Chapter Eleven.
Cheap Advertising Extraordinary.
I spent a bad quarter of an hour that evening before bed-time in inditing a letter of “explanation” to Crofter. I had come to the conclusion this would be easier and safer than a personal interview, and that the sooner it was done the better. How to do it was another problem. To write a letter in the raggery was out of the question. I tried it, but failed miserably. For either my paper was twitched away from under my pen, or some one looked over my shoulder and pretended to read expressions of endearment which were not there, or some one got under the table and heaved it about tempestuously to the detriment of my handwriting, or some one drew skeleton figures of spider-legged bipeds on the margin of the paper. Worse still, it was evident every word I wrote would be common property, which I did not desire. I had therefore to abandon the attempt till later on; when, finding myself in Pridgin’s study, I ventured to inquire if I might write there.
Pridgin was good enough to express admiration of my cheek, but said if I spread one newspaper over his carpet and another over his table-cloth to catch the blots, and didn’t ask him how to spell any word of less than four letters, or borrow a stamp, I might.
All which I faithfully undertook to do, and sat down to my delicate task. It took me a long time, considering the result, and I was by no means satisfied with the performance when it was done.
“Dear Crofter,” I wrote; but that seemed too familiar, whereas “Dear Sir” from one schoolfellow to another was too formal. So I attempted my explanation in the “oblique oration”:—
“Jones iv. is sorry he accidentally told Crofter he was a beast yesterday. He did not know it was him when he saw him, or he would not have told him what Tempest said about him, which was quite unintentional. He also must explain that what he said about his being expelled was in consequence of a dog’s death, about which there was a misunderstanding. He hopes Crofter will not tell him he told him, as he would be very angry with him.”
“Done?” said Pridgin, who, comfortably ensconced in his easy-chair with his feet upon the window-ledge, was reading a comic paper.
“Yes, thanks,” said I, half terrified lest he should demand to read my not too lucid epistle.
“All right. Go and tell Crofter I want him, will you? Look alive, and then cut to bed.”
Here was a blow! I had been at all this labour in order to avoid the painful necessity of an interview with Crofter, and here I was as badly off as ever.
“Can’t you hear?” said Pridgin as I hesitated.
“If you please, Pridgin,” said I, resolved to take the bull by the horns, “I’m awfully sorry, but I don’t want Crofter to catch me. The fact is—”
Pridgin’s good-humoured reply was to shy a book at me, which I was fortunate enough to miss, but which Tempest, who entered the study at the moment, caught fairly on his forehead.
“Hullo! Are you and the kid playing catch?” said he. “Sorry to disturb you, really; but my fag’s skulking somewhere, and I want to borrow yours to take a message to Crofter.”
“Was it a plot, or what? I had far better have written in the faggery after all.”
“That was exactly the subject about which the kid and I were playing catch just now,” said Pridgin. “I asked him to go to Crofter too.”
“What, has he been sending you a billet-doux?” said Tempest.
“Well, yes. He seems to be sore I didn’t ask him to tea yesterday, and says he’s afraid some one has been libelling him, though how he knew I had any one here last night I can’t imagine.”
“That’s funny,” said Tempest; “he writes to me to say he is sorry I should take the trouble to call him a beast in public. He understands a fellow’s right to his private opinion, he says, and would be sorry not to be allowed his about me, but he thinks it imprudent to shout it out for every one to hear. Just his style.”
“I was going to send him word to ask him to come in and make himself a cup of tea out of my pot, just to show there was no ill-feeling,” said Pridgin.
“And I was going to say that I hope he won’t trouble to think better of me in private then I think of him in public. Though for the life of me I can’t imagine what he refers to.”
“The fact is. Tempest,” said Pridgin, putting his feet up on the window-ledge again, “it’s just as well to be above board with Crofter. He’s a slippery customer, and if he knows what we think of him, and we know what he thinks of us, we shall get on much better.”
“If he’d only give a chap a chance of a row with him,” said Tempest; “but he won’t. The more down on him you are, the more affectionate he is, and the sweeter he smiles. Ugh!”
“But who on earth has been blabbing to him?” said Pridgin; “not Wales?”
“Wales?” said Tempest; “rather not. He’s not that sort.”
“I don’t think he is,” said Pridgin; “and yet, old man—the fact is—I—”
“You don’t fancy Wales, I know.”
“Hardly that. I don’t mind him; but he’s more of a pull over you than he has over me. I can’t be bothered with his fashions. It’s too much grind. But you aren’t lazy like me, and—well—you know he runs you into a lot of expense. That picnic last term, for instance. We could have had quite a jolly day for half the cost. Chicken and ham’s all very well, but cold boiled eggs are just as good for keeping a chap going.”
“But Wales can’t stand things not being—”
“Dear!” said Pridgin. “Don’t flare up, old chap. You’ve got your work cut out for you this term, and can’t afford to spend all your time paying bills, even if you had the tin.”
“All very well for you who’ve let me in for cocking the house,” said Tempest, with a laugh. “Anyhow, you’ve a right to talk to me like a father. All the same, I fancy you’ve a little downer on old Wales. He’s a good sort of chap, and there’s nothing of the eel about him.”
“Which brings us back to Crofter,” said Pridgin. “Some one has told him that he’s not popular in this study, and he doesn’t like it. I wonder who our candid friend is.”
“It was me,” said I, coming out at last with my pent-up confession. “I’m awfully sorry, Tempest. It was this—”
“Take a seat,” said Tempest, putting me off in the identical way that Crofter had done yesterday. But I was not to be put off; I took a seat and continued—
“I met him and didn’t know who he was, and I mentioned that I’d come from here, and that a tea was going on, and that Crofter was out of it, and the reason was because Tempest thought him a beast. And—I’m awfully sorry, Tempest—I let out to him that we’d been expelled from Dangerfield, and I’d not the least idea it was him.”
“He,” suggested Pridgin.
“He; and I’ve just been writing to him to explain.”
“Rather a tough job, eh?” said Tempest.
“You may see the letter,” said I.
The two seniors read it with a gravity which scarcely seemed genuine.
“I think it may pass,” said Tempest, coming out at last with a laugh. “There are only about twelve ‘he’s’ and ‘him’s’ in it, and as it will be absolutely unintelligible it can’t possibly do harm.”
“If Crofter has the least sense of literary taste, he will frame it,” said Pridgin. “I trust no dogs’ deaths will occur here.”
My confusion was tempered by the relief I felt that they took my indiscretion in such good part, and saw only—what I failed to see myself—the humorous side of the incident.
I begged hard to be allowed to tear up my letter, but this they would by no means allow. On the contrary, I was compelled to address it and stamp it then and there, and place it in the post-box in the hall. Then, with compliments and good wishes, I was dismissed to bed, and left the two friends talking school politics.
I felt a good deal more humbled by the manner in which they had received my confession than if they had, as I had expected, roundly abused me. To be let down easy, as if I was barely responsible for my actions, was not conducive to my vanity; and if that was the object they had in view, it was amply attained. I went to bed on my second night at Low Heath with as little vanity in me as I could decently do with; and even that, as I lay awake for an hour or two, oozed away, and did not return till in a happy moment I fell asleep, and once more, and for a few unconscious hours, became a hero to myself.
The next morning I tumbled out of bed at the call of the bell in no very light-hearted way. First of all, Crofter would receive my letter; secondly, I had still got Redwood’s belt; thirdly, I had not done my preparation; and fourthly, I felt concerned about Tempest and his alliance with the expensive Wales. Strangely enough, this last trouble weighed on me most as I dressed.
Tempest, I knew, was not well off. But he was proud, and not the sort of fellow to shirk a thing on account of the cost. I could remember at Dangerfield his spending all his money at the beginning of the term on an absurdly expensive cricket bag, and having to go without spikes in his shoes because he could not afford a set. At Low Heath, where seniors were allowed to run up bills in certain shops, I was certain his ignorance about money matters, added to the friendly encouragements of an exquisite like Wales, would make it all the worse for him. Why, even I knew more about money than he did, and could reckon that if I brought thirteen shillings up at the beginning of the term, I should have just a shilling a week to bless myself with till break-up. Whereas he, I verily believe, would consider that he had thirteen shillings a week. And the worst of it was he would never let any one know how hard up he was, or tolerate any remarks, except from a privileged chum like Pridgin, on the subject.
As I joined my comrades in the faggery, in the fond hope of snatching a precious quarter of an hour for my neglected studies, I found great excitement and jubilation afoot. The printer had sent home the handbills of the Conversation Club.
“That ought to do our business,” said Langrish, flourishing one of the documents in my face.
I took it, and read it with mingled pride and concern. It ran as follows:—
Under the distinguished Patronage of the Nobility and Gentry of Low Heath:
A Philosophical Conversation Club has been started for conversation on Philosophy, Picnics, and Cross-country Runs. Meetings weekly; to be announced. Subscription: Two shillings in advance; every member to find himself. No town-boys or masters eligible. “Come in your hundreds!!! No questions asked. Evening dress or flannels. The Inaugural Picnic next week. Particulars on receipt of subscription. No connection with any other so-called club in Low Heath! For further particulars apply to the following:
Sarah Jones, Esquire, Pr.Ph.C.C, President.
Ted Langrish, Esquire, S.Ph.C.C, Secretary.
Wilfred Trimble, Esquire, T.Ph.C.C, Treasurer.
Jos. Warminster, Esquire, L.Ph.C.C, Librarian.
Tom Coxhead, Esquire, A.Ph.C.C, Auditor.
Michael Purkis, Esquire, R.Ph.C.C, Registrar.
P.S.—As the membership is strictly limited to 500, early application is advised. No eligible cash offer refused! Our motto is “Mens sano in corpore sanae.”
I naturally bridled up at the record of my own name.
“Look here,” said I; “you’ve stuck it down wrong again.”
“Awfully sorry,” said Langrish; “the printer chaps made a little slip over the Christian name, but all the rest seems right. It’s wonderful how sharp they are, isn’t it?”
“But you’re going to have it corrected, surely?” said I.
“Why, it would cost a frightful lot!” protested the company. “We might alter it in ink, but that would only call attention to it. Bless you, no one will notice it. They’ll put it down to a printer’s error.”
I was by no means satisfied, but their delight at the whole performance was so unbounded that it was impossible to be as angry as I felt.
“It’ll draw, and no mistake,” said Trimble, who had evidently never seen his name in print before. “Jolly well drawn up of you, Lang.”
“Oh,” said Langrish modestly, “when you know what you want to say, it’s easy enough to stick it down.”
“That’s why you stuck down ‘Sarah,’ I suppose,” said I, rather crossly.
“I never knew such a kid as you,” retorted Langrish; “you seem to fancy nobody can think of anything but you and your washerwoman.”
The conversation was drifting on to dangerous ground, and Warminster promptly changed the subject.
“The thing now will be to put the papers about. I vote we each take a batch and give them round.”
“We might shove them under the fellows’ doors,” said Coxhead.
“The best way will be to do it in Big Hall,” said the more practical Purkis. “One or two of us can easily get in ten minutes early, and stick one on every chap’s place.”
“But suppose you stick one on a day boy’s place?” I suggested.
“What’s the odds? the paper tells him he’s out of it,” replied Purkis.
It occurred to me that this would not cheer the day boy very much; still, on the whole, Purkis’s suggestion seemed the best.
“I tell you what,” said Langrish, “I beg to move and second that the President be authorised to stick round the papers.”
“I third and fourth that,” said Trimble.
“Carried unanimously,” said Langrish.
“Look here, one of you had better do it,” said I, feeling a little alarmed at this imposing honour; “you know the way better.”
“That’s where you’ve the pull,” said Purkis; “you’re a new kid, they won’t interfere with you. Big Hall’s at five, and you can easily slide in at a quarter to, and do the trick. Hullo, there’s bell.”
School that morning went uncomfortably for me. I escaped being “lagged” for my neglect of preparation, chiefly owing to the friendly prompting I received from Dicky Brown. But it was a time of anxiety and trepidation, and my nerves were somewhat strained before it was over.
The shock of the day, however, awaited me as I got outside on my way to the fields.
A small youth of my own size accosted me.
“I say, are you the new chap?”
“What new chap?”
“The new chap that Redwood told to fetch his belt.”
“Yes,” said I, turning a little pale.
“All right. You’ve got to go to him, sharp.”
“I tried to give it him back yesterday, really I did; but I was stopped,” said I. “Do you think I’ll get in a row?”
“I wouldn’t be in your shoes, that’s all I know,” remarked the messenger brutally. “It’ll be all the worse if you don’t cut.”
“Where is he?”
“In the captain’s room at the School House.”
I went off with my heart in my boots. And I had hoped so much to show up well to Redwood! It was all Jarman’s fault, and I wrote down yet another grudge against him in my mental book.
The captain was alone, and evidently expecting me, as he rose and came to meet me when I appeared.
“Here you are, then, youngster,” said he, in a tone which, if it meant a licking, was a very deceptive one.
“I’m very sorry,” said I; “I tried to bring the belt round yesterday evening, but—”
“Hang the belt!” said the captain. “That’s not what I want you for. Why didn’t you tell me what happened at home yesterday afternoon?”
Then it was another row altogether I was in for! What, I wondered, had I done! Surely he didn’t suspect me of having pushed his young sister into the water?
“I didn’t like, while the match was on. I didn’t know Mamie had tumbled in, or I would have stopped her.”
“But you fished her out?” he asked.
“I told Annie to take her and dry her,” said I, wondering where the blow was going to fall. “You see, she went upstairs for the belt, and it was when she had gone it happened. I don’t think it was her fault.”
To my amazement Redwood laughed and clapped me on the back.
“You young donkey, don’t you know you saved Mamie’s life, and I want to say ‘Thank you,’ to you?”
This unexpected dénouement alarmed me almost as much as my previous misgivings.
“Oh no, really I didn’t,” said I; “she was close to the edge.”
“Another inch or two and she would have been in six feet of water,” said he. Then, with a friendly laugh, he added—
“You may not have meant to save her life; but you did, and must take the consequences. My mother wants you to come to tea to-morrow. Call here for me after evening chapel, and we’ll go together. Good-bye now, and thanks, youngster.”
I could hardly tell if I was on my head or my heels as I walked back. It had never occurred to me till now that I had done anything out of the common in fishing Miss Mamie out of her muddy bath. Indeed, I still felt I was getting credit I did not deserve, and blushed to myself. As to the invitation for to-morrow, that seemed to me a burst of glory quite past my present comprehension, and I resolved to treasure it as a secret in my own bosom until at least I had made sure it was not a dream.
Before then, however, I had less pleasant work on hand. My comrades did not fail to remind me several times during the afternoon of my “promise,” as they called it, to distribute the Conversation Club circulars in Great Hall, and adjured me not to run it too fine. The consequence was that, at a quarter to five, I was convoyed, with the bundle of papers under my arm, to the door of the dining-hall, and gently shoved inside, with all retreat cut off until my task was done.
Some of the servants who were laying the tables objected to my presence, but on my explaining I had been sent to do it, they allowed me without interruption to lay a copy of the precious document on each of the five hundred plates. I had barely concluded this arduous duty when the bell commenced to ring, and the fellows in twos and threes began to drop in. It was all I could do to affect unconsciousness, as from a modest retreat near the door I marked the effect of the announcement on Low Heath generally. At first there was a note of surprise; then, as one after another read on, a titter, and finally a general laugh, which was only checked by the entrance of the masters and the call to grace.
I had—being a stranger to the place—distributed my favours among the masters quite as liberally as among the boys, and presently, with horror, perceived Dr England rise in his place with his copy in his hand.
“Whew!” whistled Langrish, “there’s a row on, I fancy.”
“Serve you right if there is,” said Trimble. “Why ever did you put them on that table?”
“How was I to know?” groaned I.
“What boy,” said the doctor, when silence prevailed, “what boy has been putting this foolish paper round the hall?”
Oh dear! How I wished I was safe at home!
“Please, sir, I did,” said I, rising meekly in my place.
“Your name?”
“Jones iv., please, sir.”
“Then come at once, Jones iv., and collect them again, every one, and write out two hundred lines. Let dinner proceed now.”
If the object of the promoters of the Philosophical Conversation Club had been cheap advertisement, they must have been amply gratified. Hercules never performed any labour equal to mine that afternoon. The masters handed me up their copies gravely and reproachfully; but the Low Heathens generally made sport of my misery. Scarcely one in ten would part with his rare broadside, and those who did made it manifest that they had the contents by heart. The unfortunate “misprint” of my Christian name, moreover, was the occasion for much ribald comment.
When, finally, I reached the quarters of my own particular comrades, I received more kicks than papers. They were unkind enough to say I had mulled the whole thing, and to promise me untold penalties when they got me in the privacy of the faggery.
At last, when the pudding was almost vanishing, I sat down to my hard-earned meal. But it mattered little, for I could have eaten nothing.
Be that as it may, the Philosophical Conversation Club was able to boast that afternoon that it had attracted the attention and interest of every member of the school, from the headmaster down to the junior fag. And few school clubs can boast as much as that!