King of Ranleigh: A School Story

by F. S. Brereton

"Boys of Ranleigh," began the Head, not having noticed Bert, "I have a most painful announcement to make. You are aware that fires have occurred in the school of late, fires caused by an incendiary. The culprit has now been found. I regret to say that it is Clive Darrell."

There was dead silence in the Hall. The Head stood with his shoulders thrown back, his eyes firmly closed as was his wont, looking positively miserable. It was, in fact, a miserable business. Here was a promising boy's future ruined. The only little solace, and it was likely enough only a temporary one, was the fact that Clive had bolted. There was a warrant out already for his arrest, and to see him in the police court, to witness his trial and condemnation would be the very last straw. Ranleigh's unhappy Head would have given thousands could he have undone the whole matter, thousands to save Clive Darrell, for he liked the young fellow, and thousands also to save the honour of the School. He opened his eyes then, heard a step beside him, and saw Bert for the first time. Mr. Axim had seen him a minute earlier, for all the masters were present, as was the custom on such occasions, and had officiously attempted to arrest him. But Bert shook his hand off peremptorily, and now advanced to the Head's side.

"I have to ask pardon, sir," he began. "Clive Darrell is an old friend of mine, and I come here to support him in his absence. I have here a paper recapitulating the evidence against him, which I and Clive's best friends have drawn up. We feel sure that you are too fair not to allow us to put it before the School. May I read it?"

There was surprise on the Head's face. Mr. Axim was openly scoffing. But a partisan of Clive's down at the end of the school boldly set up a cheer. Feeling was indeed running high. Ranleigh still could not believe Clive Darrell guilty, and now by their cheers they openly demanded to hear the evidence in full. It was, indeed, a novel situation. The Head grappled with it magnificently. He stood aside, and then held up his hand.

"We pride ourselves on fair play at Ranleigh," he said. "Let Seymour Primus and his friends prove Clive Darrell innocent, and I shall be the first to thank them. Read the paper."

Bert did, slowly and impressively. Perhaps Susanne could not have chosen a better man to put those facts before Ranleigh. The boys seemed to grip the situation instantly. There were cheers as he reached the end of his manifesto, and then dead silence. Bert had still something to say.

"Sir," he said, turning to the Head, "there is a Ranleighan here who is the really guilty party. Who set fire to the school? I beg that you ask him to come forward, and I ask also that you defer Clive Darrell's expulsion till we have had time to sift certain evidence. We have a clue. Fair play, sir, is all that we ask of you."

You could have heard the smallest pin drop on the tiled paving of the Hall. Even the smaller boys failed on this momentous occasion to shuffle their feet, an irritating habit they often acquire, while the seniors of Ranleigh School moved not a muscle. There were none of those sharp, barking coughs so noticeable in class-rooms, or in Chapel, which distract the attention of the reader and make his voice almost inaudible. There was a deep and impressive silence. As for the faces of those collected in Hall, they wore a hundred different expressions. The Head's fine, impassive features were heavily lined. He seemed to have actually aged. Mr. Branson, that genial giant so deservedly popular, showed utter misery on his somewhat heavy face. For Old B. had a tender spot in his heart for Clive Darrell, just as he had for many another boy. He had seen him arrive at the school, a mere mischievous chicken. He had watched him grow up, had coached him in his work and in cricket, where Clive did not shine as Bert did. Often had a smile or a word from Old B. encouraged our hero. And here was the end of it all—disgrace, dismissal; perhaps imprisonment.

"A better fellow never came to Ranleigh," he was muttering. "I don't believe this tale. There's a fault somewhere. Clive's a stickler for honour. Why should he give the name of a boy whom he believes he saw, but whose back was always towards him? Then, too, the only light he possessed was an electric torch, and that went out when his finger slipped off the trigger. I grant that many would have given the name. It's just the sort of occasion when Clive would refuse, partly because it's a point of honour with him to protect the name of all Ranleighans, mostly because there is just a doubt in his mind as to whether he can have been mistaken, and he will not therefore fling an accusation of such a serious nature at anyone on such evidence."

Old B. went scarlet in the face. His eyes flashed. He lifted a hand in protest, and stepped forward. "I——" he began, but the Head waved him back peremptorily.