Chapter Twenty Two.
Putting on the Brake.
The holidays went by rapidly enough. I tore myself away from Dicky’s consoling companionship three days from the end, and rushed home to see my mother. I wonder what she thought of the difference a couple of weeks had made in me? When I started to Dicky’s I had been limp, dejected, and down on my luck. Now she found me chirpy, and with a stiff upper lip. She did not make remarks, but I could see how relieved she was.
My mother was not the person to take a mean advantage of me, or get me into a corner to lecture me. Rather not! She took me for what I was, and let me see how she loved me. That was the proper sort of help for me. In some ways she made less of me than usual, but I could see why she did that; she saw I wanted letting alone, and she did it, bless her! Only on the last evening, a Sunday, as we walked back from church, she said—
“Are you glad or sorry to be going back to-morrow, Tom?”
“Sorry for some things—glad for others. I fooled a bit last term, you know, mother.”
“Ah, well, sonny, it’s part of the lessons of school to find out our mistakes now and then. It was all new to you at first. I expect you tried to do too much, you know.”
“I know—you mean I’d best lie low a bit, mother.”
“Yes. I know what you mean,” said she.
“There you are!” exclaimed I, staggered by this new coincidence, “that’s what every chap has said. I’ll do my best, really, mother; only it’s jolly hard. Don’t be awfully sorry if I don’t get right all at once; I’ll try, you know.”
“You can’t do more than your best, sonny dear.”
“Redwood says,” continued I, “that I shall probably tool about more or less to the end of my time. It’s in my line, he says; but he rather backs me to pull myself together for all that.”
“So do I, Tom. And the best friend you have does so too.”
My journey next day was very different from the strange journey of a term ago. I had neither tan boots nor square-topped hat nor lavender gloves; and I could afford to smile with Langrish (who joined me en route) at some of the poor little greenhorns on their way to make their entry into Low Heath.
How different it was, too, to be hailed by half a dozen voices from the top of the omnibus at the station and told to hop up beside them! And how jolly to ride in triumph up Bridge Street, exchanging shouts with familiar passengers on the way, or uttering defiant war-whoops at the day boys!
And how jolly to tumble in at Sharpe’s door once more, and slap one another on the back, and crowd up into the old familiar faggery, and hear all the old chaff and slang, interspersed with stories of the holidays, and second-hand Christmas jokes!
And how jolly to hear the organ again in the chapel, and the prayers, with friends all round you; and finally, when the day was over, tuck up again in the little cubicle, and hear your chum’s voice across the partition droning more and more sleepily, till finally you and it dropped off together!
One of the last to arrive during the day was Tempest, who had run from the station, and came in flushed with exercise, but grave and tight about the lips. The ovation he received from the Philosophers scarcely drew a smile from him, and when he reached his own study he slammed the door ominously and cheerlessly behind him. We none of us liked it.
“What’s it to be?” said Coxhead. “Is he to be cock of the house this term, or has he chucked it up?”
That was the question which was agitating us all. Till the form orders were posted to-morrow no one could tell. Crofter, we knew, had been doing all he knew to get ahead, and considering the slack way in which Tempest had let things go all last term, it seemed very much as if he might succeed.
If he did, our duty would be a difficult one. Crofter had a claim on us for having saved Tempest from being expelled, and we could hardly refuse to own him should he come out cock of the house. On the other hand. Tempest was the man of our heart, and our tender imagination failed to picture him in any secondary position in Sharpe’s,—secondary to Crofter, above all other things.
The day closed with one curious incident.
Langrish came to me after supper in a state of wrathful perturbation.
“Look here, young Sarah,” said he, “are you Tempest’s fag or not? That’s all about it.”
“I don’t know,” said I; “I was, but he told me—”
“He told you he didn’t want a cad like you hanging about his place. All very well—that doesn’t follow I’m his fag as well as Crofter’s. Here, catch hold; you’ve got to take this to Crofter. I’m not going to take it—it means a licking most likely, and I don’t see why I’m to be let in for it.”
He handed me an envelope, evidently containing coin, addressed “Crofter,” in Tempest’s well-known writing.
I did not relish the commission, for I had my guess as to the contents of the missive. Curiosity, however, prompted me to take it and proceed to Crofter’s study.
“Well, youngster,” said Crofter, “turned up again? Have you seen Tempest yet?”
“Yes—he sent this,” said I.
Crofter took the envelope and opened it. Five sovereigns and a half-sovereign dropped out on the table. No letter accompanied the money, but its meaning was clear enough. Crofter’s brow contracted, and his habitual smile deserted him for once.
“What is this? Some mistake,” said he.
“It’s what he owes you,” suggested I.
“I suppose so; but that was only £4 17 shillings 6 pence.”
“Perhaps the rest is something for yourself,” I remarked, making myself scarce in time to escape the task of returning the change.
Bother it! Crofter must square this part of the business up with his enemy. I didn’t want to be dragged any more into it.
There was a rush for the house board early next morning to learn our fate as to the captaincy of Sharpe’s.
“Whew!” said Langrish, as we reached it; “bracketed.”
So it was. Tempest’s and Crofter’s names were braced together at the head of the list.
“That’s a nice go! I suppose they’ll have to go halves. All the worse for us.”
“I should think, as Tempest was captain last term, he’ll go on again this,” I said.
“He wasn’t captain when term ended; Crofter was.”
“I vote they fight it out,” said Warminster. “Two to one on the winner.”
“It would save trouble if they made Pridgin head; he’s third man up.”
“Pridgin!” The easy-going owner of the name was spared something by not being present to hear the amused contempt with which the suggestion was greeted.
An hour later the doctor came down to settle matters for us.
“Under the circumstances,” said he, “it seems right that Crofter should take charge of the house. I understand that Tempest’s debts, on account of which he was removed from the headship last term, are now all honourably settled. But as he was more than once reported for breaking rules last term, it is only fair that Crofter, whose marks are equal, and against whom no complaint was recorded, should captain the house.”
That was all. Tempest, on the whole, looked relieved. Crofter smiled a satisfied smile. Pridgin and Wales looked blue; and the Philosophers took time to consider what they thought.
As for me, although Tempest had thrown me over, I could guess what a blow this was for him; not personally, for he would probably be glad to be rid of the responsibility, but as a public disgrace it was sure to wound him keenly.
I longed to be able to go and tell him how sorry I was; but after what had happened last term I dare not. In that respect, whether I liked it or not, I must “lie low.”
The Philosophers were not long in formally exchanging opinions on the situation.
A meeting was summoned for the same evening to inaugurate things generally. I was a little doubtful what I ought to do. Last term philosophy had not tended to diligent work, and with my good resolutions in view I felt that I should be better out of it. The little tiff with my comrades before the holidays had almost solved the difficulty; but since then I had been formally re-admitted to the fold, and it would be almost treasonable to “scratch” now.
“I move and third, and old Trim seconds and fourths,” announced Langrish, “that old Sal be, and is, president as before.”
“And I carry that motion,” said Warminster, who prided himself on his acquaintance with the procedure of public meetings.
“I move an amendment,” said I.
“Shut up, or you’ll be kicked out again,” said the secretary.
“Shut up yourself, or you’ll be kicked in,” retorted I, feeling I must carry everything with a high hand if I was to carry them at all. “No. Look here, you chaps, I’m not so green as I look.”
“Then you must look fearfully green,” muttered Coxhead.
I took no heed of the interruption, which was not relevant, and proceeded,—
“It was all very well last term, but it won’t wash this. What I say is, that if the cock of the school is the head boy in the school, and the cock of the house is the head boy in the house, the president of the Philosophers has got to be the chap highest up in the Philosophers, and that’s not me. Now old Warminster is. He’s a jolly clever chap, and got the form prize on his head, and he’s a rattling good speaker, and a middling sprinter, and writes a fairly good hand! He’s the sort of chap we want. We want some one who can keep the secretary, and treasurer, and auditor, and registrar, and all that lot, in their place, and doesn’t mind telling them they’re idiots when they are. I never could do it. It’s rough on the club not to have a chap like Warminster,” continued I, waxing warm, and undaunted by the murmurs of my audience. “He can make you all sit up. He’s not the sort of chap to let the Philosophers go rotting about, talking what they know nothing about and all that. He’ll see that the louts are kept out of it, and only fellows who’ve got a record of something are let in. Bless you, I used to let in any sort of bounder that asked! Look round you and see. That’s the sort of lot I let in. It won’t wash, though. Fancy having a lot of outsiders who can’t translate a Latin motto, and make ‘corpore’ a feminine genitive! Now old Warminster’s a nailer at Latin, and can put one or two of us to bed at Euclid. He’ll keep us out of blunders of that sort, that make all the school grin at us. I therefore propose, fifth, fourth, third, and second, that Tip. Warminster is the president of the Philosophers, and that the secretary, treasurer, auditor, registrar, and all that lot, get a month’s notice to jack it up unless they’re on the front desk. There you are! Of course they won’t like it—can’t help that. No back-deskers for us. Front desk or nothing!”
This oration, the longest I ever delivered so far, and in all probability the longest I ever shall deliver, was listened to with a curious mixture of discomfort and attention. At first it was nearly howled down, but it took as it went on. Warminster, for whom I really did not feel quite so much admiration as my words seemed to imply, but who yet was the hard-working man of our lot—Warminster was wonderfully pleased with it. The others, one by one, dropped their noisy protests, and looked out of the window. Trimble attempted a little bravado, by sticking his tongue in his cheek; but my peroration was listened to with marked attention.
“Cuts down the club a bit,” said Coxhead, who occupied a desk in class on the third row, “if it’s only to be top-deskers.”
“Cuts old Sal out, to begin with,” said Langrish, who was just on the bench of honour.
“It’ll cut you out next week, old hoss,” said I.
“Me! What are you talking about?”
“You wait till the week’s order is up: you’ll see.”
Langrish glared indignantly.
“If you think an idiot like you is going to—”
“Look here,” said Warminster, “I vote we go easy at first, and make it any one who’s not gone down in order in a month.”
“I say, nobody who’s not gone up one in the term,” suggested Langrish, glancing defiantly at me.
“All serene,” said I, “that’ll suit my book. It’ll be roughish on you, though.”
“Will it? See how you’ll feel when you’re chucked out neck and crop, my beauty!”
My main object had been to get out of being president. But, somehow, in doing it I had struck a note which made the Philosophers sit up. It was no credit to me it happened so, but it was one of those lucky flukes which sometimes turn out well and do a good stroke without the striker being aware of it.
Warminster was unanimously elected president, and bore his blushing honours with due meekness.
“Old Sal”—the Philosophers had taken to abbreviating my pet name this term, I know not on what principle of familiarity—“Old Sal piles it on a bit,” remarked he. “Of course he couldn’t help rotting the club a bit last term. That’s the way he’s born. But considering what a rank outsider he was, I suppose he did his best.” (Laughter, and cries of “What about Jarman’s guy?”) “Yes, that was a howling mess. I vote we keep out of that this term, or leave it to the louts. I tell you what,” said he, “I vote we make a show up at the sports next month, and take some of the side out of those day-boy kids. They fancy themselves a jolly sight too much.”
“Dicky Brown told me,” said I, “they were sure of both the jumps and the Quarter-mile and the Tug—and that Selkirk’s were going to pull off the others, all except the Half-mile Handicap; and we may get that, he says, because they’ll probably give us fifty or sixty yards’ lead.”
“Howling cheek!” exclaimed every one in furious rage. The idea of being given sixty yards’ start in a half-mile by a day boy was too much even for a Philosopher.
Whereupon we solemnly considered the list of events “under 15,” and divided them out among ourselves, with a vow to eat our heads if we didn’t pull off as many for Sharpe’s as all the rest of the school put together.
We decided to postpone making our entries till the last moment, so as to delude the enemy into the impression that we were shirking the sports altogether. Then we would, as Warminster politely put it, “drop down and rot the lot.”
Before we adjourned for the night the question of Tempest and Crofter came up, à propos of a report, which some one mentioned, that Tempest had entered for the Open Mile against Redwood, and was expected to prove a warm customer.
“Is Crofter in?”
“No—Pridgin is, but of course he won’t come up to scratch, and Wales only enters for the show of the thing.”
“Crofter couldn’t look in at Tempest over the Mile,” said Langrish, “but he ought to enter, for all that.”
“Can he look in at Tempest over anything?” said I.
“Don’t ask questions, and you won’t be told no whoppers,” astutely replied Trimble. “I wonder if he expects us to back him up?”
“I sha’n’t,” said one. “Nor shall I,” said one or two others.
“I vote we let him alone,” said Coxhead. “What’s he got to do with us? When does he come across us? Only when there’s a row on. He’s got nothing at all to say to us at other times.”
“You mean, if we want to let him alone we shall have to shut up rows?” inquired Langrish. “Rather rough, isn’t it?”
“Not if he knows the reason,” suggested I. “Let’s send him a round-robin and let him know.”
“Not half a bad idea.”
Whereupon the following candid epistle was concocted and signed by all present:—
“To T. Crofter, Esquire, Captain Sharpe’s pro tem., etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
“Dear Crofter,—We the undersigned Philosophers wish to say we’re going steady this term on our own hooks, and hope you will not think it’s because of you. We don’t want to be interfered with by any chap except old Tempest, who ought to be cock of Sharpe’s, so we’ve decided to go steady, so as not to be interfered with, because we would rather not you interfered with us, because we’re all serene and are backing up Tempest, and hope he’ll pull off the Mile that you’ve not entered for. We aren’t down on you, because you pulled Tempest through last term, but it’s rough you’re cock of the house instead of him, and therefore on that account we are going steady, so as not to give you the fag of interfering with us, which we don’t mind Tempest doing because we consider he has more right to interfere with us than you. Hoping you are well and in good health, as this leaves us, Believe us, with kind regards to all at home, Yours very kindly and in alphabetical order, so that you needn’t know who started this letter. Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead, Thomas Jones, Everard Langrish, Jonathan T. Purkis, Alfred James Remington Trimble, Percy Algernon Warminster, and others.”
This important document, the writing of which, I grieve to say, necessitated frequent reference to the English Dictionary, Langrish, as Crofter’s fag, undertook to deliver, and faithfully discharged his mission by leaving it on the captain’s table when he was out of his study.
It was decided to resist the temptation of sending Mr Jarman a similar explanatory letter, for fear it might lead to a row which would call for interference. Nor was it deemed prudent under the circumstances to commit ourselves in writing to Tempest, whom we hoped to convince of our loyalty by cheering him on every possible occasion and otherwise making things pleasant for him.
How Crofter enjoyed his letter we none of us knew. He was inconsiderate enough to give no sign of having received it; and still more inconsiderate to allow himself on more than one occasion to be publicly complimented by the doctor and Mr Sharpe on the order of the house.
Meanwhile the Philosophers stuck to their new programme. I had the satisfaction of pulling down Langrish from his place on the top desk at the end of the first week, and he had the triumph of recovering his seat at the end of the week after. In the seclusion of the faggery we indulged in a few mild recriminations, which were the natural outcome of our rivalry; but they only served to blow off steam, and we were too keen to win our self-imposed battles in class to allow personal feeling to interfere much with our work.
Mr Sharpe was fairly astonished, and took off his glasses, and rubbed his mild eyes as he read over our really meritorious exercises and listened to our sometimes positively coherent feats of construing.
Secretly, too, but with great precaution, and in spots far removed from the detection of the day boys, we practised grimly at jumping and sprinting and record-breaking generally, and finally, as the critical time for making our entries approached, agreed upon the particular exploit which each of us was to undertake for the honour and glory of Sharpe’s house in general and Philosophy in particular.
Before that time arrived, however, one awkward incident occurred, to remind me I had even yet not quite purged myself of the follies of last term. I stumbled against Crofter just outside his door.
“Come in,” said he.
I obeyed, guessing that at last we were to hear something of our famous letter.
I was disappointed, however. Crofter made no reference to it, but said—
“Those bills you paid for me last term, Jones iv.—did none of the people allow you any discount?”
“Discount,” said I, “what’s that? We haven’t got to it yet in Syntax.”
“Don’t be a young ass. Did none of them give you any change?”
“Rather, all of them. I brought it back, or used it to pay the rest.”
“What I mean is, you didn’t make anything out of it for yourself, did you?”
“Me—oh!” the conscious blushes suddenly mounted as I grasped his meaning.
“Yes, you.”
“Well, only, you see, it was—”
“Come, no lies. I know all about it. Did you or did you not?”
“Not from the hat man,” said I.
“From all the others?”
“Only—”
“Yes or no, that’s what I want to know.”
“Yes, but—”
“That will do. Now I understand why you were so pleased with the job. It’s a profitable thing to help a friend sometimes. Tempest will be amused when he hears.”
“Oh, I say, don’t—really I didn’t fancy—”
“That will do, I say. Cut—do you hear? I only wanted to know whether I was right or not in what I told Tempest.”
“Oh, but—” pleaded I, with a groan of misery.
“If you don’t cut I’ll lick you for disobedience.”
This, after all my good resolutions and hopes that all was squared and that before long Tempest would believe in me again!
I slunk away in despair, and curled myself up in my bed that night, the most miserable boy in Low Heath.