THE END OF TERM
The two worthies, Grim and Wilson, after seeing Acton, began to get out their programme. Here it is:—
| Biffen's Junior's Concert. | |
| Cock House, December, 1898. | |
| (1) | Epilogue. B.A.M. Cherry. |
| (2) | Poem on the subject of Cock House. B. Sharpe. |
| (3) | Bar Act. |
| (4) | First Round Junior Boxing Competition. Prince Runjit Mehtah and Ram Singh. |
| (5) | Song. "My First Cigar." R.E. Thurston. |
| (6) | Pianoforte Solo.. "Oh! listen to the band." O. Brown. |
| (7) | Second Round Boxing. |
| (8) | Song.. "Jim." J. Acton, Esq. |
| (9) | Third and Concluding Rounds Boxing. |
| (10) | Song.. "Well, suppose you did?" R.E. Thurston. |
| God Save The Queen. | |
| Accompanist. O.E. Brown. | |
| Stage Manager. W.E. Grim. | |
| |
N.B.—The Manager begs to state that there will be no Latin or classical allusions throughout the evening. No waits. No charge for programmes. No antediluvian jokes.
This was printed on paper blushing pink—Biffen's colours—and Grim and Wilson, when they got the advance proof last thing on Saturday night, almost embraced in their jubilation. There was such a swagger look about the "N.B."
Meanwhile B.A.M. Cherry had consulted his dictionary, and therein found that an "epilogue" was defined as "a concluding speech in an oration or play." He broke into a cold sweat of horror. That was an epilogue, then! Where could he find one? What would be the good of one if he did find it? And supposing he had one and could recite it, it was at the wrong end of the programme—the programme which had already been printed in such hot haste? It was too late to tell Grim, who would have instantly summoned all the strength of Biffen's to scrag him. The wretched Cherry shuddered at his awful plight.
Nothing could he do or dare he do. In desperation he determined to fall ill on the concert night. B.A.M. Cherry hadn't the heroic soul, and when Grim asked him cheerfully how the epilogue was going on, he said "spiffing," in the tone of a martyr at the stake.
On the Monday Grim scuttled about all day—now on the stage, listening to Thurston going over his songs with Brown, now getting entries for his boxing competition, now encouraging Sharpe, who was in the throes of composition, and now criticizing the Dervishes with much force. Acton put in an appearance in the concert-room, and gave Brown the accompaniment to "Jim;" and, after hearing him play it through, went and read his novel the rest of his spare time.
At 7.30 the juniors of St. Amory's began to stroll in, Biffen's lot collaring the front seats as per custom. The programmes were distributed to each one as he came in, and created no end of sensation, and W.E. Grim was allowed to have come out very strong in the programme line. St. Amory's fags did not spot anything wrong about item one, but the older fellows chuckled a little and said "the manager was a funny ass." This opinion was instantly conveyed to Grim by one of his cronies, and made that young gentleman think himself no end of a sly dog.
Punctually to the minute Grim rang his bell, and, darting into the dressing-room, said, "Now, Cherry, come along with your epilogue, They're all waiting. Where is that ass?"
"Cherry has not turned up yet, Grim."
"What?" he said in horror.
"Not turned up yet!"
"I'll go and fetch the beggar at once."
Grim darted out of the room, tore along the street, and was hammering at Cherry's door within the minute.
"Fruity, hurry up, they're all waiting."
"I'm not well, Grim."
"What?"
"I'm not well—I'm in bed."
"You miserable beast!" shouted Grim. "I'll massacre you. You'll make us the laughing stock of the whole school. Get up, man, Be a man."
"I'm ill," moaned Cherry from within.
"You miserable beast! You'll be dead to-morrow." He shook the door violently, but Cherry was not quite the utter fool Grim took him for, for he had locked the door. Grim stood outside on the corridor for some seconds, petrified with rage and disgust, and then flew like a madman back to the concert-room. He cannoned up against some one leisurely strolling up to the dressing-room, and was darting on again sans apology. A hand gently closed upon his collar and pulled him back.
"Hallo, young shaver! Little boys used to apologize when they—Why, it's Grim! What in the name——"
Grim, almost blubbing with anger and shame, poured out his tale, and Acton listened with an amused smile. "Sheer funk, Grim. Well, go on, and tell 'em their Cherry has rotted, but that I'll come and tell 'em a little tale instead."
Grim would have embraced Acton if he'd been a little taller, but he gurgled, "Acton, you are a brick," and darted on to the stage.
He was received with deafening cheers, and shrieks of "No waits!" "Manager!" "Don't hurry, Grim!" "We'll send out for supper!" "We want Cherry!" "Go off," etc.
When Grim could get a word in he panted, "Gentlemen, I am sorry to say B.A.M. Cherry is indisposed and cannot favour you with the epilogue."
"Funked it!" roared all the delighted juniors.
"He says he is unwell," said Grim, anger getting the better of him, "but he'll be a jolly sight worse in the morning."
There was a hurricane of thunderous cheers at this sally, but Grim managed to shout above the laughing, "I have great pleasure in announcing that John Acton, Esq., will take Fruity's—I mean Cherry's—place and tell you a little tale; even Corker fags will understand it," added Grim, viciously.
Acton came on and received his hearty welcome with easy good nature. He plunged right into his contribution: "A London cabby's account of his different fares"—from the double-superfine gilt-edged individual to the fat old dowager who will have the parrot inside with her. Acton gave it perfectly. Grim, who had his ears glued to the exit door, vowed he could almost hear the swell drop his eyeglass.
Sharpe stepped on to the stage amid the polite attentions of his natural enemies. "Be a man, Sharpe." "Don't cry." "You'll see mamma soon." "Speak up." "He did it all alone, remember." "No help." "Oh, dear no!"
"When on the bosom of the sleeping pool,
That's shaded o'er by trees in greenest dress,
Upon its breast of snow its gem of gold
The water lily swims——"
The juniors howled with dismay at this commencement, and Corker juniors instantly began to keep time to Sharpe's delivery in the organ-grinder's fashion. But Sharpe toiled remorselessly on. He compared Biffen's house to a water lily growing in a muddy pond, and again as a Phoenix risen from the ashes; and he gave us, with circumstantial details, every round of the footer housers, their two eleven caps, and the Perry Exhibition, and darkly hinted at Acton's exclusion from the eleven.
He wound up his awful farrago in one glorious burst of solemn fury—
"And even Fate girds on her sword, and her right arm she stiffens,
As thunders to the icy pole the glorious name of Biffen's."
When Sharpe finally made his bow, according to the invariable custom, every junior except a Biffenite imitated with rare fidelity the mixed sensations of channel passengers after a stormy passage.
Sharpe, cheered to the echo by the Biffenites on the front row, went proudly off.
The Dervishes were received with enthusiasm, and went through their performance to the shouts of "Well wriggled, Java!" "Why don't you oil!" "Do it again—orang-outang!" They amiably smiled acknowledgments as they backed away.
Then I myself stepped on to the stage, prepared to judge the two-minutes' rounds. Grim had whipped up sixteen fags, each willing to do battle for the honour of his house. The rounds proceeded to the accompaniment of ear-splitting encouragement, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that not a solitary one of the defeated heroes thought he had really been beaten on points.
No mistake about it, Biffen's had a fag who could sing. Thurston's "My First Cigar" only lacked one thing—it should have lasted a little longer to suit the audience.
"She called it an Intimidad,
It had spots of a yellowish hue,
She said the best brands always had,
And I firmly believed it was true."
A good number of the fellows knew "The Soldiers in the Park," and Brown hammered it out in a good old breezy style.
As he was racing home, and the jolly chorus was crashing out from the piano, one fag started "Oh, listen to the band!"
Instantly the whole school, juniors and seniors as well, joined in the chorus, keeping time with their feet.
"Oh, listen to the band!
Who doesn't love to hark
To the shout of 'Here they come'
And the banging of the drum—
Oh, listen to the soldiers in the park."
When the dust had settled, every one acknowledged that Biffen's concert was going with a bang. I am not going to bore you with a longer account of Biffen's concert. Thurston sang "Alice, where art thou?" the fellows telling him between the verses that "She wasn't going to come," "Spoony songs barred," etc., and Rogers carried off the fags' boxing competition with a big rush in the final round, and Biffen's crew howled with delight.
Finally the bell rang for Acton's song. Brown rattled through the preliminary bars, and the song commenced. The singer held himself slightly forward, in a rather stiff and awkward fashion, and his eyes were staring intently into vacancy. There was not the shadow of a shade of any expression in his face. A feeling of pity for Acton was the universal sensation when the first words fell from his lips. Acton had not the ghost of a singing voice, and the school shuddered at the awful exhibition. There was an icy silence, but Acton croaked remorselessly on. This is the song:—
"Jim and I as children played together,
Best of chums for many years were we;
I had no luck—was, alas! a Jonah;
Jim, my chum, was lucky as could be.
Oh, lucky Jim! How I envied him!
"Years rolled by, and death took Jim away, boys,
Left his widow, and she married me;
Now we're married oft I think of Jim, boys,
Sleeping in that churchyard by the sea.
Oh, lucky Jim! How I envy him!"
As the words followed on there was a suggestion of oddity in that awful voice singing a comic song, and there were a few suppressed laughs at the idea. As the song progressed, the utter dreary weariness of the voice, and the rather funny words, compelled the fellows to laugh in uncontrollable bursts; but still Acton never turned a hair. When he arrived at the churchyard lines there was one universal howl of delight. Brown stopped dead at the end of the second last line, and Acton stopped dead too. Instantly all the fellows became as mute as fish. The singer straightened himself up, looked round the room with a mocking smile while one might count a dozen, and then winked to Brown, who recommenced softly on the piano. Then Acton sang slowly and deliberately—sang with a voice as clear and as tunable as a silver bell—
"Oh, lucky Jim! How I envy him!"
His croak was a pretence—he had hoaxed us all! Before we recovered from our stupefaction he had vanished. The school clamoured for his return, but though they cheered for three minutes on end Acton did not reappear, and Brown struck up "God save the Queen!" Biffen's concert was at an end!
Grim held a five minutes' meeting among the Biffenites before bed.
"There's never been a fellow like Acton in St. Amory's. He goes away at nine to-morrow. The Great Midland are going to stop their express to pick up St. Amory fellows, and Acton goes up to his place by that. I vote we all go in a body to the station and cheer him off. We keep it dark, of course." This staccato oration was agreed to with acclamation, and Biffenites went to bed happy.
On the morrow Acton strolled into the station and espied the Biffenites, who were scattered up and down the platform with careful carelessness. The train came in, and at once the juniors crowded en masse round the carriage in which Acton had secured a corner seat, and stood talking to Grim, who was in fine feather.
At that very moment Phil Bourne and young Jack Bourne bustled into the station. An idea struck Rogers, and he said to all his chums, "Here's Bourne, you fellows; let him know we see him."
The fags were delighted, and when Bourne entered the carriage next Acton's there was a long-drawn-out hoot for his especial benefit.
"Another," said Rogers, whereat more soulful groans.
"The last," said Rogers, and Bourne took his seat to a chorus of hisses and tortured howls. He smiled a little and opened his paper, while the people in the carriage looked curiously at him.
The guard's whistle went and Acton sprang in. "Good-bye."
As the train moved, Grim said, "Three cheers for Acton!"
"Hip, hip, hurrah! Hip, hip, hurrah!"
"A groan for Bourne!" Acton smiled good naturedly to his henchmen. As he glided past he said to himself softly, "And yet I have not quite hoed all my row out either, Bourne. Wait, my friend, wait!"
As The Train Moved, Grim Said, "Three Cheers!"