Chapter Eight.
Tempest talks to me like a Father.
As I entered the hall, in which were already assembled most of my fellow “Sharpers,” the first idea which occurred to me was that Low Heath was not such a big place after all. I had expected to encounter the whole school, instead of some fifty boys of my own particular house, and it was a relief to me to find that, for the present at any rate, I was to blush before only a limited company.
The next thing that struck me was that these fellows evinced wonderfully little interest in my appearance; which, considering the active interest they had shown in me not long since, was quite a shock. I had made up my mind to be howled at and laughed out of countenance. Instead of which they contented themselves with a half-glance to see who the new-comer was, and then went on talking together as if nothing had happened.
The conceit was already sufficiently knocked out of me to enable me to take this indifference in good part. Possibly when my name was called reference would be made to my exhibition, which would make a few of them look twice at me; but for the present I was glad to be left alone.
At first I could distinguish nobody; but in a little I caught sight of Tempest’s head among the seniors of the house. He did not see me, nor did he appear to be looking out for me.
Suddenly some one called “Seats!” an order that was so promptly obeyed that it left me standing alone near the door at which I had entered.
“Seats—can’t you hear?” said some one near me. I made promptly for the first empty desk I could see. The youth at the end of the row had his back partly turned, and it was necessary to push vigorously past him to arrive at my destination.
“Look out, you mule!” said he; “you trod on my— Hullo, Sarah, how are you?” and a friendly kick on the shins helped me wonderfully on my way.
It was my old acquaintance of the railway carriage; and next to him was the small youth who had been so terribly concerned about my costume in the morning.
He put his feet up on the desk in front, and gave me the option of climbing over or crawling under. He was about three-quarters my size; but he had such an air of authority about him, that I hardly liked to suggest a third alternative, namely, that he should put down his feet and let me pass. So I climbed over, much to his indignation (which he expressed by sticking a nib into me as I passed).
“I say,” he began, “you’ll catch it. That’s not your desk.”
I was aware of that, and devoutly hoped the real owner would not arrive on the scene.
“If Tinker kotches you— Hullo, what have you done with your patent boots?”
“I’ve changed them,” said I; “but do you think Tinker’s coming?”
“We’ll keep him out if he does—”
Just then one of the seniors on the front form, who had been talking to Tempest, leant back, and said in a loud whisper to the boy at the end of the form in front of ours—
“White, see all the new kids have their gloves on properly.”
Gloves? I felt my teeth begin to chatter in my head.
Had I not flung my gloves along with my hat and boots into my trunk, thinking they would not be needed? I had considered them as part of Tempest’s little joke. But evidently I had made a fearful mistake. For the senior who had given the admonition was not Tempest at all, but his next neighbour; and the fact that it was not given to me but to a monitor made it clear that, however I had been humbugged over the other details of “form,” gloves were the order of the day for new boys at first call-over.
In a panic I rose and tried to go out, with the wild idea of rescuing my gloves from my trunk. But it was impossible to escape. Not only had my companion his feet up more uncompromisingly than ever, but my sudden movement called down upon me general remarks.
“Shut up! sit down, can’t you?” said my neighbour. “What are you up to?”
“My gloves—I’ve—I’ve left them upstairs.”
“Your what?”
“Gloves. I thought it was a mistake about new boys having to wear them, and didn’t bring them.”
The boy looked grave.
“Oh, you’ll catch it! You can’t go now. There’s Sharpe coming in. Haven’t you got any at all?”
“Only my ordinary gloves.”
“What colour?”
“Yellow.”
“Stick them on then.”
“But they’ve only two buttons.”
“Can’t be helped. You’re bound to catch it, but they’re better than nothing.”
So, in dire agitation, I drew on my new dog-skin gloves. The smiles of the boys near me I interpreted as a grim recognition that I had “shirked form” and did not know any better. I longed to explain that I did, and that I had not come to Low Heath as ignorant as they supposed. But it was impossible. Mr Sharpe was already in his place, and “register” had begun.
Register, a ceremony with which I was destined to become painfully familiar in time, consisted in the calling over of the names of all the boys in the house, in order of place, by the minor prefect, who took his stand at the side of the master’s desk for the purpose. Instead of answering “Here” or “Adsum,” in the usual way, the boy whose name was called stood in his place and held up his hand.
I had been so preoccupied with the lack of my six-button lavender gloves and the remarks of my two left-hand neighbours, that I had failed altogether to observe the boy on my right, who now quietly nudged me, and presented to my astonished gaze the serene and serious countenance of Dicky Brown.
“What have you got your gloves on for?” inquired he, as if he had seen me daily since we parted.
“It’s the form. Haven’t you got any? I say, you’ll get in a jolly row,” said I, quite delighted to be able to lord it a little over an inferior.
“Why—who told you?”
“Tempest.”
“Tempest’s a regular humbug. He tried to stuff me up by making me bring a cheese-cutter cap. But I wasn’t such a fool as I look.”
Alas! it was my turn to colour up. Had Dicky, I wondered, seen my square billycock?
At that moment Tempest’s name was called, and we saw our old Dux rise complacently in his seat and hold up his hand.
It was difficult to feel angry with him. He looked so cool and determined, his shoulders were so square, and the year that had elapsed since we met had added three good inches to his stature. It was a feather in a fellow’s cap to know Tempest, even if he did have his little joke at one’s expense now and then.
I came to the conclusion that Dicky and I must be the only two new boys in the house, for none of the numerous hands, grimy and otherwise, which went up were cased in anything but their native skin.
Presently the register clerk came to an end of his list, and I was beginning to congratulate both myself and Brown on our probable escape from detection when Mr Sharpe said—
“New boys, come forward.”
My left-hand neighbour interposed no obstruction now, as, followed by Dicky, I sidled out of my place and advanced along with five other youths to the front. I was conscious of smiles as I went past the desks, some of recognition of the late owner of the tan boots, some of appreciation of my blushes, and others, as I supposed, of the greenness which had led all my companions to commit the fatal error of not appearing in gloves, and of my error, though in a smaller degree, of appearing in bright yellow two-button goods instead of lavender of the regulation half-dozen.
I exchanged glances with Tempest, among others, who looked very serious, and was evidently chagrined that after all his kind trouble on my behalf I should now land myself in this dilemma. Good old Tempest! It wasn’t his fault.
“Answer to your—” began Mr Sharpe, when, suddenly catching sight of me, he said—
“Why, sir, what nonsense is this? What do you mean by wearing those gloves?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” I faltered, and felt that not a word of my speech was being lost by the assembled house; “I’ve left my lavender six-button gloves in my trunk.”
Mr Sharpe’s mouth curled at the corner in a curious way, and a general titter greeted my explanation from the benches behind.
I was fully convinced now that, after all my care, the very solecism I had planned so carefully to avoid had tripped me up at last.
“Take them off at once, sir, and let me have no more of this foolishness. You are making a bad start. Were you not the boy I had to speak to in the hall this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry I kicked your shins. I hope I didn’t hurt much. I thought you were one of the boys.”
I am sure I meant no harm by it, but he seemed to regard this as a studied insult, and visited me with his wrath not only for it but for the smiles from the boys behind which accompanied it.
“What is this boy’s name?” he inquired severely, looking round.
I wondered who would answer the question; it was evidently not intended for me. It astonished me that Mr Sharpe should not apply at headquarters; I am sure I could have told him. “I think,” said a voice which I recognised as Tempest’s, “his name is Jones, sir.”
Think! Surely Tempest might have had a little more confidence than that.
“Perhaps you will see what you can make of him presently, Tempest. If he has any intelligence at all,” (nice, wasn’t it, for an exhibitioner?) “you may be able to make him understand some of the rules of the place. If not, I am afraid we shall have to put him down as a silly little boy, and bear with him accordingly. Go to your seat now, sir, and report yourself to Tempest after register.”
It was not a very dignified end to the interview. Still, I felt myself lucky to be handed over to the tender mercies of my old comrade, and retired to my place a puzzled but not an amused boy.
What perplexed me most was to notice that Brown and the other new boys who had no gloves at all, and did nothing but answer the questions put to them in the plainest possible way, not only passed muster, but received words of approval and encouragement from the master such as I would have given a great deal to have got myself. But such is life. The fellows who take the most pains and deserve most, get least; and the fellows who have least to boast of receive more than they expect.
I was glad when register was over and the time came for me to have an explanation with Tempest.
“Look here,” said the candid youth next to me, “you’d better sit up when you go to Tempest, I can let you know. He’s cock of our house this term, and he’s not over-tender with idiots, I can let you know.”
“What, has he been down on you?” I inquired meekly.
The only reply I got was a touch on the calf which made me exclaim “Oh!” rather more loudly than I should have chosen to do under ordinary circumstances. Luckily the general movement of the class somewhat deadened the sound, and if Mr Sharpe heard me, he did not consider it worth his while to deprive Tempest of the task of elucidating the reason of it.
I kept my man carefully in view, and followed him upstairs into a little study about the size of a commodious sentry box, with a window, book-case, sofa, table, chairs, and all the requirements of a single man of few needs. It seemed to me a delightful little sanctum; and for a moment I began to wonder whether, being an exhibitioner, I might not be entitled to one like it for myself—perhaps this was mine.
Tempest soon disabused me of that notion.
“Light the fire, and stick on my kettle, kid,” said he—they were the first words after more than a year—“and cut and get us a muffin from the shop.”
“I say,” said I, longing for rather more cordial a recognition, “I am jolly glad to see you again, Tempest.”
Just then another senior popped his head in.
“Have tea with me. Tempest? Come on, Wales is coming too.”
“Is Crofter coming?”
“No.”
“All right, I’m on; thanks, Pridgin. Blow that fire out, kid.”
“Is that kid your fag?”
“Not likely.”
“Is he all there? Sharpe seemed to doubt it.”
Tempest shrugged his shoulders.
“How soon? Ten minutes?”
“Yes—not longer.”
“Now, kid,” said Tempest, when we were left alone, “how long are you going to play the fool? Take your time; but let us know when you’ve done, that’s all.”
“Really, I’m not fooling; I know I ought to have had on the lavender—”
Tempest laughed. A jolly laugh it was, though it frequently preceded a licking.
“You mean to say you sucked in all that rot? I thought I’d just see how far you’d let yourself be humbugged; I’m sorry I didn’t tell you to stand on your head. I don’t doubt you’d have done it.”
I had painful reason to think he might be right.
“Why, even Dicky Brown was too old a bird for that sort of chaff,” said Tempest; “he twigged it at once—and he’s a day boy. Hand me that cane out of the cricket box, there’s a good fellow, and hold out your hand. Don’t yell; only muffs do that.”
“What?” I exclaimed, “am I to be licked, Dux?”
“Don’t call me Dux here. Yes, rather—three on each hand.”
“But Mr Sharpe only said—”
“Sharpe—what’s he got to do with it? Come on, look alive, or I shall be late for tea.”
I could barely be angry with him. He didn’t seem to be able to see the matter from my point of view at all, and was so genuinely friendly with it all.
“The third will be a hot one,” said he, as I held out my hand; “but I don’t want to break the cane—it’s a good one.”
The third was a hot one.
“Hurt you much?” said Tempest, carefully examining his weapon.
“Middling,” said I.
“Now the other hand. I suppose you’ve not got to know many chaps yet? Did you get any cricket in the vac.?”
“No,” said I, extending my left in a deprecating way.
“We did,” said he. “We were jolly near licking—”
“Ow!”
“Feel that much? Good cane, isn’t it? Now the other two will be easy.”
To do him justice they were, or would have been had they not fallen uncomfortably near the site of the first.
“Stick the cane back,” said he,—“and look here,” he added in the old friendly way which always captivated me, “if you’ll take any advice you’ll drop playing the fool. It may be funny, but it doesn’t pay. Fellows get bored by it.”
“But I really—”
“I know you can’t help it. Your best dodge is to lie low for a bit, and keep out of everybody’s way.”
“I never meant—”
“Of course you didn’t. You can’t help being an ass, but don’t swagger or brag about it. Go easy—and, by the way, whatever you do, forget you’re an exhibitioner. It’s not your fault, I know, but it’s a sort of thing to be lived down up here. Be nobody, that’s the rule! then you’ll worry through.”
“But you were an exhibitioner, Tempest,” I suggested, “weren’t you?”
“Yes, but I kept it dark. Do you know the chap who asked me to tea?”
“No.”
“He’s Pridgin—in the Eleven—makes beastly bad jokes, but not a bad chap. You’ll like fagging for him.”
“What—am I to fag?” said I, undergoing another shock. I had made quite sure exhibitioners were exempt from that indignity.
“There you go again. What did I tell you?” said Tempest, in tones of mild menace; “you’re putting it on again already. You’d better fish out that cane again, there’s a good chap.”
“Oh, please don’t—I didn’t mean, Tempest! All right, I’ll fag for him.”
Tempest regarded first me, then the cricket box where the cane lay, doubtfully.
“I tell you he’s not half a bad chap. Bother it,” added he, picking up the cane, “I must do it, kid. Awfully sorry, but it would be low to let you off because I know you. Look alive. One, middling warm, on each hand, that’s all. Thanks.”
He was quite unnecessarily grateful. His idea of middling warm, I could not help thinking, was not very different from hot. And yet I felt I could stand it better from him than from most.
“Some chaps,” said he, after returning me the cane to put back in its place, “would say that this sort of thing pained them more than it does you. It didn’t me. I fancy you felt it more than I did. Anyhow, you’ll remember what I said, won’t you? Pridgin’s not half a bad chap.”
“If you want any one to fag for you. Tempest—”
I began.
“Oh, I’ve got one—a beauty—young Trimble; he sat next to you at register to-day. You’ll hit it off with him to a T. Talking of tea, by the way, it’s time we showed up at Pridgin’s. Come along, and I’ll introduce you.”
The reader may not believe it, but my interview with Tempest helped to knock the nonsense out of me more than any treatment I had yet undergone. It was not so much the caning (which, by the way, I afterwards discovered to be a wholly unauthorised proceeding on my old comrade’s part), but his plain advice, and the friendly way in which it was all given. It made me realise that he really meant to stick by me and pull me through my troubles, and the sense of his interest in me made up wonderfully for the loneliness which had been growing on me ever since I entered Low Heath that morning.
Pridgin, as became a member of the Eleven, received me with dignity quite devoid of curiosity. He informed Tempest that he considered it was playing it pretty low down on him to let an idiot like me loose on him. Still, times were bad, and one must put up with what one could get.
Whereat I had the good sense to grin appreciatively, and was thereupon permitted to boil my new master’s eggs and stand by the kettle until it was ready for the tea.