Chapter Five.
How Heathcote nearly catches cold.
Dick felt decidedly pleased with himself, as he walked back arm-in-arm with Heathcote, after his victory.
He felt that he had a right to hold up his head in Templeton already, and although he still experienced some difficulty in managing his hands and keeping down his blushes when he met one of the Fifth, he felt decidedly fortified against the inquisitive glances of the juniors.
In fact, in the benevolence of his heart, he felt so anxious lest any of these young aspirants to a view of the hero who had won the new boys’ race should be disappointed, that he prolonged his walk, and made a circuit of the great square with his friend, so as to give every one a fair chance.
At tea, to which Templeton trooped in ravenously after their first afternoon’s blow in the open air, he sat with an interesting expression of langour on his face, enduring the scrutiny to which he was treated with an air of charming unconsciousness, from which any one might suppose he harboured not the slightest desire to hear what Swinstead was saying to his neighbour, as they both looked his way. It was a pity he could not hear it.
“Look at that young prig,” said Swinstead’s neighbour. “He can’t get over it. It’s gone to his head.”
“Young ass!” said Swinstead; “ran well too.”
“It would be a good turn to take him down a peg.”
“What’s the use? He’ll come down soon enough.”
For all that, the two friends could not resist the temptation, when, after tea, they caught sight of Dick and his chum going out into the Quad, of beckoning to the former to come to them.
“Those fellows want me,” said Dick to his friend, in a tone as much as to say, “I’m so used to holding familiar converse with the Fifth that it’s really almost beginning to be a grind. But I don’t like to disappoint them this time.”
“Well, how do you feel?” said Swinstead.
“Oh, all right,” replied Dick, showing unmistakeable signs of intoxication.
“Capital run you made,” said the other. “Middling,” said Dick, deprecatingly. “I hadn’t my shoes, that makes a difference.”
“It does,” said the two elders.
“Rather a nice turf track you’ve got,” said the boy presently, by way of filling up an awkward gap.
“Glad you like it. Some of the fellows growl at it; but we’ll tell them you think it good.”
It was rather an anxious moment to see how the fish would take it. But he swallowed it, hook and all.
“We used to run a good deal at our old school, you know,” said he. “Some of us, that is.”
“Ah, you’re just the man we want for the Harriers. They’re badly off for a whipper-in; and we had to stop hunting all last term because we hadn’t got one.”
“Oh!” said Dick.
“Yes. But it’ll be all right if you’ll take it—won’t it be, Birket?”
“Rather!” said Birket. “He’d be a brick if he did.”
“I don’t mind trying,” said Dick modestly.
“Will you really? Thanks, awfully! You know Cresswell? No, by the way, he’s not here yet. He’s in the Sixth, and has been acting as whipper-in till we got a proper chap. He’ll be here in the morning. Any one will tell you where he hangs out. He’ll bless you, I can tell you, for taking the job out of his hands. You never saw the pace he goes at when he tries to run, eh, Birket?”
“Rather not,” said Birket. “It’s a regular joke. A snail’s nothing to him.”
“How has he managed to whip in?” asked Dick, rather amused at the idea of this Sixth-form snail.
“Bless you, we’ve had no runs lately, that’s why. But we shall make up now you’ve come.”
Dick heartily wished he had run in his shoes that afternoon. He was sure he could have done the distance two or even three seconds better if he had.
“If you’ll really go in for it,” said Birket, “go to him early to-morrow, and tell him who you are; and say you are going to act as whipper-in, and that you have arranged it all with us.”
Dick looked a little concerned.
“Hadn’t you better come with me?” he asked, “I don’t know him.”
“We shall be in class. But he’ll know if you mention our names. Say we sent you, and that you won the new boys’ race. Do you twig?”
“All right,” said Dick, beginning to feel he had something really big on hand.
“You’re a young trump,” said Birket, “and, I say don’t forget to ask him to give you the whip. We might manage a run to-morrow. Good-night. Glad you’ve come to Templeton.”
“Look here, by the way,” said Swinstead, as they parted, “don’t say anything about it to anybody. There’s such a lot of jealousy over these things. Best to get it all settled first. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” said Dick, feeling a good deal bewildered, and doubtful whether after all he had not been foolish in undertaking so important a task.
He returned to his chum in an abstracted frame of mind. He had certainly expected his achievement that afternoon would give him a “footing” in Templeton, but in his wildest dreams he had not supposed it would give him such a lift as this.
Whipper-in of the Templeton Harriers was rapid promotion for a new boy on his first day. But then, he reflected, if they really were hard up for a fellow to take the office, it would be rather ungracious to refuse it.
“What did they want you for?” asked Heathcote.
“Oh, talking about the race, don’t you know, and that sort of thing,” said Dick, equivocally.
“Did they say anything about me?”
“Not a word, old man.”
Whereat Heathcote turned a little crusty, and wondered that ten yards in a quarter of a mile should make such a difference.
Dick was bursting to tell him all about it, and made matters far worse by betraying that he had a secret, which he could on no account impart.
“You’ll know to-morrow, most likely,” said he. “I’m awfully sorry they made me promise to keep it close. But I’ll tell you first of all when its settled; and I may be able to give you a leg up before long.”
Heathcote said he did not want a leg up; and feeling decidedly out of humour, made some excuse to go indoors and hunt up young Aspinall.
On his way he encountered a junior, next to whom he had sat at dinner, and with whom he had then exchanged a few words.
“Where are you going?” demanded that youthful warrior.
“Indoors,” said Heathcote.
“No, you aren’t,” replied the bravo, standing like a wolf across the way.
It was an awkward position for a pacific boy like Heathcote, who mildly enquired—
“Why not?”
“Because you cheeked me,” replied the wolf.
“How? I didn’t mean to,” replied the lamb.
“That’ll do. You’ve got to apologise.”
“Apologise! What for?”
“Speaking to me at dinner-time.”
The blood of the Heathcotes began to tingle.
“Suppose I don’t apologise?” asked he.
“You’ll be sorry for it.”
“What will you do?”
“Lick you.”
“Then,” said Heathcote, mildly, “you’d better begin.”
The youthful champion evidently was not prepared for this cordial invitation, and looked anything but pleased to hear it.
“Well, why don’t you begin?” said Heathcote, following up his advantage.
“Because,” said the boy, looking rather uncomfortably around him, “I wouldn’t dirty my fingers on such a beast.”
Now if Heathcote had been a man of the world he would have divined that the present was a rare opportunity for catching his bumptious young friend by the ear, and making him carry out his threat then and there. But, being a simple-minded new boy, unlearned in the ways of the world, he merely said “Pooh!” and walked on, leaving his assailant in possession of the field, calling out “coward!” and “sneak!” after him till he was out of sight.
He was rather sorry afterwards for his mistake, as it turned out he might have been much more profitably and pleasantly employed outside than in.
Aspinall, whom he had come to look after, was nowhere visible, and, feeling somewhat concerned for his safety, Heathcote ventured to enquire of a junior who was loafing about in the passage, if he knew where the little new fellow was.
“In bed, of course,” said the junior, “and I’d advise you not to let yourself be seen, unless you want to get in an awful row,” added he solemnly.
“What about?” asked Heathcote.
“Why, not being in bed. My eye! it’ll be rather warm for you, I tell you, if any of the Fifth catch you.”
“Why, it’s only half-past seven?”
“Well, and don’t you know the rule about new boys always having to be in bed by seven?” exclaimed the junior in tones of alarm.
“No. I don’t believe it is the rule,” said Heathcote.
“All right,” said the boy, “you needn’t believe it unless you like. But don’t say you weren’t told, that’s all,” and he walked off, whistling.
Heathcote was perplexed. He suspected a practical joke in everything, and had this junior been a trifle less solemn, he would have had no doubt that this was one. As it was, he was sorry he had offended him, and lost the chance of making quite sure. Dick, he knew, was still out of doors, and he, it was certain, knew nothing about the rule.
But just then a Fifth-form fellow came along, and cut off the retreat.
He eyed the new boy critically as he advanced, and stopped in front of him.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Heathcote.”
“A new boy?”
“Yes.”
“How is it you’re not in bed? Do you know the time?”
“Yes,” said Heathcote, convinced now that the junior had been right, “but I didn’t know—that is—”
“Shut up and don’t tell lies,” said the Fifth-form boy, severely. “Go to bed instantly, and write me out 200 lines of Virgil before breakfast to-morrow. I’ve a good mind to send your name up to Westover.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” began Heathcote; “no one told me—”
“I’ve told you; and if you don’t go at once Westover shall hear of it.”
The dormitory, when he reached it, was deserted. Not even Aspinall was there; and for a moment Heathcote began again vaguely to suspect a plot. From this delusion, he was, however, speedily relieved by the appearance of a boy, who followed him into the room, and demanded.
“Look here; what are you up to here?”
“I was—that is, I was told to go to bed,” said Heathcote.
“Well, and if you were, what business have you got here? Go to your own den.”
“This is where I slept last night,” said Heathcote, pointing to the identical bed he had occupied.
“You did! Like your howling cheek.”
“Where is my bed room then?” asked Heathcote.
“Why didn’t you ask the matron? I’m not going to fag for you. There, in that second door; and take my advice, slip into bed as quick as you can, unless you want one of the Fifth to catch you, and give you a hundred lines.”
Heathcote whipped up his night-gown and made precipitately for the door, finally convinced that he was in a fair way of getting into a row very early in his Templeton career.
The door opened into a little room about the size of a small ship’s cabin, and here he undressed as quickly as he could, in the fading daylight, and slipped into bed, inwardly congratulating himself that no one had detected him in the act, and that he had a good prospect, contrary to his expectations, of getting to sleep comfortably. The thought of the 200 lines, certainly, was unpleasant. But “sufficient unto the day,” thought the philosophic Heathcote. He was far more concerned at the fate of the unsuspecting Dick. What would become of him, poor fellow?
Amid these reflections he fell peacefully asleep. The next thing he was conscious of, in what seemed to him the middle of the night, was the sudden removal of the clothes from the bed, and a figure holding a light, catching him by the arm, and demanding fiercely—
“What do you mean by it?”
His first impulse was to smile at the thought that it was only a dream, but he quickly changed his mind, and sat up with his eyes very wide open as the figure repeated—
“What do you mean by it? Get out of this!”
The speaker was a big boy, whom Heathcote, in the midst of his bewilderment, recognised as having seen at the Fifth-form table in Hall.
“What’s the matter?” faltered the new boy.
“The matter! you impudent young beggar. Come, get out of this. I’ll teach you to play larks with me. Get out of my bed.”
Heathcote promptly obeyed.
“I didn’t know—I was told it was where I was to sleep,” he said.
“Shut up, and don’t tell lies,” said the senior, taking off his slipper and passing his hand down the sole of it.
“Really I didn’t do it on purpose,” pleaded Heathcote. “I was told to do it.”
The case was evidently not one for argument. As Heathcote turned round, the silence of the night hour was broken for some moments by the echoes of that slipper-sole.
It was no use objecting—still less resisting. So Heathcote bore it like a man, and occupied his leisure moments during the ceremony in chalking up a long score against his friend the junior.
“Now, make my bed,” said the executioner when the transaction was complete.
The boy obeyed in silence—wonderfully warm despite the lightness of his attire. His comfort would have been complete had that junior only been there to help him. The Fifth-form boy insisted on the bed being made from the very beginning—including the turning of the mattress and the shaking of each several sheet and blanket—so that the process was a lengthy one, and, but for the occasional consolations of the slipper, might have become chilly also.
“Now, clear out,” said the owner of the apartment.
“Where am I to go?” asked Heathcote, beginning to feel rather forlorn.
“Out of here!” repeated the senior.
“I don’t—”
The senior took up the slipper again.
“Please may I take my clothes?” said Heathcote.
“Are you going or not?”
“Please give me my trou—”
He was on the other side of the door before the second syllable came, and the click of the latch told him that after all he might save his breath.
Heathcote was in a predicament. The corridor was dark, and draughty, and he was far from home; what was he to do? “Three courses,” as the wise man says, “were open to him.” Either he might camp out where he was, and by the aid of door-mats and carpet extemporise a bed till the morning; or he might commence a demonstration against the door from which he had just been ejected till somebody came and saw him into his rights—or, failing his rights, into his trousers; or he might commence a house-to-house canvass, up one side of the corridor and down the other, in hopes of finding either an empty chamber or one tenanted by a friend.
There was a good deal to be said for each, though on the whole he personally inclined to the last course. Indeed he went so far as to grope his way to the end of the passage with a view to starting fair, when a sound of footsteps and a white flutter ahead sent his heart to his mouth, and made him shiver with something more than the evening breeze.
He stood where he was, rooted to the spot, and listened. An awful silence seemed to fall upon the place. Had he hit on the Templeton ghost?—on the disembodied spirit of some luckless martyr to the ferocity of a last century bully? Or, was it an ambuscade prepared for himself? or, was it some companion in—
Yes! there was a sob, and Heathcote’s soul rejoiced as he recognised it.
“Is that you, young ’un?” he said in a deep whisper.
The footsteps suddenly ceased, the white flutter stopped, and next moment there rose a shriek in the still night air which made all Westover’s jump in its sleep, and opened, as if by magic, half the doors in the long corridor. Aspinall had seen a ghost!
Amid all the airily-clad forms that hovered out to learn the cause of the disturbance, Heathcote felt comforted. His one regret was that he was unable to recognise his friend the junior, in whose debt he was in nocturnal garb; but he recognised Dick to his great delight, and hurriedly explained to him as well as to about fifty other enquirers, the circumstances—that is, so much of them as seemed worth repetition.
Between them they contrived to reassure the terrified Aspinall, who, it turned out, had been the victim of a similar trick to that played on Heathcote.
“Where are you sleeping?” said the latter to Dick.
“The old place. Where ever did you get to?”
“I’ll tell you. Has any one got my bed there?”
“No. Come on—here, Aspinall, catch hold—look sharp out of the passage. Are you coming, too, Heathcote?”
To his astonishment, Heathcote darted suddenly from his side and dived in at an open door. Before his friend could guess what he meant, he returned with a bundle of clothes in his arms, and a triumphant smile on his face.
“Hurrah!” said he. “Got ’em at last!”
“Whose are they?” asked Dick.
“Mine, my boy. By Jove, I am glad to get them again.”
“Cave there! Westover!” called some one near him. And, as if by magic, the passage was empty in a moment, our heroes being the last to scuttle into their dormitory, with Aspinall between them.
Dick lay awake for some time that night. He was excited, and considered, on the whole, he had made a fair start at Templeton. He had won the new boys’ race, and he was the whipper-in-elect of the Templeton Harriers. Fellows respected him; possibly a good many of them feared him. Certainly, they let him alone.
“For all that,” meditated he, “it won’t do to get cocked up by it. Father said I was to be on my guard against fellows who flattered me, so I must keep my eyes open, or some one will be trying to make a fool of me. If Cresswell’s a nice fellow, I’ll have a talk with him to-morrow about young Aspinall, and see if we can’t do anything to give him a leg up, poor young beggar. I wonder if I’m an ass to accept the whipping-in so easily? Any how, I suppose I can resign if it’s too much grind. Heigho! I’m sleepy.”