Chapter Twenty Two.
The Hermit comes out of his cell.
Mansfield never flattered himself that Templeton would right itself by a single turn of his hand, nor did he flatter himself that Templeton would ever love Jupiter as they had loved the old Saturn who had preceded him. And in neither expectation was he out of his reckoning.
After a week or two the sole result of the new régime seemed to be that the bad lot had plunged further into their evil ways. The “Select Sociables” had increased the number of their members to thirty, and made it an indispensable qualification for every candidate that he should have suffered punishment at the hands of the masters or monitors. It got to be known that it was war to the knife, and fellows flocked to the post of danger and begged to be admitted to the club.
All this Mansfield saw, but it did not disconcert him. He was glad to see a clear line being drawn, which made it impossible for any but the practised hypocrites to hang out false colours and pretend to be what they were not. It was half the battle to the Captain to know exactly who were friends and who were enemies.
He may sometimes have thought, with a passing sigh, of the affection which everybody, good and bad, had had for dear old Ponty, and wished he could expect as much. But he dashed the thought aside as folly. His duty was to make war on rebels, not to win them over by blandishments.
So he set his face like steel to the work, and made the name of monitor a caution in Templeton. And, it is fair to say, he was well backed up. Cresswell, Cartwright, Swinstead, and others of their sort rallied round him, and, at the risk of their own popularity, and sometimes against their better judgment, took up the rule of iron. Even the hermit Freckleton came out of his den now and then on the side of justice.
The cad Bull, who had neither the wit nor the temper to play a double part, threw up his monitorship in disgust and went over to the enemy, carrying with him one or two of the empty heads of the Fifth. Pledge alone looked on the whole revolution as a joke.
But even Pledge found it hard to make a case against the new rulers; for, if their severity was great, their justice was still greater. If they spared no one else, neither did they spare themselves. There was something almost ferociously honest and upright about Mansfield, and his lieutenants soon caught his spirit and made it impossible for anyone, even for Pledge, to point at them and say that either fear or favour moved them.
It was probably on this very account that Pledge deemed it well to treat the new state of things as a comedy, and not with serious attention.
A monitors’ meeting was summoned for the morning after Pledge’s call on Mr Webster, and he attended it with a pleasant smile on his face, as one who was always glad to come and see how his schoolfellows amused themselves.
The rest of the meeting was grim and serious.
“It’s time we did something to put down this Club,” said Mansfield. “They are drawing in all sorts of fellows now, and the longer we put it off the worse it will be.”
“What shall we do?” asked Freckleton.
“I think we ought to be able to do it without going to Winter about it,” said Cresswell.
“Would it do to start an opposition club?” suggested Swinstead.
“Or make it penal for any fellow to belong to it,” said Cartwright.
“Or send a deputation,” said Pledge, laughing, “and ask them please not to put the Sixth in such an awkward fix!”
“You see,” said the captain, ignoring, as he usually did, Pledge’s sarcasms, “whatever we do, some are sure to be irreconcilable. I would like to give any who wish a chance of coming out, and then we shall know what to do with the rest. Does anyone know when they meet?”
“I believe there’s a meeting this evening,” said Cartwright; “at least, my fag Coote told me a couple of days ago that he had a particular engagement this evening, and was sorry he couldn’t say what it was, for he’d promised never to speak of the Club to anyone, least of all to a monitor.”
There was a general smile at the expense of the artless Coote, and then Mansfield said:—
“Well, one of us had better go there and give them a caution. Will you go, Freckleton?”
“I?” exclaimed the Hermit, aghast.
“Yes, please, old man,” said the Captain; “you’d do it better than anyone.”
“Wouldn’t you like me to go?” asked Pledge.
“There’s one other thing I want to speak about,” said Mansfield. “There’s been a lot of breaking bounds lately among the juniors. I caught your fag yesterday, Cresswell, and gave him lines. Your fag too, Pledge, I have seen several times lately going out without leave.”
“Dear me! how shocking!” said Pledge.
“If monitors don’t see that their own fags keep the rules,” said Mansfield, “there’s not much chance of getting the school generally to keep them. In your case, Pledge, I happen to know you yourself gave Heathcote leave to go out more than once this term. I’m going to put a stop to that.”
“Are you really?” said Pledge.
“Yes,” said Mansfield, flashing with his eyes, but otherwise cool.
Whereupon the meeting broke up.
Freckleton had by no means a congenial task before him.
All this term he had been unable to settle down in his hermit’s cell. Mansfield had always been bringing him out for this and that special duty, till he was becoming quite a public character; and, unfortunately for him, he had done the few services for which he had been told off so well, that Mansfield had no notion whatever of letting him crawl back to obscurity.
The Captain knew what he was about in selecting the Hermit to open the campaign against the “Select Sociables.” A secret lawless society in a school is like a secret lawless society in a country—a pest to be dealt with carefully. Mansfield knew well enough that he himself was not the man to do it; nor was the downright Cresswell, nor the hot-headed Cartwright. It needed the wisdom of the serpent as well as the paw of the lion to do it, and if anyone was likely to succeed, it was Freckleton.
For Freckleton, hermit as he was, seemed to know more about every fellow in Templeton than anyone else. Where and when he made their acquaintance, no one knew and no one inquired. But certain it was no one knew the weak points of this boy and the good points of that better than he. And, as we have seen already, he was a “dark” man; hardly anyone knew him. They knew he had won the Bishop’s Scholarship and was reputed prodigiously learned. For the rest, except that he was harmless and kindly, fellows hardly seemed to know him at all. The “Select Sociables” were in full congress. They had instituted a fine of a penny for non-attendance, which had worked wonders. And to-night every member was in his place, except only Heathcote and Coote, who, as the reader knows, had something else to think of just then.
The behaviour of these two young gentlemen was giving the club some uneasiness. They were not alive to their duties as “Sociables.” And they had got into the abominable habit of obeying monitors and associating with questionable characters, such as Richardson, Aspinall, and the like.
A motion had just been passed calling upon the two delinquents to appear at the next meeting and answer for their conduct, when the door opened and Freckleton entered.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said he. “I’m not sure if I’m a member, but I hope I don’t intrude.”
The “Sociables” stared at him, half in anger, half in bewilderment, as he helped himself to a chair and sat down with his back to the door.
“The fact is,” said he with a weary look, “I’ve lived such a retired life here, I hardly know where to find fellows I want. I’ve been hunting high and low for half a dozen fellows with brains in their heads, and someone told me if I came here I should find plenty.”
There was a titter not unmingled with a few frowns, as the Hermit spread himself comfortably on his chair and looked round him.
“It’s as hard to find a fellow with brains nowadays as it was for Diogenes to find an honest man, once. You know who Diogenes was, don’t you, Gossy?” added he, turning suddenly on that young bravo.
Gosse blushed crimson at finding himself so unexpectedly singled out; and faltered out that he had forgotten.
“Forgotten?” said Freckleton, joining in the general laugh at Gosse’s expense; “and you knew so well once! Ask Bull; he knows; he’s in the Sixth, and very clever. Why, Bull (I hope he’s not present)—”
Another laugh. For Bull sat in his place the size of life, with his bloated face almost as red as Gosse’s.
“Bull actually found the Sixth so dull and unintellectual that he left us, in order to cultivate the acquaintance of Culver, and fellows of culture and scholarship like him. It was a great loss to us. We’ve hardly had an idea in the Sixth since Bull left.”
This double hit greatly delighted the majority of the “Sociables;” scarcely less so than Bull’s red cheeks, and the gape with which Culver received the reference to himself.
“You’re not wanted here,” Bull exclaimed; “get out!”
“There! Isn’t that clever?” said the Hermit, in apparent admiration. “Did ever you hear a sentence so well put together, and so eloquently delivered. Why, not even the ‘too-too’ Wrangham (I hope Wrangham’s not here)—”
Blushing was the order of the day. Wrangham tried hard to look unconcerned, but as the eyes of the Club turned round in his direction, the tell-tale roses came on his cadaverous cheeks and mounted to his forehead.
“The ‘too-too’ Wrangham, who loves lilies because they are pure, and calls teapots ‘consummate’ because—well, I don’t exactly know why—he couldn’t have put his one idea so neatly—”
“Look here, Freckleton,” said Spokes, feeling it due to the dignity of the Club to put an end to this scene; “this is a private meeting. You’ve no right to be here. Nobody wants you.”
“Dear me! was that the silvery voice of toffee-loving Spokes?” said the Hermit, amid a shout of laughter; for everyone knew Spokes’s weak point. “He says ‘Look here!’ Really I cannot, until a sponge has been passed over the honest face and shorn it of some of its clinging sweetness. But, gentlemen of the ‘Select’—‘Select’ is the word, isn’t it?”
“If you don’t go out, you’ll get chucked out,” said Bull.
“Oh, wonderful English! wonderful elocution!” said the Hermit. “Ah, it is good to be here. Ah! he comes, he comes!”
It was a critical moment as the burly Bull came down the room. Had he done so five minutes sooner Freckleton might have found himself single-handed. But already his genial banter had told among the more susceptible of his hearers, and he could count at any rate on fair play. For the rest, he had little anxiety.
“Wait a moment,” said he, rising to his feet, and motioning to Bull to wait: “Sociables, Bull wants to fight me. Do you want me to fight him?”
“Yes, yes,” shouted every one, delighted at the prospect of a fray, and many of them quite indifferent as to who conquered.
“Very well, gentlemen,” said the Hermit; “I will obey you on one condition, and one only.”
“What is it?” they shouted eagerly.
“This: that if I beat Bull, you make me your president; or, if you think it fairer, if I beat Bull first and then Spokes, you elect me. What do you say?”
The Hermit was staking high with a vengeance. Little had he dreamed, when he came down to have a little talk with the “Select Sociables,” of such a proposal. It was the sight of Bull walking down the room which had furnished the inspiration, and he was daring enough to seize the chance while he had it and risk all upon it.
In his secret heart he was not absolutely sure of vanquishing his opponent. For Bull was a noted fighting man, and had made his mark in Templeton. The Hermit had never fought in his life. And yet he knew a little about boxing. He was strong, cool, and sound of wind; and knew enough of human nature to avoid the least appearance of doubt or hesitation in a crisis like this.
“What do you say?” asked he.
“Rather! If you lick, we’ll make you president,” shouted the Club.
“As it is a business matter,” said Freckleton, “and will have to go on the minutes, wouldn’t it be well for someone to propose and second it?”
Whereupon Braider proposed and someone else seconded the proposal, which was put to the meeting with due solemnity and carried unanimously.
“Now,” said the Hermit, slowly divesting himself of his coat when the ceremony was concluded, “I’m at your service, Bull.”
There was breathless silence for a moment as all eyes turned on the ex-monitor.
The blushes had left his cheeks, and a pallor rather whiter than usual was there in their place. He stood, in a fascinated sort of way, watching Freckleton as he rolled the sleeves up above his elbows and divested himself of his collar. He had never imagined the “dark man” would face him, still less challenge him thus before the whole Club.
The coward’s heart failed him when the moment came. He didn’t like the look of things. For an instant the crimson rushed back to his face, then, turning his back, he walked away.
Instantly a storm of hissing and hooting rose from the club, such as had rarely been heard in the walls of Templeton. None are so indignant at cowards as those who are not quite sure of their own heroism, and Bull found it out.
“Do I understand,” said Freckleton, as soon as he could get in a word, “that the Bull declines?”
The Bull made no answer.
“He funks it. Turn him out!” cried Gosse.
The Hermit could not prevent a smile.
“Does anyone second Mr Gosse’s motion?”
“I do,” shouted Spokes, amid derisive laughter.
“Then,” said Freckleton, opening the door, “we needn’t detain you, Bull, unless, on second thoughts—”
Bull slunk out, followed by another howl, which drowned the Hermit’s words. When he had gone the latter put on his coat, and, walking up to the chair, which Spokes had prudently vacated, called the club to order and said:—
“Gentlemen,—I beg to thank you for appointing me your president. I know it will be hard to follow worthily in the footsteps of the gentleman who has just left the room—(groans)—and of the gentleman who has just vacated this chair, leaving some of his sweetness behind him. (Derisive cheers.) Still, I would like to do something to help make this club a credit. I think we might look over the rules and see if we can get anything in which will keep cowards and cads out of the club. Of course that wouldn’t affect any of you, but it would help to keep us more select for the future. (Cheers.) In fact, I don’t see, gentlemen, why we shouldn’t make the club big enough to take in any fellow who, like all of you, hates cowardice, and meanness, and dirtiness, and that sort of thing. (Cheers, not unmixed with blushes.) We may not all think alike about everything, but, if we are all agreed it’s good form to be gentlemen, and honest and brave, I don’t see why we can’t be ‘Select Sociables’ still. We pride ourselves at Templeton on being one of the crack schools in the country. (Loud cheers.) Well, any lot of fellows who set up for the ‘Select’ here ought to be the crack of the crack—like you all, for instance. However, these are only suggestions. Now I’m your president I mean to work hard for the club and do my best—(cheers)—and I ask you to back me up. (Cheers.) I think, by way of a start, we might appoint a committee of, say, half a dozen, to look into the rules and see how they can be improved, and how the club can be made of most use to Templeton. What do you say?”
Cheers greeted the suggestion, and several names were proposed. The six elected included Spokes and Braider, and it was evident, from the half-nervous, half-gratified manner in which these two undertook their new responsibilities, that the Hermit had found out the trick of bringing out the good points even of the most unpromising boys.
The Club separated with cheers for the new president, and scarcely yet realising the transformation scene which he had made in their midst. A few, such as Wrangham, skulked off, but the majority took up the new order of things with ardour, and vied with one another in showing that they at any rate were bent on making the Club a credit.
Freckleton meanwhile retired to report the success of his mission to Mansfield.
“Well, have you got their names and cautioned them?” asked the Captain.
“I’m very hot and thirsty,” said the Hermit, flinging himself down on a chair.
“Yes, yes; but what about this bad club?”
“Call it not bad, Jupiter, for I am its president.”
“What! you its president!” cried the Captain, taking in the mystery at a bound. “You mean to say you’ve talked them over! By Jove! Freckleton, you ought to be Captain of Templeton.”
“Thank you; I’ve quite enough to do as president of the ‘Select Sociables.’”
And he then proceeded to give a modest history of the evening’s proceedings.
Mansfield was delighted at every particular.
“But suppose Bull had fought you,” said he, “where would you be now?”
“Better off, I think,” said the Hermit. “It would have told better if I could really have knocked him down. However, I fancy it’s as well it didn’t come to a brush.”
“But can you box, old man?”
“We must try one fine day. But now about the Club. I want you to help me draw up a scheme for my committee.”
And the two friends spent the rest of the evening in one of the most gratifying tasks that ever fell to the lot of two honest seniors.
A very different conversation was taking place a few studies away, where Pledge found himself alone with his fag for the first time since the boy had avowed his reconciliation with Dick.
“Ah, Georgie, I don’t see much of you now. My study’s badly off for dusting.”
“I’m very sorry, Pledge; I really hadn’t time.”
“No? Busy reading the police news, I suppose, and seeing how young gentlemen behave themselves in the dock?”
Heathcote flushed up, though from a very different cause from that which his senior suspected. In the new terror about Tom White, the youngster had forgotten all about Webster’s pencil-case.
“You’re going it, Georgie,” said the monitor; “the inevitable result of bad company. You’ll want me to go bail for you after all.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said the boy, with a confusion that belied the words.
“Well, I may be able to pull you through it better than you think, though, of course, I’m not such a great gun as Dick. However, what I want you for now is to go and post this letter at the head office.”
“Why, it’s half-past eight,” said Heathcote.
“Wonderful! and the post goes at nine!”
“But I mean I shall get in a row for going out.”
“Wonderful again! If anyone asks you, say I told you to go. Look alive!”
Heathcote took the letter mechanically and went. He was too dazed to argue the matter, and too much disturbed by Pledge’s apparent knowledge of the scrape which was weighing on him and his friends to care to run the risk of offending him just now.
As he was creeping across the Quadrangle, a door opened, and Mansfield confronted him.
“Where are you going?”
“To the post. Pledge gave me leave.”
“Go back to your room,” said Mansfield, shutting the door.
“He’s forgotten to give me lines,” said Georgie to himself. “By Jove! I hope he’s not going to send me up to Winter!”
To Georgie’s surprise, he got neither lines nor a message to go to Dr Winter. But, as he was about to retire to rest, he received a summons from the Captain to go and speak with him in his study.
His sentence was as short as it was astounding “Heathcote, in future you fag for Swinstead, not Pledge. Good-night.”