The Adventures of a Three-Guinea Watch

by Talbot Baines Reed

Oh, horrors! here were six noisy men going to establish themselves on the stairs over poor George’s head, and remain there until their victim arrived, when, unless college traditions were utterly false, there would certainly be a battle royal. It was impossible, with the cheering and stamping and shouting and laughing, and scuffling overhead, to do a stroke of work, and yet George did his best. He pulled his table into the corner of the room farthest away from the noise, and, burying his head in his hands, struggled desperately to abstract himself from the disturbance. But as sure as he succeeded for a minute, a clamour louder than ever would drive every idea out of his head. It was vain to attempt expostulation—what would these jubilant revellers care for a poor new man like him!—and he had nowhere else to go to escape them there was nothing for it but to be patient. In due time the victorious and unsuspecting Bailey, accompanied by four of his friends, appeared on the scene, and their approach was the immediate signal for action. With a cheer and a howl the ambush sprang upon their victims; and, with equal vehemence, these, having rapidly taken in the state of affairs, prepared to defend themselves. Poor George might as well have been sitting under Niagara. Step by step, the new-comers strove to force a passage up to Bailey’s rooms, and step by step the opposing force strove to repulse them. The balustrades creaked, the ceiling of George’s room quaked, and the walls thundered with the weight of conflicting bodies. The occupants of every room on the staircase turned out to see the fun, and on hearing of Bailey’s contumacy, joined with his persecutors in refusing him the shelter of his own sanctuary. Bailey’s party, on the other hand, was joined by reinforcements from without, who stormed up the stairs with the noise of an earthquake. The opposing forces soon became so great that the press of battle raged even to the door of George’s study, which creaked and rattled as if every moment it were about to yield and admit the whole tide of conflict.

For half an hour the tumult roared and the battle swayed, and neither party gained nor yielded a foot.

Then suddenly from the confines of the battle rose and spread a cry of “Cave canem!” on which, as if by magic, the action was suspended, and retreating footsteps betokened a panic. A rally was sounded by Bailey’s foes, but too late; the hero of the day had taken advantage of the momentary pause to dash past his persecutors and gain his study, and once there no force could dislodge him. The vanquished ones stormed and raged outside his door for another ten minutes, threatening all sorts of vengeance; then with three mighty cheers they struck camp and retired, leaving the staircase in peace.

Thus ended the famous battle of Bailey’s Staircase, at the end of which George, with sunken spirits but indomitable resolution, sat down again to work.

For half an hour he made good progress, without let or hindrance, when—ah, cruel fate!—a wretch calling himself a man, in a neighbouring apartment, began to practise on the ophicleide! At the first note George bounded from his seat as if he had been shot, and literally tore his hair. This was worse than all that had gone before. To one of his musical inspiration, the human voice divine in conversation was, endurable, and the roar of battle might even be tolerable, but to hear a creature attempt to play one of the “songs without words” on an instrument he knew as little of as the music he was parodying, was beyond all bearing! Then, if ever, did my wretched master dig his fingers into his ears, and writhe and shiver and groan at each discord produced by that inhuman performer. He retreated into the innermost recess of his bedroom; he even hid his unhappy head beneath the clothes, if haply he might escape the agony of this torture. But it was hopeless. The shrieks and groans of that brutal ophicleide would have penetrated the walls of the Tower of London.

It lasted, I should not like to say how long; and when it was over, the recollection of its horrors was almost as bad as their endurance. When George set himself again to work, it was with nerves unstrung and unutterable forebodings, yet still unconquered.

“At any rate,” said he to himself, with a sigh, “there can’t be anything worse than that—unless, indeed, he invites a friend like himself to practise duets with him!”

Happily this climax was not reached, and for one evening the worst of George Reader’s persecutions had been suffered—but not the last.

By the time the last wail of the ophicleide had wriggled away into silence it was getting late, and the college was meditating retirement to rest. This operation was not got through, as may be imagined, without a good deal of clamour and a good deal of scuffling on the staircase, and a good deal of dialogue outside the window; but in due time silence reigned, and George congratulated himself that he had a quiet time at last before him.

Unlucky boast! Not an hour had passed, the lights in the windows round the courtyard had vanished, the distant shouts had ceased, and the footsteps on the pavement without had died away, when George was startled by a sound that seemed like the boring of a hole under his fireplace. The noise grew, and other similar noises rose in different parts. What was it? Surely the gay students of Saint George’s were not about to effect an amateur burglary on the friendless owner of the “Mouse-trap?”