Chapter Sixteen.
In which a notable Triple Alliance is renewed.
The six short weeks of holiday darted away only too quickly.
Dick, in the whirl of family life, a hero to his sisters, and a caution to his young brothers, forgot all the troubles of the term, and all its disappointments, all about the “Select Sociables,” and all about Tom White’s boat, in one glorious burst of holiday freedom.
He even forgot about his irregular verbs; and the good resolutions with which he had returned, he left packed up in his trunk until the time came to take them back to Templeton.
Still, it wasn’t a bad time, on the whole, for Dick. Like some small boat that gets out of the rushing tide for a little into some quiet creek, he had time to overhaul himself and pull himself together, ready for another voyage. He was able, in the home harbour, to take some little fresh ballast on board and to rearrange what he at present had. He was able to stow away some of his useless tackle and bale out some of the water he had shipped in the last few rapids. Altogether, though Dick was not exactly a boy given to self-examination, or self-dedication, and although he would have scouted the notion that he was going in for being a reformed character, his little cruise in calm water did him good, and steadied him for his next venture on the tide, when the time should come.
It was not so with George Heathcote. He was a craft of flimsier build than his leader, and the tide had gone harder with him. There was a leak somewhere, and the tackle was a-twist, and the ballast rolled to one side. And, for him, the home harbour was no place for repairs.
Heathcote had neither father nor mother, and though his old relative did her best for him, the boy was more or less at a loose end at home, with no better guide than his own whims. The wonder was, considering his surroundings, that Heathcote was not utterly spoiled, that he was still honest and amiable, and amenable to good influence when he came across it.
He did not, however, come across much these holidays. For four weeks he kicked his heels about in any way that suited him, and began to long for Templeton again, and the face of a friend.
Then one day a letter came to him from Pledge.
“Dear Youngster,—You said something about wanting to see London these holidays. What do you say to coming here on a visit? My father and mother would be glad to see you, and we can go back to Templeton together. If you come to-morrow, you’ll be in time for the last day of the Australian match at the Oval—Yours truly,—
“P. Pledge.”
Heathcote jumped at the invitation. An invitation from anybody would have been welcome just then, but to be asked by his own senior, in this unexpected way, was both tempting and flattering.
So he took the letter to his grandmother, and indulged in a glowing account of Pledge’s virtues and merits. The good lady, of course, gave her consent, and the very next day Georgie was in London.
The week slipped by in a round of pleasures for Heathcote. Pledge, the spoiled child of wealthy parents, was pretty much his own master, and spared no pains to make his young protégé at home, and gratify his every inclination. To Georgie, the life in which he found himself was bewildering in its novelty.
Pledge showed him London. They saw public buildings, and they saw the great streets; they went to theatrical entertainments, and concerts, and parties. They met friends, good and bad, and heard talk, good and bad. No one thought of making any distinction; no one seemed to admit that there was much distinction. It was all life. If some went in for the good, well, let them; if others went in for the bad, what right had any one to interfere? and if any went in for a little of both, well, wasn’t the balance about straight, and who was any the worse for it?
Heathcote felt that he was in Liberty Hall—that he might do exactly as he liked without the awkwardness of feeling that any one was surprised, or that any one was shocked. Pledge did not distinctly tempt him to do anything; and yet, during that one short week, the boy’s moral sense was more deeply undermined than during the whole of the term that had passed. The clear line between good and evil vanished. And, seeing the two side by side, and hearing his companion’s constant sneers at “sanctity,” it became natural to him to suspect the good and, of the two, prefer the evil.
So Georgie Heathcote went back to Templeton the worse for his holidays, and snared faster than ever in the “Spider’s” web.
But the sight of Dick on the Templeton platform drove all his unhealthy philosophy for a time from his mind, and when, an hour later, the train from G— came in and discharged Coote and Coote’s hat-box and travelling-bag, there was joy in the hearts of those three old Mountjoy boys, which could not find vent in mere smiles or words of greeting.
Coote was in a horrible flutter, despite the countenance of his two protectors. He could not trust himself out of their sight. As they walked up from the station and crossed the Quadrangle, he suspected a snare everywhere, and sniffed an enemy at every corner.
“Come on, old fellow,” said Dick, in all the glory of an old hand, “stick your hat on the back of your head, and make a face at everybody you meet, and nobody will humbug you.”
Coote had his doubts of this advice; but, it occurred to him, if it should be good, he had better make the experiment while his friends were there to protect him.
So he tilted his hat cautiously back, and timidly protruded his tongue at Culver, whom they met staggering under the weight of a carpet bag, near the housekeeper’s door.
Culver regarded the demonstration with a certain amount of bewildered disfavour, and, to Coote’s terror, looked for a moment like putting down his carpet bag. But the presence of Dick and Heathcote deterred him for the present, and he contented himself with a promise that tilted the new boy’s hat back into its proper elevation with wonderful celerity.
“Never mind him,” said Heathcote, “he always doubles up after five or six rounds.”
“Do you mean he will fight me?” asked Coote.
“Bless you, yes!”
“To-day, do you think?”
“Don’t know. Depends on what he’s got in his bag. If it’s a cargo, he won’t be out for a couple of nights.”
All this was very alarming to Coote, who devoutly hoped Culver’s “cargo” might be big enough to keep him many nights in unloading it.
Dick and Heathcote led their junior partner rejoicing to the housekeeper, and assisted in counting out his shirts and socks. They then took him to show him off in the lobbies, deserting him once or twice, to his consternation, in order to greet some crony or take part in a mild shindy in the studies.
The presence of their “new kid” inspired them with a wonderful fund of humour and audacity. His astonishment flattered them and his panics delighted them. With a lively recollection of their own experiences last term, they took care he should be wandering in the Quad when the “dredger” came its rounds; and, for fear he should miss the warm consolations of a lower third “Scrunch,” they organised one for his special benefit, and had the happiness of seeing him rising in the middle, scared and puffing, with cheeks the colour of a peony. All the while they tried to figure as his protectors, and demanded credit for getting him through his ordeals in a way he would by no means have got, if left, as they had been, to his own resources.
Nor were they wholly unoriginal in their endeavours to make him feel at home in his new surroundings.
“By George! it’s ten minutes to dinner-time,” said Dick, looking at the clock. “There’ll be a frightful row if you are late first day, and you’ve barely time to dress.”
“Dress! I am dressed,” said Coote, in alarm.
“You muff, you’re not in your flannels. Think of a new fellow turning up to Hall first day not in his flannels, eh, Georgie?”
“My eye!” said Georgie; “what a row there’d be!”
“Cut as hard as ever you can, and put them on. Better not show up till just as the clock strikes, in case fellows humbug you. We’ll be near the door and show you where to sit.”
“Whatever should I have done,” thought the grateful Coote to himself, as he rushed off to don his brand-new flannels, “if it hadn’t been for those two bricks?”
The “two bricks” waited somewhat anxiously near the door of the Hall for their “new kid,” and as the clock began to strike they had the joy of seeing him dart resplendent across the Quad, keeping in the shade as much as possible, and looking nervously up at the clock.
“Lamm it on!” called Heathcote, as the bell ceased and the breathless athlete ran into their arms.
“Am I all right?” asked the victim.
“So-so,” said they, surveying him critically, “but you’d better carry your coat over your arm. Look out, Winter will be coming in. You’ve got to sit up there at the top table, in that empty chair. Look alive, or he’ll catch you.”
And as the blushing innocent walked up the room, the observed of all observers, and made straight for the Head Master’s table, our heroes became absorbed in admiration of the plates in front of them, and positively trembled with the emotion their beauty evoked.
Every one was most polite to the abashed new boy on his journey up the room. They ceased talking as they beheld him, and respectfully made room for him. Some even were good enough to assist his progress by word and gesture.
“Where are you going, my pretty maid?” asked Birket of the rosy youth, as he neared his destination.
The poetical suggestion was too much for the Fifth, who caught up the pastoral ditty, and accompanied the measured tread of the wanderer with an undertone chorus of—
“‘Where are you going, my pretty maid?’
‘I’m going to dinner, sir,’ she said.
‘May I go with you, my pretty maid?’
‘Not if I know it, sir,’ she said.”
Coote got used to the pretty melody before the term was over, but just now his sense of music was deadened by the apparition of Dr Winter, who entered by a door at the upper end of the Hall, and walked straight for the chair which the modest novice had looked upon as the goal of his tedious journey.
“Cut back!” said Birket, coming to the rescue just in time, and turning the unhappy boy to the rightabout. “They’ve been making a fool of you.”
Then might have been seen a spotless white figure flying like the wind down the Hall of Templeton, making the place rosy with his blushes, and merry with his hot haste.
Dick and Heathcote caught their brother as he made for the door, and squeezed him in between them at their table, where roast beef and good cheer restored some of his drooping spirits, while the applause of his patrons and the success of the whole adventure went far to reduce the tension which otherwise might have threatened the stability of the “Firm.”
But after that, Coote felt his confidence in the “two bricks,” on whom he had hitherto relied so implicitly, a trifle shaken, and was not quite sure whether, after all, a new boy might not get through his first few days as comfortably without the protection of two bosom friends as with it.
There being very few new boys this term compared with last, he found himself by no means neglected in his walks abroad, and it required all his wariness to elude the gins and pitfalls prepared for him. Indeed, his very wariness got him into trouble.
After chapel on his second morning Swinstead came to him and said—
“Youngster, you are to go to the Doctor at half-past nine.”
“Oh, ah!” said Coote to himself, knowingly. “I know what that means.”
“Do you hear?” asked Swinstead.
“I suppose you think I’m green,” said the new boy.
Swinstead laughed.
“What on earth should make me think that?” said he.
Coote chuckled merrily to himself as he saw the senior depart.
“I’m getting over the worst of it,” said he to himself. “They’ll soon give up trying it on me. Ha, ha!”
And he went off to find his chums, who took him for a stroll in the Fields.
“Well, young ’un,” said Dick, patronisingly, “getting used to it? Worn your flannels lately?”
“You’re a beastly cad, Dick,” said Coote; “but you don’t catch me like that again.”
“No, you’re getting too knowing,” said Georgie.
Coote laughed.
“I’m not quite as green as some fellows think,” said he. “A fellow came to me this morning and told me to go to the Doctor at 9:30. A nice fool he thought he’d make of me. Ha, ha!”
“What fellow was he?” said Dick, looking rather serious.
“I don’t know his name,” said Coote. “The fellow who marked the names in chapel, I believe.”
“What, Swinstead? Did he tell you to go?”
“Rather; and I told him I wasn’t such a fool as I looked—I mean as he thought.”
“By Jove!—you young ass! You’ve got yourself into a mess, if you like.”
“How do you mean?” inquired the new boy, beginning to be alarmed at the concerned looks of his two friends.
“Why, he’s Chapel usher,” said Dick. “Do you mean to say you didn’t go to the Doctor?”
“Rather not. I—”
“What’s the time?” said Dick.
“A quarter to ten.”
Without more ado they took the unhappy Coote between them and rushed him frantically back to the school, where they shot him in at the Doctor’s door just as that gentleman was about to dismiss his new boys’ class.
“How is this, Coote?” demanded the Head Master, sternly, as the breathless boy entered. “Were you not told to be here at half-past nine?”
“Yes, sir; I—I made a mistake. I’m very sorry, sir.”
The genuine terror in his face procured his reprieve this time. Dr Winter may have been used to “mistakes” of this kind. At any rate, he contented himself with cautioning the new boy against unpunctuality generally, and, by way of punishment, gave him an examination all to himself, which resulted, much to his comfort, in his being placed in the upper third, of which Dick and Heathcote were already shining lights.
While he was thus engaged, Dick and Heathcote were holding a secret, and by no means cheerful, consultation over a recent number of the Templeton Observer.
“I made sure it was all blown over,” said the latter, dejectedly.
“What a cad the fellow must be!” said the former.
“I think newspapers are a regular nuisance!” said Georgie.
“All I know is, he robbed us of all we had, and if we’d informed he’d have been in Botany Bay or somewhere this minute!” said Dick, working himself up into a passion.
The extract from the Templeton Observer which gave rise to this duet of wrath was as follows, dated some ten days before the close of the holidays:—
The recent mysterious disappearance of a Templeton boat.—Up to the present time nothing has been heard of the Martha, which, as our readers will remember, disappeared from the Templeton beach, on the 4th June last. The supposed clue with which the police professed to be provided has, so far, failed to bring the perpetrators of the outrage to justice; although the hope is by no means abandoned of tracing the missing lad. The matter is somewhat seriously complicated by the discovery that Thomas White, the reputed owner of the boat, was at no time its actual proprietor. The Martha was the joint property of White and three other men, one of them skipper of the brig Julia, and the other two well-known fishermen, of this town. It appears that an arrangement was made, whereby White should be the nominal owner of the boat, he undertaking to hand over monthly three quarters of the profits to his partners. In May last, during the absence of his other partners, White pawned the Martha representing her to be his sole property, and appropriated the whole proceeds of the transaction. For this act of fraud (which the recent loss of the boat and the return of its joint owners has brought to light) we understand a writ has been issued against White, and that he will be arrested immediately on his return to Templeton from his present cruise with the Fishing Fleet in the high seas.
“Tom White’s a regular bad one,” said Dick.
“Yes. It was a jolly mean trick to pawn what didn’t belong to him.”
“The thing is, who did it belong to when we—when it got adrift?”
“The pawnbroker, I suppose,” said Heathcote. “Most likely Nash.”
“No wonder Tom White didn’t seem much cut up about losing her.”
“No; he made a good thing by it. It’s a comfort to think he’ll get nabbed at last.”
“Of course, we’ve nothing to do with his row,” said Dick.
“Of course not. We had nothing to do with pawning the boat.”
And yet, they concluded, if the Martha had never gone adrift, no one would have known of Tom White’s fraud, and he might have been able to make money enough with her to clear himself.
It seemed unfair to rake up an old sore like this at the very beginning of the term, especially when, as they persuaded themselves, over and over again, the whole affair had very little to do with them.
“I vote we don’t look at this wretched paper any more,” said Heathcote, crumpling up the offending Observer into a ball, and giving it a punt across the path.
“Why not? We may as well see what becomes of Tom White,” said Dick. “Young Aspinall can fetch us up a copy once a week.”
And so one of the events of the new term was that the Templeton Observer had a new subscriber, and increased its circulation by two new and very diligent readers.