THE "GARGOYLE RECORD"
Stanley was not alone, as Paul hoped he would be. Newall and Parfitt were with him. It was evident that his new-found friends had been "doctoring" him, for the blood had been carefully washed from his face, and it presented a less bruised and battered appearance.
As he came from the door he caught sight of Paul. Paul hoped that he had got over his bitterness towards him by this time, and that he would come forward and greet him on the old footing of friendship. But he was disappointed; for as soon almost as Stanley caught sight of him, he turned away his head and commenced talking rapidly to Newall, as though he were unaware of Paul's existence. It was perfectly evident that his feeling to Paul had not softened in any way, and it was quite as clear that he meant ignoring him.
Paul determined to speak to him, however, so, as he passed by him, he touched him on the shoulder.
"Stanley!"
At his touch, Stanley turned swiftly round and confronted him with blazing eyes.
"What do you want with me?"
"To speak with you for a few moments—alone."
"I've had as much speaking with you as I ever want to have. I never wish to speak with you again—never, never!" He was greatly agitated. His voice was trembling with passion; but it grew calmer and harder, as, turning to his new-found companions, he said:
"You hear what I say, Newall; and you, Parfitt. You are my witnesses."
"Yes, we hear. We are your witnesses," said Parfitt.
"Thanks!" And without waiting an answer from Paul, the three passed on. Not that Paul had an answer to give. He could not have spoken had his life depended on it. He was too staggered; too pained. Never speak to Stanley again! He with whom he had been on the closest terms of friendship ever since he had been at Garside!
"Had he listened to me for a few moments I could have explained all. He doesn't dream who Wyndham is. He can be as stubborn as a mule. And what a look he gave me!" thought Paul. "I never dreamt that Stan would ever look at me in that way. I know what it is—it isn't Stan himself. It's those fellows he's picked up. He's sore against me, and they keep rubbing it in to keep the sore open. If I could only get him away from them."
Paul thought for a moment or two how he should act. In spite of Stanley's hard words, he had no intention that the friendship which had existed between them should be severed without one more effort on his part to heal the breach. They were bound to meet in the dormitory that night. It would then be possible for him to whisper a word or two of explanation.
But when evening came he found to his dismay that Stanley had left the dormitory. He had got permission to exchange cubicles with Leveson; so that he was now in the same dormitory as Newall.
"He's gone over bag and baggage to the enemy," said Paul sorrowfully. "If Parfitt had only walked his chalks, and taken up his quarters with his friend Newall, we could very well have spared him; but Stan——"
He glanced round. Parfitt was watching him from the side of his bed, enjoying his discomfiture. That did not serve to lessen Paul's sorrow.
"——forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us."
Very earnestly he breathed the divine prayer that evening. The breach between him and Stanley seemed to be widening. What was to be done? There was one way left. He would write to him on the morrow.
"He has refused to listen to an explanation, but he can't refuse to read my letter."
So Paul rose early in the morning and wrote a letter. He explained as briefly as he could the reasons which had made him act as he had done at the sand-pit.
"Wyndham was the fellow who acted so nobly when I went with your father's letter to Redmead that night, Stan. I could not raise my hand against him, and I never dreamed that you would. I hurried away because it was impossible for me to explain to the fellows what happened on that night—you alone know why. It would have got all over the place, and would have soon reached Weevil's ears. Then the last chance of finding out what is between him and Zuker would have gone. I can quite understand your soreness against me, old fellow, and I'm sorry—very sorry—that things turned out as they did at the sand-pit; but I hope you now see that I'm not so much to blame as you thought me. It is our first fall-out. Let it be our last. We were never meant to be enemies, old fellow. It mustn't be—mustn't. If all are against me, and you are with me, I shan't so much mind; so let's shake hands."
Paul put the letter in an envelope and handed it to Waterman, who was still stretching and yawning, as though not quite awake.
"Do you mind giving this to Moncrief major. You're about the only fellow in the Form who wouldn't mind doing me a favour," he said.
"Moncrief major. Yes, yes; of course I will. It's an awfully lazy sort of morning, don't you think, Percival?" answered Waterman, stretching himself as he took the letter.
That was Waterman's opinion of mornings generally. Every morning was a "lazy sort of a morning."
"Yes, Watey," answered Paul, taking him by the arm and hurrying him towards the grounds where most of the scholars were. In a little while he espied Stanley, playing with Newall and Parfitt in the fives-court.
"How fellows can fag about at that stupid game I could never make out," remarked Waterman. "Am I to wait for an answer?"
"If you wouldn't mind."
"Mind? Not in the least. Waiting is so restful."
He strolled off leisurely with the letter. Paul watched him. He reached the fives-court, and, waiting his opportunity, handed the note to Stanley. He looked at it; then questioned Waterman. A laugh went up from Newall and Parfitt as he did so. Then Stanley, without opening the letter, tore it into fragments and threw them contemptuously into the air.
Waterman thrust his hands deep in his pockets, shrugged his shoulders, and returned to Paul.
"You saw what happened, Percival?" he said.
"Yes, I saw what happened," came the slow answer. "What was it he asked for?"
"He only asked who it was from. I told him."
"And then he deliberately tore my letter up and tossed the pieces in the air. Waterman, I'm sorry that you were so insulted."
"Don't think of me. I rather liked it—really. A snub does one good on a lazy sort of morning like this—it really does."
He was about to pass on, but, checking himself, said in a more serious tone:
"I wish I could have brought you a better answer, Percival."
That day was one of the longest days Paul ever remembered: it dragged so slowly along. There was Stanley in the same room, sitting at times within a few feet of him, and yet they did not look at each other. No word passed between them.
"I will never hold out my hand to him again," said Paul in the bitterness of his heart. He had done all that could be done to bring Stanley to reason, but every effort failed. "He must go his own way, and I must go mine. Some day, perhaps, he'll be sorry that he did not read my letter."
Belonging to the Fourth Form was a boy named Dick Jessel. He was a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy—quite a Saxon type—with a shrewd, sharp wit. His father was the editor of a provincial paper, and Jessel ran a journal of his own at the school, by the aid of a hectograph and Jowitt, of the same Form, who was sub-editor, reporter, and "printer's devil" rolled into one. They were called the "two J's."
A couple of days after the struggle at the sand-pit a number was issued of the Gargoyle Record—so the journal was named. Among other items of news appeared the following:
Motto for the Fifth.
He who fights and runs away
Will live to fight another day.
"Lost, stolen, or strayed.—A few pages from the Black Book. Whoever will bring the same to the P. D., at the office of this paper, will be rewarded."
"Hints on Fashion.—A fresher of the Third is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why. References exchanged and given—through the matron—preferably by carte-de-visite."
"Lost, stolen, or strayed.—Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on a window in the Forum. Believed to have hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his pursuers."
"Notice.—Our poet is stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger.' If any one can oblige the poet we'll give him a paragraph all to himself in the next number. N.B.—The rhyme must be a name of some kind—bird, beast, or fish."
"Dropped. Somewhere near the sand-pit on Cranstead Common. Honour of the Fifth. When last seen was covered by crawlers—believed to be Beetles."
Plunger was one of the earliest to obtain a copy of the Gargoyle Record. He read the first two paragraphs, and then raced into the common room bubbling over with excitement.
Several boys were standing round the fire—some of the Third Form, including Harry Moncrief, Baldry, and Sedgefield; one or two of the Fourth, and three or four of the Fifth, including Stanley Moncrief, Newall—the two were now almost inseparable—Arbery, and Leveson.
"Oh, I say, have you seen the last number of the Record? It's a slashing number, I can tell you," Plunger burst out.
Immediately everybody was eager to get possession of the Record. Baldry made a snatch at it.
"No, you don't, Baldhead," said Plunger, putting it behind him, with his back to the wall. "Manners! If you can't listen like a gentleman, you'd better git."
"Don't mind him, Plunger. He's only an outsider," said Arbery soothingly. "Read."
"Read—read!" came in a chorus.
"And keep your eyebrows out of your head while you're about it," said Leveson. "I never saw such eyebrows."
Plunger glared at Leveson.
"Never mind him, Plunger," came the soothing voice of Arbery. "It's only envy, you know. I wish I had eyebrows like 'em. Get on."
"I will get on—I will," said Plunger, with a last savage glance at Leveson. "Listen to this—here's a splendid hit against the Fifth." And he read: "'Motto for the Fifth. He who fights and runs away, Will live to fight another day.' Isn't it just splendid!"
Those of the Fifth who were present maintained a gloomy silence, while those of the lower forms giggled and chuckled softly to themselves. They dared not do it too openly, for fear of bringing down upon their heads the wrath of the senior Form.
When Plunger thought his first item of news had soaked itself thoroughly into the "bounders" of the Fifth, he read the second item. This fell rather flat and elicited no comment.
Then Plunger began to bubble over again. He could not get on for a minute or two.
"What's the ass giggling for?" "Get on, get on," and so forth, were some of the comments that greeted him.
"'Hints on Fashion,'" read Plunger. "'A fresher of the Third'—ho, ho!—'is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why.'—Ho, ho! Hold me up.—'References exchanged and given—through the matron—preferably by carte-de-visite.' Ho, ho! Hold me up."
Plunger's eyebrows disappeared into his thatch of hair, and he laughed till he was black in the face, while all eyes went to poor Harry Moncrief, who devoutly wished that the ground might open and he might sink through.
"Is that all, Plunger?" inquired Arbery. "Get on to the next paragraph, or you'll choke."
"I couldn't get any farther for laughter," explained Plunger. "I thought you fellows would like that little tit-bit, so I rushed in here." He took up the paper again, and glanced at the next item. "This seems rather a good bit. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on—on——"
Plunger came to an abrupt pause, hummed and hawed, and began to look exceedingly uncomfortable.
"'Last seen in all his native beauty——' Well, Plunger, what are you stopping for now?" cried Leveson. "If you can't read it yourself, hand over the Record to some one who can."
"Shan't; it's my paper, and I'm not going to hand it over to any one—see," answered Plunger defiantly, putting the paper behind his back.
"Well, read on," shouted Arbery. "We're dying to hear who the Missing Link can be."
"You'd better get a paper of your own, then; I'm not going to read any more of the trash."
"Thought it was a slashing number? What's come over you, Freddy?" asked Baldry.
"Shut up—oh!"
The exclamation came from Plunger as he felt the paper snatched from behind him by Leveson; then, as he tried to regain possession of it, his arms were pinioned behind him by one of the Fifth Form boys.
"Oh, oh, just listen!" laughed Leveson, "and see if you can guess why Plunger put the brake on. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty in the Forum. Believed to have hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his pursuers.'"
There was an outburst of laughter, as all eyes went to Plunger, who was making furious efforts to get away.
"When it's a question of beauty, there's only one person in it," went on Leveson calmly, "and that is——"
"Plunger!" came in a chorus.
"When we do agree, our unanimity is wonderful, as the Head used to tell us," went on Leveson. "Any other pretty bits? Oh—ah! Listen to this: 'Notice. Our poet is stuck for a rhyme to "hunger." If any one can oblige the poet, we'll give him a paragraph all to himself in the next number. N.B.—The rhyme must be a name of some kind—bird, beast, or fish.' Ho, ho! Don't squirm so, Plunger. What branch of the animal kingdom do you belong to?"
While they were shrieking with laughter at his discomfiture Plunger shouted above it all:
"Go on—go on! As you have gone so far, you'd better go on a bit farther. Ah, you're not quite so ready with your reading now, Mr. Leveson."
The laughter suddenly stopped.
"Read—read," came in a chorus.
And Leveson read: "'Dropped—somewhere near sand-pit on Cranstead Common—Honour of the Fifth. When last seen, was covered by crawlers—believed to be Beetles.'"
There was an ominous silence on the part of the senior boys. The juniors tittered. Leveson screwed up the paper in his hand.
"Mind what you're doing, Leveson. That's my paper," cried Plunger. Then there was silence again, as Paul Percival entered the room.