King of Ranleigh: A School Story

by F. S. Brereton

"Well, Darrell," he began, accosting our young friend, and speaking in so gentle and subdued a voice that Clive wondered if he had a bad cold, or if the voice really belonged to him, "been digging any more pits of late, eh? Or making motor-cars? Tell me all about them."

There was such genuine interest in this master that Clive told the tale, till Mr. Branson—for that was this master's name—wiped tears of enjoyment from his eyes. Also the same eyes sparkled when the boy spoke of his motor-car, and forgetting all else in the depths of his interest plunged into a description of levers and gears, of throttle and ignition apparatus, of lubrication and cooling. Was Branson—Old B., as fellows spoke of him usually—was he a fellow enthusiast?

"So you like engineering things, then, Darrell?" he said in his sing-song drawl, "and digging pits too? Well, so do I. Er—that is, I like the first. You'd like to join the carpenter's shop, eh? and the smith's shop? But no motor-cars. Ranleigh can't afford to have its boys rushing about the roads. And there are the police to be considered. Well, boy, I'm your dormitory master; I hope you'll like Ranleigh."

It was Susanne's turn next. Clive watched the slouching figure of the young fellow bend politely, and marvelled as he discussed his coming with Old B. as if he were his grown-up equal. But that was the peculiarity about Susanne. Perhaps he had mixed more with men than with boys. Certainly he had an old-fashioned manner about him, while his self-assurance was far in excess of that usually displayed by one of school age. Then came the turn of other new boys, while the place of the master was taken by Sturton armed with pencil and paper, and rattling silver in his pocket. There were silver coins to be paid for the support of the football club run by One and Four South, a request to which Clive assented readily enough, though it depleted his purse sadly.

It was striking half-past nine when at length all had turned in save Sturton and Massey, the other prefect. They sat on the edge of the table occupying the centre of the dormitory, on a line with the two rows of basins running down the middle. Snuggled down on his pillow Clive watched them debating in animated manner, and rose on his elbow as a pair of heavy feet came thundering into the dormitory. A young man dressed in a blue cotton jacket hurried from jet to jet of the gas pipes, and with the help of a notched stick extinguished all but one. He was gone in a moment, his thunder resounding from the other dormitories.

"Good night, Darrell," called Susanne.

"Good night, Susanne."

Darrell dropped asleep feeling happy and entirely peaceful. He liked Ranleigh so far, liked it immensely. If there was a great drawback to the place, if Rawlings did happen to be there, and to have shown the most unfriendly intentions, at least there were good fellows enough. Bert and Hugh, for example. What luck their being at the school! And Susanne too, and Sturton, and Harvey. Yes, Harvey held pride of place. He was Captain, lord of all he surveyed, immeasurably above the head of the humble Clive Darrell.

The violent ringing of a bell awakened Clive. He started up in bed to find daylight streaming in through the high-placed dormer windows. That same youth who had operated the gas taps on the previous night was thundering through the dormitory with his hobnailed boots, swinging a bell of generous proportions. Later, Clive gathered that he was known as a "beaky." He crossed to a door at the near end of the place and tapped heavily upon it. Then he disappeared as if in a perpetual hurry, and the ringing of the bell resounded from the other dormitories. Clive hopped out of bed, thereby arousing the inmate of the next bed. That young gentleman raised a very sleepy face from his pillow, hit rather snappishly at the hand which Clive had laid on his bed thereby to steady himself, and dropped back on his pillow.

"Hang you, waking me!" he grumbled, his eyes half shut, as if, too, there had been no such thing as a bellman. "It's always the same with new kids. Get funked when they hear a bell. Want to hop up at once. Here, you Darrell, call me when it's twenty past the hour. I give myself ten minutes the first morning, afterwards just five. Any decent fellow can wash and dress in that time."