Chapter Fifteen.
Explosive Material.
It was plain to be seen that Tempest, although he had borne his humiliating penalty like a man, had been badly bruised by it. Not that he broke out into any wild rebellion, or tried to make for himself a party to avenge his wrongs; but he seemed to have either lost interest in his work as house captain, or to enjoy disturbing the sensibilities of his friends by a reckless indifference to its affairs.
The story of his “extra drill” had become public property in Low Heath. Most of the fellows sympathised with him, but could not understand why he had not appealed to the head master. A few, a very few, suggested that he had come badly out of the business; but no one particularly cared to discuss the matter with him.
To Pridgin and Wales he insisted that it was no use referring to Dr England. The Head was bound to support his policeman.
“Why not get Redwood to take it up?” suggested Pridgin.
“Redwood! He wouldn’t go a yard out of his way. What does it matter to him—a day boy? No, old chap, we can take care of ourselves. There’ll be a return match one day!”
It concerned me to hear my old friend talk like this; still more to notice how he began to lose grip in Sharpe’s house. No news flies so fast in a school as that of a responsible head boy being slack or “out of collar.” And when once it is known and admitted, it takes a good deal to keep the house from going slack and “out of collar” too.
In our particular department the relaxing of authority was specially apparent. It destroyed some of the interest in our philosophical extravagances; for the dread of coming across the powers that be lends a certain flavour to the routine of a junior boy. It also tended to substitute horseplay and rowdyism for mere fun—greatly to the detriment of our self-respect and enjoyment.
On the whole, then, Sharpe’s house had a heavier grudge against Mr Jarman than it suspected.
The worst of the whole business was that Tempest himself seemed not to see the effect of his attitude on the house at large. He did not realise how much the juniors were impressed by what he said and how he looked, or how much his example counted with others of a less imitative turn. He looked upon his grievance as his own affair, and failed to give himself credit for all the influence he really possessed.
One curious result of the upset was that Crofter was now and then to be found in his fellow-seniors’ rooms. He had blossomed out as an ardent anti-Jarmanite, and belonged to the party who not only vowed revenge, but was impatient at delay. Tempest’s wrongs he seemed to feel as keenly as if they had been his own; and the insults put upon Sharpe’s house he took to heart as warmly as any one.
Tempest could hardly help tolerating this effusively-offered sympathy, although he made no profession of liking it, and continued to warn me against having more to do than I could help with Crofter. Pridgin was even less cordial, but his laziness prevented his taking any active steps to cut the connection. Wales, on the other hand, though Tempest’s chum, took more kindly to the new-comer, and amused himself now and again by defending him against his detractors.
“The wonder to me is,” said Crofter, “Jarman has not caught it before now. We’re not the only house he’s insulted, although I don’t think he’s tried it on with any of the others as he has with us.”
“Some day he’ll find he’s sailing a little too near the wind,” said Tempest, with a pleasant confusion of metaphors; “and then he’ll get bowled out.”
“Upon my word, though,” said Wales, “I think we’ve a right to get that extra drill of yours wiped out. It stands against you on the register, and it’s a scandal to the house.”
“They seem to think it so,” observed Pridgin, as just then a loud chorus of war-whoops came up from the region of the faggery. “Somebody had better stop that row!”
“Jarman had better come and do it,” said Tempest, laughing. “He’s got charge of the morals of Sharpe’s house now.”
When in due time I returned, somewhat depressed by what I had overheard, to the faggery, I discovered that the particular occasion of the triumphal shout referred to had been a proposal by Langrish to celebrate the approaching Fifth of November by hanging, and, if possible, burning Mr Jarman in effigy, for which purpose an overcoat of mine had already been impounded. I had the greatest difficulty in rescuing it from the hands of the marauders, who represented to me that it was my duty to sacrifice something for the public good.
“Why don’t you let them have your coat, then?” I asked.
“Because,” was the insinuating reply, “it wouldn’t burn as well.”
“You won’t have mine,” I insisted. “But I tell you what; I’ve got an old hat and pair of boots I—I don’t often wear—you can have them.”
A shout of laughter greeted this ingenuous offer—but it saved my top-coat. And when in time my flat-topped pot-hat and tan boots were produced, there was general rejoicing. Each Philosopher present tried them on in turn, and finally I was compelled to wear them, as well as my top-coat, for the rest of the evening, and assist in a full-dress rehearsal of the proposed hanging of the discipline master, in which, greatly to my inconvenience, I was made to personate Mr Jarman.
The following day I was enjoying a little hard-earned solitude, and amusing myself by leaning over the bridge and watching the boats below, when a voice at my side startled me.
“Ah, my polite letter-writer, is that you? The very chap I want.”
It was Crofter. My instinct at first, especially on the sly reference to my letter of apology, was to fly. On second thoughts it seemed to me wiser to remain. Crofter and Tempest were on better terms now. It would be best to be civil.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Can you steer a boat?”
“A little,” said I.
“Does that mean you can run it into the bank every few yards?”
“Oh no, I’ve often steered Tempest and Pridgin.”
“Come along, then; I’m going to have a spin up to Middle-weir.”
If there was one thing I enjoyed it was steering a boat, and I was not long in accepting the invitation.
Crofter was not conferring a favour on me; only making a convenience of me. So that I was not in any way making up to him. Our relations were that of senior and fag only; and Tempest’s and Pridgin’s warnings to beware when he was particularly friendly (even if it had not already been cancelled by the fact that they now frequently had Crofter in their rooms) could hardly apply now.
For all that, I did not feel quite comfortable, and was glad, on the whole, that the embarkation did not take place under the eyes of my patrons.
For some time Crofter sculled on in silence, giving me directions now and again to keep in the stream, or take the boat well out at the corners—which I considered superfluous. Presently, however, when we were clear of Low Heath he slacked off and began to talk.
“I enjoyed that letter of yours,” said he; “did you write it all yourself?”
“Yes,” said I, feeling and looking very uncomfortable.
“You and Tempest must be quite old chums.”
“Yes.”
“It’s very rough on him, all this business.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said I, somewhat won over by this admission.
“The worst of it is, it makes the house run down. I expected we were going to do big things this term.”
“It’s not Tempest’s fault if we don’t,” said I.
“Of course not. It’s Jarman’s. Every one knows that. It’s rather a pity Tempest takes it so meekly, though. Fellows will think he’s either afraid or doesn’t care; and neither would be true.”
“I should think not.”
There was a pause, during which Crofter sculled on. Then he said,—
“Tempest and I don’t hit it, somehow. He doesn’t like me, does he?”
“Well—no, I don’t fancy he does,” I admitted.
“I dare say he advises you to fight shy of me, and that sort of thing, eh?”
This was awkward; but I could not well get out of it.
“Yes.”
Crofter laughed sweetly.
“I wish he’d let me be friends. I hate to see a fellow coming to grief, and not be allowed to give him a leg-up.”
“Tempest’s not coming to grief,” said I.
“Well, not perhaps that, only it’s a pity he’s adding to his other troubles by getting head-over-ears in debt. I hear he’s been going it pretty well in the shops. You should give him a friendly tip.”
This was a revelation to me. I had gathered some time ago, from what Pridgin had said, that there was some fear of it; but I had hoped I had made a mistake.
“Who told you?” said I.
“A good many people are talking about it; including some of the shopmen. It’s just one of those things that a fellow himself never dreams anybody knows about till it’s public property. That’s why I wish I were on good enough terms to give him the tip.”
“If he’s owing anybody he’ll pay,” said I, feeling a great sinking in my heart.
“Look out for that stake in the water there; pull your left! Narrow shave that. Of course he means to pay. What I’m afraid of is, Jarman or England or any of them getting to hear of it. Ever since Sweeten last year got turned out of the headship of his house, and afterwards expelled, it’s seemed to me to be a risky thing for a fellow to run into debt. These shopmen are such sneaks. If they can’t get their money from the fellow, they send their bills in to the house master, and sometimes to the head master; and then it’s a precious awkward thing. How are you getting on in your form?”
I had not much spirit to tell him, and if I had there was no time, for just then the swish of a pair of sculls came round the corner behind us, and presently a boat at almost racing speed appeared in sight.
“Pull your right!” said Crofter. “Hallo! it’s one of our fellows. Looks like Tempest himself.”
I wished myself at the bottom of the river then! What would he think of me if he saw me, and if he knew what I had been listening to?
In my perturbation I over-pulled my line and sent our boat into the bank. Tempest, who evidently was relieving himself with a spin of hard exercise after his fashion, and imagined he had the river to himself, was bearing down straight upon us.
“Hallo, there; keep her out!” shouted Crofter.
Tempest looked round in a startled way, and held water hard to avoid a collision. Then, as he suddenly took in who we were, his face lengthened, and he came to a halt alongside.
“You there, Jones iv.?”
“Yes, would you like me to come and steer you?” said I.
Considering the difficulty into which I had just landed my present boat, it was difficult to flatter myself any one would exactly compete for my services. But Tempest answered shortly,—
“Come along.”
“Hullo, I say,” said Crofter suavely, but with a flush on his cheeks, “he’s steering me, Tempest.”
“He’s doing no good. He’s stuck you in the bank already. Come along, Jones.”
“I haven’t done with him yet,” said Crofter, flushing still more deeply as his voice became sweeter. “I want him to stay with me.”
“And I don’t want him to stay with you,” blurted out Tempest, losing his temper. “I’ve told him so already. He can do as he likes, though.”
And he began to dip his sculls again in the water.
“No,” said I, “I want to come in your boat, Tempest.”
“Come along, then;” and he backed his stern up towards me.
Crofter made no further protest; but greeted my desertion with a mellifluous laugh, which made me more uncomfortable than a storm of objurgations.
Tempest said nothing, but dug his blades viciously in the water, and spun away with grim face and clenched teeth.
For a quarter of a mile he sculled on before he lay on his oars and exclaimed,—
“You young fool!”
“Why,” pleaded I, “I didn’t think you’d mind. He’s been friendly enough to you lately.”
“Bah! What do I care what he is to me? I told you to fight shy of the fellow, and there you go and give yourself away to him.”
I did not quite like this. Tempest spoke to me as if I had not a soul of my own, and had no right to do anything without his leave.
“He was speaking quite kindly about you,” persisted I.
Tempest checked the contemptuous exclamation which came to his lips, and said, more earnestly than I had heard him yet,—
“Look here, Jones; that fellow’s a cad; and he’ll make a cad of you, if you let him. Don’t believe a word he says to you, unless he calls you a fool.”
“I hope what he’s been saying to-day will turn out to be Lies,” said I oracularly.
To my disappointment Tempest evinced no curiosity as to my meaning, and relapsed into gloomy silence for the rest of the voyage.
For the first time in my life I felt out of humour with my old Dux. He had no right to treat me like a baby, or dictate to me whom I was to know and whom I was not to know in Low Heath. No doubt he thought he was doing me a good turn, and honestly thought ill of Crofter. But it did not follow he was not doing him an injustice, and demanding that I should join in it.
At any rate, I felt heartily miserable, and wished I had never put foot outside the faggery that day.
About a mile from home Tempest got out on the towing-path, and said he would trot to the school while I paddled the boat home. It was some relief to be left alone; a relief, however, which was considerably tempered by the fear of meeting Crofter, and having to explain matters to him. That difficulty fortunately did not occur, and I got back to the bosom of the Philosophers without further adventure.
In their sweet society I gradually recovered my spirits. Their enthusiasm for Tempest was still unabated, and their avowed contempt for his enemies all the world over was refreshing. A night’s reflection further repaired my loyalty. After all, thought I, Tempest meant well by me, and was willing to make an enemy for my sake. He might be wrong, of course; but suppose he was right—
The result of all these inward musings was that I offered Trimble to do Tempest’s fagging in his place next morning.
He seemed half to expect me, and the old friendly look was back in his face as he saw me enter.
“I’m sorry I offended you yesterday, Tempest,” said I.
“I fancied it was I offended you,” said he; “but I couldn’t stand seeing you in that cad’s clutches.”
“Is he really a cad, then?” I asked.
“You don’t suppose I asked you into my boat for fun, do you?” said he shortly.
I went on for some time with my work, and then said,—
“Would you like to know what he was saying about you?”
“Not a bit,” said he, so decisively that I relapsed again into silence.
“Look here, kid,” said he, presently, and with unwonted seriousness. “I’m not a saint, and don’t profess to be. And I may not be able to manage my own affairs, to judge by what you and half a dozen other of the fellows seem to think; but I don’t want to see you—well, come to grief—and that’s what you’re likely to do if you let that fellow get hold of you.”
“He’s not got hold of me,” said I, feeling a little hurt once more. “Mayn’t I be civil to a fellow, even? Why, he was saying if you—”
“Shut up! didn’t I tell you I don’t want to hear?” said he.
“Oh, all right.”
If he had only vouchsafed to tell me why he disliked Crofter, or if he had given his counsel in a less authoritative way, it would have been different. He would not even let me repeat the friendly remarks Crofter had made about him; and was determined neither to say a good word for the fellow himself, nor let me say one.
The consequence was that our interview ended in my wishing once more I had confined myself to my own quarters and let ill alone.
My companions were not long in discovering that something was on my mind, and in their gentle way tried to cheer me up.
“What’s the row—ear-ache?” demanded Trimble.
“He’s blue because he’s not had lines to-day,” suggested Langrish.
“Perhaps his washerwoman has sent in her bill,” said Coxhead.
“You’ll get kicked out of here, if you look so jolly blue,” said Warminster. “It’s stale enough this term, without having a chap with a face like a boiled fish gaping at you.”
“Look here,” said I, resolved to be candid as far as I dare. “I’m in a jolly mess—”
“Never knew you out of it. What’s up?” said Langrish.
“Really though, no larks,” said I. “Tempest’s down on me because I went out with Crofter, and Crofter’s down on me because I cut him for Tempest. That’s enough to give a chap blues, isn’t it?”
“There seems to be a run on Sarah,” said Trimble. “Anybody got a halfpenny?”
“What for?” I inquired, as the requisite coin was planked down on the table.
“Heads Tempest, tails Crofter,” said Langrish.
It was heads, and I was solemnly ordered to adhere to Crofter.
“We’ll square it with Tempest,” said they. “He’ll probably keep his shutters up for a day or two, but he’ll soon get over it.”
“But,” said I, “I mean to stick to Tempest as well. The fact is, from what I hear,”—little I realised the fatal error I was making!—“he’s in rather a bad way himself.”
“How?”
“Well, don’t tell; but he’s owing a lot in the shops; and if he can’t pay he’ll get shown up.”
There was a whistle of dismay at this. Sweeten’s fate was still fresh in the memory of some of the faggery.
“We’ll have to give him a leg-up,” was the general verdict.
“Oh, don’t let out I told you!” said I, beginning to get alarmed at the interest my revelation had evoked.
“Who’s going to say a word about you? We can back up the cock of our own house, I suppose, without asking your precious leave. You go and black Crofter’s boots. We’ll see old Tempest through.”
This was not at all what I wanted. I had at least hoped to be recognised as Tempest’s leading champion in this company. Whereas, here was I coolly shunted, my revelation coolly appropriated, and my services unceremoniously dispensed with. I did not like it at all.
“This dodge about stringing up Jarman’s guy,” said Trimble, “ought to help our man a bit. It’ll show we’re taking the matter up. By the way, Sarah’s not heard the latest—we’re going to blow him up as well as hang him.”
And they proceeded to explain that the guy was to be filled chock-full of fireworks and gunpowder, and his tongue to be made of touch-paper. Altogether, he was to be a most dangerous and explosive effigy; and I, as president of the Philosophical Conversation Club, was naturally selected to take charge of him.
I pleaded hard for a sub-committee to assist me, but they would not hear of it.
“It’ll only be a day or two,” said they, “to the Fifth of November. We’ll have his stuffing all in to-morrow—there’s almost enough fireworks left over from the picnic to load him. Then you can stow him away quiet somewhere till the day. Couldn’t you stick him under your bed?”
“Oh no, he might go off, you know,” said I; “or some one might see him. Besides, he’ll be too stout to go under.”
“Bother!—where can he go, then?”
“I vote we stick him in the lumber room under the gymnasium. Nobody ever goes there, and you can get into it any time by the area outside,” said Coxhead.
This was voted an excellent idea. At any rate, if he was discovered or did go off there, the gymnasium was far enough away from Sharpe’s.
So, with much rejoicing, the guy was duly loaded with his explosive internals, and clad in an old derelict overcoat of some late senior. My famous hat adorned his hideous head, and my unappreciated tan boots lent distinction to his somewhat incoherent legs. A train of touch-paper connected with a Roman candle was cunningly devised to protrude in the form of a tongue from his mouth, while ginger-beer bottles filled with gunpowder served as hands. And the whole work of art was one dark evening conveyed by me tenderly and deposited among a wilderness of broken forms, empty hampers, and old bottles in the lumber room under the school gymnasium, “to be called for” in a few days time.