the railway station.

So to the station he strolled, with a brandy-ball in each cheek. Alas! the stall was closed for the day.

Stephen did not like to be beaten, but there was nothing for it now but to give up this “paper-chase,” and return to Loman with a report of his ill-success.

As he trotted back up High Street, looking about everywhere but in the direction in which he was going (as is the habit of small boys), and wondering in his heart whether his funds could possibly stand the strain of another pennyworth of brandy-balls, he suddenly found himself in sharp collision with a man who expressed himself on the subject of clumsy boys generally in no very measured terms.

Stephen looked up and saw Mr Cripps the younger standing before him.

“Why!” exclaimed that worthy, giving over his irascible expletives, and adopting an air of unfeigned pleasure, “why, if it ain’t young Master Greenhorn. Ha, ha! How do, my young bantam? Pretty bobbish, eh?”

Stephen did not know exactly what was meant by “bobbish,” but replied that he was quite well, and sorry he had trodden on Mr Cripps’s toes.

“Never mind,” said Mr Cripps, magnanimously, “you’re a light weight. And so you’re taking a dander down town, are you? looking for lollipops, eh?”

Stephen blushed very red at this. However had Mr Cripps guessed about the brandy-balls?

“I came to get a paper for Loman,” he said, “but they’re all sold out.”

“No, are they? I wonder what Mr Loman wants with a paper, now?”

“He said it was very important, and I was to be sure to get one of to-day’s,” said Stephen. “Do you know where I can get one?”

“Of course. Come along with me; I’ve got one at home you can have. And so he said it was very important, did he? That’s queer. There’s nothing in to-day’s paper at all. Only something about a low horse-race. He don’t want it for that, I guess; eh?”

“Oh, no, I shouldn’t think,” said Stephen, trotting along beside his amiable acquaintance.

Mr Cripps was certainly a very friendly man, and as he conducted Stephen to the Cockchafer, Stephen felt quite a liking for him, and couldn’t understand why Oliver and Wraysford both ran him down.

True, Mr Cripps did use some words which didn’t seem exactly proper, but that Stephen put down to the habit of men in that part. The man seemed to take such an interest in boys generally, and in Stephen in particular, and was so interested and amused to hear all about the Guinea-pigs, and theDominican, and the SixthversusSchool, that Stephen felt quite drawn out to him. And then he told Stephen such a lot of funny stories, and treated him with such evident consideration, that the small boy felt quite flattered and delighted.

So they reached the Cockchafer. Here Stephen, whose former visits had all been to the lock-house, pulled up.

“I say,” said he, “is this a public-house?”

“Getting on that way,” said Mr Cripps.

“We aren’t allowed to go in public-houses,” said Stephen, “it’s one of the rules.”

“Ah, quite right too; not a good thing for boys at all. We’ll go in by the private door into my house,” said Mr Cripps.

Stephen was not quite comfortable at this evasion, but followed Mr Cripps by the side door into his bar parlour.

“You won’t forget the paper,” he said, “please. I’ve got to be back in school directly.”

“I’ll have a look for it. Now, I guess you like ginger-beer, don’t you?”

Stephen was particularly partial to ginger-beer, as it happened, and said so.

“That’s the style,” said Mr Cripps, producing a bottle. “Walk into that while I go and get the paper.”

Stephen did walk into it with great relish, and began to think Mr Cripps quite a gentleman. He was certain, even if that bat had been a poor one, it was quite worth the money paid for it, and Oliver was unjust in calling Cripps hard names.

The landlord very soon returned with the paper.

“Here you are, young governor. Now don’t hurry away. It’s lonely here all by myself, and I like a young gentleman like you to talk to. I knew a nice little boy once, just your age, that used to come and see me regular once a week and play bagatelle with me. He was a good player at it too!”

“Could he get clear-board twice running with two balls?” asked Stephen, half jealous of the fame of this unknown rival.

“Eh!—no, scarcely that. He wasn’t quite such a dab as that.”

“I can do it,” said Stephen with a superior smile.

“You? Not a bit of you!” said Mr Cripps, incredulously.

“Yes, I can,” reiterated Stephen, delighted to have astonished his host.

“I must see it before I can believe that,” said Mr Cripps. “Suppose you show me on my board.”

Stephen promptly accepted the challenge, and forgetting in his excitement all about school rules or Loman’s orders accompanied Cripps to the bagatelle-room, with its sanded floor, smelling of stale tobacco and beer-dregs. His first attempt, greatly to Mr Cripps’s glee, was unsuccessful.

“I knew you couldn’t,” exclaimed that worthy.

“I know I can do it,” said Stephen, excitedly. “Let’s try again.”

After a few more trials he made the two clear-boards, and Mr Cripps was duly astonished and impressed.

“That’s what I call smart play,” said he. “Now, if I was a betting man, I’d wager a sixpence you couldn’t do it again.”

“Yes, I can, but I won’t bet,” said Stephen. He did do it again, and Mr Cripps said it was a good job for him the young swell didn’t bet, or he would have lost his sixpence. Stephen was triumphant.

How long he would have gone on showing off his prowess to the admiring landlord of the Cockchafer, and how far he might have advanced in the art of public-house bagatelle, I cannot say, but the sudden striking of a clock and the entry of visitors into the room reminded him where he was.

“I must go back now,” he said, hurriedly.

“Must you? Well, come again soon. I’ve a great fancy to learn that there stoke. I’m a born fool at bagatelle. What do you say to another ginger-beer before you go?”

Stephen said “Thank you,” and then taking the newspaper in his hand bade Cripps good-bye.

“Good-bye, my fine young fellow. You’re one of the right sort, you are. No stuck-up nonsense about you. That’s why I fancy you. Bye-bye. My love to Mr Loman.”

Stephen hurried back to Saint Dominic’s as fast as his legs would carry him. He was not quite comfortable about his evening’s proceedings, although he was not aware of having done anything wicked. Loman, a monitor, had given him leave to go down to Maltby, so that was hardly a crime; and as to the Cockchafer—well, he had only been in the private part of the house, and not the public bar, and surely there had been no harm in drinking ginger-beer and playing bagatelle, especially when he had distinctly refused to bet on the latter. But, explain it as he would, Stephen felt uncomfortable enough to determine him to say as little as possible about his expedition.

He found Loman impatiently awaiting him.

“Wherever have you been to all this time?” he demanded.

“The papers were all sold out,” said Stephen. “I tried seven places.”

Loman had eagerly caught up and opened the paper while Stephen nervously made this explanation, and he took no further heed of his fag, who presently, seeing he was no longer wanted, and relieved to get out of reach of questions, prudently retired.

A glance sufficed to confirm the bad news about the Derby. Sir Patrick had won, and it was a fact therefore that Loman owed Cripps and his friend between them thirty pounds, without the least possibility of paying them.

One thing was certain. He must see Cripps on Saturday, and trust to his luck (though that of late had not been very trustworthy) to pull him through, somehow.

Alas! what a spirit this, in which to meet difficulties! Loman had yet to learn that it is one thing to regret, and another thing to repent; that it is one thing to call one’s self a fool, and another thing, quite, to cease to be one.

But, as he said to himself, he must go through with it now, and the first step took him deeper than ever into the mire.

For the coming Saturday was the day of the great cricket match, Sixth versus School, from which a Dominican would as soon think of deserting as of emigrating.

But Loman must desert if he was to keep his appointment, and he managed the proceeding with his now characteristic untruthfulness; a practice he would have scorned only a few months ago. How easy the first wrong step! What a long weary road when one, with aching heart, attempts to retrace the way! And at present Loman had made no serious effort in that direction.

On the Friday morning, greatly to the astonishment of all his class-fellows, he appeared in his place with his arm in a sling.

“Hullo, Loman!” said Wren, the first whom he encountered, “what’s the row with you?”

“Sprained my wrist,” said Loman, to whom, alas!—so easy is the downward path when once entered on—a lie had become an easy thing to utter.

“How did you manage that?” exclaimed Callonby. “Mind you get it right by to-morrow, or weshallbe in a fix.”

This little piece of flattery pleased Loman, who said, “I’m afraid I shan’t be able to play.”

“What! Who’s that won’t be able to play?” said Raleigh, coming up in unwonted excitement.

“Loman; he’s sprained his wrist.”

“Have you shown it to Dr Splints?” said Raleigh.

“No,” said Loman, beginning to feel uncomfortable. “It’s hardly bad enough for that.”

“Then it’s hardly bad enough to prevent your playing,” said Raleigh, drily.

Loman did not like this. He and Raleigh never got on well together, and it was evident the captain was more angry than sympathetic now.

“Whatever shall we do for bowlers?” said some one.

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Loman, wishing he was anywhere but where he was; “but how am I to help?”

“Whatever induced you to sprain your wrist?” said Wren. “You might just as well have put it off till Monday.”

“Just fancy how foolish we shall look if those young beggars beat us, as they are almost sure to do,” said Winter.

Loman was quickly losing his temper, for all this was, or seemed to be, addressed pointedly to him.

“What’s the use of talking like that?” he retorted. “You ass, you! as if I could help.”

“Shouldn’t wonder if you could help,” replied Winter.

“Perhaps,” suggested some one, “it was theDominicanput him out of joint. It certainly did give him a rap over the knuckles.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Loman, angrily, and half drawing his supposed sprained hand out of the sling.

“Shut up, you fellows,” interposed Raleigh, authoritatively. “Baynes will play in the eleven to-morrow instead of Loman, so there’s an end of the matter.”

Loman was sorely mortified. He had expected his defection would create quite a sensation, and that his class-fellows would be inconsolable at his accident. Instead of that, he had only contrived to quarrel with nearly all of them, alienating their sympathy; and in the end he was to be quietly superseded by Baynes, and the match was to go on as if he had never been heard of at Saint Dominic’s.

“Never mind; I’m bound to go and see Cripps. Besides,” said he to himself, “they’ll miss me to-morrow, whatever they say to-day.”

Next day, just when the great match was beginning, and the entire school was hanging breathless on the issue of every ball, Loman quietly slipped out of Saint Dominic’s, and walked rapidly and nervously down to the Cockchafer in Maltby.

“WhatshallI say to Cripps?” was the wild question he kept asking himself as he went along; and the answer had not come by the time he found himself standing within that worthy’s respectable premises.

Mr Cripps was in his usual good humour.

“Why, it’s Mr Loman! so it is!” he exclaimed, in a rapture. “Now whowouldhave thought of seeingyouhere?”

Loman was perplexed.

“Why, you told me to come this afternoon,” said he.

“Did I? Ah, I dare say! Never mind. Very kind of a young gentleman like you to come and see the likes of me. What’ll you take?”

Loman did not know what to make of this at all.

“I came to see you about that—that horse you told me to bet against,” he said.

“I remember. What’s his name? Sir Patrick, wasn’t it? My friend told me that he’d had the best of that. What was it? Ten bob?”

This affected ignorance of the whole matter in hand was utterly bewildering to Loman, who had fully expected that, instead of having to explain himself, he would have the matter pretty plainly explained to him by his sportive acquaintance.

“No, ten pounds. That was what I was to pay if the horse won; and, Cripps, I can’t pay it, or the twenty pounds either, to you.”

Cripps whistled.

“That’s a go and no mistake!” he said. “Afraid it won’t do, mister.”

“You told me Sir Patrick was sure not to win,” said Loman.

“Ah, there was several of us took in over that there horse,” coolly said Mr Cripps. “I lost a shilling myself over him. Nice to be you, flush of cash, and able to pay straight down.”

“I can’t pay,” said Loman.

“Ah, but the governor can, I’ll wager,” insinuated Cripps.

“He would never do it! It’s no use asking him,” said Loman.

Cripps whistled again.

“That’s awkward. And my friend wants his money, too, and so do I.”

“I really can’t pay,” said Loman. “I say, Cripps, let us off that twenty pounds. I really didn’t mean about that rod.”

Mr Cripps fired up in righteous indignation.

“Ah, I dare say, mister. You’ll come and snivel now, will you? But you were ready enough to cheat a honest man when you saw a chance. No, I’ll have my twenty or else there’ll be a rumpus. Make no mistake of that!”

The bare idea of a “rumpus” cowed Loman at once. Anything but that.

“Come, now,” said Cripps, encouragingly, “I’ll wager you can raise the wind somewheres.”

“I wish I knew how. I see no chance whatever, unless—” and here a brilliant idea suddenly struck him—“unless I get the Nightingale. Of course; I say, Cripps, will you wait till September?”

“What! Three months! And how do you suppose I’m to find bread to eat till then?” exclaimed Mr Cripps.

“Oh, do!” said Loman. “I’m certain to be able to pay then. I forgot all about the Nightingale.”

“The Nightingale? It must be an uncommon spicy bird to fetch in thirty pound!”

“It’s not a bird,” said Loman, laughing; “it’s a scholarship.”

“A what?”

“A scholarship. I’m in for an exam, you know, and whoever’s first gets fifty-pounds a year for three years.”

“But suppose you ain’t first? what then?”

“Oh, but I’msureto be. I’ve only got Fifth Form fellows against me, and I’m certain to beat them!”

“Well,” said Mr Cripps, “I don’t so much care about your nightingales and cock-sparrows and scholarships, and all them traps, but I’d like to oblige you.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Loman, delighted, and feeling already as if the debt was paid. “And you’ll get your friend to wait too, won’t you?”

“Can’t do that. I shall have to square up with him and look to you for the lot, and most likely drop into the workhouse for my pains.”

“Oh, no. You can be quite certain of getting the money.”

“Well, blessed if I ain’t a easy-going cove,” said Mr Cripps, with a grin. “It ain’t every one as ’ud wait three months on your poll-parrot scholarships, or whatever you call ’em. Come, business is business. Give us your promise on a piece of paper—if you must impose upon me.” Loman, only too delighted, wrote at Mr Cripps’s dictation a promise to pay the thirty pounds, together with five pounds interest, in September, and quitted the Cockchafer with as light a heart as if he had actually paid off every penny of the debt.

“Of course I’m safe to get it! Why ever didn’t I think of that before? Won’t I just work the rest of the term! Nothing like having an object when you’re grinding.”

With this philosophical reflection he re-entered Saint Dominic’s, and unobserved rejoined the spectators in the cricket-field, just in time to witness a very exciting finish to a fiercely contested encounter.

Chapter Fourteen.Sixth versus School.Never had a Sixth versus School Match been looked forward to with more excitement at Saint Dominic’s than the present one. Party feeling had been running high all the term, intensified on the one hand by the unpopularity of some of the monitors, and on the other by the defiant attitude of the Fifth and the tone of their organ, theDominican.The lower school naturally looked on with interest at this rivalry between the two head forms, the result of which, as might have been expected, was the reverse of beneficial for the discipline of the school generally. If the big boys set a bad example and disregard rules, what can one expect of the little ones?So far, anything like conflict had been avoided. The Fifth had “cheeked” the Sixth, and the Sixth had snubbed the Fifth; but with the exception of Loman’s assault on Oliver, which had not led to a fight, the war had been strictly one of words. Now, however, the opposing forces were to be ranged face to face at cricket; and to the junior school the opportunity seemed a grand one for a display of partisanship one side or the other.The School Eleven, on this occasion, moreover, consisted exclusively of Fifth Form boys—a most unusual circumstance, and one which seemed to be the result quite as much of management as of accident. At least so said the disappointed heroes of the Fourth.The match was, in fact—whatever it was formally styled—a match between the Sixth and the Fifth, and the partisans of either side looked upon it as a decisive event in the respective glories of the two top forms.And now the day had come. All Saint Dominic’s trooped out to the meadows, and there was a rush of small boys as usual for the front benches. Stephen found himself along with his trusty ally, Paul, and his equally trusty enemy, Bramble, and some ten other Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, wedged like sardines upon a form that would comfortably hold six, eagerly canvassing the prospects of the struggle.“The Sixth are going to win in a single innings, if you fellows want to know,” announced Bramble, with all the authority of one who knows.“Not a bit of it,” replied Paul. “The Fifth are safe to win, I tell you.”“But they’ve got no decent bowlers,” said Raddleston.“Never mind,” said Stephen. “Loman’s not going to play for the Sixth. He’s sprained his wrist.”“Hip, hip, hurrah?” yelled Paul, “thatisjolly! They are sure to be licked now. Are you sure he’s out of it?”“Yes. Look at him there with his arm in a sling.”And Stephen pointed to where Loman stood in his ordinary clothes talking to some of his fellows.“Well, thatisa piece of luck!” said Paul. “Who’s to take his place?”“Baynes, they say. He’s no use, though.”“Don’t you be too cock-sure, you two,” growled Bramble. “I say we shall beat you even if Loman don’t play. Got any brandy-balls left, Greenfield?”Similar speculations and hopes were being exchanged all round the field, and when at last the Fifth went out to field, and Callonby and Wren went in to bat for the Sixth, you might have heard a cat sneeze, so breathless was the excitement.Amid solemn silence the first few balls were bowled. The third ball of the first over came straight on to Wren’s bat, who played it neatly back to the bowler. It was not a run, only a simple block; but it was the first play of the match, and so quite enough to loosen the tongues of all the small boys, who yelled, and howled, and cheered as frantically as if a six had been run or a wicket taken. And the ice once broken, every ball and every hit were marked and applauded as if empires depended on them.It was in the midst of this gradually rising excitement that Loman slipped quietly and unobserved from the scene, and betook himself to the errand on which we accompanied him in the preceding chapter.The two Sixth men went quickly to work, and at the end of the second over had scored eight. Then Callonby, in stepping back to “draw” one of Wraysford’s balls, knocked down his wicket.How the small boys yelled at this!But the sight of Raleigh going in second soon silenced them.“They mean hard work by sending in the captain now,” said Paul. “I don’t like that!”“No more do I,” said Stephen. “He always knocks Oliver’s bowling about.”“Oh, bother; is your brother bowling?” said Master Paul, quite unconscious of wounding any one’s feelings. “It’s a pity they’ve got no one better.”Stephen coloured up at this, and wondered what made Paul such a horrid boy.“Better look-out for your eyes,” said Bramble, cheerily. “The captain always knocks up this way, over square-leg’s head.”There was a general buzz of youngsters round the field, as the hero of the school walked up to the wicket, and coolly turned to face Oliver’s bowling.The scorer in the tent hurriedly sharpened his pencil. The big fellows, who had been standing up to watch the opening overs, sat down on the grass and made themselves comfortable. Something was going to happen, evidently. The captain was in, and meant business.Oliver gripped the ball hard in his hand, and walked back to the end of his run. “Play!” cried the umpire, and amid dead silence the ball shot from the bowler’s hand.Next moment there rose a shout loud enough to deafen all Saint Dominic’s. The ball was flying fifty feet up in the air, and Raleigh was slowly walking, bat in hand, back to the tent he had only a moment ago quitted!The captain had been clean bowled, first ball!Who shall describe the excitement, the yelling, the cheering, the consternation that followed? Paul got up and danced a hornpipe on the bench; Bramble kicked the boy nearest to him. “Well bowled, sir!” shouted some. “Hard lines!” screamed others. “Hurrah for the Fifth!”“You’ll beat them yet, Sixth!” such were a few of the shouts audible above the general clamour.As for Stephen, he was wild with joy. He was a staunch partisan of the Fifth in any case, but that was nothing to the fact that it washisbrother, his own brother and nobody else’s, who had bowled that eventful ball, and who was at that moment the hero of Saint Dominic’s. Stephen felt as proud and elated as if he had bowled the ball himself, and could afford to be absolutely patronising to those around him, on the head of this achievement.“That wasn’t a bad ball of Oliver’s,” he said to Paul. “He can bowl very well when he tries.”“It was a beastly fluke!” roared Bramble, determined to see no merit in the exploit.“Shut up and don’t make a row,” said Stephen, with a bland smile of forgiveness.Bramble promised his adversary to shuthimup, and after a little more discussion and altercation and jubilation, the excitement subsided, and another man went in. All this while the Fifth were in ecstasies. They controlled their feelings, however, contenting themselves with clapping Oliver on the back till he was nearly dead, and speculating on the chances of beating their adversaries in a single innings.But they had not won the match yet.Winter was next man in, and he and Wren fell to work very speedily in a decidedly business-like way. No big hits were made, but the score crawled up by ones and twos steadily, and the longer they were at it the steadier they played. Loud cheers announced the posting of thirty on the signal-board, but still the score went on. Now it was a slip, now a bye, now a quiet cut.“Bravo! well played!” cried Raleigh and his men frequently. The captain, by the way, was in excellent spirits, despite his misfortune.Thirty-five, forty! The Fifth began to look hot and puzzled. The batsmen were evidently far too much at home with the bowling. A change must be made, even though it be to put on only a second-rate bowler.Tom Senior was put on. He was nothing like as good a bowler as either Wraysford, or Oliver, or Ricketts. He bowled a very ordinary slow lob, without either twist or shoot, and was usually knocked about plentifully; and this appeared likely to be his fate now, for Wren got hold of his first ball, and knocked it right over into the scorer’s tent for five. The Fifth groaned, and could have torn the wretched Tom to pieces. But the next ball was more lucky; Winter hit it, indeed, but he hit it up, sky-high, over the bowler’s head, and before it reached the ground Bullinger was safe underneath it. It was with a sigh of relief that the Fifth saw this awkward partnership broken up. The score was at forty-eight for three wickets; quite enough too!After this the innings progressed more evenly. Men came in and went out more as usual, each contributing his three or four, and one or two their ten or twelve. Among the latter was Baynes, who, at the last moment, it will be remembered, had been put into the eleven to replace Loman. By careful play he managed to put together ten, greatly to his own delight, and not a little to the surprise of his friends.In due time the last wicket of the Sixth fell, to a total of eighty-four runs.The small boys on the bench had had leisure to abate their ardour by this time. Bramble had recovered his spirits, and Paul and Stephen looked a little blue as they saw the total signalled.“Eighty-four’s a lot,” said Stephen.Paul nodded glumly.“Ya, ha! How do you like it, Guinea-pigs?” jeered Bramble. “I hopeyou’llget half as much.Iknew how it would be.”The two friends listened to these taunts in silent sorrow, and wished the next innings would begin.It did presently, and not very brilliantly either. The Fifth only managed to score fifty-one, and to this total Wraysford was the only player who made anything like good scoring. Oliver got out for six, Ricketts for nine, and Tom Senior and Braddy both for a “duck’s-egg.” Altogether it was a meagre performance, and things looked very gloomy for the Fifth when, for a second time, their adversaries took the wickets.Things never turn out at cricket as one expects, however, and the second innings of the Sixth was no exception to the rule. They only made thirty-six runs. Stephen and Paul were hoarse with yelling, as first one wicket, then another, went down for scarcely a run. Raleigh and Baynes seemed the only two who could stand up at all to the bowling of Oliver and Wraysford, but even their efforts could not keep the wickets up for long.Every one saw now that the final innings would be a desperate struggle. The Fifth wanted sixty-nine to be equal and seventy to win, and the question was, Would they do it in time?Stephen and his confederate felt the weight of this question so oppressive that they left the irritating company of Mr Bramble, and walked off and joined themselves to a group of Fourth Form fellows, who were watching the match with sulky interest, evidently sore that they had none of their men in the School Eleven.“They’ll never do it, and serve them right!” said one. “Why didn’t they put Mansfield in the eleven, or Banks? They’re far more use than Fisher or Braddy.”“For all that, it’ll be a sell if the Sixth lick,” said another.“I wouldn’t much care. If we are going to be sat upon by those Fifth snobs every time an eleven is made up, it’s quite time we did go in with the Sixth.”“Jolly for the Sixth!” retorted the other; whereupon Stephen laughed, and had his ears boxed for being cheeky. The Fourth Senior could not stand “cheek.”But Saint Dominic’s generally was “sweet” on the Fifth, and hoped they would win. When, therefore, Tom Senior and Bullinger went in first and began to score there was great rejoicing.But the Fourth Form fellows, among whom Stephen now was, refused to cheer for any one; criticism was more in their line.“Did you ever see a fellow hit across wickets more horribly than Senior?” said one.“Just look at that!” cried another. “That Bullinger’s a downright muff not to get that last ball to leg! I could have got it easily.”“Well, with that bowling, it’s a disgrace if theydon’tscore; that’s all I can say,” remarked a third.And so these Fourth Form grandees went on, much to Stephen’s wrath, who, when Oliver went in, removed somewhere else, so as to be out of ear-shot of any offensive remarks.Oliver, however, played so well that even the Fourth Form critics could hardly run him down. He survived all the other wickets of his side, and, though not making a brilliant score, did what was almost as useful—played steadily, and gradually demoralised the bowling of the enemy.As the game went on the excitement increased rapidly; and when at length the ninth wicket went down for sixty-one, and the last man in appeared, with nine to win, the eagerness on both sides scarcely knew bounds. Every ball, every piece of fielding, was cheered by one side, and every hit and every piece of play was as vehemently cheered by the other. If Raleigh and Wren had been nervous bowlers, they would undoubtedly have been disconcerted by the dead silence, followed by terrific applause, amid which every ball—even a wide—was delivered. But happily they were not.It was at this critical juncture that Loman reappeared on the scene, much consoled to have the interview with Cripps over, and quite ready now to hear every one lament his absence from the match.The last man in was Webster, a small Fifth boy, who in the last innings had signalised himself by making a duck’s-egg. The Fifth scarcely dared hope he would stay in long enough for the nine runs required to be made, and looked on now almost pale with anxiety.“Now,” said Pembury, near whom Loman, as well as our two Guinea-pigs, found themselves, “it all depends on Oliver, and I back Oliver to do it, don’t you, Loamy?”Loman, who since the lastDominicanhad not been on speaking terms with Pembury, did not vouchsafe a reply, “I do!” said Stephen, boldly.“Do you, really?” replied Pembury, looking round at the boy. “Perhaps you back yourself to talk when you’re not spoken to, eh, Mr Greenhorn?”“Bravo! bravo! Well run, sir! Bravo, Fifth!” was the cry as Oliver, following up the first ball of the over, pilfered a bye from the long-stop.“Didn’t I tell you!” exclaimed Pembury, delighted; “he’ll save us; he’s got down to that end on purpose to take the bowling. Do you twig, Loamy? And he’ll stick to that end till the last ball of the over, and then he’ll run an odd number, and get up to the other end. Do you comprehend?”“You seem to know all about it,” growled Loman, who saw the force of Pembury’s observations, but greatly disliked it all the same.“Do I, really?” replied the lame boy; “how odd that is, now—particularly without a crib!”Loman was fast losing patience—a fact which seemed to have anything but a damping effect on the editor of theDominican. But another hit or two by Oliver created a momentary diversion. It was quite clear that Pembury’s version of Oliver’s tactics was a correct one. He could easily have run three, but preferred to sacrifice a run rather than leave the incompetent and flurried Webster to face the bowling.“Six to win!” cried Stephen; “I’mcertainOliver will do it!”“Yes, Oliver was always a plodding old blockhead!” drily observed Pembury, who seemed to enjoy the small boy’s indignation whenever any one spoke disrespectfully of his big brother.“He’s not a blockhead!” retorted Stephen, fiercely.“Go it! Come and kick my legs, young ’un; there’s no one near but Loamy, and he can’t hurt.”“Look here, you lame little wretch!” exclaimed Loman, in a passion; “if I have any more of your impudence I’ll box your ears!”“I thought your wrist was sprained?” artlessly observed Pembury. “Here, young Paul, let’s get behind you, there’s a good fellow, Iamin such a funk!”Whether Loman would have carried out his threat or not is doubtful, but at that moment a terrific shout greeted another hit by Oliver—the best he had made during the match—for which he ran four. One to tie, two to win! will they do it?It was a critical moment for Saint Dominic’s. Had the two batsmen been playing for their lives they could not have been more anxiously watched; even Pembury became silent.And now the last ball of the over is bowled in dead silence. Onlookers can even hear the whizz with which it leaves Wren’s hand.It is almost wide, but Oliver steps out to it and just touches it. Webster is half across the wickets already—ready for a bye. Oliver calls to him to come on, and runs. It is a desperate shave—too desperate for good play. But who cares for that when that run has pulled the two sides level, and when, best of all, Oliver has got up to the proper end for the next over?Equal! What a shout greets the announcement! But it dies away suddenly, and a new anxious silence ensues. The game is saved, but not won; another run is wanted.No one says a word, but the Fifth everywhere look on with a confidence which is far more eloquent than words.Raleigh is the bowler from the lower end, and the Sixth send out their hearts to him. He may save them yet!He runs, in his usual unconcerned manner, up to the wicket and delivers the ball. It is one which there is but one way of playing—among the slips.Oliver understands it evidently, and, to the joy of the Fifth, plays it. But why does their cheer drop suddenly, and why in a moment is it drowned, over and over and over again, by the cheers of the Sixth and their partisans, as the crowd suddenly breaks into the field, and the ball shoots high up in the air?A catch! Baynes, the odd man, had missed a chance a few overs back from standing too deep. This time he had crept in close, and saved the Sixth by one of the neatest low-catches that had ever been seen in a Dominican match.

Never had a Sixth versus School Match been looked forward to with more excitement at Saint Dominic’s than the present one. Party feeling had been running high all the term, intensified on the one hand by the unpopularity of some of the monitors, and on the other by the defiant attitude of the Fifth and the tone of their organ, theDominican.

The lower school naturally looked on with interest at this rivalry between the two head forms, the result of which, as might have been expected, was the reverse of beneficial for the discipline of the school generally. If the big boys set a bad example and disregard rules, what can one expect of the little ones?

So far, anything like conflict had been avoided. The Fifth had “cheeked” the Sixth, and the Sixth had snubbed the Fifth; but with the exception of Loman’s assault on Oliver, which had not led to a fight, the war had been strictly one of words. Now, however, the opposing forces were to be ranged face to face at cricket; and to the junior school the opportunity seemed a grand one for a display of partisanship one side or the other.

The School Eleven, on this occasion, moreover, consisted exclusively of Fifth Form boys—a most unusual circumstance, and one which seemed to be the result quite as much of management as of accident. At least so said the disappointed heroes of the Fourth.

The match was, in fact—whatever it was formally styled—a match between the Sixth and the Fifth, and the partisans of either side looked upon it as a decisive event in the respective glories of the two top forms.

And now the day had come. All Saint Dominic’s trooped out to the meadows, and there was a rush of small boys as usual for the front benches. Stephen found himself along with his trusty ally, Paul, and his equally trusty enemy, Bramble, and some ten other Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, wedged like sardines upon a form that would comfortably hold six, eagerly canvassing the prospects of the struggle.

“The Sixth are going to win in a single innings, if you fellows want to know,” announced Bramble, with all the authority of one who knows.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Paul. “The Fifth are safe to win, I tell you.”

“But they’ve got no decent bowlers,” said Raddleston.

“Never mind,” said Stephen. “Loman’s not going to play for the Sixth. He’s sprained his wrist.”

“Hip, hip, hurrah?” yelled Paul, “thatisjolly! They are sure to be licked now. Are you sure he’s out of it?”

“Yes. Look at him there with his arm in a sling.”

And Stephen pointed to where Loman stood in his ordinary clothes talking to some of his fellows.

“Well, thatisa piece of luck!” said Paul. “Who’s to take his place?”

“Baynes, they say. He’s no use, though.”

“Don’t you be too cock-sure, you two,” growled Bramble. “I say we shall beat you even if Loman don’t play. Got any brandy-balls left, Greenfield?”

Similar speculations and hopes were being exchanged all round the field, and when at last the Fifth went out to field, and Callonby and Wren went in to bat for the Sixth, you might have heard a cat sneeze, so breathless was the excitement.

Amid solemn silence the first few balls were bowled. The third ball of the first over came straight on to Wren’s bat, who played it neatly back to the bowler. It was not a run, only a simple block; but it was the first play of the match, and so quite enough to loosen the tongues of all the small boys, who yelled, and howled, and cheered as frantically as if a six had been run or a wicket taken. And the ice once broken, every ball and every hit were marked and applauded as if empires depended on them.

It was in the midst of this gradually rising excitement that Loman slipped quietly and unobserved from the scene, and betook himself to the errand on which we accompanied him in the preceding chapter.

The two Sixth men went quickly to work, and at the end of the second over had scored eight. Then Callonby, in stepping back to “draw” one of Wraysford’s balls, knocked down his wicket.

How the small boys yelled at this!

But the sight of Raleigh going in second soon silenced them.

“They mean hard work by sending in the captain now,” said Paul. “I don’t like that!”

“No more do I,” said Stephen. “He always knocks Oliver’s bowling about.”

“Oh, bother; is your brother bowling?” said Master Paul, quite unconscious of wounding any one’s feelings. “It’s a pity they’ve got no one better.”

Stephen coloured up at this, and wondered what made Paul such a horrid boy.

“Better look-out for your eyes,” said Bramble, cheerily. “The captain always knocks up this way, over square-leg’s head.”

There was a general buzz of youngsters round the field, as the hero of the school walked up to the wicket, and coolly turned to face Oliver’s bowling.

The scorer in the tent hurriedly sharpened his pencil. The big fellows, who had been standing up to watch the opening overs, sat down on the grass and made themselves comfortable. Something was going to happen, evidently. The captain was in, and meant business.

Oliver gripped the ball hard in his hand, and walked back to the end of his run. “Play!” cried the umpire, and amid dead silence the ball shot from the bowler’s hand.

Next moment there rose a shout loud enough to deafen all Saint Dominic’s. The ball was flying fifty feet up in the air, and Raleigh was slowly walking, bat in hand, back to the tent he had only a moment ago quitted!

The captain had been clean bowled, first ball!

Who shall describe the excitement, the yelling, the cheering, the consternation that followed? Paul got up and danced a hornpipe on the bench; Bramble kicked the boy nearest to him. “Well bowled, sir!” shouted some. “Hard lines!” screamed others. “Hurrah for the Fifth!”

“You’ll beat them yet, Sixth!” such were a few of the shouts audible above the general clamour.

As for Stephen, he was wild with joy. He was a staunch partisan of the Fifth in any case, but that was nothing to the fact that it washisbrother, his own brother and nobody else’s, who had bowled that eventful ball, and who was at that moment the hero of Saint Dominic’s. Stephen felt as proud and elated as if he had bowled the ball himself, and could afford to be absolutely patronising to those around him, on the head of this achievement.

“That wasn’t a bad ball of Oliver’s,” he said to Paul. “He can bowl very well when he tries.”

“It was a beastly fluke!” roared Bramble, determined to see no merit in the exploit.

“Shut up and don’t make a row,” said Stephen, with a bland smile of forgiveness.

Bramble promised his adversary to shuthimup, and after a little more discussion and altercation and jubilation, the excitement subsided, and another man went in. All this while the Fifth were in ecstasies. They controlled their feelings, however, contenting themselves with clapping Oliver on the back till he was nearly dead, and speculating on the chances of beating their adversaries in a single innings.

But they had not won the match yet.

Winter was next man in, and he and Wren fell to work very speedily in a decidedly business-like way. No big hits were made, but the score crawled up by ones and twos steadily, and the longer they were at it the steadier they played. Loud cheers announced the posting of thirty on the signal-board, but still the score went on. Now it was a slip, now a bye, now a quiet cut.

“Bravo! well played!” cried Raleigh and his men frequently. The captain, by the way, was in excellent spirits, despite his misfortune.

Thirty-five, forty! The Fifth began to look hot and puzzled. The batsmen were evidently far too much at home with the bowling. A change must be made, even though it be to put on only a second-rate bowler.

Tom Senior was put on. He was nothing like as good a bowler as either Wraysford, or Oliver, or Ricketts. He bowled a very ordinary slow lob, without either twist or shoot, and was usually knocked about plentifully; and this appeared likely to be his fate now, for Wren got hold of his first ball, and knocked it right over into the scorer’s tent for five. The Fifth groaned, and could have torn the wretched Tom to pieces. But the next ball was more lucky; Winter hit it, indeed, but he hit it up, sky-high, over the bowler’s head, and before it reached the ground Bullinger was safe underneath it. It was with a sigh of relief that the Fifth saw this awkward partnership broken up. The score was at forty-eight for three wickets; quite enough too!

After this the innings progressed more evenly. Men came in and went out more as usual, each contributing his three or four, and one or two their ten or twelve. Among the latter was Baynes, who, at the last moment, it will be remembered, had been put into the eleven to replace Loman. By careful play he managed to put together ten, greatly to his own delight, and not a little to the surprise of his friends.

In due time the last wicket of the Sixth fell, to a total of eighty-four runs.

The small boys on the bench had had leisure to abate their ardour by this time. Bramble had recovered his spirits, and Paul and Stephen looked a little blue as they saw the total signalled.

“Eighty-four’s a lot,” said Stephen.

Paul nodded glumly.

“Ya, ha! How do you like it, Guinea-pigs?” jeered Bramble. “I hopeyou’llget half as much.Iknew how it would be.”

The two friends listened to these taunts in silent sorrow, and wished the next innings would begin.

It did presently, and not very brilliantly either. The Fifth only managed to score fifty-one, and to this total Wraysford was the only player who made anything like good scoring. Oliver got out for six, Ricketts for nine, and Tom Senior and Braddy both for a “duck’s-egg.” Altogether it was a meagre performance, and things looked very gloomy for the Fifth when, for a second time, their adversaries took the wickets.

Things never turn out at cricket as one expects, however, and the second innings of the Sixth was no exception to the rule. They only made thirty-six runs. Stephen and Paul were hoarse with yelling, as first one wicket, then another, went down for scarcely a run. Raleigh and Baynes seemed the only two who could stand up at all to the bowling of Oliver and Wraysford, but even their efforts could not keep the wickets up for long.

Every one saw now that the final innings would be a desperate struggle. The Fifth wanted sixty-nine to be equal and seventy to win, and the question was, Would they do it in time?

Stephen and his confederate felt the weight of this question so oppressive that they left the irritating company of Mr Bramble, and walked off and joined themselves to a group of Fourth Form fellows, who were watching the match with sulky interest, evidently sore that they had none of their men in the School Eleven.

“They’ll never do it, and serve them right!” said one. “Why didn’t they put Mansfield in the eleven, or Banks? They’re far more use than Fisher or Braddy.”

“For all that, it’ll be a sell if the Sixth lick,” said another.

“I wouldn’t much care. If we are going to be sat upon by those Fifth snobs every time an eleven is made up, it’s quite time we did go in with the Sixth.”

“Jolly for the Sixth!” retorted the other; whereupon Stephen laughed, and had his ears boxed for being cheeky. The Fourth Senior could not stand “cheek.”

But Saint Dominic’s generally was “sweet” on the Fifth, and hoped they would win. When, therefore, Tom Senior and Bullinger went in first and began to score there was great rejoicing.

But the Fourth Form fellows, among whom Stephen now was, refused to cheer for any one; criticism was more in their line.

“Did you ever see a fellow hit across wickets more horribly than Senior?” said one.

“Just look at that!” cried another. “That Bullinger’s a downright muff not to get that last ball to leg! I could have got it easily.”

“Well, with that bowling, it’s a disgrace if theydon’tscore; that’s all I can say,” remarked a third.

And so these Fourth Form grandees went on, much to Stephen’s wrath, who, when Oliver went in, removed somewhere else, so as to be out of ear-shot of any offensive remarks.

Oliver, however, played so well that even the Fourth Form critics could hardly run him down. He survived all the other wickets of his side, and, though not making a brilliant score, did what was almost as useful—played steadily, and gradually demoralised the bowling of the enemy.

As the game went on the excitement increased rapidly; and when at length the ninth wicket went down for sixty-one, and the last man in appeared, with nine to win, the eagerness on both sides scarcely knew bounds. Every ball, every piece of fielding, was cheered by one side, and every hit and every piece of play was as vehemently cheered by the other. If Raleigh and Wren had been nervous bowlers, they would undoubtedly have been disconcerted by the dead silence, followed by terrific applause, amid which every ball—even a wide—was delivered. But happily they were not.

It was at this critical juncture that Loman reappeared on the scene, much consoled to have the interview with Cripps over, and quite ready now to hear every one lament his absence from the match.

The last man in was Webster, a small Fifth boy, who in the last innings had signalised himself by making a duck’s-egg. The Fifth scarcely dared hope he would stay in long enough for the nine runs required to be made, and looked on now almost pale with anxiety.

“Now,” said Pembury, near whom Loman, as well as our two Guinea-pigs, found themselves, “it all depends on Oliver, and I back Oliver to do it, don’t you, Loamy?”

Loman, who since the lastDominicanhad not been on speaking terms with Pembury, did not vouchsafe a reply, “I do!” said Stephen, boldly.

“Do you, really?” replied Pembury, looking round at the boy. “Perhaps you back yourself to talk when you’re not spoken to, eh, Mr Greenhorn?”

“Bravo! bravo! Well run, sir! Bravo, Fifth!” was the cry as Oliver, following up the first ball of the over, pilfered a bye from the long-stop.

“Didn’t I tell you!” exclaimed Pembury, delighted; “he’ll save us; he’s got down to that end on purpose to take the bowling. Do you twig, Loamy? And he’ll stick to that end till the last ball of the over, and then he’ll run an odd number, and get up to the other end. Do you comprehend?”

“You seem to know all about it,” growled Loman, who saw the force of Pembury’s observations, but greatly disliked it all the same.

“Do I, really?” replied the lame boy; “how odd that is, now—particularly without a crib!”

Loman was fast losing patience—a fact which seemed to have anything but a damping effect on the editor of theDominican. But another hit or two by Oliver created a momentary diversion. It was quite clear that Pembury’s version of Oliver’s tactics was a correct one. He could easily have run three, but preferred to sacrifice a run rather than leave the incompetent and flurried Webster to face the bowling.

“Six to win!” cried Stephen; “I’mcertainOliver will do it!”

“Yes, Oliver was always a plodding old blockhead!” drily observed Pembury, who seemed to enjoy the small boy’s indignation whenever any one spoke disrespectfully of his big brother.

“He’s not a blockhead!” retorted Stephen, fiercely.

“Go it! Come and kick my legs, young ’un; there’s no one near but Loamy, and he can’t hurt.”

“Look here, you lame little wretch!” exclaimed Loman, in a passion; “if I have any more of your impudence I’ll box your ears!”

“I thought your wrist was sprained?” artlessly observed Pembury. “Here, young Paul, let’s get behind you, there’s a good fellow, Iamin such a funk!”

Whether Loman would have carried out his threat or not is doubtful, but at that moment a terrific shout greeted another hit by Oliver—the best he had made during the match—for which he ran four. One to tie, two to win! will they do it?

It was a critical moment for Saint Dominic’s. Had the two batsmen been playing for their lives they could not have been more anxiously watched; even Pembury became silent.

And now the last ball of the over is bowled in dead silence. Onlookers can even hear the whizz with which it leaves Wren’s hand.

It is almost wide, but Oliver steps out to it and just touches it. Webster is half across the wickets already—ready for a bye. Oliver calls to him to come on, and runs. It is a desperate shave—too desperate for good play. But who cares for that when that run has pulled the two sides level, and when, best of all, Oliver has got up to the proper end for the next over?

Equal! What a shout greets the announcement! But it dies away suddenly, and a new anxious silence ensues. The game is saved, but not won; another run is wanted.

No one says a word, but the Fifth everywhere look on with a confidence which is far more eloquent than words.

Raleigh is the bowler from the lower end, and the Sixth send out their hearts to him. He may save them yet!

He runs, in his usual unconcerned manner, up to the wicket and delivers the ball. It is one which there is but one way of playing—among the slips.

Oliver understands it evidently, and, to the joy of the Fifth, plays it. But why does their cheer drop suddenly, and why in a moment is it drowned, over and over and over again, by the cheers of the Sixth and their partisans, as the crowd suddenly breaks into the field, and the ball shoots high up in the air?

A catch! Baynes, the odd man, had missed a chance a few overs back from standing too deep. This time he had crept in close, and saved the Sixth by one of the neatest low-catches that had ever been seen in a Dominican match.

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