Chapter Twenty Two.Putting on the Brake.The holidays went by rapidly enough. I tore myself away from Dicky’s consoling companionship three days from the end, and rushed home to see my mother. I wonder what she thought of the difference a couple of weeks had made in me? When I started to Dicky’s I had been limp, dejected, and down on my luck. Now she found me chirpy, and with a stiff upper lip. She did not make remarks, but I could see how relieved she was.My mother was not the person to take a mean advantage of me, or get me into a corner to lecture me. Rather not! She took me for what I was, and let me see how she loved me. That was the proper sort of help for me. In some ways she made less of me than usual, but I could see why she did that; she saw I wanted letting alone, and she did it, bless her! Only on the last evening, a Sunday, as we walked back from church, she said—“Are you glad or sorry to be going back to-morrow, Tom?”“Sorry for some things—glad for others. I fooled a bit last term, you know, mother.”“Ah, well, sonny, it’s part of the lessons of school to find out our mistakes now and then. It was all new to you at first. I expect you tried to do too much, you know.”“I know—you mean I’d best lie low a bit, mother.”“Yes. I know what you mean,” said she.“There you are!” exclaimed I, staggered by this new coincidence, “that’s what every chap has said. I’ll do my best, really, mother; only it’s jolly hard. Don’t be awfully sorry if I don’t get right all at once; I’ll try, you know.”“You can’t do more than your best, sonny dear.”“Redwood says,” continued I, “that I shall probably tool about more or less to the end of my time. It’s in my line, he says; but he rather backs me to pull myself together for all that.”“So do I, Tom. And the best friend you have does so too.”My journey next day was very different from the strange journey of a term ago. I had neither tan boots nor square-topped hat nor lavender gloves; and I could afford to smile with Langrish (who joined meen route) at some of the poor little greenhorns on their way to make their entry into Low Heath.How different it was, too, to be hailed by half a dozen voices from the top of the omnibus at the station and told to hop up beside them! And how jolly to ride in triumph up Bridge Street, exchanging shouts with familiar passengers on the way, or uttering defiant war-whoops at the day boys!And how jolly to tumble in at Sharpe’s door once more, and slap one another on the back, and crowd up into the old familiar faggery, and hear all the old chaff and slang, interspersed with stories of the holidays, and second-hand Christmas jokes!And how jolly to hear the organ again in the chapel, and the prayers, with friends all round you; and finally, when the day was over, tuck up again in the little cubicle, and hear your chum’s voice across the partition droning more and more sleepily, till finally you and it dropped off together!One of the last to arrive during the day was Tempest, who had run from the station, and came in flushed with exercise, but grave and tight about the lips. The ovation he received from the Philosophers scarcely drew a smile from him, and when he reached his own study he slammed the door ominously and cheerlessly behind him. We none of us liked it.“What’s it to be?” said Coxhead. “Is he to be cock of the house this term, or has he chucked it up?”That was the question which was agitating us all. Till the form orders were posted to-morrow no one could tell. Crofter, we knew, had been doing all he knew to get ahead, and considering the slack way in which Tempest had let things go all last term, it seemed very much as if he might succeed.If he did, our duty would be a difficult one. Crofter had a claim on us for having saved Tempest from being expelled, and we could hardly refuse to own him should he come out cock of the house. On the other hand. Tempest was the man of our heart, and our tender imagination failed to picture him in any secondary position in Sharpe’s,—secondary to Crofter, above all other things.The day closed with one curious incident.Langrish came to me after supper in a state of wrathful perturbation.“Look here, young Sarah,” said he, “are you Tempest’s fag or not? That’s all about it.”“I don’t know,” said I; “I was, but he told me—”“He told you he didn’t want a cad like you hanging about his place. All very well—that doesn’t follow I’m his fag as well as Crofter’s. Here, catch hold; you’ve got to take this to Crofter.I’mnot going to take it—it means a licking most likely, and I don’t see why I’m to be let in for it.”He handed me an envelope, evidently containing coin, addressed “Crofter,” in Tempest’s well-known writing.I did not relish the commission, for I had my guess as to the contents of the missive. Curiosity, however, prompted me to take it and proceed to Crofter’s study.“Well, youngster,” said Crofter, “turned up again? Have you seen Tempest yet?”“Yes—he sent this,” said I.Crofter took the envelope and opened it. Five sovereigns and a half-sovereign dropped out on the table. No letter accompanied the money, but its meaning was clear enough. Crofter’s brow contracted, and his habitual smile deserted him for once.“What is this? Some mistake,” said he.“It’s what he owes you,” suggested I.“I suppose so; but that was only £4 17 shillings 6 pence.”“Perhaps the rest is something for yourself,” I remarked, making myself scarce in time to escape the task of returning the change.Bother it! Crofter must square this part of the business up with his enemy.Ididn’t want to be dragged any more into it.There was a rush for the house board early next morning to learn our fate as to the captaincy of Sharpe’s.“Whew!” said Langrish, as we reached it; “bracketed.”So it was. Tempest’s and Crofter’s names were braced together at the head of the list.“That’s a nice go! I suppose they’ll have to go halves. All the worse for us.”“I should think, as Tempest was captain last term, he’ll go on again this,” I said.“He wasn’t captain when term ended; Crofter was.”“I vote they fight it out,” said Warminster. “Two to one on the winner.”“It would save trouble if they made Pridgin head; he’s third man up.”“Pridgin!” The easy-going owner of the name was spared something by not being present to hear the amused contempt with which the suggestion was greeted.An hour later the doctor came down to settle matters for us.“Under the circumstances,” said he, “it seems right that Crofter should take charge of the house. I understand that Tempest’s debts, on account of which he was removed from the headship last term, are now all honourably settled. But as he was more than once reported for breaking rules last term, it is only fair that Crofter, whose marks are equal, and against whom no complaint was recorded, should captain the house.”That was all. Tempest, on the whole, looked relieved. Crofter smiled a satisfied smile. Pridgin and Wales looked blue; and the Philosophers took time to consider what they thought.As for me, although Tempest had thrown me over, I could guess what a blow this was for him; not personally, for he would probably be glad to be rid of the responsibility, but as a public disgrace it was sure to wound him keenly.I longed to be able to go and tell him how sorry I was; but after what had happened last term I dare not. In that respect, whether I liked it or not, I must “lie low.”The Philosophers were not long in formally exchanging opinions on the situation.A meeting was summoned for the same evening to inaugurate things generally. I was a little doubtful what I ought to do. Last term philosophy had not tended to diligent work, and with my good resolutions in view I felt that I should be better out of it. The little tiff with my comrades before the holidays had almost solved the difficulty; but since then I had been formally re-admitted to the fold, and it would be almost treasonable to “scratch” now.“Imoveand third, and old Trim seconds and fourths,” announced Langrish, “that old Sal be, and is, president as before.”“And I carry that motion,” said Warminster, who prided himself on his acquaintance with the procedure of public meetings.“I move an amendment,” said I.“Shut up, or you’ll be kicked out again,” said the secretary.“Shut up yourself, or you’ll be kicked in,” retorted I, feeling I must carry everything with a high hand if I was to carry them at all. “No. Look here, you chaps, I’m not so green as I look.”“Then you must look fearfully green,” muttered Coxhead.I took no heed of the interruption, which was not relevant, and proceeded,—“It was all very well last term, but it won’t wash this. What I say is, that if the cock of the school is the head boy in the school, and the cock of the house is the head boy in the house, the president of the Philosophers has got to be the chap highest up in the Philosophers, and that’s not me. Now old Warminster is.He’sa jolly clever chap, and got the form prize on his head, and he’s a rattling good speaker, and a middling sprinter, and writes a fairly good hand!He’sthe sort of chap we want. We want some one who can keep the secretary, and treasurer, and auditor, and registrar, and all that lot, in their place, and doesn’t mind telling them they’re idiots when they are. I never could do it. It’s rough on the club not to have a chap like Warminster,” continued I, waxing warm, and undaunted by the murmurs of my audience. “He can make you all sit up. He’s not the sort of chap to let the Philosophers go rotting about, talking what they know nothing about and all that. He’ll see that the louts are kept out of it, and only fellows who’ve got a record of something are let in. Bless you, I used to let in any sort of bounder that asked! Look round you and see. That’s the sort of lot I let in. It won’t wash, though. Fancy having a lot of outsiders who can’t translate a Latin motto, and make ‘corpore’ a feminine genitive! Now old Warminster’s a nailer at Latin, and can put one or two of us to bed at Euclid. He’ll keep us out of blunders of that sort, that make all the school grin at us. I therefore propose, fifth, fourth, third, and second, that Tip. Warminster is the president of the Philosophers, and that the secretary, treasurer, auditor, registrar, and all that lot, get a month’s notice to jack it up unless they’re on the front desk. There you are! Of course they won’t like it—can’t help that. No back-deskers for us. Front desk or nothing!”This oration, the longest I ever delivered so far, and in all probability the longest I ever shall deliver, was listened to with a curious mixture of discomfort and attention. At first it was nearly howled down, but it took as it went on. Warminster, for whom I really did not feel quite so much admiration as my words seemed to imply, but who yet was the hard-working man of our lot—Warminster was wonderfully pleased with it. The others, one by one, dropped their noisy protests, and looked out of the window. Trimble attempted a little bravado, by sticking his tongue in his cheek; but my peroration was listened to with marked attention.“Cuts down the club a bit,” said Coxhead, who occupied a desk in class on the third row, “if it’s only to be top-deskers.”“Cuts old Sal out, to begin with,” said Langrish, who was just on the bench of honour.“It’ll cut you out next week, old hoss,” said I.“Me! What are you talking about?”“You wait till the week’s order is up: you’ll see.”Langrish glared indignantly.“If you think an idiot like you is going to—”“Look here,” said Warminster, “I vote we go easy at first, and make it any one who’s not gone down in order in a month.”“I say, nobody who’s not gone up one in the term,” suggested Langrish, glancing defiantly at me.“All serene,” said I, “that’ll suit my book. It’ll be roughish on you, though.”“Will it? See how you’ll feel when you’re chucked out neck and crop, my beauty!”My main object had been to get out of being president. But, somehow, in doing it I had struck a note which made the Philosophers sit up. It was no credit to me it happened so, but it was one of those lucky flukes which sometimes turn out well and do a good stroke without the striker being aware of it.Warminster was unanimously elected president, and bore his blushing honours with due meekness.“Old Sal”—the Philosophers had taken to abbreviating my pet name this term, I know not on what principle of familiarity—“Old Sal piles it on a bit,” remarked he. “Of course he couldn’t help rotting the club a bit last term. That’s the way he’s born. But considering what a rank outsider he was, I suppose he did his best.” (Laughter, and cries of “What about Jarman’s guy?”) “Yes, that was a howling mess. I vote we keep out of that this term, or leave it to the louts. I tell you what,” said he, “I vote we make a show up at the sports next month, and take some of the side out of those day-boy kids. They fancy themselves a jolly sight too much.”“Dicky Brown told me,” said I, “they were sure of both the jumps and the Quarter-mile and the Tug—and that Selkirk’s were going to pull off the others, all except the Half-mile Handicap; and we may get that, he says, because they’ll probably give us fifty or sixty yards’ lead.”“Howling cheek!” exclaimed every one in furious rage. The idea of being given sixty yards’ start in a half-mile by a day boy was too much even for a Philosopher.Whereupon we solemnly considered the list of events “under 15,” and divided them out among ourselves, with a vow to eat our heads if we didn’t pull off as many for Sharpe’s as all the rest of the school put together.We decided to postpone making our entries till the last moment, so as to delude the enemy into the impression that we were shirking the sports altogether. Then we would, as Warminster politely put it, “drop down and rot the lot.”Before we adjourned for the night the question of Tempest and Crofter came up,à proposof a report, which some one mentioned, that Tempest had entered for the Open Mile against Redwood, and was expected to prove a warm customer.“Is Crofter in?”“No—Pridgin is, but of course he won’t come up to scratch, and Wales only enters for the show of the thing.”“Crofter couldn’t look in at Tempest over the Mile,” said Langrish, “but he ought to enter, for all that.”“Can he look in at Tempest over anything?” said I.“Don’t ask questions, and you won’t be told no whoppers,” astutely replied Trimble. “I wonder if he expects us to back him up?”“I sha’n’t,” said one. “Nor shall I,” said one or two others.“I vote we let him alone,” said Coxhead. “What’s he got to do with us? When does he come across us? Only when there’s a row on. He’s got nothing at all to say to us at other times.”“You mean, if we want to let him alone we shall have to shut up rows?” inquired Langrish. “Rather rough, isn’t it?”“Not if he knows the reason,” suggested I. “Let’s send him a round-robin and let him know.”“Not half a bad idea.”Whereupon the following candid epistle was concocted and signed by all present:—“To T. Crofter, Esquire, Captain Sharpe’spro tem., etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.“Dear Crofter,—We the undersigned Philosophers wish to say we’re going steady this term on our own hooks, and hope you will not think it’s because of you. We don’t want to be interfered with by any chap except old Tempest, who ought to be cock of Sharpe’s, so we’ve decided to go steady, so as not to be interfered with, because we would rather not you interfered with us, because we’re all serene and are backing up Tempest, and hope he’ll pull off the Mile that you’ve not entered for. We aren’t down on you, because you pulled Tempest through last term, but it’s rough you’re cock of the house instead of him, and therefore on that account we are going steady, so as not to give you the fag of interfering with us, which we don’t mind Tempest doing because we consider he has more right to interfere with us than you. Hoping you are well and in good health, as this leaves us, Believe us, with kind regards to all at home, Yours very kindly and in alphabetical order, so that you needn’t know who started this letter. Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead, Thomas Jones, Everard Langrish, Jonathan T. Purkis, Alfred James Remington Trimble, Percy Algernon Warminster, and others.”This important document, the writing of which, I grieve to say, necessitated frequent reference to the English Dictionary, Langrish, as Crofter’s fag, undertook to deliver, and faithfully discharged his mission by leaving it on the captain’s table when he was out of his study.It was decided to resist the temptation of sending Mr Jarman a similar explanatory letter, for fear it might lead to a row which would call for interference. Nor was it deemed prudent under the circumstances to commit ourselves in writing to Tempest, whom we hoped to convince of our loyalty by cheering him on every possible occasion and otherwise making things pleasant for him.How Crofter enjoyed his letter we none of us knew. He was inconsiderate enough to give no sign of having received it; and still more inconsiderate to allow himself on more than one occasion to be publicly complimented by the doctor and Mr Sharpe on the order of the house.Meanwhile the Philosophers stuck to their new programme. I had the satisfaction of pulling down Langrish from his place on the top desk at the end of the first week, and he had the triumph of recovering his seat at the end of the week after. In the seclusion of the faggery we indulged in a few mild recriminations, which were the natural outcome of our rivalry; but they only served to blow off steam, and we were too keen to win our self-imposed battles in class to allow personal feeling to interfere much with our work.Mr Sharpe was fairly astonished, and took off his glasses, and rubbed his mild eyes as he read over our really meritorious exercises and listened to our sometimes positively coherent feats of construing.Secretly, too, but with great precaution, and in spots far removed from the detection of the day boys, we practised grimly at jumping and sprinting and record-breaking generally, and finally, as the critical time for making our entries approached, agreed upon the particular exploit which each of us was to undertake for the honour and glory of Sharpe’s house in general and Philosophy in particular.Before that time arrived, however, one awkward incident occurred, to remind me I had even yet not quite purged myself of the follies of last term. I stumbled against Crofter just outside his door.“Come in,” said he.I obeyed, guessing that at last we were to hear something of our famous letter.I was disappointed, however. Crofter made no reference to it, but said—“Those bills you paid for me last term, Jones iv.—did none of the people allow you any discount?”“Discount,” said I, “what’s that? We haven’t got to it yet in Syntax.”“Don’t be a young ass. Did none of them give you any change?”“Rather, all of them. I brought it back, or used it to pay the rest.”“What I mean is, you didn’t make anything out of it for yourself, did you?”“Me—oh!” the conscious blushes suddenly mounted as I grasped his meaning.“Yes, you.”“Well, only, you see, it was—”“Come, no lies. I know all about it. Did you or did you not?”“Not from the hat man,” said I.“From all the others?”“Only—”“Yes or no, that’s what I want to know.”“Yes, but—”“That will do. Now I understand why you were so pleased with the job. It’s a profitable thing to help a friend sometimes. Tempest will be amused when he hears.”“Oh, I say, don’t—really I didn’t fancy—”“That will do, I say. Cut—do you hear? I only wanted to know whether I was right or not in what I told Tempest.”“Oh, but—” pleaded I, with a groan of misery.“If you don’t cut I’ll lick you for disobedience.”This, after all my good resolutions and hopes that all was squared and that before long Tempest would believe in me again!I slunk away in despair, and curled myself up in my bed that night, the most miserable boy in Low Heath.
The holidays went by rapidly enough. I tore myself away from Dicky’s consoling companionship three days from the end, and rushed home to see my mother. I wonder what she thought of the difference a couple of weeks had made in me? When I started to Dicky’s I had been limp, dejected, and down on my luck. Now she found me chirpy, and with a stiff upper lip. She did not make remarks, but I could see how relieved she was.
My mother was not the person to take a mean advantage of me, or get me into a corner to lecture me. Rather not! She took me for what I was, and let me see how she loved me. That was the proper sort of help for me. In some ways she made less of me than usual, but I could see why she did that; she saw I wanted letting alone, and she did it, bless her! Only on the last evening, a Sunday, as we walked back from church, she said—
“Are you glad or sorry to be going back to-morrow, Tom?”
“Sorry for some things—glad for others. I fooled a bit last term, you know, mother.”
“Ah, well, sonny, it’s part of the lessons of school to find out our mistakes now and then. It was all new to you at first. I expect you tried to do too much, you know.”
“I know—you mean I’d best lie low a bit, mother.”
“Yes. I know what you mean,” said she.
“There you are!” exclaimed I, staggered by this new coincidence, “that’s what every chap has said. I’ll do my best, really, mother; only it’s jolly hard. Don’t be awfully sorry if I don’t get right all at once; I’ll try, you know.”
“You can’t do more than your best, sonny dear.”
“Redwood says,” continued I, “that I shall probably tool about more or less to the end of my time. It’s in my line, he says; but he rather backs me to pull myself together for all that.”
“So do I, Tom. And the best friend you have does so too.”
My journey next day was very different from the strange journey of a term ago. I had neither tan boots nor square-topped hat nor lavender gloves; and I could afford to smile with Langrish (who joined meen route) at some of the poor little greenhorns on their way to make their entry into Low Heath.
How different it was, too, to be hailed by half a dozen voices from the top of the omnibus at the station and told to hop up beside them! And how jolly to ride in triumph up Bridge Street, exchanging shouts with familiar passengers on the way, or uttering defiant war-whoops at the day boys!
And how jolly to tumble in at Sharpe’s door once more, and slap one another on the back, and crowd up into the old familiar faggery, and hear all the old chaff and slang, interspersed with stories of the holidays, and second-hand Christmas jokes!
And how jolly to hear the organ again in the chapel, and the prayers, with friends all round you; and finally, when the day was over, tuck up again in the little cubicle, and hear your chum’s voice across the partition droning more and more sleepily, till finally you and it dropped off together!
One of the last to arrive during the day was Tempest, who had run from the station, and came in flushed with exercise, but grave and tight about the lips. The ovation he received from the Philosophers scarcely drew a smile from him, and when he reached his own study he slammed the door ominously and cheerlessly behind him. We none of us liked it.
“What’s it to be?” said Coxhead. “Is he to be cock of the house this term, or has he chucked it up?”
That was the question which was agitating us all. Till the form orders were posted to-morrow no one could tell. Crofter, we knew, had been doing all he knew to get ahead, and considering the slack way in which Tempest had let things go all last term, it seemed very much as if he might succeed.
If he did, our duty would be a difficult one. Crofter had a claim on us for having saved Tempest from being expelled, and we could hardly refuse to own him should he come out cock of the house. On the other hand. Tempest was the man of our heart, and our tender imagination failed to picture him in any secondary position in Sharpe’s,—secondary to Crofter, above all other things.
The day closed with one curious incident.
Langrish came to me after supper in a state of wrathful perturbation.
“Look here, young Sarah,” said he, “are you Tempest’s fag or not? That’s all about it.”
“I don’t know,” said I; “I was, but he told me—”
“He told you he didn’t want a cad like you hanging about his place. All very well—that doesn’t follow I’m his fag as well as Crofter’s. Here, catch hold; you’ve got to take this to Crofter.I’mnot going to take it—it means a licking most likely, and I don’t see why I’m to be let in for it.”
He handed me an envelope, evidently containing coin, addressed “Crofter,” in Tempest’s well-known writing.
I did not relish the commission, for I had my guess as to the contents of the missive. Curiosity, however, prompted me to take it and proceed to Crofter’s study.
“Well, youngster,” said Crofter, “turned up again? Have you seen Tempest yet?”
“Yes—he sent this,” said I.
Crofter took the envelope and opened it. Five sovereigns and a half-sovereign dropped out on the table. No letter accompanied the money, but its meaning was clear enough. Crofter’s brow contracted, and his habitual smile deserted him for once.
“What is this? Some mistake,” said he.
“It’s what he owes you,” suggested I.
“I suppose so; but that was only £4 17 shillings 6 pence.”
“Perhaps the rest is something for yourself,” I remarked, making myself scarce in time to escape the task of returning the change.
Bother it! Crofter must square this part of the business up with his enemy.Ididn’t want to be dragged any more into it.
There was a rush for the house board early next morning to learn our fate as to the captaincy of Sharpe’s.
“Whew!” said Langrish, as we reached it; “bracketed.”
So it was. Tempest’s and Crofter’s names were braced together at the head of the list.
“That’s a nice go! I suppose they’ll have to go halves. All the worse for us.”
“I should think, as Tempest was captain last term, he’ll go on again this,” I said.
“He wasn’t captain when term ended; Crofter was.”
“I vote they fight it out,” said Warminster. “Two to one on the winner.”
“It would save trouble if they made Pridgin head; he’s third man up.”
“Pridgin!” The easy-going owner of the name was spared something by not being present to hear the amused contempt with which the suggestion was greeted.
An hour later the doctor came down to settle matters for us.
“Under the circumstances,” said he, “it seems right that Crofter should take charge of the house. I understand that Tempest’s debts, on account of which he was removed from the headship last term, are now all honourably settled. But as he was more than once reported for breaking rules last term, it is only fair that Crofter, whose marks are equal, and against whom no complaint was recorded, should captain the house.”
That was all. Tempest, on the whole, looked relieved. Crofter smiled a satisfied smile. Pridgin and Wales looked blue; and the Philosophers took time to consider what they thought.
As for me, although Tempest had thrown me over, I could guess what a blow this was for him; not personally, for he would probably be glad to be rid of the responsibility, but as a public disgrace it was sure to wound him keenly.
I longed to be able to go and tell him how sorry I was; but after what had happened last term I dare not. In that respect, whether I liked it or not, I must “lie low.”
The Philosophers were not long in formally exchanging opinions on the situation.
A meeting was summoned for the same evening to inaugurate things generally. I was a little doubtful what I ought to do. Last term philosophy had not tended to diligent work, and with my good resolutions in view I felt that I should be better out of it. The little tiff with my comrades before the holidays had almost solved the difficulty; but since then I had been formally re-admitted to the fold, and it would be almost treasonable to “scratch” now.
“Imoveand third, and old Trim seconds and fourths,” announced Langrish, “that old Sal be, and is, president as before.”
“And I carry that motion,” said Warminster, who prided himself on his acquaintance with the procedure of public meetings.
“I move an amendment,” said I.
“Shut up, or you’ll be kicked out again,” said the secretary.
“Shut up yourself, or you’ll be kicked in,” retorted I, feeling I must carry everything with a high hand if I was to carry them at all. “No. Look here, you chaps, I’m not so green as I look.”
“Then you must look fearfully green,” muttered Coxhead.
I took no heed of the interruption, which was not relevant, and proceeded,—
“It was all very well last term, but it won’t wash this. What I say is, that if the cock of the school is the head boy in the school, and the cock of the house is the head boy in the house, the president of the Philosophers has got to be the chap highest up in the Philosophers, and that’s not me. Now old Warminster is.He’sa jolly clever chap, and got the form prize on his head, and he’s a rattling good speaker, and a middling sprinter, and writes a fairly good hand!He’sthe sort of chap we want. We want some one who can keep the secretary, and treasurer, and auditor, and registrar, and all that lot, in their place, and doesn’t mind telling them they’re idiots when they are. I never could do it. It’s rough on the club not to have a chap like Warminster,” continued I, waxing warm, and undaunted by the murmurs of my audience. “He can make you all sit up. He’s not the sort of chap to let the Philosophers go rotting about, talking what they know nothing about and all that. He’ll see that the louts are kept out of it, and only fellows who’ve got a record of something are let in. Bless you, I used to let in any sort of bounder that asked! Look round you and see. That’s the sort of lot I let in. It won’t wash, though. Fancy having a lot of outsiders who can’t translate a Latin motto, and make ‘corpore’ a feminine genitive! Now old Warminster’s a nailer at Latin, and can put one or two of us to bed at Euclid. He’ll keep us out of blunders of that sort, that make all the school grin at us. I therefore propose, fifth, fourth, third, and second, that Tip. Warminster is the president of the Philosophers, and that the secretary, treasurer, auditor, registrar, and all that lot, get a month’s notice to jack it up unless they’re on the front desk. There you are! Of course they won’t like it—can’t help that. No back-deskers for us. Front desk or nothing!”
This oration, the longest I ever delivered so far, and in all probability the longest I ever shall deliver, was listened to with a curious mixture of discomfort and attention. At first it was nearly howled down, but it took as it went on. Warminster, for whom I really did not feel quite so much admiration as my words seemed to imply, but who yet was the hard-working man of our lot—Warminster was wonderfully pleased with it. The others, one by one, dropped their noisy protests, and looked out of the window. Trimble attempted a little bravado, by sticking his tongue in his cheek; but my peroration was listened to with marked attention.
“Cuts down the club a bit,” said Coxhead, who occupied a desk in class on the third row, “if it’s only to be top-deskers.”
“Cuts old Sal out, to begin with,” said Langrish, who was just on the bench of honour.
“It’ll cut you out next week, old hoss,” said I.
“Me! What are you talking about?”
“You wait till the week’s order is up: you’ll see.”
Langrish glared indignantly.
“If you think an idiot like you is going to—”
“Look here,” said Warminster, “I vote we go easy at first, and make it any one who’s not gone down in order in a month.”
“I say, nobody who’s not gone up one in the term,” suggested Langrish, glancing defiantly at me.
“All serene,” said I, “that’ll suit my book. It’ll be roughish on you, though.”
“Will it? See how you’ll feel when you’re chucked out neck and crop, my beauty!”
My main object had been to get out of being president. But, somehow, in doing it I had struck a note which made the Philosophers sit up. It was no credit to me it happened so, but it was one of those lucky flukes which sometimes turn out well and do a good stroke without the striker being aware of it.
Warminster was unanimously elected president, and bore his blushing honours with due meekness.
“Old Sal”—the Philosophers had taken to abbreviating my pet name this term, I know not on what principle of familiarity—“Old Sal piles it on a bit,” remarked he. “Of course he couldn’t help rotting the club a bit last term. That’s the way he’s born. But considering what a rank outsider he was, I suppose he did his best.” (Laughter, and cries of “What about Jarman’s guy?”) “Yes, that was a howling mess. I vote we keep out of that this term, or leave it to the louts. I tell you what,” said he, “I vote we make a show up at the sports next month, and take some of the side out of those day-boy kids. They fancy themselves a jolly sight too much.”
“Dicky Brown told me,” said I, “they were sure of both the jumps and the Quarter-mile and the Tug—and that Selkirk’s were going to pull off the others, all except the Half-mile Handicap; and we may get that, he says, because they’ll probably give us fifty or sixty yards’ lead.”
“Howling cheek!” exclaimed every one in furious rage. The idea of being given sixty yards’ start in a half-mile by a day boy was too much even for a Philosopher.
Whereupon we solemnly considered the list of events “under 15,” and divided them out among ourselves, with a vow to eat our heads if we didn’t pull off as many for Sharpe’s as all the rest of the school put together.
We decided to postpone making our entries till the last moment, so as to delude the enemy into the impression that we were shirking the sports altogether. Then we would, as Warminster politely put it, “drop down and rot the lot.”
Before we adjourned for the night the question of Tempest and Crofter came up,à proposof a report, which some one mentioned, that Tempest had entered for the Open Mile against Redwood, and was expected to prove a warm customer.
“Is Crofter in?”
“No—Pridgin is, but of course he won’t come up to scratch, and Wales only enters for the show of the thing.”
“Crofter couldn’t look in at Tempest over the Mile,” said Langrish, “but he ought to enter, for all that.”
“Can he look in at Tempest over anything?” said I.
“Don’t ask questions, and you won’t be told no whoppers,” astutely replied Trimble. “I wonder if he expects us to back him up?”
“I sha’n’t,” said one. “Nor shall I,” said one or two others.
“I vote we let him alone,” said Coxhead. “What’s he got to do with us? When does he come across us? Only when there’s a row on. He’s got nothing at all to say to us at other times.”
“You mean, if we want to let him alone we shall have to shut up rows?” inquired Langrish. “Rather rough, isn’t it?”
“Not if he knows the reason,” suggested I. “Let’s send him a round-robin and let him know.”
“Not half a bad idea.”
Whereupon the following candid epistle was concocted and signed by all present:—
“To T. Crofter, Esquire, Captain Sharpe’spro tem., etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
“Dear Crofter,—We the undersigned Philosophers wish to say we’re going steady this term on our own hooks, and hope you will not think it’s because of you. We don’t want to be interfered with by any chap except old Tempest, who ought to be cock of Sharpe’s, so we’ve decided to go steady, so as not to be interfered with, because we would rather not you interfered with us, because we’re all serene and are backing up Tempest, and hope he’ll pull off the Mile that you’ve not entered for. We aren’t down on you, because you pulled Tempest through last term, but it’s rough you’re cock of the house instead of him, and therefore on that account we are going steady, so as not to give you the fag of interfering with us, which we don’t mind Tempest doing because we consider he has more right to interfere with us than you. Hoping you are well and in good health, as this leaves us, Believe us, with kind regards to all at home, Yours very kindly and in alphabetical order, so that you needn’t know who started this letter. Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead, Thomas Jones, Everard Langrish, Jonathan T. Purkis, Alfred James Remington Trimble, Percy Algernon Warminster, and others.”
This important document, the writing of which, I grieve to say, necessitated frequent reference to the English Dictionary, Langrish, as Crofter’s fag, undertook to deliver, and faithfully discharged his mission by leaving it on the captain’s table when he was out of his study.
It was decided to resist the temptation of sending Mr Jarman a similar explanatory letter, for fear it might lead to a row which would call for interference. Nor was it deemed prudent under the circumstances to commit ourselves in writing to Tempest, whom we hoped to convince of our loyalty by cheering him on every possible occasion and otherwise making things pleasant for him.
How Crofter enjoyed his letter we none of us knew. He was inconsiderate enough to give no sign of having received it; and still more inconsiderate to allow himself on more than one occasion to be publicly complimented by the doctor and Mr Sharpe on the order of the house.
Meanwhile the Philosophers stuck to their new programme. I had the satisfaction of pulling down Langrish from his place on the top desk at the end of the first week, and he had the triumph of recovering his seat at the end of the week after. In the seclusion of the faggery we indulged in a few mild recriminations, which were the natural outcome of our rivalry; but they only served to blow off steam, and we were too keen to win our self-imposed battles in class to allow personal feeling to interfere much with our work.
Mr Sharpe was fairly astonished, and took off his glasses, and rubbed his mild eyes as he read over our really meritorious exercises and listened to our sometimes positively coherent feats of construing.
Secretly, too, but with great precaution, and in spots far removed from the detection of the day boys, we practised grimly at jumping and sprinting and record-breaking generally, and finally, as the critical time for making our entries approached, agreed upon the particular exploit which each of us was to undertake for the honour and glory of Sharpe’s house in general and Philosophy in particular.
Before that time arrived, however, one awkward incident occurred, to remind me I had even yet not quite purged myself of the follies of last term. I stumbled against Crofter just outside his door.
“Come in,” said he.
I obeyed, guessing that at last we were to hear something of our famous letter.
I was disappointed, however. Crofter made no reference to it, but said—
“Those bills you paid for me last term, Jones iv.—did none of the people allow you any discount?”
“Discount,” said I, “what’s that? We haven’t got to it yet in Syntax.”
“Don’t be a young ass. Did none of them give you any change?”
“Rather, all of them. I brought it back, or used it to pay the rest.”
“What I mean is, you didn’t make anything out of it for yourself, did you?”
“Me—oh!” the conscious blushes suddenly mounted as I grasped his meaning.
“Yes, you.”
“Well, only, you see, it was—”
“Come, no lies. I know all about it. Did you or did you not?”
“Not from the hat man,” said I.
“From all the others?”
“Only—”
“Yes or no, that’s what I want to know.”
“Yes, but—”
“That will do. Now I understand why you were so pleased with the job. It’s a profitable thing to help a friend sometimes. Tempest will be amused when he hears.”
“Oh, I say, don’t—really I didn’t fancy—”
“That will do, I say. Cut—do you hear? I only wanted to know whether I was right or not in what I told Tempest.”
“Oh, but—” pleaded I, with a groan of misery.
“If you don’t cut I’ll lick you for disobedience.”
This, after all my good resolutions and hopes that all was squared and that before long Tempest would believe in me again!
I slunk away in despair, and curled myself up in my bed that night, the most miserable boy in Low Heath.
Chapter Twenty Three.Pretty warm all round.“Dicky, old chap, I’m in a howling mess.”“The same old one, or a new one?”“It’s about those blessed bills of Tempest’s—I wish I’d let them alone. You see, it was this way. How was I to know? I’m sure I never meant to do anything shady.”“I dare say not, but whatareyou talking about?”“Why, I’ve been regularly let in. You see, I—”“Look here, old chap, let’s hear what it is,” said the practical Dicky.“Why, the fact is, most of the chaps wanted to stand me something when I squared up with them, and Crofter tries to make out I’m a thief, and he’s going to show me up to Tempest.”“But you didn’t let them?”“Well, yes, one or two. You see, Marple gave me a pencil-sharpener, and Rammage a strawberry ice, and Ringstead a net-bag and spikes—jolly bad ones too, they all came out in a week.”“And does Crofter say you swindled him or Tempest?”“I didn’t think I was swindling anybody,” said I evasively.“You made a pretty good thing out of it, though.”“I know. I say, Dicky, what’s to be done? I thought I was going to pull round all square this term—really I did—and now I’m in a regular fix.”Dicky pondered.“It was a bit shady,” said he, with his refreshing candour; “the sort of thing Ananias and—”“Oh, for pity’s sake, Dicky, if that’s all you’ve got to say—”“It’s not. I think you’d best make it good somehow. Can’t you give them back?”“How can I give back the strawberry ice?”This was a poser, certainly, and set Dicky thinking again.“Have you got the other things?” asked he.“No; the pencil-sharpener smashed first time I used it, and the net-bag got lost at home.”“Awkward. You’ll have to buy new ones.”“Who for?”“Tempest, of course. They were his bills.”“But it was Crofter’s money.”“But Tempest has paid him back.”The result of this conversation was, that instead of practising for the Quarter-mile that afternoon I went down town with a bag, and expended five shillings of my term’s pocket-money in the purchase of a pencil-sharpener, a strawberry ice, a net-bag, and a set of patent screw spikes.Dicky, like a brick, undertook to convey these to Tempest, with the following letter, which I wrote at his suggestion.“Dear Tempest,—I send you back the change I got out of the bills I got last term. I’m sorrier than I can say, and hope you won’t hate me more than you do. Dicky will tell you how jolly blue I am, and how we all hope you’ll win the Mile. We aren’t backing up Crofter, and hope you’ll soon be captain again. Please excuse me writing, but I don’t like to come and tell you this, as you’re so down on me.“Yours truly,—“T. Jones iv.”I also penned a further letter for Crofter:—“Dear Crofter,—You needn’t mind telling Tempest, as I’ve done so and paid him back. With thanks all the same,—“Yours truly,—“T.J. iv.”I felt vastly easier in my mind when this polite letter was at an end, and when I saw the faithful Dicky depart to execute his brotherly mission. My one fear was lest the strawberry ice should get warm before it reached its destination.I waited in vain for any sign of response from Tempest. The Philosophers went down during the afternoon to watch him training for his race; but he vouchsafed us no regard, and, for all I knew, still put me down as a thief and a sharper. Dicky, whom I met later on, explained that he had failed to catch Tempest in his study, but had deposited the articles along with the letter on his table, so that, if he did not know of them yet, he soon would.My anxiety was not at all allayed by a casual encounter with Crofter in the evening. He summoned me into his study, where I saw mybillet-douxlying on the table.“I suppose you wrote this?” said he.“Yes.”“And you think everything’s clear now, do you?”“Isn’t it?” said I.“I dare say Dr England will be able to tell you. By the way, why did you only give me 2 shillings 6 pence change instead of 3 shillings 6 pence?”“There was only 2 shillings 6 pence to give.”“Really? I thought so too till your clever management of the tips tempted me to look over the bills again. I see that what you paid only came to £4 16 shillings 6 pence, instead of £4 17 shillings 6 pence. I don’t want the other shilling, but hope you bought yourself something nice with it. You must consider it a present from Tempest, not me.”I timed red and white in the sudden confusion of that announcement. I was positively certain 2 shillings 6 pence had been the change, and that if there was any mistake it must be on the part of the tradesmen, not me. But how was I likely to convince Crofter, or, for the matter of that, Tempest, that such was the case?“I promise you,” said I, “I only had 2 shillings 6 pence change. Really, Crofter, do believe me.”“I believe every word you say,” said Crofter, with a smile. “I have every reason to, haven’t I?”“But, really and truly—”“What’s the use of saying any more? Of course, it’s all really and truly. I’ve no doubt Tempest believes it too.”“Please let me see the bills,” pleaded I; “I’ll show you I’m right.”“Unfortunately Tempest has them. I dare say he will be delighted.”“You haven’t told him about this, have you?” I gasped, in helpless misery.“I’m going to; it’s too good a joke to be kept to myself; I don’t suppose he’ll mind. Certainly he won’t be surprised.”“Oh, Crofter, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell him this!” said I, blundering on into an appearance of guiltiness of which I was quite innocent. “I’m wanting so awfully to be friends with him again. I’ve given him back all I got out of the shops; and it will spoil everything if you tell him this, really—it isn’t true either.”Crofter laughed pleasantly.“It’s rather likely I should shield you, isn’t it? when all this term you and your friends have been insulting and defying me, and setting yourself to upset my authority as captain of the house.”“Oh, but we aren’t!”“What does this precious thing mean?” demanded he, producing the famous round-robin; “it’s meant to be all politeness, I suppose.”“It only means,” faltered I, “that we are sorry Tempest is not captain.”“Naturally. It’s nice to have a captain one can swindle and rob, isn’t it?”I groaned miserably—it seemed no use trying to put myself right.“If you chose to be civil and back me up, it would be different,” said Crofter.“But we are—we’re going as steady as anything,” said I.“What do you mean by going to Pridgin and Wales and Tempest forexeatsand special leave instead of to me?” he demanded.This was a point I was unprepared for. It was true that the Philosophers, in their desire not to be interfered with by the new captain, had made a point of applying, as they were entitled to do, to any of the other prefects of the house in preference to Crofter forexeatsand occasional leave to go without bounds. It had always been considered the prerogative of the captain of the house to grant these; but, strictly speaking, the other prefects had the right too. I tried to explain as much.“Of course,” said he, “it is a very neat way of ignoring my authority. I expect you to come to me. I shall not refuse any reasonable request, but I’m not going to be insulted in my own house.”“But—” said I.“There is no ‘but’ about it. If you want to prevent your being shown up to your friend as an amiable young swindler, you can stop it by undertaking that you and your lot will do what I tell you. If not, it is your own look-out, that’s all.”Luckily the school bell enabled me to get away without giving any pledge. Fool as I was, I knew what all this meant. It was an attempt to buy us all over at the cost of that unlucky shilling, and with it to secure Crofter in the authority which he so dearly coveted, but so far so imperfectly enjoyed.The Philosophers, as might be expected, waxed very indignant when I made a clean breast of the whole matter. With their usual frankness they quite admitted that I might have pilfered the shilling. That sort of thing, they remarked, was quite in my line, and in keeping with my character generally; and they hoped to live to see me hung. But as to caving in to Crofter as the cost of my shelter, they drew the line at that. He had no right to impose new rules, or take away the immemorial privileges of the “Sharpers.” Besides, if they gave in on this point, they would immediately have to go and ask his leave to practise for the Sports in Callow Meadow, which was just out of bounds, and where, in strict seclusion, diligent practice had been going on for a week, with most promising results.I was thereupon ordered to write a laconic rejoinder to the tempting offer, the Philosophers promising to back me up in the matter of the shilling and see me through it.With a heavy heart, therefore, I sat down and penned the following brief epistle, which was approved by the faggery and ordered to be laid on Crofter’s table before bed-time.“Dear Crofter,—We all think it’s not good enough. It’s all a lie about the shilling. Yours sincerely, T.J. iv.”Some of the Philosophers demurred to the sentence about the shilling, which appeared to commit them to an opinion they did not hold. But I had my way for once, and retired to bed, when all was done, wondering whenever peace would come, and I and my friend should rejoice to see one another again as of old.I do not know how soon I fell asleep. It must have been pretty soon; for I can remember seeing Crofter come into the dormitory and turn out the gas; and I can remember in the general stillness hearing voices and the noise of poking the fire in Mr Sharpe’s room downstairs. After that I forgot everything, until suddenly I discovered myself awake again.Things seemed strange as I slowly turned my head on the pillow and blinked up with half-opened eyes. The dormitory seemed hot and stuffy; somebody or something was making a noise, and I wished they would stop. I could see nothing, except the hazy outline of my shirt hanging on the back of the chair, and even that seemed to come and go as I watched it. I was indisposed to move, and my mind was half asleep still. The one thing I did long for was for the noise to stop and some one to open a window. It was simply choking; I could hardly breathe, and—Suddenly my shirt seemed to turn red, and by the lurid light it emitted I could see smoke coming over the top of the door. Then the side of the room grew red too, and seemed to close in on me, getting redder and redder as it did so, till finally by a frantic effort I raised myself in my bed and yelled—“Fire!”The answer was a great volume of smoke, which leapt out at me like a savage beast and sent me back on to the pillow; a deafening roar outside, and a sudden blaze, which half-blinded me and stifled the cry that was on my lips.That is all I can remember distinctly. I was vaguely conscious of hearing my name called, of seeing my door move, of everything whirling round and round, and finally of falling, or getting, or being dragged out of bed.The next thing I was aware of was that I was lying in a strange bed, with a headache, but otherwise tolerably comfortable, though awfully thirsty, and as weak as a mouse.“Water, please,” I remarked at large.Instantly a face bent over me—a strangely familiar face, which after a moment’s reflection I told myself was my mother’s.It was such a surprise that I forgot about the water, and took a nap instead.In due time I must have woke again, this time by candlelight.“Mother, are you there?”“Yes, darling; what is it?”“My shirt caught fire, and—”“Hush, dear. Don’t try to talk.”I didn’t quite see why. I was really curious about several things. In fact, I thirsted for information.“Why mayn’t I talk, mother?”“Because you’ve been ill.”“Did I get doctor’s leave?”“Yes, dear.”“Mother?”“Well, sonny darling.”“How did you get here?”“They sent and told me you—”“You didn’t believe about that shilling? Really there was only 2 shillings 6 pence change.”“Yes, yes, dear. Hush now, there’s a good boy.”“Mother?”“Well, Tommy dear.”“Was there a fire last night?”“It was a week ago, sonny.”“Who was the fellow called me? Was he riled at me for not answering?”“Oh no—you were almost suffocated.”“Where shall I sleep now? Have they mended my cubicle?”“You’ll sleep here, dear. All the boys are over here.”“Was all the dormitory on fire, then?”“Yes; but thank God every one was saved.”“Is Langrish all right?”“Oh yes, all of them are.”“Will he be game for the High Jump?”“Surely, surely—but you’re talking too much, sonny.”“Mother?”“What is it, darling?”“Does Tempest know I’ve been ill?”“Yes,” and her eyes seemed to fill with tears as she bent over me.“Will you tell him about the shilling?”“Yes, if you like.”“Mother, why are you crying? Is Tempest ill too?”“No, dear—but—”“Tell us, mother.”“If it had not been for Tempest,” said she, “I should have had no boy to-day.”“Did he get me out, then?” said I, getting thoroughly aroused.“Yes, Heaven bless him for it!” she replied, kissing my forehead.“That’ll be a score for him,” said I; “I’m so glad.”My mother evidently did not quite understand this point of view, and concluded I had been talking more than was good for me, and once more implored me to be silent.But I had no notion of giving up my inquiries at this stage.“Did he get hurt doing it?” I asked.“Only his hand a little.”“How did he get at me?”“Every one thought you were safe out of the burning room with the others. When it was found you were not, Tempest rushed back before any one could stop him, and carried you out. He had not got outside with you more than a second or two when the roof and staircase and all fell in.”Here she shuddered as once more she bent over me and kissed me.This was all I wanted to hear at present, and I closed my eyes in order to think it over the better.My chief sensation was one of exultation that Tempest should risk his life for me. It meant that I had won him back in spite of myself. Then when I recalled the frightful blaze and noise of that night, I began to realise what my rescue must have meant to any one. No one but a fellow utterly scornful of danger, and utterly determined to save a life in peril at all cost, could have ventured into that place.Hewould have done it for any one, I knew; but to come deliberately after me, who had ruined his chances last term, and whom he despised as a pilferer and a sneak—this was an act of heroism which it baffled me to contemplate, and in the contemplation of which consequently I succumbed once more to sleep and forgot everything.As I slowly got better (and, after all, I was not much damaged, as soon as I had got over the effects of the suffocation and terror of that awful night) I heard more about the fire. Permission was given me to see one friend a day for ten minutes at a time, and the reader may imagine the wild excitement of those ten minutes.I naturally called for Dicky Brown as my first man. He came, looking rather scared, and was evidently relieved to find I was something better than a mass of burns, and able to do my share in the conversation.“It was a close shave for you, I can tell you,” he said. “All the other fellows hopped out long before the fire got bad, and no one fancied you weren’t out too. You must have been sleeping jolly sound. All of a sudden one of your lot yelled out that you were missing. It was so hot then the fellows were all standing back, but old Tempest, almost before the chap had shouted, nipped into the middle of it, and made a dash for your cubicle. My word! I wish I’d been there to see it! You were as good as done for when he collared you and hauled you out. He fell with you half-way down the stairs, but Sharpe and Pridgin and one or two others caught him and fished him out with you over his shoulder. He swears he’s not damaged, but he’s got his hand in a sling. I say, old chap, it’s no use blubbing; it’s all right how.”“I wasn’t blubbing,” said I. “When you’ve got a cold in your head your eyes water sometimes, don’t they?”“Rather, buckets,” said the magnanimous Dicky.Langrish was my next interviewer; and his account as an eye-witness was graphic, and not calculated entirely to cure my “cold in the head.”“You see, it’s this way,” said he. “Jarman was smoking in Sharpe’s room, and chucked his cigar into the waste-paper basket or somewhere by mistake, and while he and Sharpe toddled across the quad, the thing flared up and went up the curtains, and when old Sharpe came back the whole place was in a blaze. I twigged it pretty sharp, and so did Trim, and there was a regular stampede. No one ever supposed you’d go snoring all through it. Crofter and Wales were first outside, looking as white as milk. Bless you, it was such a rush and shindy, no one could see anybody. Of course we made sure you were all serene. Think of you sleeping through it!”“I was in the end cubicle, you see,” said I.“For all that, you might have stuck your head out to see what the fun was about,” said Langrish, in rather an aggrieved tone. “Sharpe turned up presently, with his face all grimy with smoke, and yelled, ‘Is every one here?’ ‘Yes,’ said Crofter—silly ass, how could he tell? Then Coxhead said to me, ‘Where’s Sarah got to?’ That made me look round, and I can tell you I was pretty sick when I couldn’t see you. Just fancy a chap sleeping away through it all! Why, the ant and the sluggard,” said Langrish, getting a little mixed in his proverbs, “weren’t in it with you. So I yelled ‘Sarah!’ with all my might. You should have seen the chaps sit up when they heard your name. Then old Tempest, with his mouth shut and looking middling pasty about the face, broke through the scrimmage and sent us right and left, and made a regular header into the place. Sharpe yelled to him to come back; some tried to yell, but couldn’t for lumps in their throats, and we all closed up. I can tell you it was a hot place. The smoke rolled out and got in our eyes, and the wood and stuff cracked and blazed, and sounded like the waves at Dover. We never expected to see him or you come back. The stairs were going to bits as fast as they could, and great bits of burning wood were tumbling off the roof. Then the smoke shifted somehow, and we heard Sharpe yell, ‘Heavens!’ Then there was a dull row like something tumbling, and Pridgin and Sharpe dashed in. We got kept back, or we’d have given you a leg-up too. Then you strolled in, fast asleep still—I never saw such a snoozer!—on Tempest’s arm. He was pretty well done, and couldn’t have pulled it off if Sharpe and Pridgin hadn’t hiked him out. Even then he couldn’t stand. So I hope you’re jolly well pleased with yourself. I hope it will be a lesson to you, young Sarah, to keep one eye open while you’re asleep. We were jolly glad you got canted out, though youarea bit of a mule. But it would have been rough on you to miss the Sports. They say Tempest’s burned his hand pretty bad, but he means to have a shot at the Mile. I say, Redwood was asking after you. Jarman’s jolly sick that it was his fault about the fire. He’s been quite civil, and been to ask about you every day. Look sharp and get right, I say, or it’ll rot the Sports if you don’t. Hullo, there comes yourmater. Ta, ta, old hoss. It’s rather ripping you scraped through all right.”He was a good sort, Langrish. He did not tell me, what I heard later, that at the time of the fire he had to be held back by main force from following Tempest in quest of me; and that he had rather a “cold in his head” when he saw me hauled out safe and sound.
“Dicky, old chap, I’m in a howling mess.”
“The same old one, or a new one?”
“It’s about those blessed bills of Tempest’s—I wish I’d let them alone. You see, it was this way. How was I to know? I’m sure I never meant to do anything shady.”
“I dare say not, but whatareyou talking about?”
“Why, I’ve been regularly let in. You see, I—”
“Look here, old chap, let’s hear what it is,” said the practical Dicky.
“Why, the fact is, most of the chaps wanted to stand me something when I squared up with them, and Crofter tries to make out I’m a thief, and he’s going to show me up to Tempest.”
“But you didn’t let them?”
“Well, yes, one or two. You see, Marple gave me a pencil-sharpener, and Rammage a strawberry ice, and Ringstead a net-bag and spikes—jolly bad ones too, they all came out in a week.”
“And does Crofter say you swindled him or Tempest?”
“I didn’t think I was swindling anybody,” said I evasively.
“You made a pretty good thing out of it, though.”
“I know. I say, Dicky, what’s to be done? I thought I was going to pull round all square this term—really I did—and now I’m in a regular fix.”
Dicky pondered.
“It was a bit shady,” said he, with his refreshing candour; “the sort of thing Ananias and—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Dicky, if that’s all you’ve got to say—”
“It’s not. I think you’d best make it good somehow. Can’t you give them back?”
“How can I give back the strawberry ice?”
This was a poser, certainly, and set Dicky thinking again.
“Have you got the other things?” asked he.
“No; the pencil-sharpener smashed first time I used it, and the net-bag got lost at home.”
“Awkward. You’ll have to buy new ones.”
“Who for?”
“Tempest, of course. They were his bills.”
“But it was Crofter’s money.”
“But Tempest has paid him back.”
The result of this conversation was, that instead of practising for the Quarter-mile that afternoon I went down town with a bag, and expended five shillings of my term’s pocket-money in the purchase of a pencil-sharpener, a strawberry ice, a net-bag, and a set of patent screw spikes.
Dicky, like a brick, undertook to convey these to Tempest, with the following letter, which I wrote at his suggestion.
“Dear Tempest,—I send you back the change I got out of the bills I got last term. I’m sorrier than I can say, and hope you won’t hate me more than you do. Dicky will tell you how jolly blue I am, and how we all hope you’ll win the Mile. We aren’t backing up Crofter, and hope you’ll soon be captain again. Please excuse me writing, but I don’t like to come and tell you this, as you’re so down on me.
“Yours truly,—
“T. Jones iv.”
I also penned a further letter for Crofter:—
“Dear Crofter,—You needn’t mind telling Tempest, as I’ve done so and paid him back. With thanks all the same,—
“Yours truly,—
“T.J. iv.”
I felt vastly easier in my mind when this polite letter was at an end, and when I saw the faithful Dicky depart to execute his brotherly mission. My one fear was lest the strawberry ice should get warm before it reached its destination.
I waited in vain for any sign of response from Tempest. The Philosophers went down during the afternoon to watch him training for his race; but he vouchsafed us no regard, and, for all I knew, still put me down as a thief and a sharper. Dicky, whom I met later on, explained that he had failed to catch Tempest in his study, but had deposited the articles along with the letter on his table, so that, if he did not know of them yet, he soon would.
My anxiety was not at all allayed by a casual encounter with Crofter in the evening. He summoned me into his study, where I saw mybillet-douxlying on the table.
“I suppose you wrote this?” said he.
“Yes.”
“And you think everything’s clear now, do you?”
“Isn’t it?” said I.
“I dare say Dr England will be able to tell you. By the way, why did you only give me 2 shillings 6 pence change instead of 3 shillings 6 pence?”
“There was only 2 shillings 6 pence to give.”
“Really? I thought so too till your clever management of the tips tempted me to look over the bills again. I see that what you paid only came to £4 16 shillings 6 pence, instead of £4 17 shillings 6 pence. I don’t want the other shilling, but hope you bought yourself something nice with it. You must consider it a present from Tempest, not me.”
I timed red and white in the sudden confusion of that announcement. I was positively certain 2 shillings 6 pence had been the change, and that if there was any mistake it must be on the part of the tradesmen, not me. But how was I likely to convince Crofter, or, for the matter of that, Tempest, that such was the case?
“I promise you,” said I, “I only had 2 shillings 6 pence change. Really, Crofter, do believe me.”
“I believe every word you say,” said Crofter, with a smile. “I have every reason to, haven’t I?”
“But, really and truly—”
“What’s the use of saying any more? Of course, it’s all really and truly. I’ve no doubt Tempest believes it too.”
“Please let me see the bills,” pleaded I; “I’ll show you I’m right.”
“Unfortunately Tempest has them. I dare say he will be delighted.”
“You haven’t told him about this, have you?” I gasped, in helpless misery.
“I’m going to; it’s too good a joke to be kept to myself; I don’t suppose he’ll mind. Certainly he won’t be surprised.”
“Oh, Crofter, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell him this!” said I, blundering on into an appearance of guiltiness of which I was quite innocent. “I’m wanting so awfully to be friends with him again. I’ve given him back all I got out of the shops; and it will spoil everything if you tell him this, really—it isn’t true either.”
Crofter laughed pleasantly.
“It’s rather likely I should shield you, isn’t it? when all this term you and your friends have been insulting and defying me, and setting yourself to upset my authority as captain of the house.”
“Oh, but we aren’t!”
“What does this precious thing mean?” demanded he, producing the famous round-robin; “it’s meant to be all politeness, I suppose.”
“It only means,” faltered I, “that we are sorry Tempest is not captain.”
“Naturally. It’s nice to have a captain one can swindle and rob, isn’t it?”
I groaned miserably—it seemed no use trying to put myself right.
“If you chose to be civil and back me up, it would be different,” said Crofter.
“But we are—we’re going as steady as anything,” said I.
“What do you mean by going to Pridgin and Wales and Tempest forexeatsand special leave instead of to me?” he demanded.
This was a point I was unprepared for. It was true that the Philosophers, in their desire not to be interfered with by the new captain, had made a point of applying, as they were entitled to do, to any of the other prefects of the house in preference to Crofter forexeatsand occasional leave to go without bounds. It had always been considered the prerogative of the captain of the house to grant these; but, strictly speaking, the other prefects had the right too. I tried to explain as much.
“Of course,” said he, “it is a very neat way of ignoring my authority. I expect you to come to me. I shall not refuse any reasonable request, but I’m not going to be insulted in my own house.”
“But—” said I.
“There is no ‘but’ about it. If you want to prevent your being shown up to your friend as an amiable young swindler, you can stop it by undertaking that you and your lot will do what I tell you. If not, it is your own look-out, that’s all.”
Luckily the school bell enabled me to get away without giving any pledge. Fool as I was, I knew what all this meant. It was an attempt to buy us all over at the cost of that unlucky shilling, and with it to secure Crofter in the authority which he so dearly coveted, but so far so imperfectly enjoyed.
The Philosophers, as might be expected, waxed very indignant when I made a clean breast of the whole matter. With their usual frankness they quite admitted that I might have pilfered the shilling. That sort of thing, they remarked, was quite in my line, and in keeping with my character generally; and they hoped to live to see me hung. But as to caving in to Crofter as the cost of my shelter, they drew the line at that. He had no right to impose new rules, or take away the immemorial privileges of the “Sharpers.” Besides, if they gave in on this point, they would immediately have to go and ask his leave to practise for the Sports in Callow Meadow, which was just out of bounds, and where, in strict seclusion, diligent practice had been going on for a week, with most promising results.
I was thereupon ordered to write a laconic rejoinder to the tempting offer, the Philosophers promising to back me up in the matter of the shilling and see me through it.
With a heavy heart, therefore, I sat down and penned the following brief epistle, which was approved by the faggery and ordered to be laid on Crofter’s table before bed-time.
“Dear Crofter,—We all think it’s not good enough. It’s all a lie about the shilling. Yours sincerely, T.J. iv.”
Some of the Philosophers demurred to the sentence about the shilling, which appeared to commit them to an opinion they did not hold. But I had my way for once, and retired to bed, when all was done, wondering whenever peace would come, and I and my friend should rejoice to see one another again as of old.
I do not know how soon I fell asleep. It must have been pretty soon; for I can remember seeing Crofter come into the dormitory and turn out the gas; and I can remember in the general stillness hearing voices and the noise of poking the fire in Mr Sharpe’s room downstairs. After that I forgot everything, until suddenly I discovered myself awake again.
Things seemed strange as I slowly turned my head on the pillow and blinked up with half-opened eyes. The dormitory seemed hot and stuffy; somebody or something was making a noise, and I wished they would stop. I could see nothing, except the hazy outline of my shirt hanging on the back of the chair, and even that seemed to come and go as I watched it. I was indisposed to move, and my mind was half asleep still. The one thing I did long for was for the noise to stop and some one to open a window. It was simply choking; I could hardly breathe, and—
Suddenly my shirt seemed to turn red, and by the lurid light it emitted I could see smoke coming over the top of the door. Then the side of the room grew red too, and seemed to close in on me, getting redder and redder as it did so, till finally by a frantic effort I raised myself in my bed and yelled—
“Fire!”
The answer was a great volume of smoke, which leapt out at me like a savage beast and sent me back on to the pillow; a deafening roar outside, and a sudden blaze, which half-blinded me and stifled the cry that was on my lips.
That is all I can remember distinctly. I was vaguely conscious of hearing my name called, of seeing my door move, of everything whirling round and round, and finally of falling, or getting, or being dragged out of bed.
The next thing I was aware of was that I was lying in a strange bed, with a headache, but otherwise tolerably comfortable, though awfully thirsty, and as weak as a mouse.
“Water, please,” I remarked at large.
Instantly a face bent over me—a strangely familiar face, which after a moment’s reflection I told myself was my mother’s.
It was such a surprise that I forgot about the water, and took a nap instead.
In due time I must have woke again, this time by candlelight.
“Mother, are you there?”
“Yes, darling; what is it?”
“My shirt caught fire, and—”
“Hush, dear. Don’t try to talk.”
I didn’t quite see why. I was really curious about several things. In fact, I thirsted for information.
“Why mayn’t I talk, mother?”
“Because you’ve been ill.”
“Did I get doctor’s leave?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Mother?”
“Well, sonny darling.”
“How did you get here?”
“They sent and told me you—”
“You didn’t believe about that shilling? Really there was only 2 shillings 6 pence change.”
“Yes, yes, dear. Hush now, there’s a good boy.”
“Mother?”
“Well, Tommy dear.”
“Was there a fire last night?”
“It was a week ago, sonny.”
“Who was the fellow called me? Was he riled at me for not answering?”
“Oh no—you were almost suffocated.”
“Where shall I sleep now? Have they mended my cubicle?”
“You’ll sleep here, dear. All the boys are over here.”
“Was all the dormitory on fire, then?”
“Yes; but thank God every one was saved.”
“Is Langrish all right?”
“Oh yes, all of them are.”
“Will he be game for the High Jump?”
“Surely, surely—but you’re talking too much, sonny.”
“Mother?”
“What is it, darling?”
“Does Tempest know I’ve been ill?”
“Yes,” and her eyes seemed to fill with tears as she bent over me.
“Will you tell him about the shilling?”
“Yes, if you like.”
“Mother, why are you crying? Is Tempest ill too?”
“No, dear—but—”
“Tell us, mother.”
“If it had not been for Tempest,” said she, “I should have had no boy to-day.”
“Did he get me out, then?” said I, getting thoroughly aroused.
“Yes, Heaven bless him for it!” she replied, kissing my forehead.
“That’ll be a score for him,” said I; “I’m so glad.”
My mother evidently did not quite understand this point of view, and concluded I had been talking more than was good for me, and once more implored me to be silent.
But I had no notion of giving up my inquiries at this stage.
“Did he get hurt doing it?” I asked.
“Only his hand a little.”
“How did he get at me?”
“Every one thought you were safe out of the burning room with the others. When it was found you were not, Tempest rushed back before any one could stop him, and carried you out. He had not got outside with you more than a second or two when the roof and staircase and all fell in.”
Here she shuddered as once more she bent over me and kissed me.
This was all I wanted to hear at present, and I closed my eyes in order to think it over the better.
My chief sensation was one of exultation that Tempest should risk his life for me. It meant that I had won him back in spite of myself. Then when I recalled the frightful blaze and noise of that night, I began to realise what my rescue must have meant to any one. No one but a fellow utterly scornful of danger, and utterly determined to save a life in peril at all cost, could have ventured into that place.Hewould have done it for any one, I knew; but to come deliberately after me, who had ruined his chances last term, and whom he despised as a pilferer and a sneak—this was an act of heroism which it baffled me to contemplate, and in the contemplation of which consequently I succumbed once more to sleep and forgot everything.
As I slowly got better (and, after all, I was not much damaged, as soon as I had got over the effects of the suffocation and terror of that awful night) I heard more about the fire. Permission was given me to see one friend a day for ten minutes at a time, and the reader may imagine the wild excitement of those ten minutes.
I naturally called for Dicky Brown as my first man. He came, looking rather scared, and was evidently relieved to find I was something better than a mass of burns, and able to do my share in the conversation.
“It was a close shave for you, I can tell you,” he said. “All the other fellows hopped out long before the fire got bad, and no one fancied you weren’t out too. You must have been sleeping jolly sound. All of a sudden one of your lot yelled out that you were missing. It was so hot then the fellows were all standing back, but old Tempest, almost before the chap had shouted, nipped into the middle of it, and made a dash for your cubicle. My word! I wish I’d been there to see it! You were as good as done for when he collared you and hauled you out. He fell with you half-way down the stairs, but Sharpe and Pridgin and one or two others caught him and fished him out with you over his shoulder. He swears he’s not damaged, but he’s got his hand in a sling. I say, old chap, it’s no use blubbing; it’s all right how.”
“I wasn’t blubbing,” said I. “When you’ve got a cold in your head your eyes water sometimes, don’t they?”
“Rather, buckets,” said the magnanimous Dicky.
Langrish was my next interviewer; and his account as an eye-witness was graphic, and not calculated entirely to cure my “cold in the head.”
“You see, it’s this way,” said he. “Jarman was smoking in Sharpe’s room, and chucked his cigar into the waste-paper basket or somewhere by mistake, and while he and Sharpe toddled across the quad, the thing flared up and went up the curtains, and when old Sharpe came back the whole place was in a blaze. I twigged it pretty sharp, and so did Trim, and there was a regular stampede. No one ever supposed you’d go snoring all through it. Crofter and Wales were first outside, looking as white as milk. Bless you, it was such a rush and shindy, no one could see anybody. Of course we made sure you were all serene. Think of you sleeping through it!”
“I was in the end cubicle, you see,” said I.
“For all that, you might have stuck your head out to see what the fun was about,” said Langrish, in rather an aggrieved tone. “Sharpe turned up presently, with his face all grimy with smoke, and yelled, ‘Is every one here?’ ‘Yes,’ said Crofter—silly ass, how could he tell? Then Coxhead said to me, ‘Where’s Sarah got to?’ That made me look round, and I can tell you I was pretty sick when I couldn’t see you. Just fancy a chap sleeping away through it all! Why, the ant and the sluggard,” said Langrish, getting a little mixed in his proverbs, “weren’t in it with you. So I yelled ‘Sarah!’ with all my might. You should have seen the chaps sit up when they heard your name. Then old Tempest, with his mouth shut and looking middling pasty about the face, broke through the scrimmage and sent us right and left, and made a regular header into the place. Sharpe yelled to him to come back; some tried to yell, but couldn’t for lumps in their throats, and we all closed up. I can tell you it was a hot place. The smoke rolled out and got in our eyes, and the wood and stuff cracked and blazed, and sounded like the waves at Dover. We never expected to see him or you come back. The stairs were going to bits as fast as they could, and great bits of burning wood were tumbling off the roof. Then the smoke shifted somehow, and we heard Sharpe yell, ‘Heavens!’ Then there was a dull row like something tumbling, and Pridgin and Sharpe dashed in. We got kept back, or we’d have given you a leg-up too. Then you strolled in, fast asleep still—I never saw such a snoozer!—on Tempest’s arm. He was pretty well done, and couldn’t have pulled it off if Sharpe and Pridgin hadn’t hiked him out. Even then he couldn’t stand. So I hope you’re jolly well pleased with yourself. I hope it will be a lesson to you, young Sarah, to keep one eye open while you’re asleep. We were jolly glad you got canted out, though youarea bit of a mule. But it would have been rough on you to miss the Sports. They say Tempest’s burned his hand pretty bad, but he means to have a shot at the Mile. I say, Redwood was asking after you. Jarman’s jolly sick that it was his fault about the fire. He’s been quite civil, and been to ask about you every day. Look sharp and get right, I say, or it’ll rot the Sports if you don’t. Hullo, there comes yourmater. Ta, ta, old hoss. It’s rather ripping you scraped through all right.”
He was a good sort, Langrish. He did not tell me, what I heard later, that at the time of the fire he had to be held back by main force from following Tempest in quest of me; and that he had rather a “cold in his head” when he saw me hauled out safe and sound.
Chapter Twenty Four.“Small and Early” in the Sanatorium.My recovery was far too rapid to please me. I never had such a jolly time in all my life. My mother was in and out all day; there were no lessons. I was allowed to summon any chum I liked to my bedside. I was receiving messages daily from masters and seniors, and, best of all, I had nothing the matter with me except, a strong disinclination to exert myself, and an occasional headache or dizziness when I sat up.I had come up to Low Heath that term with the honest determination to “lie low.” I little expected, however, that I should find myself quite so literally adhering to my resolution.My one trouble was that all this time I had not seen Tempest. I did not like to send for him, in case he should not appreciate the compliment. And he, as I guessed, would not care to come of his own accord for the uncomfortable ceremony of receiving my thanks. My mother told me he had often asked about me; but when she asked him to come and see me he had replied,—“I’ll see him as soon as he gets about again.” When she inquired about his hand he had replied airily that it was all right, and he was only keeping it in the sling to get it right for the Sports. “But,” said my mother, “I wish he would let the doctor see it, or give up running till it is well.”“But,” said I, “he’s a chance of winning off Redwood.” This argument, which in ninety-nine cases out of one hundred in Low Heath would have been absolutely conclusive, failed to impress my mother in the least. She attached no importance to “winning off Redwood” compared with a boy’s health, and obdurately protested that if she were Tempest’s mother she would not allow him to think of running.It was only my agitated appeals to her not to interpose that prevented her speaking to Dr England about the matter, and so knocking the race on the head altogether.I took it as a compliment to myself that the Sports had been put off a fortnight in consequence of the fire. That warm event had so upset everything and monopolised so much attention that Low Heath would not have come up to scratch at all on the day originally fixed. And whereas the new date permitted of my being present to assist—though, alas! not to compete—in the day’s proceedings, I felt specially satisfied with the alteration.I had naturally heard a good deal of Philosophical gossip during my convalescence. On my last evening in hospital especially, there was quite a symposium.My mother, in an innocent moment, had remarked, “I should so like to have one or two of your friends to tea, sonny, before I go home. The doctor says it will not do you any harm—and we can have them in here, as you are the only invalid in hospital.”“That’ll be ten, with you and me,” said I.“Do you want quite so many?” asked she, beginning to get a little concerned.“Must have the lot or none,” said I decisively. “We can cut out Rackstraw and Walsh, if you like—they’re paupers.”“Oh, Tommy!” said the dear, tender-hearted one, “if they are not as well off as—”“Oh, that’s not it. They can shell out as well as anybody; only they got on our club for nothing on condition of towing the boats, cleaning up, and that sort of thing.”“At any rate, let us have them,” said my mother.“All serene. Will you write the invitations? I say, mother, do you mind writing as well as you can? Our chaps are rather particular, you know, and I wouldn’t like them to snuff up at you.”My poor dear mother began, I think, to repent of her hospitable offer, but decided to go through with it now.So she got eight nice little sheets of scented invitation note, with envelopes to match, and wrote,—“Mrs Jones requests the pleasure of Mr Alfred James Remington Trimble’s company to tea in the Sanatorium parlour this evening at 6 p.m.;” and so on, in each case.My suggestion to add “R.S.V.P.” and “Evening dressde rigueur” she thought it best to decline. But her kind leniency was thrown away, for within half an hour eight notes dropped in upon us, couched in the politest phraseology.Here was Langrish’s, for instance:—“Everard Langrish, Esquire, begs to thank Mrs Jones for asking him to tea at six sharp, when he will be very pleased to fall in with her wishes and be of service in any other way her better feelings may dictate.”Langrish told me afterwards he cribbed this last sentence out of a story he had read in a weekly newspaper. He rather fancied it was “on the spot.”Trimble’s was less romantic:—“Dear Madam,—I accept with thanks. Sarah gets rather outside sometimes, but we do what we can for him. Till then,—“I am yours affectionately,—“A.J.R. Trimble.”Warminster’s was, no doubt, meant to be impressive:—“The President of the Philosophical Conversation Club presents his compliments to Mrs Jones, and desires to inform her of his intention to wait upon her at the hour named in her letter. He trusts that Mrs Jones is in good health, and that her ailing child will be spared to her a little longer. Having several matters to attend to, the President of the Philosophical Conversation Club must now abruptly terminate, namely, Percy Algernon Warminster.”The ending seemed to me decidedly weak compared with the rest. I will only give one more—that of Coxhead:—“Dear Mrs Jones, I’ll come to tea;At six o’clock you shall me see.I’m sorry Sarah’s been laid upAnd drinks his physic from a cup.Unless unto the contrary I hear.My Eton suit I think I’ll wear.And now ‘farewell,’ as great John Knox said.Yours truly, Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead.”This effusion struck me as rather like cheek; but my mother seemed to like it.As evening approached I began to grow very nervous, and have to confess that my mother was the cause of my concern. I was so afraid she was not properly impressed with the gravity of the occasion—that perhaps she would not be dressed at her best—or that the tea might not be up to the mark—or that for any cause the fellows should consider they had been “done.” I’m sure I wearied the life out of her by my inquiries as to the nature of the jam, as to whether the cake would go round twice, whether any of the teacups were cracked, whether the nine chairs ranged round the little room were all sound on their legs, who would open the door to let them in, whether my mother would mind not proposing juvenile games like table-turning, or clumps, and whether when the time came for them to go she would mind not looking at her watch or yawning, for fear they should think it a hint.All which points the dear soul faithfully promised should be borne in mind and attended to, with a little quiet banter at my expense, which helped to remind me that, after all, one’s mother may be trusted not to disgrace a fellow, if left to herself.In due time she presented herself in her Sunday dress, looking very pretty and smart—quite creditable, in fact. The tea also, as it appeared laid out on the sideboard—I had urged, by the way, that it should be served in party style, and not partaken of round a table—looked a well-found meal for the most exacting of Philosophers. I myself reposed in state in bed, arrayed in my Eton jacket and best collar and choker. The fire in the hearth was both cheerful and adequate, and the knowledge that the Sanatorium maid was downstairs in her cap and clean apron, to show the young gentlemen up, finally relieved my anxiety.In due time there was a ring, and a sound of the funereal tramp of eighteen feet on the staircase, and I knew that Mrs Jones’s party had begun.They all trooped in together, looking very grave and shy, and spick and span in their full-dress, and evidently on their good behaviour. My mother shook hands with each in unexceptionable style, repeating his name as I announced it from the bed, and expressing her pleasure at making his acquaintance.The sight of me propped up on my pillows, somewhat pale still, and as shy as themselves, seemed to impress them a good deal, and added to the funereal character of the entertainment. A long pause ensued, broken only by the entrance of the maid with the teapot, and Langrish’s remark to Trimble that it was a fine day.Then my mother had the wit to observe that she hoped it would be equally fine on the day of the Sports, and she was so sorry she would miss them, as she understood Mr Sharpe’s house was likely to win a good many of the events, and of course her sympathies were entirely that way.This went down beautifully, and drew from Coxhead the remark,—“It’s a pity Sar—I mean Jones iv.—is out of it. He might have got the Quarter-mile.”“Are the names down yet?” I asked.“Yes. We stuck them down to-day,” said Langrish.“Any one else in for the Senior Mile?”“No; only Tempest and Redwood.”Another pause—everybody evidently meditating what my mother would like to hear next.My mother meanwhile moved to the sideboard and began to pour out tea.“Do you take cream and sugar?” she said, with a pleasant smile, to Langrish. How relieved I was she did not call him “Everard” or “dear!”“Yes, please—can I pass round?” he replied.It was admirable. I had been in terror lest he would have collared the first cup and stuck to it.“Thank you, if you will, please. I see they are beginning to get your old house ready for rebuilding.”“It won’t be ready this term, though,” said Warminster; “it will take—a slice of cake, thanks.”“No sugar for me, thanks,” said Coxhead. “I wonder if Jarman will have to pay for it?”“Does yourmatertake cream and sugar?” said Purkis to me, in an aside.“I shouldn’t think so,” said Langrish, “because he didn’t do it on purpose, you know.”“Thank you very much. Do you mind putting it down there? And won’t you sit down?” said my mother, setting the example.“I expect he’d better give up smoking, as he’s always setting things on fire,” ventured I. “Mother knows about the guy last term, don’t you, mother?”“Yes, indeed,” said she, with a laugh, which won over the Philosophers in a body. “That was a lucky escape for everybody. I was horrified.”“Well, old Sar—I mean Jones iv.—”“I think he understands his nickname better than his real name,” said my clever parent.“Old Sarah,” said Langrish, getting rapidly at his ease, “let us in for that. You see (cake up, please), it was this way—”And he launched forth into an account of that famous adventure, into which the company one by one cut, at my expense, of course, and highly to the diversion of my mother.Meanwhile the teapot was kept busy, and the jam went its rounds—some of it on to Coxhead’s shirt-front—and by the end of it all the Philosophers found themselves comfortably at home.“I say,” said I, when a break came, “how’s the club getting on? Anything fresh?”Langrish glanced round at my mother.“I’ve got the minute-book,” he said, “would she—”“Oh, do!” said she. “Is it an account of your meetings? I would like to hear it immensely. Debating societies are such capital things, I think.”“It’s a bit down on Sarah, though,” said the secretary, dubiously.“Why, I wasn’t there,” said I.“Weren’t you? that’s all.”“Let’s hear it,” said my mother, “I dare say he deserves it.”I forgave the dear traitress for giving me away like this, for I felt sure the minutes would save our evening.“You see,” said Trimble, “we try to keep it fair, so it’s down on some of the others too. But Sarah gets it a little the hottest.”“I’m used to getting things hot by now,” said I; “forge ahead, and sit where I can shy the pillow at you.”Whereupon Langrish moved his chair to a conspicuous place, and read,—“‘A meeting of the Ph.C.C. was held in dormitory on February 1, at 9 p.m.’”“Why, that’s when the fire was,” said Trimble.“Shut—I mean what’s that got to do with it?” retorted the secretary.“Well?” said my mother, taking a stitch or two at her needlework.“‘Owing to the side put on by the ex-president, who was lately, kicked out for being a howling cad, and because he was down in form order—’”“What a cram!” I interposed; “I was on the second desk, and should have had you down weeks ago if I hadn’t been laid up.”“Ha, ha, I like that—you! Did yourmaterever hear aboutcorporebeing the ablative masculine, eh?”“No, I never heard about that,” said my mother.“All right—Sarah will tell you—where was I, oh—down in form order, though he’s not quite such a crock as Coxhead, who is champion dunce in Low Heath—”“Me?” exclaimed Coxhead, warm with tea and indignation.“There you are,” said Langrish, “anybody but a champion dunce would have said ‘I.’ You ask Sarah’smaterif they wouldn’t.”“Well,you, if you like,” said Coxhead; “what about it—”“Look here, how can I read the minutes when—here we are—‘crock as Coxhead, who is champion dunce in Low Heath.’”“What happened then?” said my mother, looking a little mixed.“‘He was shunted to an outside berth, and was out of it.’”“I rather think I was in it,” said I; “never mind.”“Oh, if you think so, all right. The minutes say you were out of it. ‘He’d not begun to snore many minutes with deafening effect, when, as might be expected, Jarman set fire to the show to stop the noise.’”“Do you think that’s why he did it, really?” asked Warminster.“Look here, young Warminster. I don’tthink, I—”“Pity you don’t now and then,” remarked the newly-elected president.Langrish looked hard at his colleague, and then glanced at my mother, whose face was bent over her work. Whereupon the secretary threw the minute-book at the president’s head, and observed,—“Look out, Warminster; hand up that book, can’t you—it’s not yours.”My mother looked up, and Warminster meekly surrendered the book.“‘—Stop the noise. The club then adjourned, all except Sarah, who hung on, contrary to the rules, and is hereby fined 2 shillings 6 pence.’”“Oh, I say,” protested I, “that’s rather rough, isn’t it?”“‘But,’” proceeded Langrish, “‘owing to his mother coming up to buy him off, he is hereby let off with a fie— I mean a warning.’”“Thank you so much,” said my mother, gratefully.“‘When we thought he was pretty well warmed up, we sent Tempest in to fish him out, which he accordingly did, and is hereby elected honorary porter to the club, and is backed to win the Mile.’”“That’s the least he deserves, surely,” said my mother, with feeling.“‘Sarah, owing to this unprincipled conduct, has been suspended for a month, and the club hereby hopes some day not far off to see him sus—’ no, that’s wrong—I mean—”“Hung,” suggested Trimble, in an audible whisper.“Order—turn him out for saying hung, instead of hanged,” said the president.“Shut up, can’t you?” said the secretary, “can’t you let me finish the sentence? ‘—See him sus—susceptible of better emotions.’”“Hear, hear,” said the club, breathing again to see the corner turned.“I hope that’s not all,” said my mother.“That’s as far as we’ve got; but we’ll let him down easy in the next,” said Langrish.“The next will have the account of the Sports, I suppose,” said my mother.“If our men win,” said Warminster. “We’re bound to win the High Jump if Langrish keeps on his form; he did 4 feet 1 and a half inches this afternoon.”“You needn’t talk—you’re all right for the 100 Yards,” said the modest Langrish; “there’s no one in, except young Brown of the day cads, who can touch you; and he’s sure to go a mucker on the day.”“Don’t be too sure of that,” said I. “Dicky Brown doesn’t go muckers if he can help it.”“There you are—backing the town cads now. I move, and Mrs Jones seconds, that Sarah be, and is hereby, kic—I mean sat upon by the club.”“Oh, don’t, please,” said my mother, “the bed is not strong enough.”“All right—it’s lucky for Sarah. If you were half a chap you’d see we didn’t lose the Quarter-mile. Rackstraw will have a look in at it, but it’ll puzzle him to beat Flitwick. Walsh is going to cut out for him. So we may just do it; but it’ll be a go—eh, paupers?”Rackstraw and Walsh both protested there would be no difficulty about it if only the track was in good order, and their wind held out, and Flitwick muddled his start, and finished a yard or two behind. We were all prepared to stake the glory of Sharpe’s on these trifling conditions.Presently the preparation bell began to toll, and the party broke up with a cordiality and cheerfulness which contrasted strangely with the solemnity with which it had begun. My mother was politely requested to become an honorary member of the club, and as politely consented, expressing a hope that she might meet with its honourable members many times again.When they had gone she told me how much she had enjoyed the evening, and how she liked every one of them, and hoped they wouldn’t think her rude to have laughed now and then, but really, she said, not being used to it, she could not help it.Next day she left, and, dismally enough, I made the first use of my liberty to accompany her in the fly to the station. She talked to me, as only she could, about the future, and the spirit in which she thought I would take up once more the work of the term and the thankfulness which she the widow, and I the orphan, could not help feeling to the Heavenly Father, who had saved us both from such peril and sorrow in the past. She urged me to show my gratitude for my escape, by seeking to follow more closely in the footsteps of that Saviour to whom she had so often taught me to look for help and guidance, and at the same time she urged me to pray for the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Her goodness only made my sorrow at parting the greater; and more than any time since I had entered Low Heath, the pangs of home-sickness fell upon me as I saw her into her carriage.Just before the train started I felt my heart beat suddenly, and the blood rush to my cheeks, as I saw a figure, with one hand in a sling, running up the platform, looking into one carriage after another.“Mother, here’s Tempest!”Next moment he saw us, and ran up.“I heard you were going by this train,” said he, “and I thought I would like to say good-bye.”“Good-bye, my dear boy, and God bless you once more!”“The youngster’s all right again, I see,” said he, putting his hand on my arm. “I’ll see he takes care of himself—good-bye.”And the train steamed off, leaving us two on the platform.“I hope your hand’s not awfully bad,” said I, breaking a silence of nearly three months in the only way which occurred for the moment.“Rather not. We’d better cab it back—you’re not up to walking yet.”“Thanks awfully, Tempest, for saving—”“Look here, don’t let’s get on to that,” said he.“I say,” said I, “I was afraid you believed what Crofter said, and thought—”“You were an ass, Tommy—you always were—I ought to have remembered it. Of course I never believed a word Crofter said—I saw his game. But I was idiot enough to get riled at you for giving yourself away to him. I’m sorry. Now let’s forget it. After all, it was the best thing for me that all that row about my bills came out when it did. You did me a better turn than you meant to do. Just like you—if you try to do things the right way, it’s all up with everybody. But if you do them your own way, they manage to come round somehow.”“But Crofter’s done you out of the captaincy.”“So much the better—I didn’t deserve it. I’ll get it back some day perhaps, and work it better. Come in to me to tea. Redwood’s coming, and old Dicky, too.”“But you’re against Redwood for the Mile,” said I.“That’s no reason why I shouldn’t give him a cup of tea, is it, you young mule?”The way he said it, and the grip of his hand on my arm, satisfied me that all was square once more between me and my dear old Dux.
My recovery was far too rapid to please me. I never had such a jolly time in all my life. My mother was in and out all day; there were no lessons. I was allowed to summon any chum I liked to my bedside. I was receiving messages daily from masters and seniors, and, best of all, I had nothing the matter with me except, a strong disinclination to exert myself, and an occasional headache or dizziness when I sat up.
I had come up to Low Heath that term with the honest determination to “lie low.” I little expected, however, that I should find myself quite so literally adhering to my resolution.
My one trouble was that all this time I had not seen Tempest. I did not like to send for him, in case he should not appreciate the compliment. And he, as I guessed, would not care to come of his own accord for the uncomfortable ceremony of receiving my thanks. My mother told me he had often asked about me; but when she asked him to come and see me he had replied,—“I’ll see him as soon as he gets about again.” When she inquired about his hand he had replied airily that it was all right, and he was only keeping it in the sling to get it right for the Sports. “But,” said my mother, “I wish he would let the doctor see it, or give up running till it is well.”
“But,” said I, “he’s a chance of winning off Redwood.” This argument, which in ninety-nine cases out of one hundred in Low Heath would have been absolutely conclusive, failed to impress my mother in the least. She attached no importance to “winning off Redwood” compared with a boy’s health, and obdurately protested that if she were Tempest’s mother she would not allow him to think of running.
It was only my agitated appeals to her not to interpose that prevented her speaking to Dr England about the matter, and so knocking the race on the head altogether.
I took it as a compliment to myself that the Sports had been put off a fortnight in consequence of the fire. That warm event had so upset everything and monopolised so much attention that Low Heath would not have come up to scratch at all on the day originally fixed. And whereas the new date permitted of my being present to assist—though, alas! not to compete—in the day’s proceedings, I felt specially satisfied with the alteration.
I had naturally heard a good deal of Philosophical gossip during my convalescence. On my last evening in hospital especially, there was quite a symposium.
My mother, in an innocent moment, had remarked, “I should so like to have one or two of your friends to tea, sonny, before I go home. The doctor says it will not do you any harm—and we can have them in here, as you are the only invalid in hospital.”
“That’ll be ten, with you and me,” said I.
“Do you want quite so many?” asked she, beginning to get a little concerned.
“Must have the lot or none,” said I decisively. “We can cut out Rackstraw and Walsh, if you like—they’re paupers.”
“Oh, Tommy!” said the dear, tender-hearted one, “if they are not as well off as—”
“Oh, that’s not it. They can shell out as well as anybody; only they got on our club for nothing on condition of towing the boats, cleaning up, and that sort of thing.”
“At any rate, let us have them,” said my mother.
“All serene. Will you write the invitations? I say, mother, do you mind writing as well as you can? Our chaps are rather particular, you know, and I wouldn’t like them to snuff up at you.”
My poor dear mother began, I think, to repent of her hospitable offer, but decided to go through with it now.
So she got eight nice little sheets of scented invitation note, with envelopes to match, and wrote,—
“Mrs Jones requests the pleasure of Mr Alfred James Remington Trimble’s company to tea in the Sanatorium parlour this evening at 6 p.m.;” and so on, in each case.
My suggestion to add “R.S.V.P.” and “Evening dressde rigueur” she thought it best to decline. But her kind leniency was thrown away, for within half an hour eight notes dropped in upon us, couched in the politest phraseology.
Here was Langrish’s, for instance:—
“Everard Langrish, Esquire, begs to thank Mrs Jones for asking him to tea at six sharp, when he will be very pleased to fall in with her wishes and be of service in any other way her better feelings may dictate.”
Langrish told me afterwards he cribbed this last sentence out of a story he had read in a weekly newspaper. He rather fancied it was “on the spot.”
Trimble’s was less romantic:—
“Dear Madam,—I accept with thanks. Sarah gets rather outside sometimes, but we do what we can for him. Till then,—
“I am yours affectionately,—
“A.J.R. Trimble.”
Warminster’s was, no doubt, meant to be impressive:—“The President of the Philosophical Conversation Club presents his compliments to Mrs Jones, and desires to inform her of his intention to wait upon her at the hour named in her letter. He trusts that Mrs Jones is in good health, and that her ailing child will be spared to her a little longer. Having several matters to attend to, the President of the Philosophical Conversation Club must now abruptly terminate, namely, Percy Algernon Warminster.”
The ending seemed to me decidedly weak compared with the rest. I will only give one more—that of Coxhead:—
“Dear Mrs Jones, I’ll come to tea;At six o’clock you shall me see.I’m sorry Sarah’s been laid upAnd drinks his physic from a cup.Unless unto the contrary I hear.My Eton suit I think I’ll wear.And now ‘farewell,’ as great John Knox said.Yours truly, Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead.”
“Dear Mrs Jones, I’ll come to tea;At six o’clock you shall me see.I’m sorry Sarah’s been laid upAnd drinks his physic from a cup.Unless unto the contrary I hear.My Eton suit I think I’ll wear.And now ‘farewell,’ as great John Knox said.Yours truly, Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead.”
This effusion struck me as rather like cheek; but my mother seemed to like it.
As evening approached I began to grow very nervous, and have to confess that my mother was the cause of my concern. I was so afraid she was not properly impressed with the gravity of the occasion—that perhaps she would not be dressed at her best—or that the tea might not be up to the mark—or that for any cause the fellows should consider they had been “done.” I’m sure I wearied the life out of her by my inquiries as to the nature of the jam, as to whether the cake would go round twice, whether any of the teacups were cracked, whether the nine chairs ranged round the little room were all sound on their legs, who would open the door to let them in, whether my mother would mind not proposing juvenile games like table-turning, or clumps, and whether when the time came for them to go she would mind not looking at her watch or yawning, for fear they should think it a hint.
All which points the dear soul faithfully promised should be borne in mind and attended to, with a little quiet banter at my expense, which helped to remind me that, after all, one’s mother may be trusted not to disgrace a fellow, if left to herself.
In due time she presented herself in her Sunday dress, looking very pretty and smart—quite creditable, in fact. The tea also, as it appeared laid out on the sideboard—I had urged, by the way, that it should be served in party style, and not partaken of round a table—looked a well-found meal for the most exacting of Philosophers. I myself reposed in state in bed, arrayed in my Eton jacket and best collar and choker. The fire in the hearth was both cheerful and adequate, and the knowledge that the Sanatorium maid was downstairs in her cap and clean apron, to show the young gentlemen up, finally relieved my anxiety.
In due time there was a ring, and a sound of the funereal tramp of eighteen feet on the staircase, and I knew that Mrs Jones’s party had begun.
They all trooped in together, looking very grave and shy, and spick and span in their full-dress, and evidently on their good behaviour. My mother shook hands with each in unexceptionable style, repeating his name as I announced it from the bed, and expressing her pleasure at making his acquaintance.
The sight of me propped up on my pillows, somewhat pale still, and as shy as themselves, seemed to impress them a good deal, and added to the funereal character of the entertainment. A long pause ensued, broken only by the entrance of the maid with the teapot, and Langrish’s remark to Trimble that it was a fine day.
Then my mother had the wit to observe that she hoped it would be equally fine on the day of the Sports, and she was so sorry she would miss them, as she understood Mr Sharpe’s house was likely to win a good many of the events, and of course her sympathies were entirely that way.
This went down beautifully, and drew from Coxhead the remark,—
“It’s a pity Sar—I mean Jones iv.—is out of it. He might have got the Quarter-mile.”
“Are the names down yet?” I asked.
“Yes. We stuck them down to-day,” said Langrish.
“Any one else in for the Senior Mile?”
“No; only Tempest and Redwood.”
Another pause—everybody evidently meditating what my mother would like to hear next.
My mother meanwhile moved to the sideboard and began to pour out tea.
“Do you take cream and sugar?” she said, with a pleasant smile, to Langrish. How relieved I was she did not call him “Everard” or “dear!”
“Yes, please—can I pass round?” he replied.
It was admirable. I had been in terror lest he would have collared the first cup and stuck to it.
“Thank you, if you will, please. I see they are beginning to get your old house ready for rebuilding.”
“It won’t be ready this term, though,” said Warminster; “it will take—a slice of cake, thanks.”
“No sugar for me, thanks,” said Coxhead. “I wonder if Jarman will have to pay for it?”
“Does yourmatertake cream and sugar?” said Purkis to me, in an aside.
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Langrish, “because he didn’t do it on purpose, you know.”
“Thank you very much. Do you mind putting it down there? And won’t you sit down?” said my mother, setting the example.
“I expect he’d better give up smoking, as he’s always setting things on fire,” ventured I. “Mother knows about the guy last term, don’t you, mother?”
“Yes, indeed,” said she, with a laugh, which won over the Philosophers in a body. “That was a lucky escape for everybody. I was horrified.”
“Well, old Sar—I mean Jones iv.—”
“I think he understands his nickname better than his real name,” said my clever parent.
“Old Sarah,” said Langrish, getting rapidly at his ease, “let us in for that. You see (cake up, please), it was this way—”
And he launched forth into an account of that famous adventure, into which the company one by one cut, at my expense, of course, and highly to the diversion of my mother.
Meanwhile the teapot was kept busy, and the jam went its rounds—some of it on to Coxhead’s shirt-front—and by the end of it all the Philosophers found themselves comfortably at home.
“I say,” said I, when a break came, “how’s the club getting on? Anything fresh?”
Langrish glanced round at my mother.
“I’ve got the minute-book,” he said, “would she—”
“Oh, do!” said she. “Is it an account of your meetings? I would like to hear it immensely. Debating societies are such capital things, I think.”
“It’s a bit down on Sarah, though,” said the secretary, dubiously.
“Why, I wasn’t there,” said I.
“Weren’t you? that’s all.”
“Let’s hear it,” said my mother, “I dare say he deserves it.”
I forgave the dear traitress for giving me away like this, for I felt sure the minutes would save our evening.
“You see,” said Trimble, “we try to keep it fair, so it’s down on some of the others too. But Sarah gets it a little the hottest.”
“I’m used to getting things hot by now,” said I; “forge ahead, and sit where I can shy the pillow at you.”
Whereupon Langrish moved his chair to a conspicuous place, and read,—
“‘A meeting of the Ph.C.C. was held in dormitory on February 1, at 9 p.m.’”
“Why, that’s when the fire was,” said Trimble.
“Shut—I mean what’s that got to do with it?” retorted the secretary.
“Well?” said my mother, taking a stitch or two at her needlework.
“‘Owing to the side put on by the ex-president, who was lately, kicked out for being a howling cad, and because he was down in form order—’”
“What a cram!” I interposed; “I was on the second desk, and should have had you down weeks ago if I hadn’t been laid up.”
“Ha, ha, I like that—you! Did yourmaterever hear aboutcorporebeing the ablative masculine, eh?”
“No, I never heard about that,” said my mother.
“All right—Sarah will tell you—where was I, oh—down in form order, though he’s not quite such a crock as Coxhead, who is champion dunce in Low Heath—”
“Me?” exclaimed Coxhead, warm with tea and indignation.
“There you are,” said Langrish, “anybody but a champion dunce would have said ‘I.’ You ask Sarah’smaterif they wouldn’t.”
“Well,you, if you like,” said Coxhead; “what about it—”
“Look here, how can I read the minutes when—here we are—‘crock as Coxhead, who is champion dunce in Low Heath.’”
“What happened then?” said my mother, looking a little mixed.
“‘He was shunted to an outside berth, and was out of it.’”
“I rather think I was in it,” said I; “never mind.”
“Oh, if you think so, all right. The minutes say you were out of it. ‘He’d not begun to snore many minutes with deafening effect, when, as might be expected, Jarman set fire to the show to stop the noise.’”
“Do you think that’s why he did it, really?” asked Warminster.
“Look here, young Warminster. I don’tthink, I—”
“Pity you don’t now and then,” remarked the newly-elected president.
Langrish looked hard at his colleague, and then glanced at my mother, whose face was bent over her work. Whereupon the secretary threw the minute-book at the president’s head, and observed,—
“Look out, Warminster; hand up that book, can’t you—it’s not yours.”
My mother looked up, and Warminster meekly surrendered the book.
“‘—Stop the noise. The club then adjourned, all except Sarah, who hung on, contrary to the rules, and is hereby fined 2 shillings 6 pence.’”
“Oh, I say,” protested I, “that’s rather rough, isn’t it?”
“‘But,’” proceeded Langrish, “‘owing to his mother coming up to buy him off, he is hereby let off with a fie— I mean a warning.’”
“Thank you so much,” said my mother, gratefully.
“‘When we thought he was pretty well warmed up, we sent Tempest in to fish him out, which he accordingly did, and is hereby elected honorary porter to the club, and is backed to win the Mile.’”
“That’s the least he deserves, surely,” said my mother, with feeling.
“‘Sarah, owing to this unprincipled conduct, has been suspended for a month, and the club hereby hopes some day not far off to see him sus—’ no, that’s wrong—I mean—”
“Hung,” suggested Trimble, in an audible whisper.
“Order—turn him out for saying hung, instead of hanged,” said the president.
“Shut up, can’t you?” said the secretary, “can’t you let me finish the sentence? ‘—See him sus—susceptible of better emotions.’”
“Hear, hear,” said the club, breathing again to see the corner turned.
“I hope that’s not all,” said my mother.
“That’s as far as we’ve got; but we’ll let him down easy in the next,” said Langrish.
“The next will have the account of the Sports, I suppose,” said my mother.
“If our men win,” said Warminster. “We’re bound to win the High Jump if Langrish keeps on his form; he did 4 feet 1 and a half inches this afternoon.”
“You needn’t talk—you’re all right for the 100 Yards,” said the modest Langrish; “there’s no one in, except young Brown of the day cads, who can touch you; and he’s sure to go a mucker on the day.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” said I. “Dicky Brown doesn’t go muckers if he can help it.”
“There you are—backing the town cads now. I move, and Mrs Jones seconds, that Sarah be, and is hereby, kic—I mean sat upon by the club.”
“Oh, don’t, please,” said my mother, “the bed is not strong enough.”
“All right—it’s lucky for Sarah. If you were half a chap you’d see we didn’t lose the Quarter-mile. Rackstraw will have a look in at it, but it’ll puzzle him to beat Flitwick. Walsh is going to cut out for him. So we may just do it; but it’ll be a go—eh, paupers?”
Rackstraw and Walsh both protested there would be no difficulty about it if only the track was in good order, and their wind held out, and Flitwick muddled his start, and finished a yard or two behind. We were all prepared to stake the glory of Sharpe’s on these trifling conditions.
Presently the preparation bell began to toll, and the party broke up with a cordiality and cheerfulness which contrasted strangely with the solemnity with which it had begun. My mother was politely requested to become an honorary member of the club, and as politely consented, expressing a hope that she might meet with its honourable members many times again.
When they had gone she told me how much she had enjoyed the evening, and how she liked every one of them, and hoped they wouldn’t think her rude to have laughed now and then, but really, she said, not being used to it, she could not help it.
Next day she left, and, dismally enough, I made the first use of my liberty to accompany her in the fly to the station. She talked to me, as only she could, about the future, and the spirit in which she thought I would take up once more the work of the term and the thankfulness which she the widow, and I the orphan, could not help feeling to the Heavenly Father, who had saved us both from such peril and sorrow in the past. She urged me to show my gratitude for my escape, by seeking to follow more closely in the footsteps of that Saviour to whom she had so often taught me to look for help and guidance, and at the same time she urged me to pray for the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Her goodness only made my sorrow at parting the greater; and more than any time since I had entered Low Heath, the pangs of home-sickness fell upon me as I saw her into her carriage.
Just before the train started I felt my heart beat suddenly, and the blood rush to my cheeks, as I saw a figure, with one hand in a sling, running up the platform, looking into one carriage after another.
“Mother, here’s Tempest!”
Next moment he saw us, and ran up.
“I heard you were going by this train,” said he, “and I thought I would like to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye, my dear boy, and God bless you once more!”
“The youngster’s all right again, I see,” said he, putting his hand on my arm. “I’ll see he takes care of himself—good-bye.”
And the train steamed off, leaving us two on the platform.
“I hope your hand’s not awfully bad,” said I, breaking a silence of nearly three months in the only way which occurred for the moment.
“Rather not. We’d better cab it back—you’re not up to walking yet.”
“Thanks awfully, Tempest, for saving—”
“Look here, don’t let’s get on to that,” said he.
“I say,” said I, “I was afraid you believed what Crofter said, and thought—”
“You were an ass, Tommy—you always were—I ought to have remembered it. Of course I never believed a word Crofter said—I saw his game. But I was idiot enough to get riled at you for giving yourself away to him. I’m sorry. Now let’s forget it. After all, it was the best thing for me that all that row about my bills came out when it did. You did me a better turn than you meant to do. Just like you—if you try to do things the right way, it’s all up with everybody. But if you do them your own way, they manage to come round somehow.”
“But Crofter’s done you out of the captaincy.”
“So much the better—I didn’t deserve it. I’ll get it back some day perhaps, and work it better. Come in to me to tea. Redwood’s coming, and old Dicky, too.”
“But you’re against Redwood for the Mile,” said I.
“That’s no reason why I shouldn’t give him a cup of tea, is it, you young mule?”
The way he said it, and the grip of his hand on my arm, satisfied me that all was square once more between me and my dear old Dux.