Chapter Two.
How our heroes fall out and yet remain friends.
Mountjoy House had a narrow escape that afternoon of losing three of its most promising pupils.
The boys themselves by no means realised the peril of their situation. Indeed, after the first alarm, and finding that, by clinging tightly to the rail of the box-seat, they could support themselves on their feet on the floor of the swinging vehicle, Heathcote and Coote began almost to enjoy it, and were rather sorry one or two of the Templeton boys were not at hand to see how Mountjoy did things.
Richardson, however, with the reins in his hands, but utterly powerless to check the headlong career of the mare, or to do anything but guide her, took a more serious view of the situation, and heartily wished the drive was at an end.
It was a flat road all the way to Mountjoy—no steep hill to breathe the runaway, and no ploughed field to curb her ardour. It was a narrow road, too, so narrow that, for two vehicles to pass one another, it was necessary for one of the two to draw up carefully at the very verge. And as the verge in the present case meant the edge of rather a steep embankment, the prospect was not altogether a cheering one for an inexperienced boy, who, if he knew very little about driving, knew quite well that everything depended on his own nerve and coolness.
And Richardson not only had a head, but knew how to keep it. With a rein tightly clutched in each hand, with his feet firmly pressed against the footboard, with a sharp eye out over the mare’s ears, and a grim twitch on his determined mouth, he went over the chances in his own mind.
“If she goes on like this, we shall get to Mountjoy in half an hour. What a pace! We’re bound to smash up before we get there! Perhaps these fellows had better try and jump for it. Hallo! lucky we didn’t go over that stone! Wonder if I could pull her up if I got on her back? She might kick up and smash the trap! Wonder if she will pull up, or go over the bank, or what? Tom—Tom will have to run hard to catch us. Whew! what a swing! I could have sworn we were over!”
This last peril, and the involuntary cry of the two boys clinging on behind him, silenced even this mental soliloquy for a bit. But the waggonette, after two or three desperate plunges, righted itself and continued its mad career at the heels of the mare.
“What would happen if we went over? Jolly awkward to get pitched over on to my head or down among the mare’s feet! She’d kick, I guess! Those fellows inside could jump and— By Jove! there comes something on the road! We’re in for it now! Either a smash, or over the bank, or— Hallo! there’s a gate open!”
This last inward exclamation was caused by the sight of an open gate some distance ahead, through which a rough cart-track branched off from the road towards the sand-hills on the left. Richardson, with the instinct of desperation, seized upon this as the only way of escape from the peril which threatened them.
“Look out, you fellows!” cried he; “hang on tight on the right side while we turn, and jump well out if we go over.”
They watched him breathlessly as they came towards the gate. The vehicle which was meeting them and their own were about equal distance from the place, and it was clear their fate must be settled in less than a minute.
Richardson waved to the driver of the approaching cart to pull up, and at the same time edged the mare as far as he could on to the off-side of the road, so as to give her a wide turn in.
“Now for it!” said he to himself, pulling the left rein; “if this don’t do, I’ll give up driving.”
The mare, perhaps weary, perhaps perplexed at the sight of the cart in front, perhaps ready for a new diversion, obeyed the lead and swerved off at the gate. For a moment the waggonette tottered on its left wheel, and, but for the weight of the two passengers on the other side, would have caught the gate post and shattered itself to atoms in the narrow passage.
As it was, it cleared the peril by an inch, and then, plunging on to the soft, rough track, capsized gently, mare and all, landing its three occupants a yard or two off with their noses in the mud.
It was an undignified end to an heroic drive, and Richardson, as he picked himself up and cleared the mud from his eyes, felt half disappointed that no bones were broken or joints dislocated after all. Coote did certainly contribute a grain of consolation by announcing that he believed one of his legs was broken. But even this hope of glory was short-lived, for that young hero finding no one at leisure to assist him to his feet rose by himself, and walked some distance to a grass bank where he could sit down and examine for himself the extent of his injuries.
“Wal, young squire,” said a voice at Dick’s side, as that young gentleman found eyesight enough to look about him, “you’ve done it this time.”
The owner of the voice was the driver of the cart, and the tones and looks with which he made the remark were anything but unflattering to Richardson.
“It was a close squeak through the gate,” said the latter, “not six inches either side; and if it hadn’t been for the ruts we should have kept up all right till now. I say, do you think the trap’s damaged, or the mare?”
The mare was lying very comfortably on her side taking a good breath after her race, and not offering to resume her feet. As for the waggonette it was lying equally comfortably on its side, with one wheel up in the air.
“Shaft broken,” said the driver, “that’s all.”
“That’s all!” said Dick, dolefully, “we shall catch it, and no mistake.”
The man grinned.
“You can’t expect to play games of that sort without scratching the varnish off,” said he. “No fault of yours you haven’t got your necks broke.”
“Suppose we try to get her up?” said Richardson, looking as if this last information had very little comfort in it.
So among them they unharnessed the mare and managed to disengage her from the vehicle and get her to her feet.
“She’s all sound,” said the man, after a careful overhauling.
“She’s a cad,” said Dick, “and I shouldn’t have been sorry if she’d broken her neck. Look at the smash she’s made.”
The trap was indeed far worse damaged than they supposed as first. Not only was a shaft broken, but a wheel was off, and the rail all along one side was torn away. It was clear there was no more driving to be got out of it that afternoon, and the boys gave up the attempt to raise it in disgust.
“Do you know Tom, our man—Ashford’s man?” said Dick.
“Who? Tom Tranter? Yes, I knows him.”
“Well, you’ll meet him on the road between here and Markridge, walking, or perhaps running. Tell him we’ve had a spill and he’d better see after the trap, will you? We’ll go on.”
“What about the horse, though?” said Heathcote.
“I suppose we shall have to take the beast along with us. We can’t leave her here.”
“I think we’d better stop till Tom comes, and all go on together,” suggested Heathcote.
“I suppose you funk it with Ashford,” said Dick whose temper was somewhat ruffled by misfortune. “I don’t. If you two like to stop you can. I’ll go on with the mare.”
“Oh, no, we’ll all come,” said Heathcote. “I’m not afraid, no more is Coote.”
“All serene then, come on. Mind you tell Tom, I say,” added he to the carter. “Good-bye, and thanks awfully.”
And they departed in doleful procession, Dick, with the whip in his hand, leading the mare by the mouth, and Heathcote and Coote following like chief mourners, just out of range of the animal’s heels.
“What shall we say to Ashford?” asked Heathcote, after a little.
“Say? What do you mean?” said Dick.
“He’s sure to ask us what has happened.”
“Well, we shall tell him, I suppose.”
“There’ll be an awful row.”
“Of course there will.”
“We shall get licked.”
“Of course we shall. What of it?”
“Only,” said Heathcote, with a little hesitation, “I suppose there’s no way of getting out of it?”
“Not unless you tell lies. You and Coote can tell some if you like—I shan’t.”
“I’m not going to tell any,” said Coote, “I’ve told quite enough in my exam. papers.”
“Oh, of course, I don’t mean telling crams,” said Heathcote, who really didn’t exactly know what he did mean. “I’ll back you up, old man.”
“Thanks. I say, as we are in a row, mightn’t we just as well take it out of this beastly horse? If Coote led him you and I could take cock shots at him from behind.”
“Oh, yes,” said Coote, “and hit me by mistake; not if I know it.”
“We might aim at Coote,” suggested Heathcote, by way of solving the difficulty, “and hit the mare by mistake.”
“Perhaps it would be rather low,” said Dick. “I don’t see, though, why she shouldn’t carry us. She’s a long back; plenty of room for all three of us.”
“The middle for me,” said Coote.
“Think she’d kick up?” asked Heathcote.
“Not she, she couldn’t lift with all of us on her. Come on. Whoa! you beast. Give us a leg up, somebody. Whoa! Hold her head, Coote, and keep her from going round and round. Now then. By Jove! what a way up it is!”
By a mighty effort of combined hoisting and climbing, the boys, one after the other, scaled the lofty ridge, and perched themselves, as securely as they could, well forward on the mare’s long back.
Luckily for them, the patient animal endured her burden meekly, and plodded on in a listless manner, pricking her ears occasionally at the riot which went on on her back, and once or twice rattling the bones of her riders by a mild attempt at a trot, but otherwise showing no signs of renewing her former more energetic protest.
In this manner, after a weary and not altogether refreshing journey, the three jaded, tightly-packed heroes came to a standstill at the door of Mountjoy House, where, one after the other, they slid sadly from their perches, and addressed themselves to the satisfying of Mrs Ashford’s natural curiosity, only hoping the interview would not be protracted, and so defer for long the supper to which they all eagerly looked forward.
“Why, what’s all this?” said the matron.
“Where’s the waggonette, and Tom?” chimed in Mr Ashford, appearing at the same moment.
“Please, sir,” said Dick, “we didn’t wait for Tom, and drove home, and there was a little accident. I was driving at the time, sir. We got spilt, and the trap was a little damaged. We left word for Tom to see to it, and I’ll write and get my father to pay for mending it. We’re all awfully sorry, sir. Dr Winter sends his regards, and we shall hear the result of the exam. on Thursday. One of the wheels came off, but I fancy it will go on again. It was a rut did it. We were coming along at a very good pace, and should have been here an hour ago if it hadn’t been for the accident. We’re sorry to be late, sir.”
After which ample explanation and apology the boys felt themselves decidedly aggrieved that they were not at once ushered in to supper. Mr Ashford, however, being a mortal of only limited perception, required a good deal more information; and a painful and somewhat petulant cross-examination ensued, the result of which was that our heroes were informed they were not to be trusted, that both Mr and Mrs Ashford were disappointed in them, that they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and that they would hear more about the matter to-morrow.
And what about the supper?—that glorious spread of coffee and hot toast, and eggs and bacon, the anticipation of which had borne them up in all the perils and fatigue of the day, and had shone like a beacon star to guide them home? The subject was ignored, basely ignored; and the culprits were ordered to join the ordinary school supper and appease their hunger on bread and cheese and cold boiled beef, and slake their thirst on “swipes.”
Then did the spirits of Richardson, Heathcote and Coote wax fierce within them. Then did they call Mr Ashford a cad, and Mrs Ashford a sneak. Then did they kick all the little boys within reach, and scowl furiously upon the big ones. Then did they wish the mare was dead and Templeton a ruin!
As, when Jove frowns and Mercury and Vulcan scowl, the hills hide their heads and the valleys tremble beneath the storm, so did the youth of Mountjoy quake and cower that evening as it raised its eyes and beheld those three gloomy heroes devour their beef and drink their swipes. No one ventured to ask how they had fared, or wherefore they looked sad; but they knew something had happened. The little boys gazed with awe-struck wonder at the heroes who had that day been at Templeton, and contended for Templeton honours. The elder boys wondered if gloom was part of Templeton “form,” and when their turn would come to look as black and majestic; and all marvelled at the supper those three ate, and at the chasm they left in the cold boiled beef!
“Come on, you fellows,” said Richardson, as soon as the meal was finished. “I’m going to bed; I’m fagged.”
“So am I,” said Heathcote.
“So am I,” said Coote.
And the triumvirate stalked from the room, leaving Mountjoy more than ever convinced something terrific had happened.
If Coote had had his way, he would rather have stayed up. He slept in a different room from Richardson and Heathcote, and it was rather slow going to bed by himself at half-past seven. But as it was evident from Dick’s manner that this was the proper course to take under the circumstances, he took it, and was very soon dreaming that he and Edward the Fifth’s father were trotting round the Templeton quadrangle on the mare, much to the admiration of the Templeton boys, who assembled in their thousands to witness the exploit.
Next day the uncomfortable topic of the mare and the waggonette was renewed in a long conference with Mr Ashford.
As supper was no longer pending, and as a night’s rest had intervened, the boys were rather more disposed to enter into details. But they failed to satisfy Mr Ashford that they were not to blame for what had occurred.
“I am less concerned,” said he, “about the damage done to the waggonette than I am to think I cannot trust you as fully as I ought to be able to trust my head boys. I hope during the week or two that remains of this term you will try to win back the confidence you have lost. I must, in justice to my other boys, punish you. Under the circumstances, I shall not cane you, but till the end of the term you must each of you lose your hour’s play between twelve and one.”
Mr Ashford paused. Perhaps he expected an outburst of gratitude. Perhaps he didn’t exactly know what to say next. In either case, he found he had made a mistake.
The boys, with an instinct not, certainly, of self-righteousness, but of common justice, felt that they had had punishment enough already for their sin. Mr Ashford took no account of those few seconds when the waggonette was dashing through the gate and reeling to its fall. He reckoned as nothing the weary jolt home, the indignity of that supper last night, and the suspense of that early morning. He made no allowance for an absence of malice in what they had done, and gave them no credit—although, indeed, neither did they give themselves credit—for the regret and straightforwardness with which they had confessed it. He proposed to treat them, the head boys of Mountjoy, as common delinquents, and punish them as he would punish a cheat, or a bully, or mutineer.
It wasn’t fair—they knew it; and if Ashford didn’t know it, too—well, he ought.
“We’d rather be caned, sir,” said Richardson, speaking for all three.
Mr Ashford regarded the speaker with sharp surprise.
“Richardson, kindly remember I am the best judge of what punishment you deserve.”
“It’s not fair to keep us in all the term,” said Dick, his cheeks mounting colour with the desperateness of his boldness.
Mr Ashford changed colour, too, but his cheeks turned pale.
“Leave my sight, sir, instantly! How do you dare to use language like that to me!”
Fortunately for the dignity, as well as for the comfort, of the three boys, Dick made no attempt to prolong the argument. He turned and left the room, followed by his two faithful henchmen, little imagining that, if any one had scored in this unsatisfactory interview, he had.
Don’t let the reader imagine that any mystical glory belongs to the schoolboy who happens to “score one” off his master. If he does it consciously, the chances are he is a snob for doing it. If he does it unconsciously, as Dick did here, then the misfortune of the master by no means means the bliss of the boy.
Dick felt anything but blissful as he stalked moodily to the schoolroom that morning and growled his injuries to his allies.
But Mr Ashford, as soon as his first burst of temper had evaporated, like an honest, sensible man, sat down and reviewed the situation; and it occurred to him, on reviewing it, that he had made a mistake. It was, of course, extremely painful and humiliating to have to acknowledge it; but, once acknowledged, it would have been far more humiliating to Mr Ashford’s sense of honour to persist in it.
He summoned the boys once more to his presence, and they trooped in like three prisoners brought up on remand to hear their final sentence.
The master’s mouth twitched nervously, and he half repented of the ordeal he had set before himself.
“You said just now, Richardson, that the punishment I proposed to inflict on you was not fair?”
“Yes, sir, we think so,” replied Dick, simply.
“I think so, too,” said Mr Ashford, equally simply, “and I shall say no more about it. Now you can go.”
The boys gaped at him in mingled admiration and bewilderment.
“You can go,” repeated the master.
Richardson took a hasty survey of his companions’ countenances, and said—
“Will you cane us instead, please sir?”
“No, Richardson, that would not be fair either.”
Richardson made one more effort.
“Please, sir, we think we deserve something.”
“People don’t always get their deserts in this world, my boy,” said the master, with a smile. “Now please go when I tell you.”
Mr Ashford rallied three waverers to his standard that morning. They didn’t profess to understand the meaning of it all, but they could see that the master had sacrificed something to do them justice, and with the native chivalry of boys, they made his cause theirs, and did all they could to cover his retreat.
Two days later, a letter by the post was brought in to Mr Ashford in the middle of school.
Coote’s face grew crimson as he saw it, and the faces of his companions grew long and solemn. A sudden silence fell on the room, broken only by the rustle of the paper as the master tore open the envelope and produced the printed document. His eyes glanced hurriedly down it, and a shade of trouble crossed his brow.
“We’re gone coons,” groaned Heathcote.
“Don’t speak to me,” said Dick.
Coote said nothing, but wished one of the windows was open on a hot day like this.
“This paper contains the result of the entrance examination at Templeton,” said Mr Ashford. “Out of thirty-six candidates, Heathcote has passed fifteenth, and Richardson twenty-first. Coote, I am sorry to say, has not passed.”