III
Wynne arrived at Wyckley in all the rush and turmoil of a new term. The boys had so many confidences to impart regarding their holiday exploits, that his presence was not observed until after tea. Consequently he had leisure to dispose his belongings and take a walk round the schoolrooms and playgrounds.
What he saw was new and interesting. The high bookcases, crammed with scholastic literature, impressed him with the majesty of learning. The laboratory with its glass retorts and shelves of chemical compounds bespoke the infinite latitude of science. Least of all did he care for the studio, in which the drawing classes were held. The cubes, pyramids, cones and spheres did not appear to bear any relation to art as he saw it. His being craved for something more organic, and was not satisfied even by the bas-reliefs of ivy and hedge-roses. To him these were trivial matters of little concern which might well be omitted from an educational program. The main hall, with its platform and organ, its sombre lighting and heavily trussed roof, gave him far greater satisfaction. In such semi-dark surroundings he felt that an eager soul might well acquire illumination.
The terraces outside were correct and ordinary, the yellow gravel and the deep green grass were too familiar to attract attention; accordingly he passed to the rear of the building and explored what lay beyond. Here he discovered many fives courts—some football grounds, complete with nasty little pavilions, and a swimming bath. Further investigation disclosed a fowl-run and some pigs grunting contentedly in a well-kept sty. Wynne found these far more to his liking, and was further interested to learn that a pig will devour a piece of brick, with apparent relish, provided it has been given to him by the hand of man.
From this circumstance he was about to draw some interesting theories on life, and probably would have done so had it not been for the compelling note of a bell. This bell betokened the arrival of tea, some one had warned him of that; they had also warned him on no account to be late, so he made his way, hands in pockets, toward the big dining-room. A large number of eyes assessed him as he entered, and he bore their scrutiny without flinching. Oddly enough he was aware of an agreeable satisfaction arising from their attention, and returned stare for stare in excellent good part. Presently some one directed him to a place at the table where he found himself with other fresh arrivals.
The inclination to converse is never very marked on the part of nouveaux, and for the major part the meal proceeded in silence. Then presently his left-hand neighbour, a little boy with a round face and sad blue eyes, said:
“D’you like jam?”
“I like it to eat,” said Wynne, “but it isn’t much good to talk about.”
This was discouraging, as the small boy felt, but he continued bravely:
“I don’t want to talk about it, but I want to talk to some one, and I thought that would be an easy way. I haven’t made a friend yet, and I thought if you’d like to be a friend I could give you some jam mother gave me to bring.”
Before Wynne had time to reply to this sweet overture one of the older boys approached the table.
“All you chaps will go to the gym, when tea is over,” he announced. “In fact you had better go now. Come on.” So saying he herded them down a long corridor to the far end of the building.
“Wait in the dressing-room,” he said. “The Council hasn’t turned up yet. You’ll be called one by one, and you’d better be jolly careful how you answer.”
The door was shut and they found themselves packed closely in a small room full of lockers. With a curious sense of impending evil they waited, and presently a name was called out, and the first sufferer went forth to face the dread ordeal of the Council Chamber.
It was nervy work waiting, since none who went forth returned to bear witness to what was taking place. Hours seemed to pass before Wynne’s name was given by a boy with a low, threatening voice. He stepped bravely from his confinement, and, hands in pockets, walked into the centre of the gymnasium.
Seated on a high horizontal bar, at the far end, sat the four members who composed the Council. Beneath them, gathered in rough formations, were other boys whose duty it was to carry out the Council’s awards. These were the executioneers, and each was skilled in his craft. Whether the decree went forth in favour of scragging, knee jarring, or wrist-twisting there was an expert to conduct it upon orthodox lines. The faces of the Council, though not remarkable, were stern and resolute, and bespoke a proper appreciation for the dignity of office.
“Bring him forward,” said a very plain lad, who wore round pebble spectacles, and appeared to be leader of the movement.
With no great courtesy Wynne was thrust forward to a chalk circle in the centre of the floor.
“You mustn’t come out of the circle until you have permission,” was a further instruction received. The escort drew away and stood with folded arms as befitted a stern occasion.
“What is your name?” said he of the spectacles.
“Wynne Rendall.”
“Wynne Rendall?”
“Yes.”
“Gentlemen, you heard! Can we permit the name of Wynne? Does it belong to the same category of nomenclature as Eric, Archibald and Desmond, which we have already black-listed?”
There followed a murmur of assent.
“I thought as much. By my troth, it is a sorry name, and makes the gorge rise in disgust and abhorrence.”
The magnificence of this language created a profound impression in which even Wynne himself participated. He was not, however, prepared to allow the speaker to have it all his own way, since he felt, if it came to the turning of a phrase, he might show them some skill. Accordingly he said:
“The name was in no wise my own choice, so I can take neither blame nor credit for it.”
“Be silent or be scragged, Wynne Rendall.”
“Well, what is your name, anyway?”
The speaker turned his eyes heavenward as though seeking fresh tolerance from the high gods.
“Know,” he said, “that by no means shall you ask us to betray our cognomens. We are the Council and known only by our might. If you are curious, Sir Paulus Pry, you shall ask some of these others how we are called—but at another time.”
This Wynne conceived to be highly proper and in every sense an example of the splendid isolation of the Ruler. No sane individual would ask a king his name, but would address the question to a chamberlain.
The only fly in the amber was the appearance of the Chief of Council, who went on to say:
“For the name Wynne punishment of the second order shall be inflicted. Is it met?”
“It is met,” droned the Council, with solemn intonation.
“Let us proceed then. What manner of man is thy father, O Wynne Rendall? Speak us fair, and do not seek to hide his calling.”
“I have not yet found out what manner of man he is,” replied Wynne, lightning quick to pick up the pedantry of his interrogator, “but it beseems me he is a fellow of heavy wit, who bears always a befrowning countenance. As to his calling he doth trade of import with our brothers of the Ind for the dried leaf of the tea plant.”
This speech composed and delivered with ceremony created something of an uproar. Cries were raised that the penalty of the parallel bars should be summarily inflicted. In the midst of a chaos of many voices the Chief of Council held up his hand for silence.
“Look here, young Rendall,” he said, “you’d better jolly chuck cheeking, or it will be the worse for you. You answer properly if you don’t want a putrid licking—which you’ll get anyway.”
“Then go on,” said Wynne, who was enjoying himself immensely. It was a new and delightful experience being the centre of attraction, and he felt he had the situation well in hand.
“Shall I proceed, gentlemen?”
“Go forward,” crooned the Council.
“Are you a gamesman or a swotter? Ponder well before replying, for much depends upon this.”
“I am not a gamesman.”
“Mark his utterance, O men. Thou art, then, a swotter.”
“I didn’t say so. Don’t even know what a swotter is.”
“Explain,” said the Chief. And one of the four, a freckled lad with red hair and a big healthy body, announced:
“A swotter is the sort of ass who mugs at lessons and thinks more of books than footer.”
“The Council will sing the Song of the Swotter,” said the Chief.
So the Council sang—
“The swotter is a rotter,
And we always make it hotter
For the swotter who’s a rotter—
Yes, we do.”
“Yes, we do,” was repeated by all present.
When this impressive rendering was over, Wynne replied:
“I think I am a swotter all right.”
“Be it remembered,” said the Chief. “Little remains to be said. The C. I. D. will now report on this miscreant’s behaviour since arrival.”
Whereupon a foxy little boy came forward from one of the groups, and after making a profound obeisance to the Council began:
“He has worn his cap on the back of his head and put his hands in his trousers’ pocket. I have been to his bedder, and he wears a woollen nightshirt and combinations instead of pants and vest.”
Wynne felt himself flush with hot anger and resentment, and heard an expression of disgust from all present.
“Are these things true, O most wretched Wynne Rendall?”
“Yes, they are, but how dared that beastly little swine touch my box?”
“Be silent—scrag him—scrag the swotter,” came from all sides.
“I don’t care—he’s a dirty little—”
“Pin him,” ordered the Chief, with a gesture so commanding that he all but fell from his perch.
Very adroitly two volunteers stepped forward and twisted Wynne’s wrists under his shoulder blades, while a third, with a skill which would have defied the ingenuity of the Davenport Brothers, made fast his hands with a knotted kerchief.
The work accomplished they stood aside and refolded their arms.
“Pass judgment,” they demanded.
“Judgment shall be passed,” said the Chief. “You, Wynne Rendall, have been given fair and lawful trial, and are found guilty on several counts. First, you bear a name that is unpleasant to the tooth, and for this nose-pressure shall be inflicted.” (The presser of noses girt his loins for battle, and examined a row of shiny knuckles to see that all was in order.) “Second, your reply when asked of your father’s doings was too cheeky by a long chalk, and for this two circuits of the frog-march shall be administered.” (The frog-marcher-extraordinary made no movement, but he smiled as one who knew full well his own potentiality.) “Third, and methinks the gravest charge of all, it is established that thou art a swotter, and for this the ordeal of the parallel bars must and shall befall you.” Eight boys stepped forward, but the Chief shook his head. “Three a side will suffice,” he said. “That much mercy will I grant thee on account of your miserable size. The punishment for the nightshirt and the combinations will be the shame of wearing them, but I put it forward that they may help us in deciding a proper nickname for you. After the punishments have been inflicted you will step once more into the circle and declare you will not attempt to use your trousers’ pockets until the beginning of your second term. This you will swear most solemnly by the Goal-post and the Fives Ball. O men! has the word gone forth?”
“It has.”
“Do the punishments meet?”
“They meet.”
“Let them go forward.”
Wynne had scarcely time to appreciate the anguish inflicted by the nose-twister before he found himself ignominiously drummed round the gymnasium at the knee of the frog-marcher. It was a jarring and painful means of progression, and almost he welcomed the narrow invitation of the parallel bars which loomed before him at the close of the second circuit.
The variety offered, however, was far from consoling, and during the few moments’ pressure in that inhospitable spot he feared his last hour had come. He was made to form a buffer in the middle, while three boys on either side, bracing their legs against the upright supports, pushed toward the centre with their united strength. He could feel his ribs caving inward and the breath was forced from his lungs. Respite came not a moment too soon, and when they drew away he hung over the bar in an ecstasy of exhaustion and nausea.
It was not until he heard the voice of the Chief announcing that he had borne the ordeal in honourable silence that he was aware he had forborne to scream.
“Help him to the circle,” came from a far-off voice, but he shook aside the proffered assistance and tottered to the circle unaided.
“Your bearing has been creditable,” said the Chief, “and that inclines us to leniency. Speak by the Goal-post and Fives Ball that the word may be fulfilled.”
Then said Wynne, with a somewhat hysterical catch in his voice:
“I swear by the Goal-post and the Fives Ball that to save myself the pain of offending you fools I’ll keep my hands out of my pockets for as long as you stupidly want.”
And the world became singularly black, the sky full of crimson stars, and he sat down awkwardly upon the floor with his head between his knees.