A BAD COMMENCEMENT FOR THE TERM
No need to tell Harry to hurry up. He was as anxious to introduce himself to the porter as Plunger could have been. So, running forward, he quickly gained the porter's side, and brought his hand down twice, vigorously, upon that worthy's shoulder, and, before Bax had recovered from his astonishment, dug the forefinger of his right hand sharply into his side, exclaiming:
"How do you do, Mr. Bax? Age, twelve—just turned; weight, five stone ten; biceps, eight inches; chest, twenty-eight; vaccinated, three places!"
The little porter grew purple in the face. He gasped for breath. When he had recovered, he returned the vigorous slaps he had received upon the back by a still more vigorous slap upon the head of Harry.
"Vaccinated in three places, are you, young gent. That will vaccinate you in four. Don't get practising any of your larks on Bax. He's not the one to stand it, young gent."
And, so saying, the porter strutted indignantly off. Harry had reeled under the vigorous blow of the porter; but just before he recovered, a hand came down on his top-hat, and crushed it over his ears, while a voice cried, amid roars of laughter, "Vaccinated in four places!"
As Harry with difficulty drew himself from under the crushed hat, he found himself confronted by the boy who had crushed it. It was Robert Newall—the boy who had taunted the hunchback. He was a big, strong-looking fellow, with sandy hair, prominent nose, prominent teeth, and bold, self-confident face.
"Vaccinated in four places!" repeated Newall, with a mocking laugh. "What asylum have you escaped from, kiddie?"
"Who are you? What did you do that for?" gasped Harry indignantly, smoothing out his hat, and looking round helplessly for his friend Plunger. But now that one of the Senior Form had taken up the baiting, Plunger had been compelled to give way to him. He was only a cipher in the mob of laughing, jeering boys who had gathered round Harry.
"Chest, twenty-eight inches. What a Samson it is!" jeered Newall. "All your own?" He tapped Harry smartly on the chest with his knuckles, as though he were testing it. "Yes, genuine article. You're a wonder—a perfect wonder! And what's the biceps! Eight inches! Why, it's a regular Hercules! It isn't every day that a marvel like you comes to Garside; so walk round and show your muscle, kid."
Harry now saw that they were poking fun at him. His face was scarlet; he was quivering with indignation. He was choking. The tears seemed very near the floodgates. It was only with a strong effort he kept them back. He did not answer his tormentor, but stared at him blank-eyed.
"Did you hear what I said?" went on Newall. "Come, wake up—walk!"
With a flip of his hand he sent the hat which Harry had been trying to smooth out whirling amongst the throng of boys. There was a shriek of laughter as the hat was caught, and sent whirling in turn to another part of the throng. This was the finishing stroke to Harry. He burst into a flood of passionate tears. The public school boy holds in contempt the boy who cries. He regards it as girlish, unmanly.
"Oh, the fresher's a soft!" came from one in the throng.
"A soft, a soft!" passed from lip to lip. Plunger alone was dumb. He had not wished that the joke which he had begun at Harry's expense should go so far; but now that it had been taken from his hands he was powerless to stop it.
"Oh, it's a squealer—a dear little squealer! Has it brought its bib and tuck and feeding-bottle?" went on Newall, amid the laughter of his companions.
Harry tried to choke back the scalding tears, which were coursing down his cheeks.
"You're—you're a cruel brute!" came bursting from his lips.
"Oh, the little squealer's got a tongue, and it can speak! Come, come, walk!"
Harry did not stir. So Newall gave him a push which sent him over to one side of the throng, where another push sent him quickly back again. The sport was only at its commencement, when it was suddenly checked by Stanley Moncrief forcing his way through the throng, closely followed by Paul Percival.
They had been in the fives court while Plunger and Harry had been inside the schoolhouse, and it was not till their return to the ground that they caught sight of the throng of boys, of which Harry was the centre. On making their way towards it, Paul soon saw what was happening.
"They're baiting a fresher!" he exclaimed.
"And it's my young cousin!" cried Stanley.
He had no objection to a little fun at Harry's expense. Indeed, it was the ordeal which every new-comer to Garside had to go through in some form or other. But this seemed more than fun—more than a joke. Otherwise, his cousin would not be in tears. And it was not only the sight of his cousin in tears—it was the sight of his tormentor—Newall, whom he cordially disliked.
"Stop that!" he cried, with flashing eyes and clenched fists, as he reached the centre of the throng. "He's my cousin!"
"Oh, your cousin, Moncrief!" answered Newall, resenting this intrusion on Stanley's part. "Nice little girl, isn't she? Heard her squeal?"
At a gesture from him, Viner—one of the boys who belonged to the dormitory in which Harry had been placed—stooped down at the back of the unsuspecting lad. Newall gave him a sudden push, with the result, of course, that he came to the ground over Viner's back. Unfortunately his head struck on the gravel, and when he scrambled to his feet again blood was flowing freely from a cut in his head.
Stanley Moncrief was a quick, hot-tempered lad, and his temper was now thoroughly aroused. Before Paul could check him, he sprang at Newall, when he saw what had happened to his cousin. The two wrestled for a moment, then separated.
Paul stepped in to stop fighting, but before he could do so Stanley had shot out his arm blindly. It passed over Paul's shoulder, caught Newall on the mouth, and sent him reeling to the ground.
Angry passions thus roused, it is impossible to say how the quarrel would have ended; but Mr. Weevil appeared on the scene, just as Newall had leapt to his feet, eager to return the blow Stanley had given him.
"What does this mean?" he demanded sternly. "Fighting?"
Not a word fell from the boys. The tumult had ceased as by magic.
"Do you hear me? I will stand no trifling! A nice commencement of the term. Taking advantage of the absence of Dr. Colville, eh?" came the stern voice of the science master, as his eyes went round the group. Dr. Colville, the Head of Garfield, had been taken ill during the vacation, and had been ordered complete rest from his duties for another month or so by his medical adviser. In his absence the reins of government had fallen into the hands of Mr. Weevil, as second in command.
Still no answer from the boys. They were as silent as before. It seemed as though they had been smitten with sudden dumbness.
"Lost your tongues, eh? They were going briskly enough a minute since!" went on the master grimly. Then he paused, and fixed his eyes upon Stanley. "Moncrief major! It was you who started this disturbance. You struck Newall!"
"Yes, sir, I struck Newall," assented Stanley.
"Why?"
"Ask Newall, sir."
"I am asking you, sir!" came the sharp retort. "Why did you strike Newall? Quick, your answer!"
Stanley waited for Newall to speak; but Newall's lips, bleeding and swollen from the blow, were tightly compressed. He scarcely heard the master's words. He could only think of the blow he had received. It was rankling in his mind, and turning to bitter hate the ill-feeling that already existed between him and Stanley. It was the first seed of hate that in the time to come was to bring forth a bitter harvest of tares. Ah, boys, beware of the first seeds of hate! Pluck them from you, as you would your hand from the fire. Otherwise they will spring up so quickly that they will wind themselves, like poisonous weeds, round every fibre of your being, blighting and strangling all the better impulses of your nature, killing, above all, the choicest blossom that comes to us from the Divine garden—the blossom of love. Where hate flourishes, love cannot be. There is no room for the two. Never since the world began have they ever flourished side by side—never since the seeds of hate were planted by the serpent in the first garden, the Garden of Eden. Beware, then, of the seeds of hate!
From a fine sense of honour, Stanley remained silent. Now that he had struck Newall he had no wish to implicate him. He began to feel some pity for him as he saw the blood slowly trickling from his mouth.
"Am I to understand that you refuse to speak, Moncrief?" demanded Mr. Weevil angrily. Stanley remained obstinately silent.
"Perhaps you will allow me to explain, sir!" began Paul.
Instantly Mr. Weevil swung round to him.
"Not a word, sir! Have the goodness to speak when you're spoken to. The explanation must first come from Moncrief. If he has not yet learned the lesson of obedience, he must begin to learn it. When he has given me his explanation, I shall be quite willing to hear whatever else has to be said. Now, Moncrief, I am waiting. It is your last chance."
He waited, but Stanley remained obstinately silent. Mr. Weevil's sallow face darkened.
"Very well; I'm very sorry, but I must teach you that I'm not to be defied simply because Dr. Colville is away. I must teach you that I mean to be obeyed during his absence. Perhaps a few hours in Dormitory X will bring you to your senses."
Dormitory X—a shortened form for "Extra Dormitory"—was a dormitory apart from all the rest in which, on rare occasions, a pupil was confined. It was not, as Mr. Weevil had said, a very good commencement for the term; but Stanley saw that it was useless rebelling, so he submitted to his fate as cheerfully as he could.
"You haven't acted very well over this matter," said Paul, crossing over to where Newall was standing, as Stanley walked away a prisoner.
"Acted very well!" exclaimed Newall, all the passion that had been rankling within him surging up. "How do you mean?"
"You ought to have spoken up. Moncrief was waiting for you to speak."
"Speak!" cried Newall contemptuously. "Why should I have spoken? I didn't want to speak. All I wanted was to get that blow back that Moncrief gave me; and I'll have it back yet, if—if I die for it!"
He turned on his heel and walked away. There was so much passion and hatred in the words that even the lightest-hearted amongst the boys were impressed by them.
"Newall's got his dander up," said Sedgefield, a rather good-looking, fair boy, another of the occupants of Harry's dormitory. "And Weevil looked as though he meant business. What a start for the term!"
They strayed away one by one. Paul, turning over in his mind what had happened, thought he was alone. But presently he was conscious that some one was standing by his side. It was Harry Moncrief.
"Have you forgotten me, Percival?" the boy asked timidly, for his confidence in himself had been shaken by the events of the last half-hour.
"Oh, no; I beg pardon for not speaking to you. I'm glad to see you at Garside."
"And I—I'm beginning to be very sorry that I ever came here. I've made an ass of myself, and got Stan into a mess in the bargain. What's to be done?"
"Nothing—just yet. It won't hurt Stanley to be by himself a little while. I'm as much to blame as anybody, perhaps, as I ought to have put you on your guard against Plunger. But it's bad form here to spoil the fun of any one, and that is why I was silent. We shall all survive it. It doesn't hurt us to be laughed at sometimes. Most of us have had our turn at it; so don't be down in the mouth."
He linked his arm in Harry's, and under the influence of Paul's cheerful talk the younger boy threw off the depression that had begun to steal over him, and was more cheerful. And all the time he was speaking a strong resolve was silently forming in Paul's breast. Whatever happened he would visit Stanley in Dormitory X that night!