Chapter Seven.
How there arose a Notable Rebellion at Stonebridge House.
Of course we were wrong; of course we were foolish.
But then, reader, please remember we were only boys goaded up to the last pitch, and quite unable, as I have narrated, to stand the Henniker any longer.
It was no game we were embarked on. If you had seen the seriousness of our faces as we inspected the parlour and reconnoitred the Henniker’s future prison, that Saturday; if you had heard the seriousness of our voices as we solemnly deliberated whether nails or screws would be best to use in fastening up the doors—you would have found out that, “backward and troublesome” boys as we were, we could be in earnest sometimes.
“Screwing’s quieter,” said Rathbone.
“Nailing’s quicker,” said Philpot.
“Isn’t that a thing the captain had better decide?” softly suggested Hawkesbury, turning to Smith.
I always got fidgety when the senior boy and my chum got near each other. Smith had such a way of firing up instinctively at whatever the other might say, even when it meant no harm.
He flared up now with his eyes, and then turning to the two boys, said, shortly, “Screws of course; that’s been settled long ago.”
Hawkesbury smiled gratefully, and said he was sure a matter like that would not be overlooked.
Well, the Henniker went on having her fling that Saturday and Sunday. We caught it right and left, and took it all meekly. Nay, some of us took it so meekly that I was once or twice afraid our secret would be suspected.
The regulation-reading in the parlour on Sunday evening was a shocking time for me. I had no intention of being bad, but somehow, what with the excitement of our scheme, and the dreariness of the reader’s voice, and the closeness of the room, I fell asleep and nearly rolled off my form.
The Henniker put down her book.
“Batchelor,” said she, “you shall be punished. Stand on the form and read aloud.”
And so saying, she handed me the book and pointed to the place.
This was the very refinement of torture, and I draw a veil over the sad spectacle which followed. Nor was I the only victim standing there struggling and perspiring through the long sentences, turned back whenever I made a mistake, to begin the page over again, till the end of the chapter seemed to get farther and farther away; the other boys, too, came in for part of the tragedy, for the Henniker, being now free of her book, had no occupation for her eyes but to glare at them, and no occupation for her tongue but to level bad marks and rebukes and punishments at the head of every offender.
“Reading” lasted that evening until ten o’clock, and to this day I cannot imagine how it ever came to an end even then. I know I never got to the end. This sad experience gave a considerable additional zest to our hopes of freedom on the following day.
Smith was not the sort of fellow to undertake what he did not mean to carry through, and I was astonished to see how carefully his plans were laid, and how precisely he had allotted to every one of us our respective duties.
Monday dawned at length, and we rose from our beds like patriots on the morning of a battle which is to decide their freedom or slavery.
I had two minutes’ whisper with Smith as we went down to breakfast.
“Tell the fellows,” said he, “that the signal to begin will be just when morning school is over. The Hen goes to get ready for dinner, and Shankley and Philpot are to follow and screw her up. The holes are already bored, so it won’t take long.”
“Suppose she yells,” suggested I.
“Not likely, but if she does—her room’s far enough away. Oh! by the way, I’ve screwed her window already. I thought we can one of us easily smash a pane for her if she wants more ventilation.”
“And how about Ladislaw and Hashford?”
“I’m going down, when the Henniker’s safe, to ask them both to step up into the parlour. They’ll probably think something’s wrong, and hurry up. (I’ve screwed that window, too, by the way.) Then you and Rathbone are to screw their door when they are safe in—I’ve put the key outside, too—and I’ve told the other fellows to be ready to bring a lot of desks and things out of the schoolroom and pile them up, in case they kick too hard.”
“Upon my word, Jack, you’re a regular general. But I say, we’ve forgotten the two servants.”
“No, we haven’t. I’ve told them what’s up, and they won’t interfere; but—shut up now.”
During the morning we continued to pass round word what the arrangements were, and waited feverishly for the close of morning school. As we sat in the class-room we had the satisfaction of seeing first the butcher’s pony and then the baker’s cart drive up the front garden and drive back again. We were all right for the “sinews of war” for a day or two, anyhow!
The Henniker kept it up till the last, and distributed her favours lavishly and impartially all round. But we heeded it not; we even enjoyed it, for were not we to have our innings next?
It seemed as if morning school would never end. At last a fluttering at our hearts, more convincing even than the clock, told us the hour was come. We rose from our seats. The rebellion at Stonebridge House had begun.
The Henniker marched with stately tread from the room, and up the stairs to her own apartment. It seemed a long journey to us, who sat listening in breathless silence, and at last the closing of her door seemed to resound all over the house.
“Now then,” said Smith to Shankley and Philpot, who, with their shoes off and their tools in their hands, stood ready, like two trained assassins, for the word of command. “Now then, and keep quiet, whatever you do!”
They went. There was nothing stately about their march. They darted up the stairs two steps at a time, and the last we saw of them was as they turned the corner into the passage, at the end of which was situate the enemy’s fortress.
It seemed a year before they returned!
At last Shankley, with beaming face, burst into our midst.
“It’s all right!” said he, in an excited whisper. “She sounded a little like kicking, so Philpot’s keeping guard. We had one screw half in before she even heard us.”
“What did she say then?” asked three or four eager questioners.
“She wanted to know who was there, and if we wanted to speak to her we must wait till she came down, and a bad mark to whoever it was for coming and disturbing her.”
There was a general laugh at this, which Smith hurriedly checked.
“The thing’s only half done yet,” he said. “Time enough to laugh when the other two are safe.”
This was a wise rebuke, and we became serious in an instant.
“Now,” said Smith, “have you got the screwdriver and screws all right, Batchelor? The rest of you be ready if I call;” and off he went to summon the two masters to the parlour.
It was a critical moment, for every thing depended on our getting both into the room together.
Smith, so he told us afterwards, found both Mr Ladislaw and Mr Hashford talking together in the study of the former. He entered the room suddenly, and crying, in an agitated voice, “Oh, will you both please step up to Miss Henniker’s parlour at once? Please be quick!” as suddenly vanished.
Of course both the masters, making sure Miss Henniker must be in a fit, or else that the house must be on fire, rushed upstairs, gallantly side by side, to the rescue. Rathbone and I, who were in hiding behind the door next to that of the parlour, could hear them scuttling towards us along the passage, and making straight for their trap. They rushed wildly into the room. In a moment we were out after them, the door was slammed to, the key was turned, and the first screw was well on its way home before they even found out that the beloved Henniker was not there!
Then, after a moment’s pause (during which screw number two had started on its way), the handle of the door was shaken, and Mr Hashford’s voice cried out, “Who is there? What are you doing there, you boys?”
His only answer was a mighty cheer from the assembled pupils of Stonebridge House, which must have been quite as explicit as the longest explanation.
“Now then,” cried Smith, as once more the handle of the door was violently agitated; “look sharp, you fellows, with the desks—”
“Smith,” cried the voice of Mr Ladislaw, from within; “you shall answer for this, Smith. Undo the door at once, sir.”
But it had been agreed no parley should be held with the besieged, and Smith’s only answer was to help to drag up the first desk and plant it firmly against the door. The blockade was soon made, but until it was, the fellows kept steadily and seriously to work.
Then ensued a scene I shall never forget, and which told significantly as the most thrilling story what had been our privations and persecutions and unhappiness at Stonebridge House.
The fellows yelled and rushed through the school as if they were mad. They shouted, and sung, and halloed, and laughed. They flung books and rulers and ink-pots to the four winds of heaven. They put the cane in the fire, and one of the Henniker’s reading books, which was lying in the study, they tore into a thousand pieces. They burst into every forbidden nook and cranny of the house. They rushed down to the kitchen and up to the attics. They bawled down the speaking-tube, and danced on the dining-room table. Nothing was omitted which could testify to their glee at the new emancipation, or their hatred of the old régime. They held a mock school outside the Henniker’s door, and gave one another bad marks and canings with infinite laughter, by way of cheering up their prisoner.
Finally the calls of hunger put an end to this strange demonstration, and with a mighty stampede we made for the kitchen. To our surprise, it was empty.
“Why, where’s the cook and housemaid?” cried one and another to Smith.
“Oh,” said Smith, who with the cares of generalship upon him had taken only a small part in the jubilation which had just been celebrated, “the servants have gone home. They both live at Felwick, so I said they might take a week’s holiday.”
The coolness of this announcement was received with much laughter, in the midst of which, however, Hawkesbury was heard to say, “I hope Smith is a good cook, for really I can’t eat my food raw.”
This was certainly a matter we had not reckoned on, and the idea of raw meat did cast a temporary shadow on our happiness. But Smith replied, “Oh, of course we do the cooking by turns. By the way, Hawkesbury, you and Flanagan have to see to that to-day.”
Hawkesbury’s smile left him for an instant.
“Nonsense; I’m not going to do anything of the sort.”
“Then you’d better be the captain,” said Smith glumly, “if you aren’t going to obey orders.”
Hawkesbury’s smile returned.
“Oh, if it’s the captain’s orders, of course. Come along, Flanagan.”
“Come along,” said the jovial Flanagan; “I think we’ll make a hash of it with a vengeance!”
Whereat this little breeze blew over. As a matter of fact, we all assisted at the cooking of this celebrated meal, and made a terrific hash of it, which, nevertheless, we relished greatly, and declared we had never tasted such a dinner since we came to Stonebridge House. No more we had!
But amid our own feasting it would never do to forget our prisoners. Three parcels were made, containing each a liberal helping of bread and meat, with little parcels of salt and butter thoughtfully added.
“Write on them ‘For two days,’” said Smith, “and bring them up.”
“How about water?” asked some one.
“There’s enough in each room for a day or two,” said Smith, who seemed to have taken note of everything.
“I don’t see the fun of feeding them up this way,” said Rathbone. “You’ll never get them to give in as long as you make them so jolly comfortable.”
“I’d like to see how you liked it for two days,” said Smith. “I don’t suppose you’d think yourself overfed or jolly comfortable either. But come on; have you got the string?”
Each parcel was attached to a long piece of string, and conveyed in state by the entire school to its respective destination. The Henniker was first fed. Amid shouts of “Cheer, boys, cheer,” and “Rule Britannia,” we marched up to her door and halted, while Smith, with the aid of a rake, lifted the parcel on to the small ventilator above the door, and gave it a little shove over the other side.
“Now lower away,” said he to the boy who held the string.
“Smith, I hear your voice,” cried the Henniker. “Smith, open my door, please.”
Except for the last extraordinary expression the Henniker’s voice sounded much as usual. No answer, of course, was given, and we waited until the parcel should be detached from the string.
For about five minutes it remained untouched, during which period the holder tried to attract the attention of the prisoner by sundry spasmodic jerkings of the string. At length the fish did bite. Without a word the parcel was detached from the string. We turned to go.
“Plate, knife, and fork in the cupboard,” cried out Smith, as we did so.
“You don’t mean to say,” said Rathbone, as we went along, “that you’ve put a knife and fork for her?”
“Yes, I have,” said Smith, in a manner which did not encourage the truculent Rathbone to pursue the subject.
The feeding of the two masters was a longer process. For to reach their door it was necessary to climb over a perfect jungle of desks and chairs piled up against it; and when reached it was discovered that the glass ventilator, which usually stood open, had been shut and fastened inside. But Smith was not to be baulked by a trifle. He coolly broke the glass with his rake, till he had made a hole big enough to admit the parcels, which, one after the other, were lifted over the opening, and lowered within reach of their respective owners. In the present case the string to which they were attached was double, so, when it was found that neither was taken, Smith gave the order to “run” the string, and let them drop the parcels off on to the floor. This was done, and we were turning to go, when Mr Ladislaw’s voice rose in angry tones.
“Listen to me, boys,” he cried, authoritatively.
A general yell was the only answer to this, mingled with loud laughter, as Mr Hashford’s head suddenly appeared at the broken ventilator. The apparition was the signal for a general fusillade of paper balls, in the midst of which the usher modestly retired from observation.
The evening was spent in the same rollicking manner as the afternoon. We held mock school in Mr Ladislaw’s study, and got Flanagan to dress up in an old gown of the Henniker’s, which was found in the boot-room, and enact that favourite character’s part, which he did to the life. We also made out our own “reports” for home, and played a most spirited game of croquet in the hall, with potatoes for balls and brooms for mallets, besides treating our prisoners to a ravishing concert by an orchestra of one dinner-bell, two dish-covers, two combs and paper, and one iron tray.
We kept it up till rather late, and, indeed, it was not till Smith summoned us to a council of war that the problem of how and where to spend the night occurred to us.
“Some of us ought to stay up as sentinels,” said our captain.
“Well, I can’t, for one,” said Philpot, “for I was never so sleepy in my life.”
“I should think,” said Hawkesbury, sweetly, “if the captain stayed up we should be quite safe.”
Why should Smith glare so whenever Hawkesbury spoke? I wondered. I’m sure there did not seem to be anything offensive in this.
“I’ll stay up, Jack,” said I, more with a desire to avert a row than because I felt particularly “spry.”
“So will I,” said Shankley, “if you’ll dig me in the ribs when I get sleepy.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Smith, after having recovered himself. “Suppose we bring all the beds down and camp out on the landing.”
This was carried with acclamation, and every one forthwith proceeded to his dormitory, and reappeared staggering under the weight of his bedclothes. One monstrous bed was made in which we all “camped out” in turn, one fellow only remaining awake as sentinel for an hour at a time.
“We shall have to settle to-morrow,” said Smith, when he had returned to “camp,” after having gone the round and seen that all lights were out, and all doors and bolts fastened—“we shall have to settle to-morrow what to say to them about coming out, you fellows.”
“I thought that was left to the captain,” said Hawkesbury.
“I vote we stick out against the Henniker having anything to do with us,” said Philpot, “in or out of school.”
“Yes, and do away with afternoon school and preparation too,” said Rathbone; “they are both nuisances.”
“And get a holiday to go out of bounds once a week,” said Flanagan in the act of dropping asleep.
These sweeping schemes of reform, however, agreeable as they sounded, seemed none of them likely to receive the assent of our prisoners.
Smith’s idea was a good deal more moderate. “I don’t see that we can stick out for more than leave to talk when we are not in class, and do away with ‘detentions.’”
“That really seems hardly worth all the trouble,” said Hawkesbury, “does it?”
“It’s left to the captain,” said Smith, shortly, “and that’s my idea, if you agree.”
“We ought to bargain they don’t take any more notice of this affair, or write home about it,” suggested Shankley.
“Who cares what they write home?” scornfully inquired Smith.
“Ah, it may not matter to you,” said Hawkesbury, smiling very sweetly, “but to all the rest of us it does.”
Smith glared at the speaker, and looked as if he was about to fly at his throat; but he controlled himself, and merely replied, “Very well, then, they are to promise not to say anything about it at home, as well as give in on the other things. Is that settled?”
Everybody said “yes,” and shortly afterwards most of the mutineers were peacefully asleep.
“Fred,” said Smith to me that night, as we kept watch together, “unless that fellow Hawkesbury lets me alone I shall give the thing up.”
“Don’t do that,” said I. “Really, I don’t think that Hawkesbury means it. I’ll speak to him if you like.” It cost me a great effort to say this.
Smith fired up unwontedly at the suggestion.
“If you do, you and I will never be friends again,” he said, passionately. Then recovering himself, he added, repentantly, “Fred, I’m awfully sorry I lost my temper. I know I’m a brute; but please don’t think of speaking to any one about it.”
“All right, old man,” said I.
And so the night wore on, and when presently it came to be our turn to lie down and sleep in the big bed, I, at any rate, did so a good deal disturbed in my spirit, and not altogether sure whether in our present escapade we Stonebridge House boys were not making rather fools of ourselves.