AN UGLY DUCKLING.
"They had not been out of the egg long, and were very saucy. 'Listen,
friend,' said one of them to the duckling, 'you are so ugly that we
like you very well.'"--_The Ugly Duckling_.
It was the first day of term, and Melchester School presented a general
appearance of being unpacked and put together again, as though the
whole institution had been sent out of town for the holidays, and had
returned by goods train late on the previous evening. The passages
were strewn with the contents of boxes belonging to late comers; new
boys wandered about, apparently searching for something which they
never found; while the old stagers exchanged noisy greetings, devoured
each other's "grub," and discussed the prospects of the coming thirteen
weeks which they must pass together before the commencement of the
summer vacation.
Most of the boys had arrived on the Monday evening, but Valentine
Fenleigh did not come back until the following morning. According to a
promise made to his aunt before leaving Brenlands, one of the first
things he did was to inquire after his cousin.
"Yes," said one of his classmates, "there is a new chap by the name of
Fenleigh, but I don't know what he's like. He's not put with us in the
Lower Fourth."
Among a hundred and fifty boys, and in the confusion of a first day, it
was a difficult matter to discover at once the whereabouts of the
fellow he wanted. He accosted one or two of the new-comers, but by the
time the bell rang for afternoon school he had only succeeded in
ascertaining the fact that his cousin must be somewhere about, from
having seen the name "J. Fenleigh" ticked off on the bedroom list.
Holms was full of a project for hiring a bicycle during the summer
months, and, what with listening to the unfolding of this plan, and
struggling with the work in hand, Valentine soon forgot the existence
of his undiscovered relative.
Towards the end of the first hour Mr. Copland, the form-master, folded
up a piece of paper on which he had been writing, and handing it across
the desk, said,--
"Fenleigh, take this in to Mr. Rowlands, and bring back an answer."
Valentine made his way to the head-quarters of the Upper Fourth. The
classroom was rather quieter than the one he had left, Mr. Rowlands
being somewhat of a martinet.
"All right," said the latter, who was copying a list of questions on
the blackboard; "put your note on my table, and I'll attend to you in a
moment."
The messenger did as he was told, and stood looking round the room,
exchanging nods and winks with one or two members of the upper division
with whom he was on friendly terms.
On a form at the back of the room sat three boys who were hardly ever
seen apart, and who had apparently formed an alliance for the purpose
of idling their time, and mutually assisting one another in getting
into scrapes. Their names were Garston, Rosher, and Teal; and seated
at the same desk was a boy with whom they seemed to have already struck
up an acquaintance, though Valentine did not remember having seen his
face before. Even in the Upper Fourth there was a subdued shuffle,
showing that work was going rather hard on this first day; and the
young gentlemen whose names have just been mentioned were evidently not
throwing themselves heart and soul into the subject which was supposed
to be occupying their undivided attention.
Mr. Rowlands finished a line, made a full stop with a sharp rap of his
chalk, and then turned round sniffing.
"Dear me!" he said, "there's a strong smell of something burning."
"Perhaps it's Jackson's cricket cap," murmured a small boy. Jackson's
hair, be it said, was of a fiery red, and hence the suggestion that his
head-gear might be smouldering in his pocket.
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Rowlands, and the joker subsided.
Jackson waited until a fresh sentence had been begun on the blackboard;
then he dropped a ruler, and in picking it up again smote the small boy
on a vulnerable spot beneath the peak of his shell-jacket.
"There _is_ something burning," repeated the master. "Has any one of
you boys got matches in his pocket?"
"Oh, _no_, sir!" shouted a dozen voices.
"Answer more quietly, can't you? I'm not deaf! Jackson, see if
there's anything in the stove."
The stove was found to contain nothing but a bit of ink-sodden
blotting-paper. Jackson drew it carefully forth, and held it up
between his finger and thumb. "That's all, sir," he said.
"Then put it _back_, sir," cried the master, "and go on with your work."
Valentine had some difficulty in keeping from laughing. The smell
which had greeted Mr. Rowlands' nostrils was caused by Garston, who was
deliberately burning holes with a magnifying glass in the coat of the
boy in front of him, who sat all unconscious of what was happening to
this portion of his wardrobe.
The new fellow, who watched the proceedings with great interest, now
stretched out his hand, and taking the glass held it up level with the
victim's neck.
A moment later there was a yell.
"Who made that noise?"
"Please, sir, somebody burnt my neck!"
"Burnt your neck! What boy has been burning Pilson's neck?"
The new-comer raised his hand and gave a flip with his thumb and
finger. "I did," he answered.
"You did!" exclaimed Mr. Rowlands wrathfully. "What are you thinking
of, sir? I've spoken to you four times to-day already. I don't know
if you were accustomed to behave in this manner at the last school you
were at, but let me tell you--"
"Please, sir," interrupted Pilson plaintively, "they've burnt a hole in
my back!"
At this announcement the class exploded.
"_Silence_!" cried the master. "What do you mean, Pilson? is your coat
burnt?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, Fenleigh; I shall give you five hundred lines."
Valentine, who had been an unoffending spectator of the affair, was
fairly staggered at suddenly hearing himself commissioned to write five
hundred lines. Then the situation dawned upon him--this reckless
gentleman with the burning-glass was his cousin Jack.
Mr. Rowlands made a memorandum of the punishment, and at the same time
scribbled a few words in reply to Mr. Copland. As he did so, Valentine
had an opportunity of examining his relative's appearance. The latter
might have been pronounced good-looking, had it not been for a
perpetual expression of restlessness and discontent, which soured what
would otherwise have been a pleasant face. He seemed to care very
little for the lines, and as soon as the master's eye was off him he
turned to Garston and winked.
Valentine was by no means what is commonly known as a "good boy;" he
was as fond of a lark as any right-minded youngster need be; but he had
been taught at home that any one who intended to become a soldier
should first learn to obey, and to respect the authority of those set
over him. He did not like plunging into rows for the sake of being
disorderly; and something in Jack Fenleigh's careless behaviour did not
tend to leave on his mind a very favourable impression of his
newly-found cousin. He had, however, promised Queen Mab to make
friends; and so, as soon as afternoon school was over, he waited for
Jack in the gravel playground, and there introduced himself.
"Oh, so you're Valentine," said the other. "My guv'nor told me you
were here."
"Yes. I hope we shall be friends."
"Well, there's no reason why we shouldn't. My guv'nor's had a row with
yours, I know; but that's nothing, he's always quarrelling with
somebody, and I'm sure I don't mind, if you don't. By-the-bye, weren't
you the fellow who was in the classroom when I got into that row about
the burning-glass?"
"Yes; and I say it's rather a pity you go on like that the first day
you're here. Masters don't expect new fellows to begin larking at
once, and you'll get into Rowlands' bad books."
"Oh, I don't mind that," answered the other; "I didn't want to come
here, and I don't care if I'm sent going again."
At this moment Garston joined them.
"Hallo!" he said, "are you two related to each other? I never thought
of your names being the same before. Cousins, eh? Well, look here,
new Fenleigh, Pilson's on the war-path after you for burning his neck."
"I don't care if he is," answered the other.
Hardly had the words been spoken when the subject of them turned the
corner.
"Yes," he cried, "you're the chap I'm after! What did you burn my coat
for?"
"I didn't burn your coat."
"Oh, you liar! Look here, I'm just going to--"
What Pilson _was_ going to do will remain for ever unknown. He had no
sooner laid his hand on Jack's collar than the latter, without a
moment's hesitation, struck him a heavy blow on the chest which sent
him staggering back against the wall gasping for breath.
"Just keep your dirty paws off me. I tell you I didn't burn your coat;
though to look at it, I should think burning's about all it's good for."
This was not at all the usual line of conduct which new boys adopted
when brought to book by an oldster. Pilson felt aggrieved, but made no
attempt to follow up his attack.
"All right," he said. "You're a liar, and I'll tell all the other
fellows."
"You can tell 'em what you please," returned the other, and taking hold
of Garston's arm he walked away.
Valentine turned on his heel with a doubtful look on his face; his
cousin evidently knew how to take care of himself, yet the latter's
conduct was not altogether satisfactory. It was Garston who had burnt
the coat, and it was like him to let another boy bear the blame; while
Jack evidently cared as little for being thought a liar as he did for
any other misfortune that might befall him.
During the next few days the cousins met every now and again in the
playground, or about the school buildings, but it was only to exchange
a nod or a few words on some subject of general interest. There seemed
to be little in common between them; and Jack, though willing enough to
be friendly and forget the family feud, evidently found the society of
the three unruly members of the Upper Fourth more to his liking than
that of a steady-going boy like Valentine.
For nearly a month the latter did his best to form the friendship which
his aunt had desired; then an event happened which caused him to almost
regard the task as hopeless. Jack had been steadily winning for
himself the reputation of a black sheep; but the climax was reached
when he further distinguished himself in connection with certain
extraordinary proceedings known and remembered long afterwards as the
"Long Dormitory Sports."
It was Rosher's idea. The chamber in question was called "Long" from
the fact that it contained sixteen beds, eight on a side, all of which
were occupied by members of the Upper Fourth. Skeat, the Sixth Form
boy in charge, was ill, and had gone to the infirmary; and in the
absence of the proverbial cat, the mice determined to get in as much
play as possible, only stopping short at performances which might
attract the attention of the master on duty.
It was one Tuesday night. Garston and Teal had had a quarter mile
walking race up and down the centre aisle, which had ended, to the
great delight of the spectators, in Garston nearly tearing his
nightshirt off his back by catching it on a broken bedstead, while the
other competitor had kicked his toe against an iron dumb-bell, and
finished the race by dancing a one-legged hornpipe in the middle of the
course, while his opponent won "hands down."
"I say," remarked Rosher, "why shouldn't we have proper sports, with a
proper list of events and prizes?"
"Who'll give the prizes?" asked Teal.
"Oh, anybody! Look here. I vote we have sports to-morrow night before
old Skeat comes back. Hands up, those who are agreeable! To the
contrary!--none. Very well, it's carried!"
"But how about prizes?" persisted Teal, who was of rather a mercenary
disposition.
"There needn't be any proper prizes," answered Rosher; "we can give the
winners anything."
"Give 'em lines," suggested Garston.
"No; shut up, Garston. Everybody must give something. I'll offer a
brass match-box, shaped like a pig."
"No, you won't," interrupted Teal. "It's mine; you borrowed it a week
ago, and never gave it me back."
"Did I? Well, I'll tell you what, I'll offer a photograph of my
brother; the frame's worth something. Now, what'll you give, Garston?"
Garston offered a small pocket-mirror. Jack Fenleigh a bone
collar-stud, while a boy named Hamond promised what was vaguely
described as "part of a musical box," and which afterwards turned out
to be the small revolving barrel, the only fragment of the instrument
which remained.
Prizes having been secured, the next thing was to arrange competitions
in which to win them; and in doing this, the committee were obliged to
keep in view the peculiar nature and limitations of the ground at their
disposal. It was no good Hamond's clamouring for a pole jump, or Teal
suggesting putting the weight. Jack's proposal of a sack race in
bolster cases was, for a moment, entertained as a good idea; then it
was suddenly remembered that the bolsters had no cases, and so that
project fell through.
One by one the events were decided on. Rosher promised to draw up a
programme, and insisted that after every boy's name some distinguishing
colours should appear, as on a proper sports list, and that competitors
were to arrange their costumes accordingly.
"When shall it come off?" asked Garston.
"Oh, to-morrow, after the masters have all gone in to supper. Now,
we've been planning long enough; good-night."
The occupants of the Long Dormitory, be it said to their credit, were
not fellows to form a scheme and then think no more about it, and the
next day their minds were exercised with preparations for the sports,
the chief difficulty being in arranging costumes which should answer to
the descriptions given on Rosher's card. These vagaries in dress
caused an immense amount of amusement, and when the masters'
supper-bell gave the signal for the commencement of operations, every
one found it difficult to retrain from shouts of laughter at the sight
of the various styles of war-paint. Perhaps that of Jack Fenleigh,
though simple to a degree, was most comical: his colours were described
as "red and white," and his costume consisted of his night-shirt, and a
large scarlet chest-protector which he had borrowed from a small boy,
whose mother fondly believed him to be wearing it according to her
instructions, instead of utilizing it to line a box containing a
collection of birds' eggs.
As every race had to be run in a number of heats the events were
necessarily few in number. There were a hopping race, a hurdle race
over the beds, and a race in which the competitors were blindfolded,
and each carried a mug full of water, which had not to be spilt by the
way.
Teal, over whose bed, as the result of a collision, two boys happened
to empty the contents of their half-pint cups, professed not to see
much fun in the performance, though every one else voted it simply
screaming.
But the contest looked forward to with the greatest amount of interest
was the obstacle race. It was placed at the end of the programme;
Garston's pocket-mirror, the only prize worth having, was to reward the
winner; and the conditions were as follows:--
The runners were to go once round the room, alternately crawling under
and hopping over the sixteen beds; the finish was to be down the middle
aisle, across the centre of which a row of chairs was placed, on which
boys stood or sat to keep them steady while the racers crawled under
the seats. In spite of the fact that the pocket-mirror was to be the
prize, only Jack and Hamond appeared at the starting-point when it came
to this last item on Rosher's programme, their companions voting it too
much fag, and preferring to sit on the obstacles and look on.
The signal was given, and the two competitors started off in grand
style, plunging in and out among the beds like dolphins in a choppy
sea. Jack led from the first; he dashed up to the row of chairs a long
way in front of Hamond, and had wriggled the greater portion of his
body through the bars, when--
No one could have said exactly how the alarm was given, or who first
saw the gleam of light through the ground-glass ventilator. The
obstacle was snatched from the centre of the room; with a rush and a
bound everybody was in bed; a moment later Mr. Rowlands entered the
room, the first thing which met his gaze being the extraordinary
spectacle of Jack Fenleigh, who, like a new kind of snail, was crawling
along the floor on his hands and knees with a cane-bottomed chair fixed
firmly on the centre of his back. The weight of the boy sitting on it
being removed, the unfortunate Jack found it impossible to force his
way any further, and thus remained unable to extricate himself from
between the bars of the obstacle.
"Fenleigh," said the master, "get up off the ground. What are you
doing, sir?"
The boy struggled to his feet, and in doing so revealed the glories of
the chest-protector. There was a subdued titter from the adjacent beds.
"Silence!" cried Mr. Rowlands. "So you're responsible for this noise
and disorder, Fenleigh? If you want to perform as a clown, you had
better leave school and join a circus. At nine o'clock to-morrow you
will come with me to the headmaster's study."
By breakfast-time on the following morning the story of this tragic
finish to the obstacle race was all over the school. Valentine heard
it, and waited anxiously to learn his cousin's fate. The latter
escaped with a severe reprimand, and the loss of the next two
half-holiday afternoons; but he was reminded that his conduct,
especially for a new boy, had been all along most unsatisfactory, and
he was given clearly to understand that any repetition of this constant
misbehaviour would result in his being expelled without further warning.
"I wish you'd take more care what you're up to, Jack," said Valentine.
"You're bound to get thrown out if you don't behave better."
"What's the odds if I am? I've only been here a month, and I hate the
place already."
"It seems to me," answered Valentine sadly, "that you don't care a
straw for anything or anybody."
"Well, why should I?" returned the other. "You wouldn't, if you were
in my place."