§ 13
From the first Mr. Mainwearing had been prepared for Peter’s antagonism. He had been warned by Mr. Grimes that Peter might prove “a little difficult.” The letter to Aunt Phyllis confirmed this impression he had already formed of a fund of stiff resistance in his new pupil. “I shall have to talk to that young man,” he said.
The occasion was not long in coming.
It came next morning in the general Scripture lesson. The boys were reading the Gospel of St. Matthew verse by verse, and in order to check inattention Mr. Mainwearing, instead of allowing the boys to read in rotation, was dodging the next verse irregularly from boy to boy. “Now, Pyecroft,” he would say; “Now—Rivers.”
He was always ready to pick up a nickname and improve upon it for the general amusement. “Now, Simonides,” he said.
No answer.
“Simonides!”
Peter, with his New Testament open before him, was studying the map of Africa on the end wall. That was Egypt and that was the Nile, and down that you went to Uganda, where all the people dressed in white and Nobby walked fearlessly among lions.
Peter became aware of a loud shout of “Sim-on-i-des!”
It was apparently being addressed to him by Mr. Mainwearing. He returned at a jump to Europe and High Cross School.
“Wool-gathering again,” said Mr. Mainwearing. “Thinking of the dear old Agapemone, eh? We can’t have that here, young man. We can’t allow that here. We must quicken that proud but sluggish spirit of yours. With the usual stimulus. Come out, sir.”
He moved towards the cane, which hung from a nail beside the high desk.
Obliging schoolfellows explained to Peter. “He spoke to you three times.” “He’s going to swish you.” “You’ll get it.”
Peter went very white and sat very tight.
“Now, young man,” said Mr. Mainwearing, flicking the cane. “Step out, please....
“Come out here, sir.”
No answer from Peter.
“Stubland,” roared Mr. Mainwearing. “Come out at once.”
There came a break in the traditions of High Cross School.
Peter rose to his feet. It seemed he was going to obey. And then he said in a voice, faint and small but perfectly clear, “I ain’t going to be caned. No.”
There was a great pause. There was as it were silence in Heaven. And then, his footsteps echoing through that immensity of awe, Mr. Mainwearing advanced upon Peter. Peter with a loud undignified cry fled along the wall under the map of Palestine towards the door.
“Stop him there, Ames!” cried Mr. Mainwearing.
Ames was slow to understand.
Mr. Mainwearing put down the cane on the mantelshelf and became very active; he leapt a desk clumsily, upset an inkpot, and collided with Ames at the door a moment after Peter had vanished. On the landing outside Peter hesitated, and then doubled downstairs to the boot-hole. For a moment Mr. Mainwearing was at fault. “Hell!” he said. All the class-room heard him say “Hell!” All the school treasured that cry in its heart for future use. “Young—,” said Mr. Mainwearing. It was long a matter for secret disputation in the school what particularly choice sort of young thing Mr. Mainwearing had called Peter. Then he heard a crash in the boot-hole and was downstairs in a moment. Peter was out in the area, up the area steps as quick as a scared grey mouse, and then he made his mistake. He struck out across the open in front of the house. In a dozen strides Mr. Mainwearing had him.
“I’ll thrash you, Sir,” said Mr. Mainwearing, swinging the little body by the collar, and shaking him as a dog might shake a rat. “I’ll thrash you. I’ll thrash you before the whole school.”
But two people had their blood up now.
“I’ll tell my uncle Nobby,” yelled Peter. “I’ll tell my uncle Nobby. He’s a soldier.”
Thus disputing they presently reappeared in the lower class-room. Peter was tremendously dishevelled and still kicking, and Mr. Mainwearing was holding him by the general slack of his garments.
“Silence, Sir, while I thrash you,” said Mr. Mainwearing, and he was red and moist.
“My uncle, he’s a soldier. He’s a V.C. You thrash me and he’ll kill you. He’ll kill you. He’ll kill you.”
“Gimme my cane, some one,” said Mr. Mainwearing.
“He’ll kill you.”
Nobody got the cane. “Probyn,” cried Mr. Mainwearing, “give me my cane.”
Probyn hesitated, and then said to young Newton, “You get it.” Young Newton had been standing up, half offering himself for this service. He handed the cane to Mr. Mainwearing.
“You touch me!” threatened Peter, “you touch me. He’ll kill you,” and taking advantage of the moment when Mr. Mainwearing’s hand was extended for the cane he scored a sound kick on the master’s knee. Then by an inspired wriggle he sought to involve himself with Mr. Mainwearing’s gown in such a manner as to protect his more vulnerable area.
But now Mr. Mainwearing was in a position to score. He stuck his cane between his teeth in an impressive and terrible manner, and then got his gown loose and altered his grip on his small victim. Now for it! The school hung breathless. Cut. Peter became as lively as an eel. Cut.
There were tears in his voice, but his voice was full and clear.
“He’ll kill you. He’ll come here and kill you. I’ll burn down the school.”
“You will, will you?”
Cut. A kick. Cut. Silent wriggles.
“Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten,” counted Mr. Mainwearing and stopped, and let go his hold with a shove. “Now go to your place,” he said. He was secretly grateful to Peter that he went. Peter had a way at times of looking a very small boy, and he did so now. He was tearful, red and amazingly dishevelled, but still not broken down to technical blubbing. His face was streaked with emotion; it was only too manifest that the routines of High Cross had reduced his private ablutions to a minimum. He glanced over his shoulder to see if he was still pursued. He could still sob, “My uncle.”
But Mr. Mainwearing did not mean this to be the close of the encounter. He had thought out the problems of discipline according to his lights; a boy must give in. Peter had still to give in.
“And now Stubland,” he proclaimed, “stay in after afternoon school, stay in all tomorrow, and write me out five hundred times, ’I must not sulk. I must obey.’ Five hundred times, Sir.”
Something muffled was audible from Peter, something suggestive of a refusal.
“Bring them to me on Wednesday evening at latest. That will keep you busy—and no time to spare. You hear me, Sir? ’I must not sulk’ and ’I must obey.’ And if they are not ready, Sir, twelve strokes good and full. And every morning until they are ready, twelve strokes. That’s how we do things here. No shirking. Play the fool with me and you pay for it—up to the hilt. This, at any rate, is a school, a school where discipline is respected, whatever queer Socialist Agapemone you may have frequented before. And now I’ve taken you in hand, young man, I mean to go through with you—if you have a hundred uncles Nobchick armed to the teeth. If you have a thousand uncles Nobchick, they won’t help you, if you air your stubborn temper at High Cross School....”
Perhaps Peter would have written the lines, but young Newton, in the company of two friends, came up to him in the playground before dinner. “Going to write those lines, Simon Peter?” asked young Newton.
What could a chap do but say, “No fear.”
“You’ll write ’em all right,” said Newton, and turned scornfully. So Peter sat in the stuffy schoolroom during detention time, and drew pictures of soldiers and battles and adventures and mused and made his plans.
He was going to run away. He was going to run right out of this disgusting place into the world. He would run away tomorrow after the midday meal. It would be the Wednesday half-holiday, and to go off then gave him his very best chance of a start; he might not be missed by any one in particular throughout the afternoon. The gap of time until tea-time seemed to him to be a limitless gap. “Abscond,” said Peter, a beautiful, newly-acquired word. Just exactly whither he wanted to go, he did not know. Vaguely he supposed he would have to go to his Limpsfield aunts, but what he wanted to think he was doing was running away to sea. He was going to run away to sea and meet Nobby very soon; he was going to run against Nobby by the happiest chance, Nobby alone, or perhaps even (this was still dreamier) Daddy and Mummy. Then they would go on explorations together, and he and Nobby would sleep side by side at camp fires amidst the howling of lions. Somewhere upon that expedition he would come upon Mainwearing and Probyn and Newton, captives perhaps in the hands of savages.
What would he and Nobby and Mummy and Daddy and Bungo Peter and Joan do to such miscreants?...
This kept Peter thinking a long time. Because it was beyond the limits of Peter’s generosity just now to spare Mr. Mainwearing. Probyn perhaps. Probyn, penitent to the pitch of tears, might be reduced to the status of a humble fag; even Newton might go on living in some very menial capacity—there could be a dog with the party of which Newton would always go in fear—but Mr. Mainwearing had exceeded the limits of mercy....
A man like that was capable of any treason....
Peter had it!—a beautiful scene. Mr. Mainwearing detected in a hideous conspiracy with a sinister Arab trader to murder the entire expedition, would be captured redhanded by Peter (armed with a revolver and a cutlass) and brought before Nobby and Bungo Peter. “The man must die,” Nobby would say. “And quickly,” Bungo Peter would echo, “seeing how perilous is our present situation.”
Then Peter would step forward. Mr. Mainwearing in a state of abject terror would fling himself down before him, cling to his knees, pray for forgiveness, pray Peter to intercede.
Yes. On the whole—yes. Peter would intercede.
Peter began to see the scene as a very beautiful one indeed....
But Nobby would be made of sterner stuff. “You are too noble, Peter. In such a country as this we cannot be cumbered with traitor carrion. We have killed the Arab. Is it just to spare this thousand times more perjured wretch, this blot upon the fair name of Englishman? Mainwearing, if such indeed be your true name, down on your knees and make your peace with God.”...
At this moment the reverie was interrupted by Mr. Mainwearing in cricketing flannels traversing the schoolroom. He was going to have a whack before tea. He just stood at the wickets and made the bigger boys bowl to him.
Little he knew!
Peter affected to write industriously....