Chapter Six.
How our heroes begin to feel at home.
Heathcote awoke early the next morning with his friend the junior seriously on his mind. One or two fellows were already dressing themselves in flannels as he roused himself, amongst others the young hero who had threatened to fight him the evening before.
“Hallo!” said that young gentleman, in a friendly tone, as if nothing but the most cordial courtesies had passed between them, “coming down to bathe?”
“All serene,” said Heathcote, not, however, without his suspicions. If any one had told him it was a fine morning, he would, in his present state of mind, have suspected the words as part of a deep-laid scheme to fool him. But, he reflected, he had not much to fear from this mock-heroic junior, and as long as he kept him in sight no great harm could happen.
“Come on, then,” said the boy, whose name, by the way, was Gosse; “we shall only just have time to do it before chapel.”
“Wait a second, till I tell Dick. He’d like to come, too,” said Heathcote.
“What’s the use of waking him when he’s fagged? Besides, he’s got to wash and dress his baby, and give him his bottle, so he wouldn’t have time. Aren’t you ready?”
“Yes,” said Heathcote, flinging himself into his hardly-regained garments.
The “Templeton Tub,” as the bathing place was colloquially termed, was a small natural harbour among the rocks at the foot of the cliff on which the school stood. It was a picturesque spot at all times; but this bright spring morning, with the distant headlands lighting up in the rising sunlight, and the blue sea heaving lazily among the rocks as though not yet awake, Heathcote thought it one of the prettiest places he had ever seen.
The “Tub” suited all sorts of bathers. The little timid waders could dip their toes and splash their hair in the shallow basin in-shore. The more advanced could wade out shoulder-deep, and puff and flounder with one foot on the ground and the other up above their heads, and delude the world into the notion they were swimming. For others there was the spring-board, from which to take a header into deep water; and, further out still, the rocks rose in ledges, where practised divers could take the water from any height they liked, from four feet to thirty. Except with leave, no boy was permitted to swim beyond the harbour mouth into the open. But leave was constantly being applied for, and as constantly granted; and perhaps every boy, at some time or other, cast wistful glances at the black buoy bobbing a mile out at sea, and wondered when he, like Pontifex and Mansfield, and other of the Sixth, should be able to wear the image of it on his belt, and call himself a Templeton “shark?”
Heathcote, on his first appearance at the “Tub,” acquitted himself creditably. He took a mild header from the spring-board without more than ordinary splashing, and swam across the pool and back in fair style. Gosse, who only went in from the low ledge, and swam half-way across and back, was good enough to give him some very good advice, and promise to make a good swimmer of him in time. Whereat Heathcote looked grateful, and wished Dick had been there to astonish some of them.
One or two of the Fifth, including Swinstead and Birket, arrived as the youngsters were dressing.
“Hallo!” said Swinstead to Heathcote, “you here? Where’s your chum?”
“Asleep,” said Heathcote, quite pleased to think he should be able to tell Dick he had been having a talk with Swinstead that morning.
“Have you been in?”
“Yes.”
“Can you swim?”
“Yes, a little,” said Gosse, answering for him. “We’re about equal.”
Heathcote couldn’t stand the barefaced libel meekly.
“Why, you can’t swim once across!” he said, scornfully, “and you can’t go in off the board!”
The Fifth-form boys laughed.
“Ha, ha!” said Swinstead, “he’s letting you have it, Gossy.”
“He’s telling beastly crams,” said Gosse, “and I’ll kick him when we get back.”
“I’ll swim you across the pool and back, first!” said Heathcote.
The seniors were delighted. The new boy’s spirit pleased them, and the prospect of taking down the junior pleased them still more.
“That’s fair,” said Birket. “Come on, strip.”
Heathcote was ready in a trice. Gosse looked uncomfortable.
“I’m not going in again,” he said; “I’ve got a cold.”
“Yes, you are,” replied Birket; “I’ll help you.”
This threat was quite enough for the discomfited junior, who slowly divested himself of his garments.
“Now then! plenty of room for both of you on the board.”
“No,” said Gosse; “I’ve not got any cotton wool for my ears. I don’t care about going in off the board unless I have.”
“That’s soon remedied,” said Swinstead, producing some wool from his pocket and proceeding to stuff it into each of the boy’s ears.
Poor Gosse was fairly cornered, and took his place on the board beside Heathcote, the picture of discontent and apprehension.
“Now then, once across and back. Are you ready?” said Birket, seating himself beside his friend on a ledge.
“No,” said Gosse, looking down at the water and getting off the board.
“Do you funk it?”
“No.”
“Then go in! Hurry up, or we’ll come and help you!”
“I’d—I’d rather go in from the edge,” said the boy.
“You funk the board then?”
The boy looked at the board, then at his tyrants, then at the water.
“I suppose I do,” said he, sulkily.
“Then put on your clothes and cut it,” said Swinstead, scornfully. Then, turning to Heathcote, he shouted. “Now then, young ’un, in you go.”
Heathcote plunged. He was nervous, and splashed more, perhaps, than usual, but it was a tolerable header, on the whole, for a new boy, and the spectators were not displeased with the performance or the swim across the pool and back which followed.
“All right,” said Swinstead; “stick to it, young un, and turn up regularly. Can your chum swim?”
“Rather!” said Heathcote, taking his head out of the towel. “I wish I could swim as well as he can.”
“Humph!” said Swinstead, when presently the two Seniors were left to themselves. “Number Two’s modest; Number One’s cocky.”
“Therefore,” said Birket, “Number Two will remain Number Two, and number One will remain Number One.”
“Right you are, most learned Plato! but I’m curious to see how Number One gets out of his friendly call on Cresswell. Think he’ll cheek it?”
“Yes; and we shan’t hear many particulars from him.”
Birket was right, as he very often was.
Dick, on waking, was a good deal perplexed, to find his friend absent, and when he heard the reason he was more than perplexed—he was vexed. It wasn’t right of Heathcote, or loyal, to take advantage of him in this way, and he should complain of it.
Meanwhile he had plenty to occupy his mind in endeavouring to recover his “baby’s” wardrobe, a quest which, as time went on and the chapel bell began to sound, came to be exciting.
However, just as he was about to go to the matron and represent to her the delicate position of affairs, a bundle was thrown in through the ventilator over the door, and fell into the middle of the dormitory floor. Where it came from there was no time to inquire.
Aspinall was hustled into his garments as quickly as possible, and then hustled down the stairs and into chapel just as the bell ceased ringing and the door began to close.
Heathcote was there among the other new boys, looking rather guilty, as well he might. The sight of him, with his dripping locks and clear shining face, interfered a good deal with Dick’s attention to the service—almost as much as did the buzz of talk all round him, the open disorder in the stalls opposite, and the look of undisguised horror on Aspinall’s face.
As Dick caught sight of that look his own conscience pricked him, and he made a vehement effort to recall his wandering mind and fix it on the words which were being read. He flushed as he saw boys opposite point his way and laugh, with hands clasped in mock devotion, and he felt angry with himself, and young Aspinall, and everybody, for laying him open to the imputation of being a prig.
He glanced again towards Heathcote. Heathcote was standing with his hands in his pockets looking about him. What business had Heathcote to look about him when he (Dick) was standing at attention? Why should Heathcote escape the jeers of mockers, while he (Dick) had to bear the brunt of them? It wasn’t fair. And yet he wasn’t going to put his hands in his pockets and look about him to give them the triumph of saying they laughed him into it. No!
So Dick stood steadily and reverently all the service, and was observed by not a few as one of the good ones of whom good things might be expected.
When chapel was over fate once more severed him from his chum, and deferred the explanation to which both were looking forward.
The matron kidnapped Master Richardson on his way into the house, in order to call his attention to a serious inconsistency between the number of his shirts in his portmanteau, and the number on the inventory accompanying them, an inconsistency which Dick was unable to throw any light on whatever, except that he supposed it must be a mistake, and it didn’t much matter.
It certainly mattered less than the fact that, owing to this delay, he had lost his seat next to Heathcote at breakfast, and had to take his place at the lowest table, where he could not even see his friend.
There was great joking during the meal about the escapade in the lobby last night, the general opinion being that it had been grand sport all round, and that it was lucky the monitors weren’t at home at the time.
“Beastly grind,” said one youngster—“all of them coming back to-day. A fellow can’t turn round but they interfere.”
“Are all the Sixth monitors?” asked Dick.
“Rather,” replied his neighbour, whom Dick discovered afterwards to be no other than Raggles, the hero of the “cargo,” whose fame he had heard the day before.
“What’s the name of the captain?”
“Oh, Ponty! He doesn’t hurt,” said the boy. “It’s beasts like Mansfield, and Cresswell, and that lot who come down on you.”
Dick would fain have inquired what sort of fellow Cresswell was, but he was too anxious not to let the affair of the whipper-in leak out, and refrained. He asked a few vague questions about the Sixth generally, and gathered from his companion that, with a very few exceptions, they were all “beasts” in school, that one or two of them were rather good at cricket, and swimming, and football, and that the monitorial system at Templeton, and at all other public schools, required revision. From which Dick argued shrewdly that Master Raggles sometimes got into rows.
By the time he had made this discovery the bell rang for first school, and there was a general movement to the door.
The two chums foregathered in the hall.
“Pity you weren’t up in time for a bathe,” said Heathcote, artfully securing the first word.
“I heard you went. Too much fag getting up so early. I mean to go down in the afternoon, when most of the fellows turn up.”
“Swinstead and Birket were there. I wish you’d been there.”
“Not worth the grind. You can come with me this afternoon, if you like. Some of the ‘sharks’ will be down as well.”
Heathcote began to discover he had done a foolish thing; and when he found his friend launching the “sharks” at his head in this familiar way he felt it was no use holding out any longer.
“It was awfully low of me not to call you this morning,” said he, “but you looked so fast asleep, you know.”
“So I was,” said Dick, unbending. “I’m glad you didn’t rout me up, for I was regularly fagged last night.”
“What time will you be going this afternoon?”
“Depends. I’ve got to see one of the Sixth as soon as he turns up, but that won’t take long.”
Heathcote retired routed. His friend was too many for him. He (Heathcote) had no one bigger than Swinstead and Birket to impress his friend with. Dick had “sharks,” and behind them “one of the Sixth.” What was the use of opposing himself to such odds?
“Wait for us, won’t you?” was all he could say; and next moment they were at their respective desks, and school had begun.
Dick’s quick ears caught the sound of cabs in the quadrangle and the noise of luggage in the hall while school was going on, and his mind became a little anxious as the prospect of his coming interview loomed nearer before him. He hoped Cresswell was a jolly fellow, and that there would be no one else in his study when he went to call upon him. He had carefully studied the geography of his fortress, so he knew exactly where to go without asking any one, which was a blessing.
As soon as class was over he made his way to the matron’s room.
“Do you know if Cresswell has come yet, please.”
“Yes, what do you want with him?”
“Oh! nothing,” said Dick dissembling, “I only wanted to know.”
And he removed himself promptly from the reach of further questions.
Little dreaming of the visit with which he was to be so shortly honoured, Cresswell, the fleetest foot and the steadiest head in Templeton, was complacently unpacking his goods and chattels in the
privacy of his own study. He wasn’t sorry to get back to Templeton, for he was fond of the old place, and the summer term was always the jolliest of the year. There was cricket coming on, and lawn tennis, and the long evening runs, and the early morning dips. And there was plenty of work ahead in the schools too, and the prospect of an exhibition at Midsummer, if only Freckleton gave him the chance.
Altogether the Sixth-form athlete was in a contented frame of mind, as he emptied his portmanteau and tossed his belongings into their respective quarters.
So intent was he on his occupation, that it was a full minute before he became aware of a small boy standing at his open door, and tapping modestly. As he looked up and met the eyes of the already doubtful Dick, both boys inwardly thought, “I rather like that fellow”—a conclusion which, as far as Dick was concerned, made it still more difficult for him to broach the subject of his mission.
Cresswell was still kneeling down, so it was impossible to form an opinion of his legs, but his arms and shoulders certainly did not look like those of a “snail.”
“What do you want, youngster?” said Cresswell.
“Oh,” said Dick, screwing himself up to the pitch, “Swinstead told me to come to you.”
“Oh,” said the other, in a tone of great interest, “what about?”
“About the—I mean—something about the—the Harriers,” said Dick, suddenly beginning to see things in a new light.
“About the Harriers?” said Cresswell, rising to his feet and lounging up against the mantel-piece, in order to take a good survey of his visitor. “What does Mr Swinstead want to know about the Harriers?”
The sight of the champion there, drawn up to his full height, with power and speed written on every turn of his figure, sent Dick’s mind jumping, at one bound, to the truth. What an ass he had been going to make of himself, and what a time he would have had if he hadn’t found out the trick in time! As it was, he could not help laughing at the idea of his own ridiculous position, and the narrow escape he had had.
“What are you grinning at?” said Cresswell sharply, not understanding the little burst of merriment in his presence.
Dick recovered himself, and said simply, “They’ve been trying to make a fool of me. I beg your pardon for bothering you.”
“Hold hard!” said Cresswell, as the boy was about to retreat. “It’s very likely they have made a fool of you—they’re used to hard work. But you’re not going to make a fool of me. Come in and tell me all about it.”
Dick coloured up crimson, and threw himself on the monitor’s mercy.
“You’ll think me such an ass,” said he, appealingly. “It’s really nothing.”
“I do think you an ass already,” said the senior, “so, out with it.”
Whereupon Dick, blushing deeply, told him the whole story in a way which quite captivated the listener by its artlessness.
“They said you were an awful muff, and couldn’t run any faster than a snail, you know,”—began he—“and as I had pulled off the new boys’ race, they said they’d make me Whipper-in of the Harriers instead of you, and told me to come and tell you so, and ask you to give me the whip.”
Cresswell laughed in spite of himself.
“Do you really want it?” he asked.
“Not now, thank you.”
“I suppose you’d been swaggering after you’d won the race, and they wanted to take the conceit out of you?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And have they succeeded?”
“Well—yes,” said Dick. “I think they have.”
“Then, they’ve done you a very good turn, my boy, and you’ll be grateful to them some day. As for the whip, you can tell them if they’ll come here for it, I’ll give it to them with pleasure. There goes the dinner bell—cut off, or you’ll be late.”
“Thanks, Cresswell. I suppose,” said the boy, lingering a moment at the door, “you won’t be obliged to tell everybody about it?”
“You can do that better than I can,” said the Sixth-form boy, laughing.
And Dick felt, as he hurried down to Hall, that he was something more than well out of it. Instead of meeting the fate which his own conceit had prepared, he had secured a friend at court, who, something told him, would stand by him in the coming term. His self-esteem had had a fall, but his self-respect had had a decided lift; for he felt now that he went in and out under inspection, and that Cresswell’s good opinion was a distinction by all means to be coveted.
As a token of his improved frame of mind, he made frank confession of the whole story to Heathcote during dinner; and found his friend, as he knew he would be, brimful of sympathy and relief at his narrow escape.
Swinstead and Birket, as they watched their man from their distant table, were decidedly perplexed by his cheerful demeanour, and full of curiosity to learn the history of the interview.
They waylaid him casually in the court that afternoon.
“Well, have you settled it?” said Birket.
“Eh? Oh, yes, it’s all right,” replied Dick, rather enjoying himself.
“He made no difficulty about it, did he?”
“Not a bit. Jolly as possible.”
It was not often that two Fifth-form boys at Templeton felt uncomfortable in the presence of a new junior, but Swinstead and Birket certainly did feel a trifle disconcerted at the coolness of their young victim.
“You told him we sent you?”
“Rather. He was awfully obliged.”
“Was he? And did he give you the whip?”
“No, he hadn’t got it handy. But I told him he could give it to you two next time he met you—and he’s going to.”
And to the consternation of his patrons the new boy walked off, whistling sweetly to himself and watching attentively the flight of the rooks round the school tower.
“Old man, we shall have some trouble with Number One,” said Swinstead, laughing.
“Yes, we’ve caught a Tartar for once,” said Birket. “You and I may retire into private life for a bit, I fancy.”