Chapter Four.
How our heroes are put through their paces.
“The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold” early next day. The twenty innocent lambs whom, in the last chapter, we left sweetly folded in slumber had barely had time to arise and comb their hair when the advance-guard of the hungry tyrant appeared in their midst.
This was no other than a truck-load of trunks, portmanteaux, bags and hat-boxes sent up from the station, the owners of which, so the alarming rumour spread, were on the road.
It was an agitated meal our heroes partook of with the spectacle of that truck before their eyes, and many an anxious ear was pricked for the first sound of the approaching horde.
But the horde, being aware that nothing was expected of it till mid-day, by no means saw the fun of surrendering its liberty at 10 o’clock, and went down to bathe in the harbour on the way up, so that the fate which impended was kept for two good hours in suspense.
Meanwhile, the interview with the Doctor was accomplished. It was not very alarming. Your new boy would sooner face twenty doctors than one hero of the middle Fifth. The head master asked a few kindly questions of each boy, and, so to speak, took stock of him before adding his name formally to the school list. He also added a few words of advice to the company generally, and enlightened them as to a few of the chief school rules. The others, he said, they would learn soon enough.
Whereat they all said, “Thank you, sir,” and retired.
Dick and Heathcote, with young Aspinall in tow, walked back to Westover’s house together, and were nearly half-way there, when Aspinall suddenly clutched Dick’s arm and whispered—
“There’s one!”
They all stood still and gazed as if it was a spectre, not a human being, they expected.
What they really did see was a rather nice-looking boy of sixteen or seventeen lounging in at the great gateway, looking about him with a familiar air, and apparently bending his steps straight for Westover’s.
It was an awkward situation for our three new boys. Every step brought them nearer under the observation of the “Assyrian,” and at every step they felt more awkward and abashed.
Dick did his best to put on a little swagger. He stuck one hand in his pocket, and twitched his hat a trifle on one side. Heathcote, too, instinctively let slip his jacket button so as to betray his watch-chain, and laughed rather loudly at something which nobody said. Poor young Aspinall attempted no such demonstration, but slipped under the lee of his protectors, and wondered what would become of him.
The old boy and the new foregathered just at the door of Westover’s, and it was not till they actually stood face to face that the former gave any sign of being aware of the presence of the trio. He then honoured them with a casual survey as they stood back to let him enter first.
“New kids?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Westover’s?”
“Yes.”
The hero grunted and passed in, and they heard him shouting to the matron to ask if his traps had come from the station, and whether anybody had come yet.
Anybody come! He didn’t count them, that was plain.
Not knowing exactly what to do, they determined on another walk round the Quad, preferring to be reconnoitred by the enemy in the open, and not indoors—possibly in a corner.
The enemy reconnoitred in force. After the first arrival, boys dropped in in twos and threes, in cabs, in omnibuses, in high spirits, in low spirits. The old square began to get lively. The echoes which had slept soundly for the past fortnight woke up suddenly, and the rooks in the elms began to grow uneasy, and summoned a cabinet council to discuss what was going on in the lower world.
“Hallo, Duff, old man,” cried one boy near to our heroes, as he caught sight of a chum across the square. “Seen Raggles?”
“Yes; he’s got a cargo down. He’s asked me.”
“Tell him I’m up, will you?”
“What’s a cargo?” asked Heathcote, as the speaker went past.
“Goodness knows,” said Dick—“perhaps it’s a crib.”
“My brother Will used to call a hamper a cargo,” said Aspinall.
“Humph,” said Dick, who never liked to be corrected, “there’s something in that.”
“I hope there is,” said Heathcote.
It said a great deal for the solemnity of the occasion that Dick did not at once proceed to administer condign punishment. He took note of the offence, though, and punished the offender quietly in bed some days after. Just at the present moment, had he been inclined to square accounts, he had no leisure; for a sudden cry of “Dredger!” was raised, whereat they noticed a number of boys step off the pavement on to the grass. Before they could conjecture what this sudden manoeuvre might mean, a rush of steps arose behind, and next moment they were caught up in the toils of a net constructed of towels knotted together, stretching across the path, and held at each end by two swift runners who swept them along at a headlong pace, catching up a shoal of stray fish on the way until even the stalwart dredgers were compelled, from the very weight of their “take,” to slacken speed.
A crowd collected to witness the emptying of the net. One by one the trembling small fry were grabbed and passed round to answer a string of questions such as—
“What’s your name?”
“Are you most like your father or your mother?”
“Who’s your hatter?”
“Can you swim?”
“Who was the father of Zebedee’s children?”
“Are you a Radical or a Tory?”
All of which questions each luckless catechumen was required to answer truly, and in a loud, distinct voice, amid the most embarrassing cheers and jeers and hootings of the audience.
Dick got through his fairly well till he came to the political question, when he made the great mistake of saying he didn’t know whether he was a Radical or a Tory. For, as he might have expected, every one was down on him, and he was sent forth a marked man to make up his mind on the question.
Heathcote, whose sorrow it was to be separated from his friend in the landing of the catch, was less lucky. He professed himself like his mother, which was greatly against him. His hatter also was a country artist instead of a Londoner, and that he discovered was an extremely grave offence. And as for his politics, he made a greater mistake even than Dick, for he professed himself imbued with opinions “between the two,” an announcement which brought down a torrent of abuse and scorn, mingled with cries of “kick him for a half-and-half prig!” an observation which Heathcote was very sorry indeed to hear.
As the reader may guess, poor young Aspinall had a very bad time of it. He began to cry as soon as the first question was propounded. But this demonstration failed to shelter him. A general hiss greeted the sound of his whimper, and cries of, “Where’s his bottle?”
“Meow!”
“Hush-a-bye baby!” His ruthless tyrants, who knew no distinction between the tears of a crocodile and the tears of a terrified child, made him go through his catechism to the bitter end. They howled with delight when they heard him call himself Bertie, and paused in dead silence to hear him say whether he was like “papa or mamma”—“or nurse?” as some one suggested. He took refuge in tears again, with the result that his inquisitors were more than ever determined to get their answer.
“Hang it, you young ass,” said one boy, whom the child, even in his flutter and misery, recognised as the boy who had accosted them at the door of Westover’s that morning, “can’t you answer without blubbering like that? Nobody’s going to eat you up.”
This friendly admonition served to set the boy on his feet, and he stammered out, “Mother.”
“You weren’t asked if you were like your mother,” shouted some one, “are you most like ‘papa or mamma?’”
“Mamma,” faltered the boy. Whereat there was great jubilation, as there was also when he described his hatter as Mr. Smith of Totnes.
“Can you swim?”
“N–no, I’m afraid not.”
“That’s a pity, with the lot you blubber. You’ll get drowned some day.”
Terrific cheers greeted this sally, in the midst of which the boy was almost forgotten.
But the political test remained.
“Now, Bertie dear, are you a Radical or a Tory?” he was asked.
The boy took a deep breath, and said—
“I’m a Radical.”
At which straightforward and unlooked-for reply there were great cheers and counter-cheers, in the midst of which the scared little Radical was hustled down from his perch and sent flying to join his friends, and calm the fluttering of his poor little heart.
It being evidently unsafe to remain longer in the Quadrangle, the dejected trio betook themselves with many misgivings, to their house.
Westover’s presented a striking contrast to the quiet scene of yesterday evening. It being still a quarter to twelve, and term not being supposed to commence till mid-day, the short interval of freedom from school rules was being made use of to the best advantage.
The matron, shouted at and besieged on all sides, already stood at bay, with her hands to her ears, having abandoned any attempt to do anything for anybody. The house porter was in a similar condition of strike. He had once been knocked completely over by rival claimants on his assistance, and he had several times been nearly pulled limb from limb by disappointed employers. He, therefore, stood with his back to the wall and his arms folded, waiting till the storm should blow itself out.
Upstairs, in the studies, riot scarcely less exuberant was taking place. Bosom friends, reunited after three weeks’ separation, celebrated their reunion with paeans of jubilation and war-whoops of triumph. “Cargoes” were being unladen here; Liddell-and-Scott was officiating as a cricket ball there; a siege was going on round this door, and a hand-to-hand scrimmage between the posts of that. A few of the placid ones were quietly unpacking in the midst of the Babel, and one or two were actually writing home.
Our heroes, fancying the looks neither of the matron’s hall nor of the lobby upstairs, deemed it prudent to retreat as quickly as possible to the junior schoolroom, there to await, in the calm atmosphere of expectant scholarship, the ringing of the twelve o’clock bell.
Has the reader ever visited that famous resort of youth, the Zoo? Has he stood on that terrace five minutes before dinner-time and listened to the deep-mouthed growl of the lion, the barking of the wolf, the shriek of the hyaena, as they pace their cages and await their meal? Then, turning on his heel, has he quitted that stately scene and pushed back the door of the monkey house?
Even so it was with our heroes. The junior schoolroom was as the matron’s hall and the studies thrown into one.—At first, to the untutored eyes of the visitors, it looked like a surging sea of unkempt heads and waving elbows; then, as their vision grew accustomed to the scene, they beheld faces and legs and boots; then, amid the general din, they distinguished voices, and perceived that the sea was made up of human beings.
At the which they would fain have retreated; but, as old Virgil says—and we won’t insult our readers by translating the verses—
“Facilis descensus Averni, Sed revocare gradum Hoc opus, hic labor est.”
Their retreat was cut off before they were well in the room, and, amid loud cries of “New kids!” “Bertie!” “Scrunch!” they were escorted to the nearest form, where they forthwith received a most warm and pressing welcome into their new quarters. The top boy of the form, in his emotion, planted his feet against the wall and began to push inwards. The bottom boy, equally overcome, planted his feet in the hollow of a desk and also pushed inwards. Every one else, in fellow-feeling, pushed inwards too, except our heroes, who, being in the exact centre, remained passive recipients of their schoolfellows’ welcome until the line showed signs of rising up at the point where Aspinall’s white face pointed the middle; whereupon the bottom boy considerately let go with his feet, and the occupants of the form were poured like water on the floor.
After being thus welcomed on some half-dozen forms, our heroes began to feel that even good fellowship may pall, and were glad, decidedly glad, to hear the great bell beginning to sound forth.
School that morning was rather a farce; the master was not in the humour for it, nor were the boys. After calling over names and announcing the subjects which would engage the attention of the different classes, and reading over, in case any one had forgotten them, the rules of Westover’s house, the class was dismissed for the present, all except the new boys being permitted to go out into the court or playing-fields till dinner.
It was a welcome relief to our new boys to find themselves together once more with the enemy beyond reach.
Their ranks showed signs of severe conflict. One boy, who had rashly worn a light blue necktie in the morning, wore no necktie now; Heathcote’s jacket was burst under the arm; Dick bore no scars in his raiment, but his nose was rather on one side and his face was rather grimy; Aspinall was white and hot, and the “skeery” look about his eyes proclaimed he had had almost enough for one day.
After dinner, at which our heroes rejoiced to find “the Assyrians” had something more serious to do than to heed them, Templeton went out into the fields to air itself. There was nothing special doing. A few enthusiastic athletes had donned their flannels, and were taking practice trots round the half-mile path. Another lot were kicking about a football in an aimless way. Others were passing round a cricket ball at long range. But most were loafing, apparently undecided what to turn themselves to thus early in the term.
One or two of the Fifth, however, appeared to have some business on hand, in which, much to their surprise, our new boys found they were concerned.
The senior whose arrival they had witnessed in the morning came up to where they were, and said:
“You’re all three new boys, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” they replied.
“Well, go up to the flag-staff there, and wait for me.”
With much inward trepidation they obeyed, wondering what was to happen.
Swinstead, for that was the name of the Fifth-form fellow, continued his tour of the field, accosting all the new boys in turn, and giving them the same order.
At length, the long-suffering twenty clustered round the flag-staff, and awaited their fate.
It was simple enough. Every new boy was expected to race on his first day at Templeton, and that was what was expected of them now.
“Let’s have your names—look sharp,” said one Fifth-form fellow, with a pencil and paper in his hand, who seemed to look upon the affair as rather a bore. “Come on. Sing out one at a time.”
They did sing out one at a time.
“Twenty of them,” said the senior, running down his list. “Four fives, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Swinstead. “Clear the course, somebody, and call the fellows.”
So the course was cleared, and proclamation made that the new boys were about to race. Whereat Templeton lined the quarter-mile track; and showed a languid interest in the contest. Swinstead called over the first five names on his list.
“Take off your coats and waistcoats,” said he.
They obeyed. Dick, who was not in the first heat, took charge of Heathcote’s garments, and secretly bade him “put it on.”
“Toe the line,” said Swinstead. “Are you ready? Off!”
They started. It was a straggling procession. Two of the boys could scarcely use their legs, and of the other three Heathcote was the only one who showed any pace, and, greatly to Dick’s delight, came in easily first.
Dick’s turn came in the second round, and he, greatly to Heathcote’s delight, won in a canter.
In the fourth heat Aspinall ran; but he, poor fellow, could scarcely struggle on to the end, and had literally to be driven the last fifty yards. For no new boy was allowed to shirk his race.
Templeton evinced a more decided interest in the final round. It had looked on as a matter of duty on the trial heats; but it got a trifle excited over the final. The winner of the fourth round, the youth who had been robbed of his light blue tie, commanded the most general favour. Swinstead on the other hand secretly fancied Dick, and one or two others were divided between Heathcote and the winner of the third round.
“Keep your elbows in, and don’t look round so much,” whispered Swinstead to Dick, as the four champions toed the line.
Dick nodded gratefully for the advice.
“Now then. Are you ready?
“Go!” cried the starter.
The hero of the blue tie led off amid great jubilation among the sportsmen. But Swinstead, who trotted beside the race, still preferred Dick, and liked the way he kept up to the leader’s heels in the first hundred yards. Heathcote, in his turn, kept well up to Dick, and had nothing to fear from the other man.
“Pretty race,” said some one.
“Good action number two,” replied another.
“Swinstead fancies him, and he knows what’s what.”
“I should have said number three, myself.”
Two hundred yards were done, and scarcely an inch had the position of the three runners altered.
Then Swinstead called.
“Now then, young ’un.”
Dick knew the call was meant for him, and his spirit rose within him. He “waited on his man,” as they say, and before the next hundred yards were done he was abreast, with Heathcote close on the heels of both.
Frantic were the cries of the sportsmen to their man. But his face was red, and his mouth was open.
“He’s done!” was the cry of the disgusted knowing ones. And the knowing ones were right. Dick walked away, as fresh as a daisy, in the last hundred yards, while Heathcote blowing hard stepped up abreast of the favourite. It was a close run for second honours; but the Mountjoy boy stuck to it, and staggered up a neck in front, with ten clear yards between him and the heels of the victorious Dick.