Chapter Twenty Six.

A Good Show-up all Round.

It was the last day but one of the Summer term, and the Philosophers were in a ferment. The lists were to be out in the afternoon, and a score of events were to be decided by them. Was I to get on to the top form of my division, and if so, was it Langrish or Purkis who was to be displaced? Or was I, after all my grind, to yield a place to the truculent Coxhead?

More than that, was Warminster to be beaten after all by a day boy called Dicky Brown, who, amid all the changes and distractions of the term, had stuck doggedly to his work, and was reported a hot man for the head place in the junior division?

All this was exciting enough, but it was as nothing to the tussle at the head of the school.

Pridgin’s alarming burst of work in the Easter term had, contrary to all expectation, not died out. Every one prophesied he would sicken of it. Wales laughed at him. Crofter smiled sweetly. Tempest inquired frequently after his health, and even Redwood knocked off some of his extra cricket to keep pace with it.

“What are you trying to do?” asked Tempest one day, as his friend looked in.

“Nothing, my dear fellow, only amusing myself, I assure you.”

“You have a queer idea of fun. Do you know, I’ve hardly been out on the river all the term, owing to you.”

“Don’t let me prevent you, old chap. The exercise will do you good.”

Tempest laughed.

“I hope yours will do you good. But two can play at your game.”

“Two! Half a dozen.—I’ve not got my knife into you, though.”

“Who? Crofter?”

“Rather. I see no other way of taking it out of him. He shirks sports, and takes his pound of flesh out of the captaincy, although he knows he’s no right to it, and no one, not even the rowdies in the faggery, respects him.”

“That’s why we’re going steady,” said I, “just to rile him.”

“The only way to take it out of him is to make him sit up, and harry him,” said the amiable Pridgin. “I only hope, though, it won’t land me head of the house. I’m depending on you to beat me. But I’m not going to play second fiddle to Crofter.”

“It will serve you right if it does land you head,” responded Tempest. “If it does, we’ll have to keep you up to the mark and see you don’t shirk.”

“Don’t say that, old chap, or I shall jack it up,” said Pridgin, putting his feet upon the window-ledge. “Besides, does it occur to you that Redwood’s leaving, and that the second man up, if he’s one of us, is left not only captain of Sharpe’s but captain of Low Heath?”

“I know,” said Tempest quietly, “but they say Leslie of Selkirk’s is in the running for that.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” retorted Pridgin. “Tempest of Sharpe’s is the man for my money.”

Tempest laughed again; but it was a sort of laugh which did not bode well for Leslie of Selkirk’s.

This talk had been a fortnight ago. Since then the examinations had come and gone. The Philosophers, sobered and perspiring, had been spread out at two-desk intervals on three fatal days in the large hall, with day boys to right of them and Selkirkers to left, writing for their lives, and groaning over questions which only a fiend could have devised, and only a double-first could have answered. How I had got on, I could no more tell than the man in the moon. My comrades, when we compared notes afterwards, cheerfully assured me that, out of some fifty questions on the three days, I had possibly got half a question right, but that that was doubtful, and depended on the particular crib the examiner swore by. Redwood, to whom I confided some of my answers, thought rather more hopefully of my case, and told me to keep my spirits up. Tempest said that if he were to cuff me for every discreditable blunder I had made, I should have ear-ache for a month. Dicky, on the other hand, confessed that he wished he could believe he had done as well as I.

As for the other Philosophers, general discouragement was the order of the day. It was moved and seconded that Coxhead be kicked for having made “amnis” feminine, and having translated the French “impasse” as “instep.” And Trimble was temporarily suspended from the service of the Conversation Club because he had put a decimal dot in the wrong place. Public feeling ran so high that any departure from the rules of syntax or algebra was regarded as treason against the house, and dealt with accordingly.

On the whole, therefore, we were glad when the time of suspense came to an end.

How matters had gone with the seniors it was even more difficult to surmise than it had been in our case. The day after the end of their exams., Redwood and Tempest, with Pridgin to cox, rowed twelve miles down stream and back, and returned cheerful and serene, and even jocular. Leslie of Selkirk’s also spent a pleasant afternoon in the school laboratory, whistling to himself as he mixed up his acids. Crofter and Wales mooned about under the trees in the field somewhat limply, but showed no outward signs of distress. Altogether, speculation was baffled, and it was almost irritating to find the chief actors in the drama refusing to take the momentous question seriously.

“How did you get on?” I asked Tempest.

“You’ll hear to-morrow,” said he; “so shall I.”

“Do you think you’ll beat Leslie?”

“Either that, or he’ll beat me, or it’ll be a dead heat,” said he.

There was no dealing with frivolity of this kind; and Tempest, ever since his recovery last term, had been rapidly regaining all his old frivolity and lightheartedness.

It was a trying ordeal on “Result” day, sitting patiently in hall till the doctor made up his mind to appear. All the school was there. There was an unusual spirit of orderliness afoot. The few irresponsible ones, who, with nothing to lose, tried to get up a disturbance, were promptly squashed by the grim, anxious competitors to whom the coming results meant so much. We Philosophers huddled together for comfort, but not a joke travelled down the line. We sat and drummed our fingers on the desk before us, and wondered why on earth the doctor, on a day like this, should take such an unearthly time to put on his cap and gown.

At last he appeared, paper in hand, and glasses on nose. I could see Dicky just in front of me catch a quick breath, and Tempest up in the front brush his hair back with his fingers; and there arose before my mind in horrible review all the palpable blunders of my own examination papers.

“Lower school,” began the doctor in a hard, dry, unemotional voice. “Aggregate form order—out of a possible 1000 marks, Brown iii., day boy, and Jones iv., Mr Sharpe’s, bracketed first with 853 marks.”

What! me? bracketed top with Dicky? Go along with you! But a huge thump on the back from Warminster, followed by a huger from Langrish; the vision of Dicky’s consciously blushing cheeks, as Flitwick performed the same office for him; and, above all, a nod across the room from Redwood, and a grin from Tempest, convinced me that there was something in it after all. Of course it was a mistake, and when the marks came to be counted again it would be put right. But while it lasted it wasn’t bad. What was the doctor saying?

“A very good performance, both of you; and the result of honest hard work.”

It was true then? There was no humbug about it? Oh, I must write to my mother this very afternoon.

“Warminster, Mr Sharpe’s second, 836, good also; Corderoy, Mr Selkirk’s, third, 815; Langrish, Mr Sharpe’s, fourth, 807; Trimble, Mr Sharpe’s, sixth, 796; Purkis, Mr Sharpe’s, seventh, 771; Coxhead, Mr Sharpe’s, eighth, 734—(Mr Sharpe’s boys have worked excellently this term);—Quin, day boy, ninth, 699; Rackstraw, Mr Sharpe’s, tenth, 678.”

And so the list went on. I was too much lost in the wonder of my own success to appreciate all at once the glorious significance of the whole result. But as the Philosophers crowded in a little closer on one another, and the friendly nudge went round, it began to dawn on me. Every one of our men had given a good account of himself, even Coxhead and the “pauper” Rackstraw! Not one of the old gang but was eligible for the club; not one but had done something to “put the day boys and Selkirk’s and everybody else to bed,” as Langrish said.

“Just like your side,” said the latter to me, “trying to make out you’d made a mess of it. You can only make a mess of it, young Sarah, when you try not to; when you do try you can’t do it.” And with another thump on the back our excellent secretary gave me to know he bore me no malice, but on the contrary was pleased to favour me with his general approbation.

But more was yet to come. Compared with the “aggregates,” the details of how we had passed each examination were more or less tame, and we were impatient to get on to the senior results.

The middle school had to come first. As a rule we were not greatly concerned in them, except as belonging to the division into which some of us would probably be promoted next term. But such as they were, they kept up the credit of Sharpe’s. A Selkirker did indeed head the list, but after him a string of four of our fellows followed; after them a day boy, and then two more “Sharpers.”

More back patting, crowding up, conscious blushes, and congratulations.

Then the doctor put down one paper and took up another; and every one knew what was coming.

“Upper school,” read the doctor in exactly the same voice, as if this announcement were of no more importance than any other. “Aggregate form order—out of a possible 1000 marks, Redwood, captain of the school, and day boy, 902.”

We were obliged to interrupt a little here. There would not be many more chances of cheering old Redwood, and we couldn’t afford to chuck them away. So we cheered, and gave the doctor time to polish up his glasses and take a sip of water.

“Your cheers,” said he, when at last we had relieved ourselves, “are well-deserved. In addition to this capital result, Redwood takes the Low Heath scholarship to Trinity, where, I almost venture to prophesy, we shall hear even greater things of him some day.”

More cheers. But we were too impatient to hear what came next to interpose too long a delay.

“Tempest, Mr Sharpe’s, second, 888; all the more gratifying when we remember the causes which interrupted his school work for a time last term.”

We fairly gave ourselves away now! Sharpe’s had reached the top of the tide with a vengeance. There was an end to all uncertainty as to who would be its captain; and there was the glorious certainty that the captain of Sharpe’s would also be captain of Low Heath. Three cheers! Rather.

But still we could not, till the rest of the list was read, give ourselves up to cheering for as long as we should have liked. So we allowed the doctor to proceed.

“Pridgin, Mr Sharpe’s, third, 869—very close.”

Good old Pridgin! All his discomfort had not been for nothing. He had “taken it out of” Crofter, after all. By how much?

“Leslie, Mr Selkirk’s, fourth, 832. Wales, Mr Sharpe’s, fifth, 801. Crofter, Mr Sharpe’s, sixth, 769.”

A cool hundred between them! We had the decency not to rub it in too hard. It was clear by the disconcerted look in the face of our so-called captain that he was more surprised than any one. He smiled, of course, and leant across to pat Pridgin on the back. But that was just his way—we knew well enough that it cloaked a bitter mortification, and why worry the poor beggar with letting him see we noticed it?

So we waited till we got outside, and then let ourselves loose on Tempest and Pridgin, and positively injured our voices with cheering.

That afternoon in the faggery our jubilant review of the situation was combined with a wind-up meeting of the Conversation Club for the term.

“Jolly good show for us,” said Langrish. “Crofter’s pretty sick, but it’ll do him good. I move and third, and Sarah seconds and fourths, that we send him a resolution of condolence.”

“Better let him alone,” suggested I.

“Shut up, or you’ll get jolly well kicked out of the club,” said the secretary. “If you don’t want to be civil, it’s no reason why we shouldn’t.” I had imagined I was on the whole more concerned for Crofter’s feelings than they, but, putting it in the way they did, I could hardly resist. So the following resolution was solemnly drawn up and ordered to be conveyed to “The late Mr Crofter.”

“That this meeting of the Philosophical Conversation Club is hereby jolly glad to see Tempest cock of the house again, with Pridgin second man up. It hereby condoles with Crofter in the jolly back seat he has got to take, and is sorry he shirked the Mile. It begs to inform him that he is a hundred and eighteen marks behind Tempest, and trusts he will in future obey the house captain, to whom all applications for exeats and extra leave are to be addressed. Crofter need not trouble to reply, as the club only desires to have communication with the cock of the house.”

This done, I was ordered to take the chair as the new president, and called upon the secretary to read the minutes.

These were short and to the point,—

“‘A general meeting of the Conversation Club was held on Monday in the Examination Hall. With his usual mulishness, Sarah thought he’d have a cut in, and it was resolved to give him a chance. Thanks to the drivelling idiotcy of Warminster, who doesn’t even know the feminine genitive of corpus, he scraped through; and, as he couldn’t do much worse than Coxhead, he did a shade better.’”

“All very well,” growled Coxhead, “he did a jolly sight better than you.”

“‘Coxhead, who is hereby expelled for using slang, was, as usual, down with the paupers at the bottom. A town cad called Brown, who managed to conceal his cribs, came out first, and it was decided to tack Sarah on to him. Trimble, as might be expected, came a cropper in his English grammar—’”

“A cram! They never examined us in it!”

“There you are; you don’t even know it when you see it—‘came a cropper in his English grammar.’”

“I tell you I didn’t,” expostulated Trimble. “Shut up.”

“Shut what up?”

“Yourself.”

“Come and shut me.”

A warm argument ensued, which knocked over the table, and was only composed by my reminding the club that we didn’t want to disturb the peace of the new cock of the house on his first night.

“All right,” said Langrish, “where was I?—‘English grammar. Purkis, not having paid his subscription, naturally came out too low to be classed, but to give him a lift he was allowed to be stuck in between Trim and Coxhead, who being outsiders at the best of times, had plenty of room for another.’”

“All very well—what sort of howler did you come?” asked the outraged Purkis.

“‘It being considered well to stick one Selkirker into the list, the hon. secretary made room for Corderoy, and is hereby thanked on his retirement.’”

“Hullo!” said I, “don’t say that, Langrish.”

“Fact is,” said Langrish, dropping the minutes, “I’ve got to. I’ve gone down, you see.”

“Oh, but you’ve worked like a cart-horse. I move, Trim seconds, Warminster thirds, Coxhead fourths, Purkis fifths, and the paupers sixth, that old Lang be and hereby is perpetual secretary of the Ph.C.C., and that it’s all rot his retiring.”

“Oh, all serene,” said Langrish, evidently pleased. “That’s your look-out. Where was I?—‘thanked on his retirement, but as nobody else can read his writing, he is hereby asked to hang on, which he hereby does. The meeting then adjourned.’”

We decided to celebrate the evening by a state tea, as which the usual loyal and patriotic toasts were given; of which I will only trouble the reader with one, that delivered by Warminster, the late president.

“It’s a sell, of course, getting down; but we all had a good look in, and Sal’s come out best man this once. We aren’t going to jack it up though, and he’ll have to mind his eye (cheers). After all, what with the mess he made over Tempest’s bills (loud cheers), and the shindy about the guy, and all that rot about the barge, he’s shown he’s fit for the job (laughter). But he’ll have to make a good show-up for Sharpe’s now, or we’ll let him know. We’ve scored a bit of a record, and we don’t want to fool it away (loud cheers), and any fellow who doesn’t put it on doesn’t deserve to be a Ph.C.C. or anything like (prolonged applause). Gentlemen, with these remarks I beg to give the health of ‘the army and navy and reserve forces’ (loud cheers).”

The “reserve forces” were the most striking feature, after all, about the wind-up of the Conversation Club that night.

Before I went to bed I looked in at Tempest’s study, where, to my delight, I found Dicky Brown.

“Hullo, I was just coming to fetch you,” said the new captain. “Don’t you think this a pretty good show for old Plummer?”

“Rather,” said Dicky. “I wonder how he’s getting on!”

“And I wonder if the pond is full up again yet.”

“By the way,” said Tempest, “I’ve never hided you for collaring that pistol of mine. I may as well do it now.”

“Fire away,” said I; “I don’t mind taking a licking from the captain of Low Heath.”

“It sounds queer, doesn’t it?” said Tempest, disarmed by this compliment. “Between you and me, kids, I think we ought to be able to make the thing work next term.”

“Rather,” said I, “only we shall have to keep sitting up to do it.”

“So much the better,” said they.

The End.