Chapter Seven.
Coming down a Peg or Two.
I had half hoped Tempest would be down at the station to meet me. But he was not: and I had to consider on the spur of the moment how to make my entry into Low Heath.
Either I might walk, as I noticed a good many of the fellows who got out of the train did, or I might charter a private fly, as a few of the swells did, or I might go up in one of the school omnibuses, which was evidently the popular mood of transportation. I was so earnestly desirous to do the correct thing, that I was nearly doing nothing at all, and finally found myself standing almost alone on the platform with the last omnibus ready to start.
Surely they might make some arrangement, thought I, for meeting exhibitioners and taking them up. How did I know this omnibus was not a town-boys’ vehicle, or one dedicated to the service of the inferior boys? Perhaps it would be better—
“Right away, Jimmy; off you go!” called one of the youths on the knifeboard, whom I recognised as my late travelling companion.
At this point I decided I would risk it, and go up by omnibus after all.
“Wait!” I called. “I’m coming too.”
“Fire away, Jimmy. Cut along!” shouted the youth. They could not have heard me, surely. The omnibus was actually moving!
“Hi!” called I, beginning to follow, bag in hand; “wait for me.”
“Lamm it on, Jimmy,” was the delighted cry from the knifeboard, as a score of heads craned over to witness the chase. The spectacle of an ordinary youth giving chase to an omnibus crowded with roystering schoolboys is probably amusing enough; but when that youth has his white collar outside the collar of his great-coat, and wears brilliant tan boots and a flat-topped billycock, it appears, at least so it seemed to me, to be exceedingly funny for the people on the omnibus.
“Put it on,” called one or two, encouragingly; “you’re gaining!”
“Forge ahead, Jimmy; here comes the bogey man!” cried another.
“Whip behind!” suggested a third.
“Anybody got a copper for the poor beggar?” asked a fourth.
By a desperate effort, at last I succeeded in coming up with the runaway omnibus, when to my disgust I discovered that it was one of those forbidding vehicles of which the step disappears when the door is closed. So that I had nothing to hold on to, still less to climb on to; and to continue to run with my nose at the door, like a well-trained carriage dog, suited neither my wind nor my dignity.
So I gave up the chase and dropped behind, covered with dust and perspiration, amid frantic cheers from the knifeboard and broad grins from the passengers on the pavement.
In such manner, I, an exhibitioner and a living exponent of the latest “form,” entered Low Heath! I was almost more grieved for the school than for myself. Those fellows on the omnibus evidently didn’t know who I was. To-morrow, when they found out, and saw me arm-in-arm with Tempest, they would be sorry for what they had done.
I confess that, as I walked up the steep street, and caught sight at last of the chimneys of the school peeping up over the trees, I half wished myself back at home with my mother. I hadn’t expected to feel so lonely. I had indeed looked forward to a little pardonable triumph in being recognised at once as the fellow who had taken the entrance exhibition, and who evidently knew what was what. Of course it was foolish, I told myself, to expect such a thing. Fellows could hardly be expected to know who I was until they were told. Still it was a little—just a little—disappointing, and I could not help feeling hurt.
I tramped on, till presently I came to the bridge, and loitered for a moment to rest and watch the boats flitting about below. There went a four, smartly manned by youngsters no older than myself. There lolled a big fellow in a canoe. There swished by a senior in a skiff, calling on the four-oar to get out of the way as he passed. There, too, stood a master in flannels, with the Oxford Blue on his straw, talking to a group of boys. I wish I could have overheard what they were saying. Perhaps they were discussing the merits of some of the new boys.
I strolled on, passing on the way inquisitive stragglers who stared hard at me, till I came to where the road skirts the cricket field. Here, at a broken paling, I stood a moment and glanced in. Fellows were bowling and batting at the nets, others were strolling arm-in-arm up and down, hailing new arrivals; others were enjoying a little horseplay; others were critically examining the last season’s pitch; others, impatient of the seasons, were punting about a brand-new football.
How out of it I was! and yet how sure I felt that if some of those fellows only guessed who was on the other side of the palings they would feel interested!
I strolled on farther, and began now to pass the outbuildings. There was a lecture room, empty at present. Should I be there to-morrow? I wondered, answering to my name and seeing fellows open their eyes as they heard it.
There was the gymnasium, I supposed—the place presided over by the drill master whom Tempest so much detested. I meant to back Tempest up in that feud.
Ah, there was the Lion Gate, standing open to receive me. Little I had expected, when once before I entered it on my way to examination, that I should so soon be coming back, so to speak, in triumph like this.
It took some little self-persuasion, I must confess, to feel that it really was a triumph. I did think Tempest might have been on the look-out for me. I did not know where to go, or of whom to inquire my way. The boys I met either took no notice of me at all, or else stared so rudely at my hat and boots that I could not bring myself to accost them. At length I was beginning to think I had better march boldly to the first master’s house I came to, when, as luck would have it, I stumbled up against my old travelling companion, who, having safely arrived a quarter of an hour before, was now prowling about on the look-out for old acquaintances.
“Please,” said I, “would you mind telling me the way to Mr Sharpe’s house?”
“Are you a Sharper then?” he inquired. “My word! what are we coming to? Why didn’t you come up by the ’bus?”
“I tried to,” said I; “you wouldn’t stop.”
“Jim’s horses were a bit shy,” said he, with a grin. “They can’t be held in when they see a moke. You should have got in quietly, without their spotting you.”
I didn’t like this fellow. He appeared to me to think he was funny when he was not.
“Do you know if Tempest has come?” said I, hoping to impress him a little.
“Who?”
“Tempest—Harry Tempest. He’s at Sharpe’s too.”
“What sort of looking chap is he?” demanded the youth, who, I suspected, could have told me without any detailed description.
“He’s one of the seniors,” said I; “he was in the reserve for the Eleven last term.”
“Oh, that lout? I hope you aren’t a pal of his. That would about finish you up. If you want him, you’d better go and look for him. I don’t know whether every snob in the place has come up or not.”
And he departed in chase of a friend whom he had just sighted.
This was depressing. Not that I believed what he said about Tempest. But I had hoped that my acquaintance with my old schoolmate would redound to my own dignity, whereas it seemed to do nothing of the kind.
Presently I encountered a very small boy, of chirpy aspect, whom I thought I might safely accost.
“I say,” said I, “which is Mr Sharpe’s house?”
“Over there,” said he, pointing to an ivy-covered house at some little distance higher up the street. Then, regarding me attentively, he added, “I say, you’ll get in a jolly row if he sees you in that get-up.”
“Oh,” said I, feeling that the youngster was entitled to an explanation, “I’m an exhibitioner.”
“A who? All I know is he’s down on chaps playing the fool. You’d better cut in on the quiet before they bowl you out in that thing,” said he, pointing to my hat.
That thing! True, I had not observed many hats like it, so far, at Low Heath; but that was probably because I had not encountered any other fellow-exhibitioner. Tempest knew more about the form than this kid.
“Thanks,” said I. “Mr Sharpe will know who I am.”
“Oh, all right,” said he; “don’t say I didn’t tell you, that’s all.”
“I say,” said I, feeling that enough had been said on a matter on which we evidently misunderstood each other, “do you know Tempest?”
“Rather. He’s in our house. You’ll get it pretty hot from him if you cheek him.”
“Oh, I know him well; he’s an old chum.”
The boy laughed incredulously.
“He’d thank you if he heard you say so. Oh my! fancy Tempest— Hullo, I say, there he is. Cut away, kid, before he sees you.” And the youth set me a prompt example.
I was sorry he had not remained to witness the fact that I was not quite the outsider he took me for.
Tempest was strolling across the road, arm-in-arm with a friend. He certainly was not got up in the “form” which he had prescribed for me. He wore a straw hat on the back of his head, and boots of unmistakable blackness. But then, though an exhibitioner himself once, he had now attained to the dignity of a senior, and was probably exempt from the laws binding on new boys.
As he approached I crossed the road to meet him, full of joy at the prospect of encountering at least one friend, and marching under his protection into my new quarters. But I was doomed to a slight disappointment. For though for a moment, when he looked up, I fancied he recognised me, he did not discontinue his conversation with his friend, but drew him out into the middle of the road. They seemed to be enjoying a joke between them. His companion looked round once or twice at me, but Tempest, who was looking quite flushed, apparently did not take me in, and walked on, looking the other way.
It was a little shock to me, or would have been had I not remembered his friendly warning about the etiquette of a junior not accosting a senior till the senior accosted him. I wished he had spoken to me, for just then his help would have been particularly patronising. As it was, I was tantalised by seeing him pass by close to me, and yet being unable, without “shirking form” in a reprehensible way, to bring myself to his notice.
In due time I reached Mr Sharpe’s house. To my dismay the door stood wide open, and the hall was crowded with fellows claiming their luggage as it was being deposited by the railway van. As I arrived there was an ominous silence, in the midst of which I stood on the step, and carefully rung the bell marked, not “servants,” but “visitors.” No one came, so after a due interval, and amid the smiles of the onlookers, I mustered up resolution to ring again, rather louder. This time I had not to wait long. A person dressed as a sort of butler, very red in the face, emerged from a green baize door at the end of the passage and advanced wrathfully.
“Which of you young gents keeps ringing the bell?” demanded he. “He’s to be made an example of this time. Oh, it was you, was it?” said he, catching sight of me.
“Yes,” said I. “Is Mr Sharpe at home?”
“At home?” demanded the official, redder in the face than ever. “You seem to be pretty much at home.” Then, apparently struck by my appearance, he pulled himself up and honoured me with a long stare in which all the assembled boys joined.
“Who is it?”
“One of the porters from the station, I should say, from the looks of him,” suggested a boy.
“Whoever it is, don’t you ring that visitors’ bell—do you hear?” said the man-servant. “If you want anything, go round to the side door and don’t interfere with the young gentlemen.”
“But I’m a new boy,” said I. “I’m—I’m an exhibitioner;” at which there was a great roar of laughter, which even my self-satisfaction could hardly construe into jubilation.
I began to have a horrible suspicion that I had committed some great faux pas by ringing the visitors’ bell, and blushed consciously, to the increased amusement of my fellow “Sharpers.”
“Can I see Mr Sharpe?” I inquired, thinking it best to take the bull by the horns.
“Can’t you wait?” said the servant. “Do you suppose the master has nothing to do but run out and see—wild Indians?” Here followed another laugh at my expense. “He’ll see you quite soon enough.”
Here a shove from behind precipitated me into the bosom of the speaker, who returned me with thanks, and before I could apologise, into the hands of the sender. Thence I found myself passed on by a side impetus to a knot of juveniles, who, not requiring my presence, passed me on to a senior standing by, who shot me back to a friend, who sent me forward among the boxes into the arms of the matron, who indignantly hustled me up the passage, where finally I pulled up short in the grasp of a gentleman who at that moment emerged from the green baize door.
In the confusion I had lost both my hat and my presence of mind. I was far too confused to observe who the new-comer was, and far too indignant to care. All that I called to my mind as I reeled into his clutches was Tempest’s directions about kicking back, which accordingly I proceeded to do, with all the vigour of which my new tan boots were capable.
Mr Sharpe suffered this assault meekly for a second or two, then he held me out stiffly at arm’s length, like a puppy in a fit, and demanded,—
“What do you mean, sir, by behaving like this?”
I was bound to admit that it was a natural inquiry from a person whose shins had been considerably barked by my new boots. I felt as if I owed Mr Sharpe an apology.
“Please,” said I, “I didn’t mean to do it. The boys shoved me, and I didn’t know where I was going, really, sir.”
Mr Sharpe seemed inclined to believe me. He was a florid-looking, spectacled young man, with sandy whiskers, and a grip—oh that grip!—that could have lifted me easily over the Lion Gate.
“Boys,” said he, “let us have none of this nonsense, or I must set a house theme. Is Mrs Smiley here?”
Mrs Smiley, looking anything but the “moral” of her name, appeared in due course.
“Mrs Smiley, will you please take charge of this new boy and keep him out of trouble? Run away with Mrs Smiley, my little man; and you, boys, as soon as you have claimed your boxes, clear out till register bell.”
What I did my ears deceive me? Was I, an exhibitioner, a scholar who had come up to Low Heath in all the éclat of the latest “form,” the friend of Tempest, the fellow who had made things too hot for himself at Dangerfield—was I, I say, to be handed over to a sort of washer-womanly person to be kept out of mischief, and called “my little man” in the presence of the whole house? Was this my triumphant entry then?
No sooner had Mr Sharpe retired, than greetings of “My little man,” “Spiteful Sarah,” “Run along with his Smiley, then,” beset me on all sides. I would fain have explained and corrected any wrong impression, but they only laughed when I tried; finally, when Mrs Smiley grabbed at my hand and walked me off the scene like a baby, my humiliation was complete.
Mrs Smiley, who was far too busy with the young gentlemen’s luggage to relish the extra duty put upon her by Mr Sharpe, had a very summary way of dealing with cases of my kind.
“Sit down there, and don’t move till you’re told,” said she, pointing to a little three-legged stool in a corner in the box-room.
“But—” began I.
“Hold your tongue; how dare you speak to me?” she retorted.
“I only—”
“Stand in the corner, with your hands behind you, for disobedience,” said she.
This was getting serious. The little three-legged stool would not have been exactly luxurious; but to be stood in the corner with my hands behind me by a person of the feminine gender called Smiley, was really too bad. The worst of it was that if I made any further protest I might be smacked in addition, and that possibility I hardly dared risk.
So, rather to my own surprise, I found myself standing in the corner, with my hands at my back, scrutinising a blue and pink rose on the wall-paper, and wondering whether it would not be worth my while to write to the Times about the whole business. I could not help thinking that Mrs Smiley did not hurry herself on my account. I was conscious of box after box being dragged to the front, emptied of its contents and put back, to be removed presently by a porter, who probably looked at me every time he came in, but, I am bound to say, received very little encouragement from my studiously averted head.
After nearly an hour I began to get tired, and the blood of the Joneses began to rise within me. I was seriously meditating mutiny, or at least a definite explanation with Mrs Smiley, when at last she broke silence.
“Now, young gentleman, this way, please.”
And she led me to a small comfortable-looking apartment, which I surmised to be her particular sanctum.
“What’s your name?”
“Jones,” said I.
“Ah—you’re the boy who’s brought down a rubbishy speckled waistcoat and loud striped shirts—eh?”
“Well, yes,” said I.
“Did your mother buy them for you, or did you buy them?”
“I did.”
“I can see your mother’s a lady by the way she has everything else done. You’ll find your own trash just where you put it, in the bottom of your trunk. You will not be allowed to wear it. We expect our boys to dress like young gentlemen, whether they are such or not. What’s that in your hand, Jones?”
“My hat,” said I, hoping I was coming in for a little credit at last.
“Hat!” Here she was rude enough to laugh. “What made you bring a thing like that here for a hat?”
“But,” said I, “I’m an exhibitioner.”
“All the more shame on you not dressing like a gentleman. Look at those boots; I am sure your mother did not buy them for you. Take them off at once, sir—and put on your proper ones.”
“Aren’t they—isn’t it the thing, the form, you know, for—”
“Form! Fiddlesticks. The thing at Low Heath is to behave and dress like gentlemen, not like vulgar, public-house potmen,” said she, with an access of indignation which surprised me. “To think that you, with a nice mother like yours, should come up here a fright like that! There, put the shoes and hat in the trunk with the speckled waistcoat and shirts, and get yourself up decently, and then I’ll speak to you.”
I was under the impression she had spoken to me—pretty strongly too. This, then, was the end of my elaborately prepared toilet!
A horrid suspicion began to come over me at last, not only that Tempest had been having a little joke at my expense, but that I had lent myself to it with an alacrity and eagerness which had almost—nay, very nearly wholly—been ridiculous.
What does the reader think?
My further conversation with good Mrs Smiley, after I had, to use her own expression, made myself decent, only tended to confirm the painful impression. I even went to the length of adding, of my own accord, my six-button lavender gloves to the pile of sacrificed finery which strewed the bottom of my trunk. And when in due time a bell rang, and Mrs Smiley said, “There now, go down to call-over, and don’t be a silly any more,” I obeyed with a meekness and diffidence of which I could hardly have believed myself capable, had I not been quite sure of the fact.