Chapter Twenty Four.

How our heroes turn their attention to the chase.

During the few days which followed their gallant but unsuccessful attempt to “back up” Tom White, the “Firm” found plenty to think about nearer home.

The rumour of the revolution in the “Select Sociables” spread rapidly over Templeton, and Freckleton was almost mobbed more than once by his new admirers. However, he kept his head, and steered his new ship craftily and carefully. By appealing to the patriotism and honour of his “Sociables,” he succeeded in getting the rules so amended and purified, that in a few days, instead of being a select Club of the worst characters in Templeton, its constitution was open enough to admit any boy who in any way proved himself a credit to the school.

A still more important step was the voluntary disbanding of the old Club for the purpose of placing the new rules before a meeting of the whole school. This was not an easy thing to accomplish, for the old members knew, most of them, that their qualifications were the reverse of those which would make them eligible for membership according to the new rules. They therefore clung tenaciously to their hold, and it was not until Freckleton compromised the matter by promising to hold them eligible for election to the new Club, and exempt them from the conditions other fellows would have to fulfil to become eligible, that they finally gave way.

It was a great day when, by virtue of a personal invitation to each boy in the Hermit’s name, Templeton met together in the Great Hall to put the new Club on its feet.

It was remarked at this meeting that the Sixth took their places as ordinary Templetonians in the body of the hall, and not on the dais, and that the Den, which usually herded together at the lower end, was distributed here and there impartially.

In fact, everyone was equal to-day, and the very knowledge of the fact seemed to put dignity and order into the assembly.

After rather an awkward pause, during which it seemed doubtful how the business ought to begin, Freckleton stepped up on to the platform. His appearance was greeted by cheers, which, however, he immediately extinguished.

“I think,” said he, quietly, “as this is quite a private meeting, you will all see cheering is hardly the thing. Suppose we do without it. It is very good of you fellows to come here in such numbers, and I only hope you’ll not hesitate to say what you think about the proposal I am going to make—for the question is one which the whole school ought to decide, and not any one particular clique or set among us. (Hear, hear.) You, all of you, know I believe, what the object of the meeting is. Up till quite recently we had a Club in Templeton which rejoiced in the name of the ‘Select Sociables.’ (Laughter.) It wasn’t a public Club—(laughter)—but most of the school, I fancy, had heard of its existence. (Laughter.) Gentlemen laugh, but I assure them I am telling the truth, and have good reason to know what I am talking about, as I happened to be the president of the ‘Select Sociables.’ (Hear, hear.) We found the Club wasn’t altogether flourishing. (Laughter.) Some of the rules wanted looking to, and a few of the members were not exactly the best specimens of Templeton form. (Loud laughter.) Gentlemen think there was a joke in that, I suppose. I didn’t see it myself. We put our heads together to see how the Club could be improved, and I am bound to say the old members came forward most patriotically and gave up their undoubted rights, in order to make the Club a thoroughly Templeton affair.”

Cheers were raised here for the old “Sociables,” who never felt so virtuous in all their lives.

“Now you want to hear what our proposal is. You’ll understand it best if I read the rough rules which the committee has drawn up:—”

1. That the Club be called the “Select Sociables.”

2. That the number of members be limited to thirty.

3. That not more than six members be chosen from any one Form.

“This is to prevent the Club getting crowded out with Sixth-form fellows—(loud cheers from the juniors)—or fellows from the Junior Third. (Laughter from the seniors.) It will insure each form getting represented on it by half a dozen of its best men.”

4. That all Templetonians are eligible who have either—

(a) Gained any prize or promotion in the school examinations.

(b) Played in any of the school-house matches, senior or junior. (Cheers.)

(d) Run through any hunt with the Harriers. (Cheers.)

(e) Swum round the Black Buoy. (Loud cheers.)

(f) Done anything which, in the opinion of the school, has been for the good of Templeton.

5. That all elections take place by ballot.

6. That the first thirty members be elected by ballot by the whole school, and future vacancies be filled up by the Club.

7. That all the original members of the old Club shall be considered eligible for election whether they have complied with any of the conditions named or not. (Laughter and blushes.)

8. That if there are less than six fellows eligible in any Form, the number may be filled up from eligible candidates in the Form below.

“There, that’s—roughly speaking—how it is proposed the new Club should be formed.”

“We should like to know,” said Cresswell, rising, “what the Club will do, when it will meet, and so on?”

“Well,” said Freckleton, “we thought we could get leave to use the library every evening; and, being a Sociable Club we should try to afford to take in a few of the illustrated and other papers, and manage supper together now and then, and make ourselves as comfortable as possible,”—(laughter and cheers, especially from the youngsters). “If we got talent enough in the Club, we might give the school a concert or a dramatic performance now and then, or, in the summer, try our hand at a picnic or a fishing cruise. If Cresswell gets elected himself—and he’d better not be too sure—he’ll find out that the ‘Sociables’ will have a very good idea of making themselves snug.” (Laughter.)

“Is there to be any entrance-fee or subscription?” asked Birket. “We think fellows might be asked to subscribe half-a-crown a term. It’s not very much; and as the juniors usually have twice as much spare cash as we seniors, we don’t think they will shy at the Club for that,”—(loud cheers and laughter from the juniors).

“There’s just one other thing, by the way,” continued the Hermit. “It’s only, perhaps, to be talking about turning fellows out of the Club, but we think we ought to protect ourselves by some rule which will make any member of the Club who does anything low or discreditable to Templeton liable to be politely requested to retire. I don’t mean mere monitors’ rows, of course. Fellows aren’t obliged to get into them, though they do. But I don’t think we ought to be too stiff, and turn a fellow out because he happens to get a hundred lines from Cartwright, for climbing one of the elms. (Laughter, and ‘hear, hear,’ from Cartwright.) He’s no business to climb elms, and it’s quite right to give him lines for it. But as long as he doesn’t do that sort of thing systematically, in defiance of rules, then, I say, let him find some place other than the club-room, to do his lines in—(hear, hear). The fellows the Club will want to protect itself against are the cads and sneaks and cheats, who may be knowing enough to keep square with the monitors, but are neither Select nor Sociable enough for a Club like ours. There, I never made such a long speech in all my life; I’m quite ashamed of myself.”

Templeton forgot its good manners, and cheered loudly at this point.

There was something about the genial, unassuming, straightforward Hermit which touched the fellows on their soft side, and made them accept him with pride as a representative of the truest Templeton spirit. They might not, perhaps, love him as fondly as they loved dear old lazy Ponty, but there was not one fellow who did not admire and respect him, or covet his good opinion.

As soon as silence was obtained, Mansfield rose.

It was a self-denying thing to do, and the Captain knew it. There was very little affection in the silence which fell on the room. He had given up, long since, expecting it. It said much for him that its absence neither soured nor embittered him. It made him unhappy, but he kept that to himself, and let it influence him not a whit in the path of duty he had set before him—a path from which not even the hatred of Templeton would have driven him.

“I’m sure we are all very grateful to Freckleton,” he said. “It will be an honour to anyone to get into the Club, and for those who don’t get on at first, it will be something to look forward to and work for. I don’t think a better set of rules could have been drawn up. It will be a thoroughly representative Club of all that is good in Templeton. It doesn’t favour any one set of fellows more than another. Fellows who are good at work, and fellows who are good at sports have all an equal chance. The only sort of fellows it doesn’t favour are the louts and the cads, and the less they are favoured anywhere in Templeton the better. It’s a shame to trouble Freckleton with more questions, but some of us would like to know when the ballot for the new Club is to take place, and how he proposes we should vote?”

There was a faint cheer as the Captain sat down. Templeton, whatever its likes and dislikes were, always appreciated generosity. And the Captain’s honest, ungrudging approval of a comrade who had already distanced him in the hold he exercised over Templeton, pleased them, and told in the speaker’s favour.

“I think the best way would be,” said Freckleton, “for every fellow to make a list of the thirty fellows he thinks most eligible, between now and to-day week. If he can’t think of thirty, then let him put down all he can, remembering that there are not to be more than six in any form. To-day week we’ll have the ballot, and fellows will drop their lists into the box, and the highest thirty will be elected.”

“Hadn’t we better have a list posted up somewhere of the names of fellows in each form who are eligible?” asked someone.

“Certainly. I’ll have one up to-morrow, and if there are any corrections and additions to make, there will be time to make them, and get out a final list two days before the election.”

Among the crowd which jostled in front of the list on the library door, next day, might have been seen the eager and disconsolate faces of our three heroes.

Alas! not one of their names was there! Everybody else’s seemed to be there but their’s. Aspinall’s was there, of course, for Aspinall had won his remove with honour last term. Raggles was there, for Raggles had played in the junior tennis fours of Westover’s against the rival houses. Spokes was there, for Spokes had swum round the Black Buoy, and become a “shark.” Even Gosse was there, for Gosse had “walked over” for the high jumps for boys under 4 foot, 6 inches, last sports.

Dick gulped down something like a groan, as he strained his eyes up and down the cruel list, in the vague hope of finding his name in some corner, however humble.

But no. He turned away at last, with his two disconsolate friends, feeling more humiliated than he had ever felt in his life.

He had done nothing for Templeton—he, who had passed for a leader among his compeers, and for a hero among his inferiors!

His record was absolutely empty. In school he had failed miserably; out of school he had shirked sports in which he ought easily to have excelled and “rotted” when he might have been doing good execution for Templeton. He scoured his memory to think of anything that might savour of credit. There was the New Boys’ Race. He had won that, but that was all, and it didn’t count. He had thrashed Culver and been patted on the back for it, but that hadn’t got him on to the list.

And, except for these two exploits, what good had he done? Nay, hadn’t he done harm instead of good? He had dragged Heathcote after him, and Heathcote and he had dragged Coote; and here they were all left out in the cold.

Dick remembered the Ghost’s letter, and could have kicked himself for being so slow to take its advice.

“We’re out of it,” said Georgie, dismally, as the three walked down the shady side of the fields. “I did think we might have scraped in somehow.”

“Whatever could you have scraped in for?” asked Dick sharply. “Hadn’t you better give in we’ve been a pack of fools at once?”

“So we have,” said Coote. “I’d have liked awfully to get in the Club. How stunning the picnics would be!”

“Young ass!” said Dick, “the grub’s all you think about. Even if you got on the list, it doesn’t follow you’d be elected.”

“It would be something, though, to get on the list,” said Georgie. “It makes a fellow feel so small to be out of it. Think of that howling young Gosse being on!”

“Yes, and Raggles!” said Coote.

“Look here, I say,” exclaimed Dick, suddenly stopping short in his walk, his face lighting up with the brilliancy of the inspiration, “what asses we are! There’s the first Harrier hunt of the season to-morrow. Of course, we’ll go and run through!”

Heathcote whistled.

“They sometimes run a twelve-miler,” said he.

“Never mind if they run twelve hundred,” said Dick. “We’re bound to be in it, I tell you; it’s our only chance.”

“Birket told me hardly anyone ever runs in it below the Upper Fourth.”

“Can’t help that,” said Dick, decisively; “there’s nothing to prevent us.”

“Oh, of course not,” said Heathcote, who inwardly reflected that there was nothing to prevent their jumping over the moon if they only could.

“You’re game, then?”

“All right,” replied the two pliable ones.

“Hurrah! You know, we may not keep close up all the way, but if we can only run it through it’s all right. By Jove! I am glad I thought of it, aren’t you?”

“Awfully,” they said.

Templeton opened its eyes that evening when it saw the “Firm” solemnly go to bed at half-past seven.

It wasn’t their usual practice to shorten their days in this manner, and it was evident this early retirement meant something.

Speculation was set at rest next morning when, immediately after morning school, they appeared in their knickerbockers and running shoes and bare shins.

“Hullo!” said Cresswell, who was the first to encounter them in this trim, “are you youngsters going to have a little run of your own?”

Cresswell was in running costume, too—a model whipper-in—determined to do his part in the long afternoon’s work which he had cut out for himself and his Harriers.

“We’re going to run in the big hunt,” said Dick, modestly.

“What!” said the senior, laughing; “do you know what the run is?”

“About twelve-miles, isn’t it?” said Coote, glad to air his knowledge.

“Yes. I’m afraid it will be hardly worth your while to take such a short trot,” said Cresswell, with a grin.

“We’re going to try,” said Dick, resolutely. “Who are the hares, Cresswell?”

“Swinstead and Birket; good hares, too. But, I say, youngsters, you’d better not make asses of yourselves. If you like to come the first mile or two, all right, but take my advice and turn back before you’re too far from home.”

“We’re going to run it through,” said Dick, “if we possibly can.”

“We want to get on the Sociables’ list,” blurted out the confiding Coote; “that’s why.”

Dick and Heathcote blushed up guiltily, and rushed their indiscreet chum off before he had time to unbosom himself further.

Cresswell, with the grin still on his honest face, turned into Freckleton’s study.

“By Jove! old man,” said he, “you’ll have a lot to answer for, the rate you’re going on. There are three youngsters—my fag Dick and his two chums—going to run this hunt through, because their names are not on your precious list. They’ll kill themselves.”

“Hurrah!” cried the Hermit. “I’m delighted—not, of course, about the killing, but I like spirit. I hope they’ll scramble through. Mark my word, Cress., those three partners will make their mark in Templeton yet.”

“They’re likely to make their mark at a coroner’s inquest,” said Cresswell. “Did you ever run in a twelve-mile hunt?”

“No, thank you,” said the Hermit. “Well, I only hope they’ll cool down before they go too far, that’s all,” said the whipper-in. “They don’t know what they’re in for.”

“They’re in for the ‘Sociables,’ and more power to them, say I,” said the Hermit. When Cresswell arrived at the meet, he found our heroes the centres of attraction to the crowd who usually assembled to see the hounds “throw off.”

They bore their honours meekly, and affected an indifference they were far from feeling to the chaff and expostulations which showered upon them from all sides.

“All show off!” cried Gosse. “They’ll sit down and have a nap under the first hedge, and make believe they ran it through.”

“Come, youngsters,” said Cartwright, “you’ve had a jolly little game. Better go home and put on your trousers, and not try to be funny for too long together.”

“Is it true,” said someone else, with a significant jerk of his head in the direction of the “Firm,” “that the hares are going to make a twenty-mile run of it, instead of twelve?”

“Of course we go through Turner’s field, where the mad bulls are?” said another.

Our heroes began to think the delay in starting was getting to be criminal. Everyone had turned up long ago. Whatever was keeping the hunt from beginning?

Ah! there was Cresswell calling up the hares at last. Thank goodness!

Swinstead and Birket, par nobile fratrum, were old stagers in the Templeton hunts, and fellows knew, when they buckled on their scent bags and tied their handkerchiefs round their waists, that the Harriers would have their work cut out for them before the day was over.

“All ready?” asked the whipper-in, taking out his watch.

“All serene!”

“Off you go then!”

And off went the hares at a long easy swing, out of the fields and up on to the breezy downs.

“Now then, Harriers, peel!” said the whipper-in, when the hares had disappeared from view, and his watch showed seven minutes to have elapsed.

Our heroes nervously obeyed the order, and confided their outer vesture to Aspinall’s custody.

Then steeling their ears and hearts to the final sparks of chaff which greeted the action, they moved forward with the other hounds and waited Cresswell’s signal to go.

It seemed ages before those three minutes crawled out. But at last the whipper-in put his watch back, and blew a blast on his bugle.

“Forward!” shouted everybody.

And the hunt was begun.