Chapter Seventeen.
The new Captain draws a straight line.
Mansfield returned to Templeton like a man who knows that his work is cut out for him, and who means to do it, coûte qui coûte, as the French say.
Any one else might have been afraid of the task before him, and doubtful of success. Mansfield was neither; at any rate, as far as any one else could see. He set himself up neither for a Hercules nor a Galahad. It never occurred to him what he was. But it did occur to him that Templeton wanted reform, and that the Captain of Templeton ought to reform it. And with that one clear purpose before him, Mansfield was the sort of fellow to go straight through thick and thin to reach it, or perish in the attempt.
They say that when a certain Russian Emperor wanted a railway made between the two chief cities of his dominion, and was asked what route it should take, so as to benefit the largest number of intervening towns and villages, he called for a map and ruler, and drawing a straight line between the two places, said, “Let it go that way.”
That was pretty much the style of Mansfield. He didn’t understand turning to right or left to give anybody a lift on the way. All he knew was that Templeton was not up to the mark, and that Templeton must be brought up to the mark. Between those points he ruled his straight line, and that way he meant to go.
If the line cut a snug little set of chums in half, if it turned one or two settled school customs out of house and home, if it sent one or two waverers hopelessly over to the wrong side—well, so be it. It was a pity, especially if the innocent had to suffer with the guilty. But the good of Templeton was at stake, and woe to the traitor who thought anything more important than that!
Dear old Ponty, whom Templeton had never loved so much as when it missed him, had curled his line about in snug, comfortable ins-and-outs, so as not to disturb anybody. Mansfield didn’t think himself better than Ponty, whom he loved as a brother. But Mansfield couldn’t draw curling in-and-out lines. He only knew one line, and that was a straight one; and so, for better or worse, Mansfield called for his map and his ruler, and dashed into his task.
“Give the little chaps a chance,” Ponty had said, in his last will and testament, and the new Captain of Templeton was willing to make one little curve, in order to carry out his friend’s wish.
On the fourth evening of the term, as the Den was assembled in full session, for the purpose of swearing in Coote and denouncing the powers that be, that honourable fraternity was startled out of its never superabundant wits by an apparition far more terrible than the Templeton Ghost.
Dick was in the chair at the time, and Heathcote was in the act of moving a resolution, “That this Den considers all the monitors ought to be hanged, and hopes they will be,” when the Captain of Templeton suddenly entered the room.
Then fell there a silence on the Den, like to the silence of a kennel of dogs when the whip of the master cracks! The word “hanged” died half-uttered on the lips of Heathcote, and Dick slipped aghast from his eminence. The tongue of Coote clave to the roof of his mouth, and even Gosse’s heart turned to stone in the midst of a “swop.” Never did condemned criminals stand more still, or wax-works more dumb.
Mansfield closed the door behind him, and marched straight to the top of the room, where stood Dick’s vacant chair. Was he going to drive them out single-handed? Was he going to arrest their leader? Or was he going to make a speech?
As soon as they perceived he was going to do neither the first nor the second, and knew he was going to do the last, they groaned. They could have endured a stampede round the Quad; they could have brought themselves to see their leader immolated in a good cause; but to have to stand still and hear Jupiter speak—what had they done to deserve that?
“Look here, you youngsters,” began Mansfield, needing not even a motion of his hand to command silence, “I’ve not come as an enemy, but a friend.”
“What will it be like,” mused Coote, “when he comes as an enemy?”
“And I’ve only a very few words to say to you.”
Was it a sigh of relief or disappointment that escaped the Den? Mansfield didn’t know; he wasn’t well up in sighs.
“There’s a great deal goes on in the Den that isn’t right. Some of you youngsters think the only use of school rules is to break them, and that it’s a fine thing to disobey the monitors. You’re wrong, and, unless you give up that sort of thing, you’ll find it out. The school rules are made to be kept, and the monitors are appointed to see they are kept; and any boy that says otherwise is an enemy to Templeton, and he will be treated accordingly. Some of you don’t approve of all that goes on here, and yet you don’t like to stand up against it. That’s not right. You can’t be neutral. If you mean to be steady, you are bound to stand out and have nothing to do with the bad lot. I want you all to understand this once for all, and not say you’ve had no warning. I warn you now. Rules are made to be kept, and you must keep them. Pontifex—”
The Captain had to stop; for the Den, which had stood in breathless silence thus far, sprang, at the mention of the name, into a cheer which spoke quite as much for the tension of their own feelings at this moment as for their affection for the old Captain.
Mansfield let them have it out; he liked them none the worse for their love to his friend, and what he had to say would by no means spoil by keeping till the cheers were over.
They were over at last. The sight of the Captain there, tall, upright, determined, with his dark eyes bent on them, cut them short and brought the Den back to silence as deep as that which had just been broken.
“Pontifex was fond of you youngsters. He said to me a day or two before he went, ‘Give the little chaps a chance.’”
They could not help it; Captain or no Captain, they must cheer again. And again Mansfield waited patiently and ungrudgingly till it was over.
“This is why I’ve come here to-night. You have your chance. Let everybody choose for himself, and don’t let any one say he didn’t know what to expect. There’s to be a Captain’s levée on Thursday. I don’t want any one to come to it who is not prepared to stand by Templeton rules this term. Those who are prepared will do well to show up.”
So ended Jupiter’s speech to the Den. He stalked down the room and out of the door amid a solemn silence, which was not broken until his firm footsteps died away down the passage.
Then the Den looked at one another as much as to say—
“What do you think of that?”
“Pretty warm!” said Dick, relieving the general embarrassment by speaking first.
“Think he means it?” said one.
“Looks like it!” said Dick, gloomily.
There was a pause. The Den knew, somehow, it was no joke.
It was a case of life or death, war or peace, liberty or servitude, and they hesitated on the brink.
“I don’t mean to knuckle under to him!” said Heathcote, speaking with the mantle of Pledge upon him. “It’s all a dodge to curry favour with Winter.”
The Den was thankful for the suggestion, and revived wonderfully under its influence.
“Catch me doing more for him than for old Ponty!” cried Gosse, who had never done anything for Ponty.
The reference was a popular one, and the Den took it up also. It fell to extolling Ponty to the very heavens, and abasing Mansfield to the opposite extremity, while it held up its hands in horror at the man who could seek to make the good order of Templeton the price of his favour with the Head Master.
But, when the little outburst had subsided, the awkward question still remained—What was to be done?
“Of course nobody will be cad enough to go to the levée after what he said,” said Heathcote, who, warmed by the admiring glances of Coote and the success of his last observation, felt called upon to speak for the assembly in general.
“Rather not! You won’t go, will you, Dick?” said Pauncefote.
“Don’t know,” said that hero, shortly.
The Den was startled. What did Dick mean by “Don’t know”? Was he going to knuckle in after all and join the “saints?”
The uncertainty had a very depressing effect on Heathcote’s enthusiasm, which had calculated all along on the countenance of his leader. Coote, too, cautiously separated himself from Gosse, who was shouting sedition at the top of his voice, and drew off to more neutral territory. Smith and Pauncefote kept up their cheers for Ponty, but gradually dropped the groans for Mansfield, and altogether the howls of the Den toned down to the roar of a sucking dove as it got whispered abroad that Dick Richardson “didn’t know.”
The two days that followed were days of suspense to the Den.
“Is Dick going?” was the question every one asked.
“He doesn’t know,” was the invariable answer.
Under these circumstances, it will be understood, but little enthusiasm could be called up over the rival toilets of the fraternity. Culver’s dress-coat had been returned to its lawful owner long since, and for that reason, if for no other, he determined not to attend. Heathcote’s choker and white gloves were the worse for wear, so he was not anxious; and Coote, whose one strong point was a watered ribbon watch-chain, was rumoured to be weak in collars, and, on the whole, not a “hot man” at all, or likely to show up.
As to Dick, opinions were divided as to what he could do if he went. It was known his “dicky” had fallen off, but, on the other hand, he had brought back a pair of patent leather pumps, which might make him feel it his duty to attend.
“Look here, old man,” asked Heathcote, for about the hundredth time, the evening before the levée, “are you going, or are you not?”
“Don’t know,” replied Dick. “Are you?”
What a question for a leader to ask his lieutenant! Dick knew it was ridiculous, but he guessed shrewdly it might choke off further inquiry. And it did.
Heathcote, however, had other counsellors besides Dick, who were neither doubtful nor sparing in their advice on the great question. A hasty meeting of the “Select Sociables” was summoned, by means of Braider, that very evening, to take into consideration the action of the Club at the forthcoming levée, at which it was agreed unanimously that, after the Captain’s threat, no member of that honourable body should, on any account, show up.
Heathcote held up his hand for the resolution with the others, and felt sure, in his own mind, Dick would have done the same.
“Mind, nobody shows up, on any pretext,” said Spokes, as the meeting separated. “We’re on our honour, and, of course, no one mentions the Club out-of-doors.”
Of course, nobody would think of such a thing.
Heathcote felt a good deal concerned as the evening went on, and still no sign came from Dick. It wasn’t exactly kind to keep a fellow in suspense like this. The only thing was to take the bull by the horns, and announce what he was going to do. Then, possibly, Dick might show his hand.
“I’ve decided not to show up at the levée,” said Georgie, on the morning of the eventful day.
“Have you?” said Dick, with a most provoking indifference.
“Yes,” said the cunning Georgie. “I tell you what, Dick; while it’s going on, you and I can get the top court and play off our heat for the handicap. What do you say?”
“Don’t know.”
Whereupon, Heathcote wished that two words in the English language could be suspended, and went off to see if any comfort was going in the Den. But no.
“What’s Dick going to do?” asked almost everybody.
“He doesn’t know,” groaned Heathcote.
Whereupon, the Den, as well as Georgie, wished ill to those two unlucky words.
The morning passed, and still no ray of light illumined the doubters. Dick got twenty lines from Pledge for jumping over the geranium bed in the Quad, and knocking off a flower in the act; and every one guessed this would decide him against the levée.
But at dinner-time a rumour spread, on the authority of Coote, that he had put on a clean collar since morning school, and public opinion immediately veered round to the opposite direction. No sooner, however, was dinner done than he was seen to fetch his tennis racket from his study; and once more it was surmised that he was going, after all, to play off his heat with Georgie instead of attending the ceremony. And that supposition was in turn dashed to the ground, when it was discovered that he had got the bat in order to give it to a messenger from Splicers, the racket maker, to be tightened up in the top cord.
Afternoon school dragged tediously on, and the Den grew desperate. Fellows went off to dress. But what was the use of Heathcote putting on his choker, or Smith and Pauncefote parting their hairs, when they didn’t know whether they were going to the levée or not?
Heathcote made one final effort to “draw” the Sphinx.
“Come on,” said he, “we’ll bag the court if we are sharp, and get an hour’s quiet play.”
“I’ve got no racket,” said Dick.
“I say, Dick, are you going to the levée—do tell us?”
“I don’t know. What do you want to know for?”
“I—I vote we don’t go,” said Georgie, coaxingly. “I’m not going.”
“I know that.”
“Are you?” and there was a tone of desperate pathos in the boy’s voice.
“Haven’t I told you, a hundred and fifty times, I don’t know?” replied Dick, scarcely less desperate.
Heathcote gave it up, and joined the Den, who were waiting about, in anxious groups, near the door of the Hall, with their ornaments in their hands, ready to put on at a moment’s notice if necessary.
Presently Dick strolled up and joined them.
Hurrah! he had not got his patent leather boots on, after all! A weight fell from the minds of half the beholders as they cast their eyes down at his dusty double soles. And yet, if he wasn’t going in, what was he hanging about there for?
Dick would have been very sorry if any of the Den had guessed what was passing in his mind. He didn’t know what to do. If there had been no one but himself, it wouldn’t have mattered. But there was that young ass Heathcote, and Coote too, who were certain to do as he did; and the fag of making up his mind for three people was not fair to a fellow.
And yet the Ghost’s letter somehow stuck in his mind, and the ballast he had taken on board during the holidays made it harder to play pitch and toss with himself than it had been. He didn’t like the way Mansfield had almost dared them to stay away. Because, if it came to that, he would just as soon let fellows see he wasn’t going to be bullied. On the other hand, the Captain had as good as said it wanted some pluck to stand out against the rowdies, and that was an argument in favour of showing up at levee. The worst of it was, when once you showed up, you were committed to the steady lot, and couldn’t well back out. If young Heathcote—no, he was bound to look after Heathcote.
So, to the amazement and consternation of the Den, after loafing about at the door for ten minutes, Dick strolled into the Hall, and made his way up to the platform.
One or two, including Coote, followed him immediately. Others remained long enough to put on their cuffs and chokers, and then followed suit. One or two looked at the door, and went back again, and a few talked about treason and Rule 5.
Heathcote alone was aghast and dumbfounded. For he had never seriously calculated on his leader’s decision; and, being himself under vow not to present himself, his dilemma was terrible.
Perjury or treason? That was the problem he had to decide at half a minute’s notice, and it was no joke.
As he watched Dick slowly advance up the room, dogged by the faithful Coote and supported by a bodyguard of loyal followers, his courage failed, and he could hardly restrain himself from rushing after him.
And yet, the memory of his promise to the “Select Sociables,” and the vision of Braider watching him from a distance, held him where he was.
How he wished he could have a fit, or break his arm, or have his nose bleed; anything to get him out of this hobble!
But no. He saw Dick ascend the dais and shake hands with the Captain, who looked almost amiable as he spoke a few words to him. He saw Pauncefote and Smith and the other, loyal ones come in for the same greeting. He saw Coote and his watered ribbon being presented by Cartwright, and he caught sight of Pledge looking up and down the room, possibly in search of his Georgie.
All this he saw, and yet could not stir. Only when he saw Dick descend the platform and slowly return towards the door, did the spell yield and permit him to escape to the Quad.
There half an hour later he was found by Pledge.
“Hullo, youngster; you didn’t turn up at the pantomime, then?”
“No,” said Heathcote, “I didn’t want to.”
“What! not want to be shaken hands with and blessed by the holy Mansfield? You naughty boy, to neglect such a short cut to peace and plenty!”
“I don’t want to toady to anybody,” said Heathcote, bitterly.
“Of course you don’t. But I’m afraid your courage will cost you something in impositions and detentions, and that sort of thing.”
“What do I care? I’d sooner have any amount of them than be a humbug and truckle to anybody.”
“Every one,” said Pledge, with an approving smile, “made sure when your friend Richardson came to do homage, that you would come too. I was quite pleased to find I knew better and was right.”
“I don’t know what made Dick go,” said Heathcote.
“No? Can’t you guess? Isn’t Dick a good boy, and doesn’t he always do what good boys do?”
Heathcote laughed.
“I don’t think he’s very much in that line.”
“Well, he imitates it very well,” said Pledge, watching his man carefully, “and I’ve no doubt he will find it worth his while.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Heathcote, looking up.
“I mean that Mansfield is picking his men for the 3rd Football Fifteen, and I’m afraid you won’t be in it, my boy.”
Heathcote said nothing, but walked on to the school door where he and his patron parted company; the latter proceeding to his study with a particularly amiable smile on his countenance; the former repairing to the adjourned meeting of the “Select Sociables,” there to hear high praises of his loyalty and steadfastness, and to partake of a very select contraband supper, which, with the questionable festivities that followed, was good for neither the body nor the soul of our unheroic young hero.