Chapter Twelve.
A Committee of Ways and Means.
“Where are you going?” demanded the faggery next afternoon, as I tried to desert them after afternoon chapel. “To take up your lines to England?”
I should have preferred that they had not asked me the question, but having asked it I felt bound to answer.
“No; I’m going to tea at a fellow’s.”
“Who? The washerwoman’s?”
“No; to Redwood’s.”
I tried to pronounce the name with the unconcern of a man who is in daily communion with heroes, but I fear I betrayed my emotion. At least, their laughter made me think so.
I was instantly greeted with all sorts of mock salutations and obeisances, and, whether I liked it or not, rushed off to the faggery to be tidied up. It was in vain I struggled, and explained that Redwood was waiting for me. They would not be put off.
“You must wash your face for the credit of the Ph.C.C,” said Langrish.
“And put on a clean shirt for the credit of your wash—”
Here by a frantic effort I broke loose and made off, followed by the pack in full cry, with shouts of—
“Stop thief!”
“Welsher?”
“Clear the course!” “Hurry up for tea there!” and other exclamations of a similar nature.
It was not certainly a very dignified way of accepting a friend’s invitation; still, it would have been worse had I remained in their clutches.
As it was, I only just made the schoolhouse door before Warminster and Coxhead were up to me, and presented myself to my host painfully out of breath and red in the face.
“Been having a trot over?” said he, with a nod.
“Yes, a little,” I gasped.
“I’m ready; come along.”
My heart sunk within me, as, on reaching the door, I saw my five comrades, all apparently by accident, hovering round to see me go out. They did their best, and very successfully too, to stare me out of countenance, and encourage my blushes by allusions to “Sarah” and my tin sleeve-links, and the smudges on my face, and by cries of “shrimps” and “muffins,” and other awkward allusions.
Redwood, as became the cock of the school, affected not to hear their ribald remarks, though he must have caught a word or two, and inquired,—
“Been playing football since you came?”
“No, not yet,” said I, painfully aware that Trimble and Langrish were walking behind us critically; “that is, yes, a little.”
I was glad when we reached the big gates, and were able to shake off the enemy, who continued audible comments till I was out of earshot, and finally went off on some new quest.
At Number 3, Bridge Street, I found myself, much to my discomfort, quite a hero. Mrs Redwood, a gentle-looking lady, kissed me effusively, so did little Miss Gwen, who having once begun could scarcely be prevailed upon to leave off. The servants smiled approvingly, as did a lady visitor, who shook me by the hand. The only person who did not appear to rejoice to see me was the heroine of the occasion, Miss Mamie, who declined altogether to kiss me, and added I was a naughty big boy to spoil her nice sash, and ought to be sent to bed.
To her mother’s protests and brother’s encouragement she was quite obdurate. No; she hated me, she said, for spoiling her nice sash, and wild horses would not draw from her a contrary declaration.
After which we were summoned to tea, and I was consoled for this base ingratitude by plum jam and “sally-lunn” and sultana cake and other delicacies, which only a schoolboy, well on in the term, knows how fully to appreciate.
The talk was limited; first because I made it a rule not to talk with my mouth full, and secondly, because, had that difficulty been removed, I had nothing to say. Redwood, fine fellow that he was, did not try to pump me, and the ladies, who kept up most of the talk, most conveniently worded their observations in such a form as not to call for a reply.
After tea, however, I did find myself talking to Mrs Redwood about my mother, and presently to Redwood about Dangerfield and my previous acquaintance with Tempest and Brown.
“Brown iii. is a town-boy,” said the captain. “I wish we’d had him in. Is he a member of your wonderful club, by the way?”
I blushed. Of course Redwood had seen that fatal document yesterday!
“Ah—well, you know, that is only for chaps in the school.”
“Rather rough on us town-boys,” said Redwood, with a laugh.
“I’m sure they’d be delighted to have you,” said I.
“Ah, well, our fellows have a club of their own,” said he, “although they don’t talk philosophy. By the way, is your Christian name correctly printed?” asked he.
“Oh, no,” said I; “that was Languish’s fault. He says it was a printer’s error, but I’m sure he did it on purpose.”
“It helps to call attention to the club,” said the captain, laughing. “Your lot seems to be fond of its little joke, to judge by the specimens that came to see us off just now.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said I; “they do fool about so—I say, I hope you aren’t in a wax about it.”
He certainly did not look it.
I went up with him to his den, and we had quite a long talk, and somehow without seeming to mean it, he managed to knock a great deal of nonsense out of my head, and incite me to put my back into the work of the term.
“I suppose,” said he, “you mean to back up Tempest now he’s cock of Sharpe’s? You kids can make it pretty hot in a house if you choose.”
“Oh, we’re all backing up Tempest,” said I, “especially now he’s got his colours.”
“All serene,” said the captain; “he’ll pull through well, then.”
I stayed till it was time for Redwood to go over to the school for a committee of the Sports Club. I did not leave Number 3 without a standing invitation to come in whenever I liked, or without painful apologies for the contumacy of Mamie.
Redwood and I had just reached the bridge when some one confronted us whom I recognised at once as Mr Jarman.
“Ah, Redwood, you’ve a meeting on. Who’s this boy? Ah, I remember—Jones iv. What did I say to you yesterday, Jones?”
“Jones has been to tea at my house,” said the captain, with a flush, and looking less amiable than I had yet seen him.
“It’s after hours,” said Mr Jarman, coolly. “I cautioned him yesterday. A hundred lines, Jones iv., by to-morrow evening.”
“It’s not his fault,” said Redwood; “I gave him leave, sir.”
“We need not discuss this, Redwood,” said Mr Jarman, and walked away.
I felt quite sufficiently avenged when I saw the captain’s face. He strode on some distance in silence, and then said,—
“I’m sorry, youngster. It can’t be helped, though. Jarman’s strictly in the right, though it’s sharp practice. You’d better cut in now. Good night.”
“Good night,” said I, making off. But he called me back.
“You’d better do the doctor’s lines to-night. Leave Jarman’s till the morning.”
“All right.”
And I departed, not a little impressed with the incident.
The captain had disappointed me a little. I should have liked to see him knock Jarman down, or at least openly defy him; whereas he seemed to back him up, although much against his will. The net result to me was that I had three hundred lines to write on my third day at school, and that, for a well-meaning youth, was tribulation enough.
I took Redwood’s advice and wrote the doctor’s lines that evening, trusting to a chance next forenoon of satisfying the demands of Mr Jarman. To their credit be it said, some of the faggery helped me out with my task, and as we all wrote in the same style of penmanship, namely, a back-handed slope spread out very wide to cover as much ground as possible, it was very difficult when all was done to believe that the performance was a co-operative one.
Before going to bed I told Tempest of my adventure, and had the satisfaction of receiving his complete sympathy.
“That’s the worst of Redwood—he’ll let it all slide. I wish I’d been with you when it happened. There’d have been a row. There will some day, too.”
All which was very consoling to me and helped me to sleep soundly.
But the surprise of surprises happened next morning when I encountered the captain’s fag at the door before breakfast with a letter in his hand.
“Here you are,” said he, thrusting the document on me. “I don’t see why you can’t come and fetch your own things instead of me having to run after you.”
“You can walk,” said I, “I suppose.”
I meant to be conciliatory, but he was highly offended and began to kick, and it took some little time to pacify him and induce him to return to the bosom of his house.
When he had gone, I opened the envelope with some little curiosity. What was my astonishment when I found it enclosed one hundred lines written out in a bold clear hand, which it was easy to guess was that of the captain himself!
There was no letter or message; but the explanation was clear enough. Redwood having got me into my row, had, like a gentleman, paid the penalty; and as I realised this I could have kicked myself for the unworthy thoughts I had indulged about him.
I only wished Jarman, to whom in due time I handed the precious document, could have known its history.
He evidently gave me credit for being an excellent writer, and perhaps for having an unusual acquaintance, for a boy of my age, with the works of the Immortal Bard. For Redwood had grimly selected the following passage to write out over and over again for the police-master’s benefit: “It is excellent to have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant.”
I fear the satire was lost on its victim, and that he meekly concluded I had selected the passage because it happened to be in my lesson for the day, and was probably the first to come to hand.
Tempest laughed when I told him.
“It’s all very well,” said he, “but it’s encouraging the enemy. Redwood’s a dear old chap, but he’s too much of an anything-for-a-quiet-life fellow for captain. By the way, has Crofter replied to your polite letter?”
“No,” said I, “not a word, and I haven’t seen him.”
“Well, take my advice, kid. If he wants to kick you, consider yourself lucky. If he’s extra civil, cut him like mischief. Some day you may thank me for the tip.”
It seemed queer advice at the time, but I had occasion to call it to mind later on, as the reader will discover.
By the end of my first week I was pretty well domesticated at Low Heath. My chief regret was that I saw so little of Dicky Brown; and when we did meet the only thing we had in common was our lessons, which were not always congenial topics of conversation.
Dicky was fully imbued with the superiority of the town-boy over the house boy, and irritated me sometimes by his repeated regret that I was not eligible for the junior Urbans.
“What do you do?” I inquired.
“Oh, hosts of things. We go in for geology, and part songs, and antiquities, and all that sort of thing; and have excursions—at least, we’re going to have one soon—to look for remains.”
“Ah! it’s a pity you couldn’t come to our picnic next week. It’s to be no end of a spree.”
“Oh, we’ve heard all about that,” said Dicky, with a grin. “Mens sano in corpore sanae—you should hear some of our chaps yell about that.”
“I’m sure it’s not a bad motto,” ventured I.
“I don’t know about that. But it’s not the motto, it’s the grammar.”
I wasn’t quite pleased with Dicky for this. It seemed as if he thought he knew more than other people, which I held to be a reprehensible failing in any one—particularly a day boy. I flattered myself that, as an exhibitioner, he had hardly the right to talk to me about grammar. But it was Dicky’s way, and I knew he couldn’t help it.
For all that, I referred to the subject in the faggery that evening. My comrades were in high glee. Half a dozen subscriptions had come in, with requests to be allowed to join the picnic, and a considerable number of others had asked to be allowed at half price or on the deferred payment system.
“It’s going like anything, Sarah,” said Langrish, thumping me violently on the back.
“Where’s the picnic to be?” I inquired.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said the secretary.
I said I would, and, as president, considered I was entitled to the information.
“We’re not as green as we look; are we, you chaps?” said Trimble. “Why, you don’t suppose we’re going to let out and give you a chance of blabbing to the day-boy cads, do you?”
“I’m not any more likely to blab than you are,” said I, warmly.
“All serene. You keep your temper—you’ll know time enough.”
“Suppose I resigned,” said I, feeling I must support my dignity.
“Resign away. We’ve got your subscription.”
“I don’t mean I shall,” said I; “but—”
“Shut up, and don’t disturb the committee meeting.”
“If I’m president, I suppose I’ve a right to speak.”
“Not till you’re asked.”
“All right,” said I, playing my trump card desperately. “When you do ask me what’s wrong with the grammar of your Latin motto, I sha’n’t tell you. Ha, ha!—corpore sanae. You should hear the fellows yell.”
The effect of this announcement was electrical, Langrish turned white, and Trimble turned red. The others bit their nails in silence. It was a season of delicious triumph to me. I was master of the situation for once, and resolved to remain so as long as possible.
“Why, what’s wrong with it?” said Warminster, presently.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said I.
“Corpore’s feminine, isn’t it?” asked Coxhead.
“Common gender, I fancy,” said Purkis; “depends on who the chap is.”
“You mean if it was Sarah it would be feminine, and if it was one of us it would be masculine,” said Langrish.
This was a nasty one for me, but I held my ground.
“You’d better look it up in the dictionary,” said I.
This was diplomatic; for although I knew the motto was wrong I could not quite say what it should have been.
After much labour it was decided that corpore was neuter, and that the adjective in consequence must be sanum.
A resolution to that effect was proposed and seconded, but an amendment to the effect that as the document had gone out in the name of the president and every one knew it was his work, it was no business of the present company to help him out of the mess, was carried by a large majority.
With which delightful solution of the difficulty—delightful to every one but myself—we proceeded to the order of the day, which was to arrange the details of our picnic next half-holiday.
My colleagues remained obdurate on the question of revealing the place.
“If the day fellows get wind of it they’ll be sure to try to do us,” was the unfailing reply.
“Why shouldn’t I know as well as you?” demanded I.
Whereupon it was explained that nobody knew where the place was to be yet—nor indeed was he likely to know till the morning of the day, when lots would be drawn.
Every member of the council would then be permitted to write the name of a place on a piece of paper, which would be shuffled in a hat and drawn for—the last paper drawn to be the place. I could not help admiring the elaborateness of the precautions, which had only this drawback, as far as I was concerned, that I did not yet know one place from another.
I casually asked Dicky one day if he knew any of the places round.
“What for, picnics and that sort of thing?” he demanded.
“Well—that sort of thing,” said I, anxious not to betray my object too precisely.
“I don’t know. I heard some chaps talking about Camp Hill Bottom—where the battle was, you know.”
I did not know, but it sounded a likely place, and I made a mental note of it for the eventful day.
Meanwhile there was much to be decided. First, as to the applicants for admission on reduced terms, it was agreed if these brought their fair share of provender, and in consideration of their being taken on the cheap would undertake to row or tow the boats up stream, they might come. Then as to the bill of fare, it was resolved that no one should be allowed to take more than he could carry in his pockets—great-coat pockets not to be used.
Then as to the programme; this was drawn up with a view to combine entertainment and instruction in even quantities. For the entertainment was set down the President’s “Inorgural”—the spelling was Langrish’s—address, a part song of the committee, and a public open-air debate or conservation on “Beauty.” The credit of the last suggestion really belonged to Tempest, whom I unofficially consulted as to some good subjects for philosophical discussion. For the instructive part of the day’s proceedings there was to be the dinner, a boat race, a tug of war, and, if funds permitted, a display of fireworks.
What concerned me chiefly in the arrangements was that I, as president, was held responsible for everything of a difficult or hazardous nature. For instance, I was sent down to select the two boats, and drive a bargain for their hire. Then again, when, owing to the prompt payment of two or three of the “paupers” (as the applicants for reduced terms were politely styled) rather than submit to the terms imposed, it was discovered that half-a-crown of the club funds remained unused, it was I who was sent into Low Heath to buy squibs and Roman candles; and it was I who was appointed to take charge of the explosives in my hat-box under my bed till the time arrived for letting them off.
I began to be anxious about my numerous responsibilities (to which, by the way, was added that of replying in the negative on the question of Beauty), for every day something fresh was put on my shoulders, and every day I found my school work falling into arrears.
Tempest and Pridgin both mildly hinted to me that I didn’t seem to be knocking myself up with work, and succeeded in making me uncomfortable on that score. What concerned me still more was to find that Dicky Brown, although not an exhibitioner, kept steadily above me in class, and put me under frequent obligations by helping me out of difficulties.
Never mind, thought I, it will soon be all right—when once the Conversation Club picnic is over.
The morning of the eventful day dawned at last; fair on the whole, but not brilliant. The faggery was astir early, and before breakfast the solemn ceremony of drawing lots for the scene of our revels took place. I faithfully set down Camp Hill Bottom on my paper and committed it to the hat.
Tempest, who chanced to look in with an order for his fag, was requested as a favour to officiate as drawer, which he good-naturedly did. It was anxious work while he pulled out the first five papers and tossed them unopened into the fireplace. Then he drew the sixth and opened it.
“Camp Hill Botton,” he read.
Every one seemed pleased, first, because every one had written it on his paper, and secondly, because it was the only really good place for a river picnic.
“There’s one comfort about it,” said Tempest, as we thanked him for his services, “we shall have a little quiet in this house for an hour or two. Take care of yourselves. Good-bye.”