Chapter Twenty.
The Little Sweep.
Ainger’s victory over the rebels had a great moral effect on the house. There was no further question as to the hardship of compulsory cricket; indeed, everyone became so keen on the prospect of turning out a “crack” eleven, that if the rule had required the attendance of every boy daily instead of thrice a week the fellows would have turned up.
The prospects brightened rapidly after a week or two’s practice. Railsford put his shoulder to the wheel with his usual energy. He would bowl or bat or field with equal cheerfulness, if thereby he might smarten up the form of any player, however indifferent, who really wanted to improve. He specially devoted himself to the candidates for a place in the second eleven; and it presently began to be rumoured that Railsford’s would be able to put two elevens in the field, able to hold their own against any other two in Grandcourt. It was rather a big boast, but after the exploits of the house at the sports nobody could afford to make too little of its ambitious projects.
Arthur, Dig, and their coterie—most of them safely housed already in the second eleven—caught a regular cricket fever. They lived in an atmosphere of cricket. They thought in cricket, and dreamed of nothing else. Any question which arose resolved itself into a cricket match in their minds, and was mentally played out to bring it to a decision. Their ordinary talk betrayed their mania, and even their work was solaced by the importation of cricket into its deepest problems.
Here, for instance, is an illustration of the kind of talk which might been have overheard one evening during the first part of the term in the study over Railsford’s head.
Arthur was groaning over his Euclid.
“I’m clean bowled by this blessed proposition,” said he. “Here have I been slogging away at it all the evening and never got my bat properly under it yet. You might give us a leg-up, Dig.”
“Bless you,” said Dig, “I’m no good at that sort of yorker. I’m bad enough stumped as it is by this Horace. He gets an awful screw on now and then, and just when you think you’ve scored off him, there you are in among the slips, caught out low down. I vote we go and ask Marky.”
“Don’t like it,” said Arthur. “Marky served us scurvily over poor old Smiley, and I don’t mean to go over his popping-crease, if I can help it, any more.”
“That was an underhand twist altogether,” said Dig. “Bad enough for Ainger to bowl us out, without him giving it out, too, the way he did. You know, I really think we ought to tell him what a nice way we can stump him out if we like. He just thinks we’ve caved in and put off our pads.”
“I don’t like it, Dig. It would be an awfully bad swipe, and Daisy would be knocked over as much as he would. We’re not forced to play up to him any more; but I don’t like running him out.”
“You’re a jolly decent brother-in-law, you are,” said Dig admiringly, “and it’s a pity Marky don’t know what he owes you.”
At this point Tilbury burst into the room. If Dig and Arthur were a little crazed about cricket, Tilbury was positively off his head.
“How’s that, umpires?” cried he, as he entered. “Did you see me playing this afternoon? Went in second man, with Wake and Sherriff bowling, my boys. I knocked up thirty-two off my own bat, and would have been not out, only Mills saw where I placed my smacks in between the two legs, and slipped up and got hold of me low down with his left.”
“All right,” said Arthur. “Why don’t you put on side? I was watching you, and saw you give three awfully bad chances in your first over. Never mind, stick to it, and we’ll make a tidy player of you some day. I hear they’re going to get up a third eleven. I dare say Ainger will stick you in it if we ask him.”
Tilbury laughed good-humouredly; for it was all on the cards that he might get a place in the first eleven before very long.
“I fancied Ainger had knocked you two over the boundary a little while ago. I heard someone say, by the way, if you two could be thrown into one, and taught to hold your bat straight and not hit everything across the wicket, you could be spared to play substitute in Wickford Infant School eleven at their next treat. I said I fancied not, but they’re going to try you, for the sake of getting rid of you for half a day.”
“Get along. You needn’t bowl any of your mild lobs down to us. By the way, is it true you’ve been stuck in the choir?”
“Yes; awful sell. I tried to scratch, but Parks said they were hard up for a good contralto; so I had to go in the team. I’m to be third man up in the anthem to-morrow—got half a line of solo.”
“All serene,” said Arthur, “we’ll look out for squalls. Tip us one of your low A’s, and we’ll sky it from our pew. Who’s there?”
It was Simson, also infected with the fever, although with him, being of the weak-minded order, it took the form of a craze for “sport” generally. For Simson, as we have mentioned, once tipped a ball to leg for two, and consequently was entitled to be regarded as an authority on every subject pertaining to the turf generally.
He looked very important at present, as he began:
“I say, you chaps, I’ve got something to tell you—private, you know. You know Mills? His father’s brother-in-law lives at Epsom, and so gets all the tips for the races; and Mills says he’s put his father up to no end of a straight tip for the Derby. And Mills says he wants to get up a little sweep on the quiet. No blanks, you know. Each fellow draws one horse, and the one that wins gets the lot. Jolly good score, too.”
“Oh yes,” said Arthur, “I know all about that! I once put a sixpence in a sweep, and never saw it again. Catch me fielding in that little game.”
“Oh, but Mills says it’s not to be for money, for that’s not allowed. He suggested postage-stamps, and then whoever won would be able to write lots of letters home, you know.”
“Who wants to write lots of letters home?” said Dig, whose correspondence rarely exceeded two letters a term.
“Well, of course, you’re not obliged,” explained Simson seriously. “If I drew Roaring Tommy—I mean,” said he, correcting himself with a blush, “if I drew the favourite, you know, and potted the sweep, I should turn the stamps into tin.”
“Is Roaring Tommy the favourite, then?” asked Tilbury.
“Yes. I oughtn’t to have let it out. I told Mills I wouldn’t; because it might get his father into a row. Mills says he’s dead certain to win. I say, shall you fellows go in?”
“I don’t mind,” said Tilbury, “as it’s not money. Any fellow sell me six stamps?”
“Yes, for sevenpence,” said Arthur. “I’m not going in, young Simson. My governor said to me the chances were some young blackleg or other would be on to me to shell out something for a swindle of the kind; and he said, ‘Don’t you do it.’ Besides, I’ve not got the money.”
“I could lend you six stamps,” said Simson, who was very keen on the scheme, and failed to see any point in Arthur’s other remarks.
“Not good enough,” said Arthur.
“Not much chance of scoring, either,” said Dig, “if there’s about twenty go in and only one wins.”
“Just as likely you win it as anybody else,” said Simson.
“Come on, you needn’t funk it. Lots of fellows are in—Felgate’s in.”
Arthur whistled.
“He’s a prefect,” said he.
“Of course he is, and he doesn’t see any harm in it.”
“Who else?” asked Arthur.
“Rogers, and Munger, and Sherriff.”
“A first eleven chap,” ejaculated Dig.
“Lots of others. There’s twelve names already out of twenty-one. No! thirteen, counting Tilbury. It’ll be too late to do it to-morrow.”
Arthur looked at Dig and Dig looked at Arthur. Twenty-one sixpences were ten shillings and sixpence, and ten shillings and sixpence would buy a new bat,—at a cost of six stamps. His father had warned him against gambling with money, but had said nothing about postage-stamps. And the cautions Dig had received against all “evil ways” did not even specify gambling at all.
Simson took out his list and wrote Tilbury’s name, and then waited for Arthur’s decision.
“May as well,” said Dig.
“Wait till to-morrow,” said Arthur, who still felt qualms.
“You’ll be too late then,” said Simson.
“All right—that’ll settle it then,” said Arthur.
“Felgate said he thought you’d be sure to go in,” urged the tempter.
“Did he?” said Arthur, a good deal impressed.
“Yes,” said Dig jocularly, already fumbling the ten-and-six in anticipation in his pocket. “Any muff can get round Arthur.”
It was an unlucky jest, if the baronet’s object was to decide his friend in favour of the proposal. For Arthur coloured up and took his hand out of his pocket.
“Wait till to-morrow,” said he again.
“Dig, you’ll give your name now, won’t you?” said Simson.
“Don’t know,” said Dig evasively; “better not stick it down, that is, not unless the list gets full up, you know.”
Simson treated this evasive reply as a consent, and wrote Digs name down, there and then, in his presence.
“Come on, Herapath,” said he, making a last appeal. “Don’t desert your old friends.”
“I tell you I can’t say anything till to-morrow,” said Arthur, a little crusty.
Simson gave it up and departed.
“Felgate seems to be bowling wide just now,” observed Dig. “I shouldn’t have fancied he’d have gone in for this sort of thing.”
“Why shouldn’t he, just as much as you?” growled Arthur.
“I? I haven’t gone in for it yet.”
“Oh yes, you have; your name’s down.”
“Only as last man in, though, in case he should get filled up.”
“Doesn’t matter whether you go in first or last, you’re in the game.”
“Well,” said Dig resignedly, “I don’t think I am, really; but if I am, I hope I get Roaring Tommy.”
Simson had not much difficulty in filling up his list. The specious pretext of the postage-stamps did not delude many, but Felgate’s name worked wonders. Felgate had had no intention of allowing his name to be used, and was indeed in blissful ignorance that his support was generally known. He had in a reckless way expressed his sympathy with what he chose to term a very innocent “round game,” and had given practical proof of his sympathy by buying a ticket. That was yesterday, and he had since forgotten the whole affair, and was quietly looking about him for some new way of wiping off the rapidly-accumulating score against Railsford and his lieutenant Ainger.
After his rebuff about the compulsory cricket—which, fortunately, no one but the captain (who was not the man to say much about it) had witnessed—Felgate had retired for a time into comparative seclusion. He believed in his lucky star, and hoped there was a good time coming. He still had his trump card in hand, but if he could win his trick without it he would be so much to the good.
Arthur, when, on the day after Simson’s visit, he heard that the list was closed without him, kicked Simson, and felt on the whole rather glad. He had thought the matter over, and did not like breaking his promise to the people at home. Besides, he still felt sore at the loss of his former sixpence in a similar venture, and looked upon the whole business as more or less of a “plant.” Further than that, he now had a delightful opportunity of tormenting Sir Digby, who had weakly yielded to the tempter, albeit with a few qualms and prickings of conscience.
“Just like you!” bragged Arthur; “anybody can do you! A precious lot of your six stamps you’ll see back! I know Mills—a regular shark!—and if there’s a row, he’ll back out and leave you and the rest of them to catch it; then who’ll be Roaring Tommy, eh?”
Digby did not like this sort of talk; it offended him—besides, it frightened him.
“Stuff and nonsense!” said he. “Who’s to care about a few postage-stamps? I wouldn’t gamble with money, not if I was paid for it. Why, I should fancy if Felgate goes in for it it’s not much harm.”
“Felgate knows what he’s up to, and can look after himself,” said Arthur. “You can’t; you swallow everything any ass tells you!”
“I don’t swallow all you tell me, for one!” retorted Dig.
Arthur coloured; he did not like being pulled up short like that, especially when he was doing the high moral business.
“All serene!” said he testily; “do as you please. I’ve warned you to keep out of it, young Oakshott. Don’t blame me if you burn your fingers.”
Thus said his prigship, and undid all the credit his little act of self-denial had earned him. He is not the only boy who gets his head turned now and then by the unexpected discovery that he is virtuous. Is he, reader?
But, without being a prophet, his prigship managed on the present occasion to make a pretty near prediction, for Sir Digby Oakshott did burn his fingers.
He was summoned one evening to Mills’s study to draw his horse. The twenty-one names were shaken up in a hat, and those present each drew out one. To Dig’s disgust, he drew Blazer—a horse whom everybody jeered at as a rank outsider. Simson was the fortunate drawer of Roaring Tommy. Mills got the second favourite, and Felgate—for whom, in his absence, Mills drew—got another outsider called Polo.
Dig scarcely liked to tell Arthur of his bad luck, but his chum extracted the secret from him.
“I’m jolly glad!” said Arthur sententiously; “the worst thing that could happen to you would be to win. I’m glad you’ll have a good lesson.”
“Thanks,” said Dig, and went out to try to sell Blazer for three stamps. But no one would look at him, and Dig finally crushed the paper into his waistcoat-pocket in disgust, and wished he had his stamps safe there instead.
A fortnight later, just as he and Arthur were marching down proudly to the cricket-field, in order to take part in a great match—the first of the season.—between an eleven of Ainger’s and an eleven of Barnworth’s, he was struck all of a heap by the amazing announcement, conveyed by Simson, that Blazer had won the Derby! Dig turned pale at the news, and convulsively dug his hand into his pocket to see if he had his paper safe.
“Not really?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, he has! Roaring Tommy was nowhere. Jolly lucky for me I sold my ticket to Tilbury for eight-and-six! I wish I’d bought yours for threepence when you asked me.”
Dig laughed hysterically.
“Then I’ve got the ten-and-six?” he asked.
“Rather.”
Dig made two duck’s eggs, and missed every ball that came in his way that afternoon, and was abused and hooted all round the field. What cared he? He had Blazer burning a hole in his pocket, and ten-and-six in postage-stamps waiting for him in Mills’s study. As soon as he could decently quit the scene of his inglorious exploits, he bolted off to claim his stakes. Mills was not at home, so he took a seat and waited for him, glancing round the room carefully, in case the stamps should be lying out for him somewhere. But they were not.
In due time Mills returned.
“Hullo, kid! what do you want?”
Dig grinned and pulled out his paper.
“How’s that, umpire?” demanded he.
Mills stared at the document.
“What on earth is the row with you? What are you driving at?”
“Ten-and-sixpence, please,” said the beaming baronet; “I’ve got Blazer.”
Mills laughed.
“You’re not in much of a hurry. Has Blazer won, then?”
“Yes; a rank outsider, too. Do you know, I tried all I knew to sell my ticket for threepence. Just fancy if I had.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t,” said Mills, taking a chair, “The fact is, there’s been a bit of a muddle about Blazer. That ass Simson, when he wrote out the tickets, wrote Blazer twice over instead of Blazer and Catterwaul. They were both such regular outsiders, it didn’t seem worth correcting it at the time. I’m awfully sorry, you know, but your’s—let’s see,” said he, taking the cadaverous baronet’s ticket and looking at it, “yours has got one of the corners torn off—yes, that’s it. Yours should be Catterwaul.”
Dig gasped, and tried to moisten his parched lips. It was a long time before the words came.
“It’s a swindle!” cried he, choking. “I’ve won it—I—I—give me the 10 shillings 6 pence.”
“Don’t make an ass of yourself,” said Mills. “I tell you you’ve got the wrong paper; isn’t that enough?”
“No, it’s not enough, you thief, you!” roared Dig, tossing his tawny mane. “Everybody said you were a blackleg—I know it’s all lies you’re telling, and I—I—I don’t care if you do lick me.”
As he didn’t care, of course it didn’t so much matter, but Mills cut short further argument by licking him and ejecting him neck and crop from the room.
In the passage he pitched head-first into the arms of Mr Railsford.
“What’s wrong?” asked the master, looking down at the miserable face of the small savage before him.
“It’s a swindle!” shouted Dig. “It’s a swindle, Mr Railsford. I won it fairly—and he’s a thief—he’s stolen 10 shillings 6 pence of mine.”
“Don’t make all that noise,” said Railsford quietly, for the luckless baronet was almost out of his wits. “I can hear you without shouting. Who has robbed you?”
“Why, that blackleg swindler in there!” said Dig, pointing at Mills’s door. “Ten-and-six, ten-and-six—the thief!”
“Come with me,” said the master, and he led Dig back into Mills’s study.
“Mills,” said he, “Oakshott says you have robbed him. What does it mean?”
“I’ve not done anything of the kind,” said Mills, himself rather pale and scared. “I told him—it was all a mistake. It wasn’t my fault.”
“What was a mistake? Just tell me what it is all about.”
Here Dig took up the parable.
“Why, he got up a sweep on the Derby, and got us each to shell out six stamps, and there were twenty-one fellows in, and I drew Blazer, the winner; and now he won’t give me the stakes, and says my Blazer is a mistake for Catterwaul!”
Railsford frowned.
“This is a serious matter. You know the rule about gambling.”
“Oh, please, sir,” said Mills, who had dropped all his bravado, as he realised that he stood a good chance of being expelled, “I really didn’t mean it for gambling; it wasn’t for money, only stamps; and I thought there was no harm. I’ll never do such a thing again, sir, really.” And he almost went on his knees.
“The doctor must deal with this matter, Mills,” said Railsford sternly. “You must go to him to-morrow evening.”
“Oh, Mr Railsford, he’ll expel me!” howled the culprit.
“Good job, too,” ejaculated Dig, sotto voce.
“Possibly,” said the master. “Where is the money?”
Dig’s spirits rose. He knew he would get his rights!
“The stamps—here, sir,” said the wretched Mills, going to his desk.
“And where is the list of names?”
Mills produced it, tremulously. Railsford’s brows knit as he glanced down it.
“Each of these boys gave you six stamps?”
“Twenty-one sixpences, ten-and-six,” said Dig, rehearsing his mental arithmetic.
“Yes, sir. I really didn’t mean to cheat, sir.”
“Yes, you did,” yapped Dig, who now that he was to finger his winnings had perked up wonderfully.
“Silence, Oakshott,” said Railsford angrily. “Your name is here, last on the list. Take back your six stamps, and write me out one hundred lines of Livy by Thursday morning.”
Poor Dig turned green, and staggered back a pace, and stared at the six stamps in his hand.
“Why!” gasped he. “I had Blazer—I—”
“Be silent, sir, and go to your study, and tell Tilbury to come here.”
In due time Tilbury came, and received back his six stamps, and a hundred lines of Livy, and an order to send the next boy on the black list to receive a similar reward for his merits. And so the tedious process went on, and that afternoon, in Mills’s study, twenty boys sadly took back six stamps each, and received among them two thousand lines of Livy, to be handed in on Thursday morning. One name remained: the first on the list, and consequently the last in the order in which Railsford had taken it.
“I will return these,” said he, taking up the six remaining stamps, “to Felgate myself.”
Mills made one more appeal.
“Do let me off going to the doctor, sir!” implored he. “Why, sir, I never thought it could be wrong if Felgate went in for it, and they’ve all got their stamps back, sir. Please let me off.”
“I cannot do that. If the doctor treats you less severely than you deserve, it will be because you have made this reparation, instead of carrying out the act of dishonesty you had it in your mind to perpetrate.”
And he left him there, and proceeded, with a heart as heavy as any he had worn since he came to Grandcourt, to Felgate’s study.