“A Nightingale Scholarship, value 50 pounds a year for three years, will fall vacant at Michaelmas. Boys under seventeen are eligible. Particulars and subject of examination can be had any evening next week in the secretary’s room.”
“Fifty-pounds a year for three years!” exclaimed a small boy, with a half whistle. “I wouldn’t mind getting that!”
“Well, why don’t you, you avaricious young Jew? You’re under seventeen, I suppose?” retorted the amiable Mr Bullinger, thereby raising a laugh at the expense of this little boy of eleven, who retired from the scene extinguished.
The next notice was in the classical handwriting of the secretary of the Sixth Form Literary Society, and ran as follows:—
“This Society will meet on Tuesday. Subject for debate, ‘That the present age is degenerate,’ moved by A.E. Callander, opposed by T. Winter. Boys from the Senior Fifth are invited as auditors.”
This notice, even with the patronising postscript, would have passed without comment, as Sixth Form notices usually did, had not some audacious hand ventured to alter a word and make the subject of debate, instead of “That the present age is degenerate,” read “That the present Sixth is degenerate.” Who the perpetrator of this outrage might be was a mystery, but the alteration was quite enough to render the notice very amusing to many of the readers, especially the Fifth Form boys, and very terrible to others, especially the small boys, who looked nervous and guilty, and did not dare by the slightest sign to join in the mirth of their irreverent seniors. Most of the assembly agreed that “there would be a row about it,” with which assurance they passed on to the next notice.
“Wanted, a Smart Fag. No Tadpoles or Guinea-pigs need apply. Horace Wraysford, Fifth Form.”
“Bravo, Horatius!” said Ricketts. “A lucky young cub it will be that he takes on,” added he, turning to a group of the small boys near. “He’ll do your sums and look over your exercises for you like one o’clock. Ugh! though, I suppose every man Jack of you is a Tadpole or a Pig?”
Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs, I should say, were the names given to two combinations or clubs in the clannish Junior School, the mysteries of which were known only to their members, but which were not regarded with favour by the older boys.
As no one answered this charge, Ricketts indulged in a few general threats, and a few not very complimentary comments on the clubs in question, and then returned to the notice board, which contained two more announcements.