Chapter Thirty One.
Loman in Luck again.
It certainly did look as if Loman was going to the dogs. And any one able to see and know all that was going on in his mind would have found out that he was a good deal nearer “the dogs” even than he seemed.
On the evening after the examination he received a note from Cripps—brought up in a most barefaced way by one of the potboys at the Cockchafer—requesting the pleasure of Mr Loman’s company at that pleasant spot immediately, to talk over business!
“Why didn’t he send it by post?” demanded Loman, angrily, of the disreputable messenger. “Don’t you know if you were seen up here there’d be a row?”
“Dunno so much about that, but the governor, he says he’s dead on the job this time, he says, and if you don’t show up sharp with the stumpy, he says he’ll give you a call himself and wake you up, he says—”
“Tell him I’ll come, and go off quick,” said Loman, hurriedly.
“Beg pardon, mister,” said the potboy, with a leer, and touching his cap, “anything allowed for this here little job—carrying up the letter?”
“I’ll allow you a kick if you don’t go!” exclaimed the wretched Loman, furiously.
“Oh, very good,” said the boy, making a long nose. “Wait till the governor walks up. We’ll see who’ll kick then!”
And so saying the amiable and respectable youth departed.
“Hullo!” said Wren, coming up just at this moment, “who’s your friend, Loman? He looks a nice sort of boy!”
Wren was now captain and head monitor at Saint Dominic’s—far too blunt and honest ever to be an object of anything but dislike and uneasiness to Loman. Now the uneasiness was the more prominent of the two. Loman replied, confused and reddening, “Oh, that boy? Why—oh, he’s a shop-boy from the town, come up about an order—you know—for a hat-box.”
“I don’t know. Do you mean Morris’s boy?”
“Ye—yes. A new boy of Morris’s.”
“Well, whoever he is, he’s a precious cheeky specimen. Why didn’t you kick him?”
“Eh? Kick him? Yes, I was just going to,” began Loman, scarcely knowing what he said, “when—”
“When I turned up? Well, I shouldn’t have interfered. By the way, Loman, I suppose you’ve given up going to that public now? What’s the fellow’s name?”
“Cripps,” said Loman. “Oh, I never go near the place now.”
“That’s a good job. It was awkward enough his turning up as he did last term, and all a chance the Doctor didn’t hear of it, I can tell you. Anyhow, now I’m captain, that sort of thing will have to drop, mind.”
“Oh, I assure you I’ve never been near the place since,” said Loman, meekly, anxious if possible to keep the new captain in humour, much as he disliked him.
“I’m glad of it,” said Wren, coldly.
Just at that moment a third personage arrived on the scene. This was Simon, who approached, not noticing Wren, and crying out with his usual gush, “Hullo, Loman, I say. I saw Cripps to-day. He was asking after you. He says you’ve not been down since last Sat—Hullo, Wren!”
And here the poet caught sight of the captain.
“So you’ve been down to the Cockchafer, have you?” inquired Wren.
“Well. Oh, don’t tell, Wren, I say. I don’t often go. Ask Loman if I do. He’s always there, and could easily tell if I went. Do I go often, Loman? Besides, I’ve given it up now!”
“Quick work,” observed Wren, drily, “if you were down there this morning.”
“Well,” said Simon, shifting his ground slightly, “I didn’t think there could be any harm, as Loman goes. He’s a monitor. And then I don’t owe Cripps money, do I, Loman? Or play cards and bet, like you, do I? Oh, look here, Wren, do let us off this time. Don’t report me, there’s a good fellow. I promise I won’t do it again! Oh, I say, Loman, beg us off. I never let out on you—not even when you got—”
Wren, who had allowed this burst of eloquence to proceed thus far, here turned sharply on his heel, and left the two companions in wrong in possession of the field.
Next morning, when Loman got up, he found the following note on his table:
“Wraysford takes your place as monitor. The Doctor will be told you have ‘resigned.’—C.W.”
Loman crushed the paper angrily in his hand, and muttered a curse as he flung it into the fire. He felt little enough gratitude to Wren for describing him merely as resigned, and not, as was actually the case, dismissed. Yet, even in his wretchedness, there was an atom of relief in knowing that at least a shred of his good old name remained.
Poor shred indeed! but better than nothing.
Every one treated him as usual—except Wren, who cut him contemptuously. The Sixth, ever since the exposure at the football match last term, had lost any respect they ever had for their comrade, and many had wondered how it was he was still allowed to remain a monitor. Every one now supposed he had taken “the better part of valour” in resigning, and, as it mattered very little to any one what he did, and still less what he thought, they witnessed his deposition from the post of honour with profound indifference.
Poor Loman! Some righteous reader will be shocked at my pitying such a foolish, miserable failure of a fellow as this Edward Loman; and yet he was to be pitied, wasn’t he? He hadn’t been naturally a vicious boy, or a cowardly boy, or a stupid boy, but he had become all three; and as he sat and brooded over his hard luck, as he called it, that morning, his mind was filled with mingled misery and fear and malice towards every one and everything, and he felt well-nigh desperate.
His interview with Cripps came off that afternoon. The landlord of the Cockchafer, as the reader may have gathered, had changed his tone pretty considerably the last few days, and Loman found it out now.
“Well?” said he, gloomily, as the boy entered.
“Well?” said Loman, not knowing how to begin.
“I suppose you’ve got my money?” said Cripps.
“No, Cripps, I haven’t,” said the boy.
“All right,” said Cripps; “that’s quite enough for me;” and, to Loman’s astonishment and terror, he walked away without another word, and left the unhappy boy to stay or go as he pleased.
Loman could not go, leaving things thus. He must see Cripps again, if it was only to know the worst. So he stayed in the bar for the landlord’s return. Cripps took no notice of him, but went on with his ordinary pursuits, smiling to himself in a way which perfectly terrified his victim. Loman had never seen Cripps like this before.
“Cripps,” he said, after half an hour’s waiting—“Cripps, I want to speak to you.”
“You may want,” was the surly reply. “I’ve done with you, young gentleman.”
“Oh, Cripps, don’t talk like that! I do mean to pay you, every farthing, but—”
“Yes, you’re very good at meaning, you are,” said the other. “Anyhow, it don’t much matter to me now.”
“What do you mean, Cripps? Oh, do give me a little more time! A week—only a week longer.”
“Aren’t you done?” was the only reply; “aren’t you going home?”
“Will you, Cripps? Have pity on me! I’m so miserable!”
Cripps only whistled pleasantly to himself.
Loman, almost frantic, made one last effort.
“Give us just a week more,” he entreated.
No answer.
“Do speak, Cripps; say you will; please do!”
Cripps only laughed and went on whistling.
“Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” cried the wretched boy. “I shall be ruined if you don’t have some pity—”
“Look here,” said Cripps, curtly, “you’d better stop that noise here, my lad. You can go; do you hear? Look alive.”
It was no use staying further. Loman went What anguish he endured for the next twenty-four hours no one knows. What plans he turned in his head, what wild schemes, what despair, what terrors filled him, only he himself could tell. Every moment he expected the fatal vision of Cripps at Saint Dominic’s, and with it his own certain disgrace and ruin, and, as time went on, his perturbation became so great that he really felt ill with it.
But Cripps did not come that day or the next. The next day was one of mighty excitement in Saint Dominic’s. The result of the examination for the Waterston Exhibition was announced.
Had any other three boys but those actually taking part been the competitors, few outsiders would have felt much interest in the result of an ordinary examination confined to Sixth Form boys. But on this occasion, as we have seen, the general curiosity was aroused. No one expected much of Loman. The school had discovered pretty well by this time that he was an impostor, and their chief surprise had been that he should venture into the list against two such good men as Oliver and Wraysford.
But which of those two was to win? That was the question. Every one but a few had been positive it would be Wraysford, whom they looked upon as the lawful winner of the Nightingale last term, and whom, they were convinced, Oliver was unable to beat by fair means. And yet to these it had been a great astonishment to hear that Oliver had entered for the examination. Unless he was certain of winning he would only do himself harm by it, and confirm the suspicions against him. And yet, if he should win after all—if he was able fairly to beat Wraysford—why should he have gone to the trouble last term of stealing the examination paper and making himself the most unpopular boy in all Saint Dominic’s?
These questions sorely exercised the school, and made them await eagerly the announcement of the result.
The news came at last.
“I have just received,” said Mr Jellicott that morning, when the Fifth and Sixth were assembled together in the lecture-theatre—“I have just received from the examiners the report on the Waterston examination. The result is as follows: First—Greenfield, 108 marks; second—Wraysford, 96 marks; third—Loman, 20 marks.”
Here Mr Jellicott was interrupted by a laugh and a muttered “Bravo, Loman! very good!” in what sounded to the knowing something like Pembury’s voice. The master looked up and frowned angrily, and then proceeded: “The examiners add an expression of their very high approval of Greenfield’s answers. The highest marks obtainable were 120, and, considering he left the last question untouched—doubtless for want of time—they feel that he has passed with very great distinction, and fully in accordance with their expectations of the winner of the Nightingale Scholarship last term. We will now proceed to the usual lessons.”
This announcement made the strangest impression on all present. No one attempted any demonstration, but while Mr Jellicott was speaking many perplexed and troubled faces turned to where Oliver, by the side of his friend Wraysford, was sitting. Wraysford’s face was beaming as he clapped his friend on the back. Oliver looked as unconcerned and indifferent as ever. The fellow was a puzzle, certainly.
As soon as lesson was over, the Fifth retired to its own quarters in a perturbed state of mind, there to ponder over what had happened. Oliver spared them the embarrassment of his society as usual, and Wraysford was not there either. So the Fifth were left pretty much to their own devices and the guidance of some lesser lights.
“Isn’t it queer?” said Ricketts. “Whoever would have thought of it turning out like this?”
“One could understand it,” said Braddy, “if there had been any chance of his repeating the dodge of last term. But he couldn’t have done that.”
“I don’t know,” said another; “he may have been up to some other dodge. Perhaps he copied off Wraysford.”
“Hardly likely,” said Bullinger, “up on the front desk just under Jellicott’s nose.”
“Well, I can’t make it out at all,” said Ricketts.
“Nor can I,” said Bullinger.
All this while Pembury had not spoken, but he now turned to Simon, and said, “What do you think, Simon? Did you see Greenfield stealing the examination paper this time, eh?”
“Oh, no, not this time,” promptly replied the poet; “last term it was, you know. I didn’t see him this time.”
“Oh, you didn’t even see him with it in his pocket? Now, be very careful. Are you sure he didn’t have it in his pocket a day before the exam?”
“Why,” said Simon, laughing at Pembury’s innocence, “how could I see what was in a fellow’s pocket, Pembury, you silly! I can’t tell what’s in your pocket.”
“Oh, can’t you? I thought you could, upon my honour. I thought you saw the paper in Greenfield’s pocket last term.”
“So I did. That is—”
Here the wretched poet was interrupted by a general laugh, in the midst of which he modestly retired to the background, and left the Fifth to solve the riddle in hand by themselves.
“Suppose,” began Pembury, after a pause—“suppose, when Braddy’s done playing the fool, if such a time ever comes—”
Here Braddy collapsed entirely. He would sooner be sat upon by Dr Senior himself than by Pembury.
“Suppose,” once more began Pembury, amid dead silence—“suppose, instead of Greenfield senior being a thief and liar, I and all of you have been fools and worse for the last six months? Wouldn’t that be funny, you fellows?”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” demanded Tom Senior.
“Why, you don’t suppose I mean anything, do you?” retorted the cross-grained Tony. “What’s the use of saying what you mean—”
“But do you really—” began Bullinger.
“I say, suppose I and you, Bullinger, and one or two others here who ought to have known better, have been making fools of ourselves, wouldn’t that be funny?”
There was a pause, till Simon, plucking up heart, replied, “Very funny!”
The gravity even of Pembury broke down at this, and the present conference of the Fifth ended without arriving at any nearer conclusion on the question which was perplexing it.
Meanwhile, Oliver and Wraysford were in their study, talking over the event of the day.
“I was certain how it would be, old boy,” said Wraysford, genuinely delighted. “I wonder what the Fifth will say now? Bah! it doesn’t become me to say too much, though, for I was as bad as any of them myself.”
“No, you weren’t, old boy; you never really believed it. But I say, Wray, I don’t intend to take this exhibition. You must have it.”
“I!” exclaimed Wraysford. “Not a bit of me. You won it.”
“But I never meant to go in for it, and wouldn’t have if it had not been for the Fifth. After all, it’s only twenty pounds. Do take it, old man. I’ve got the Nightingale, you know.”
“What does that matter? I wouldn’t have this for anything. The fellows tried to make me think I was the real winner of the Nightingale, and I was idiot enough half to believe it. But I think I’ve had a lesson.”
“But, Wray—”
“Not a word, my dear fellow; I won’t hear of it.”
“Very well, then; I shall shy the money when I get it into the nearest fish-pond.”
“All serene,” said Wraysford, laughing; “I hope the fish will relish it.”
At that moment there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Oliver.
The door opened, and, to the astonishment of the two boys, Loman entered.
Was it peace, or war, or what? Loman’s miserable face and strange manner quickly answered the question.
“Oh, Greenfield,” he said, “excuse me. I want to speak to you;” and here he glanced at Wraysford, who rose to go.
“Stay where you are, Wray,” said Oliver. “What is it, Loman?”
Loman, quite cowed, hardly knew how to go on.
“I was glad to hear you got the Waterston,” he said. “I—I thought you would.”
What was the fellow at?
After a long pause, which seemed to drive Loman almost to despair, he said, “You’ll wonder what I have come here for. I know we’ve not been friends. But—but, Greenfield, I’m in awful trouble.”
“What is it?” again asked Oliver.
“Why, the fact is,” said Loman, gaining courage, as he found neither Oliver nor Wraysford disposed to resent his visit—“the fact is, Greenfield, I’m in debt. I’ve been very foolish, you know, betting and all that. I say, Greenfield, could you possibly—would you lend me—eight pounds? I don’t know why I ask you, but unless I can pay the money to-day, I shall—”
“What!” exclaimed Oliver, “eight pounds to pay your bets?”
“Oh, no, not all bets. I’ve been swindled too—by Cripps. You know Cripps.”
And here Loman, utterly miserable, threw himself down on a chair and looked beseechingly at the two friends.
“I could pay you back in a month or so,” he went on; “or at any rate before Easter. Do lend it me, please, Greenfield. I don’t know where else to go and ask, and I shall get into such an awful row if I can’t pay. Will you?”
Oliver looked at Wraysford; Wraysford looked at Oliver; and then both looked at Loman. The sight of the wretched boy there entreating money of the very fellow who had least reason in all Saint Dominic’s to like him, was strange indeed.
“Wray,” said Oliver, abruptly, after another pause, during which he had evidently made up his mind, “have you any money about you?”
“I’ve three pounds,” said Wraysford, taking out his purse.
Oliver went to his desk and took from it a five-pound note which was there, his savings for the last year. This, with Wraysford’s three sovereigns, he handed without a word to Loman. Then, not waiting to hear the thanks which the wretched boy tried to utter, he took Wraysford’s arm and walked out of the study.