There was great excitement, and no little uproar, as the rival party made their show. Cries of, “Cheat! both hands up!” rose from the shocked adherents of Pauncefote; and a good deal of quiet service, in holding the arms of weaklings down to their sides, was rendered on the frontier. Finally, it was found that Duffield had in votes; whereat there were tremendous cheers and counter-cheers, not unmixed with recriminations, and imputations and threats, which promised our heroes a lively time of it when finally they adjourned to the Den.
Before that happened, however, a solemn ceremony had to be gone through, in which they were personally interested. The chairman read out a list of new boys, and ordered them to answer to their names, and come forward on to the platform. It was a nervous ordeal, even for the most self-composed, to be thus publicly trotted out in the presence of all Templeton, and to hear the derisive cheers with which his name and appearance were greeted as he obeyed.
“Look at his legs!” cried one, as Dick, inwardly hoping he was making a favourable impression, passed up the hall and mounted the steps. Whereupon Dick suddenly became conscious of his lower limbs—which, by the way, were as straight and tight a pair of shanks as any boy of fourteen could boast—and tried to hide them behind a chair.
“I can see them still!” cried a shrill voice, just as he thought he had succeeded; and poor Dick, who, an hour ago, had almost forgotten he was a new boy, had to endure a storm of laughter, and look as much at his ease as he could, while all Templeton mounted on chairs, and stretched its necks to catch a glimpse of his unfortunate legs.
Heathcote came in for a similar trial on account of his blushes, and poor Aspinall positively staggered, and finally broke down under allusions to the “bottle,” and “soothing syrup,” and “mamma” and “sister Lottie.”
The Sixth had the sense not to attempt to quell the disorder till it had had a fair chance of blowing itself off. Then Pontifex ordered the names to be put into a hat, and handed round for each of the monitors to draw. Each monitor accordingly drew, and announced the name of his future fag. In the first round Heathcote’s name and Aspinall’s both came up—the former, much to his disgust, falling to the lot of Pledge, the latter to that of Cresswell. Dick boiled with excitement as the hat started on its second round. Suppose he, too, should fall to the lot of a cad like Pledge, or a brute like Bull! Or, oh blissful notion! suppose Cresswell should draw him, too, as well as Aspinall.
The hat started; Pontifex drew a stranger; so did Mansfield. Then Cresswell drew, and, with a bound of delight, Dick heard his own name, and marked the gleam of pleasure which crossed his new master’s face as he turned towards him. He forgot all about his legs, he even missed Heathcote’s doleful look of disappointment, or the thankful sigh of young Aspinall. He felt as if something good had happened to him, and as if his star were still in the ascendant.
At the end of the Elections a cry of “three groans for fagging!” was proposed by some member of the Den, who took care to keep himself well concealed, and, as usual, was lustily responded to by all the interested parties. Which little demonstration being over, Pontifex announced that the meeting was over, and that “captain’s levée” would be held on that day week at 5:30.
Our heroes were promptly kidnapped, as they descended from the platform, by the emissaries of the Den, who hurried them off to the serene atmosphere of that dignified assembly, where, for an hour or more, they took part in denouncing everybody and everything, and assisted in a noble flow of patriotic eloquence on the duty of the oppressed towards the oppressor, and the slave towards his driver. The Sixth, meanwhile, rather glad to have Elections over, strolled off to their own quarters.
“More row than ever this year,” said Mansfield, as he followed Cresswell into his study. “Ponty’s too easy-going.”