A BANQUET AT "DUSTER'S."
"It must have been the fault of the black goblin who lived in the
snuff-box."--_The Brave Tin Soldier_.
At Easter, Jack and Valentine got their remove into the Fifth, and
there became acquainted with a young gentleman who rejoiced in the name
of Tinkleby.
Tinkleby was a comical-looking fellow of medium height; he wore
nippers, and had a perpetual smirk on his lips.
"Hallo, you two Fenleighs!" he said, coming up to them on the second
morning of the term; "I suppose you'll join our society."
"What society?" asked Jack.
"The Fifth Form Literary Society."
"What's it for?" asked Valentine. "We're neither of us very literary."
"Well, to tell you the truth, the society isn't either. It's kept up
for the sake of having a feed at the end of every summer term."
"What?" cried Jack, laughing.
"If you'll listen a moment," said Tinkleby glibly, "I'll explain the
whole matter in two words.
"The fellows in the Fifth used to run a manuscript magazine. Aston was
the first editor, and he called it the 'Portfolio,' because it was
bound up in the case of an old blotter that he bagged out of the
reading-room. The chaps who contributed papers called themselves the
Fifth Form Literary Society, and elected a secretary, treasurer, and
president. Aston was so pleased with one of the numbers that he sent
it to _The Melchester Herald_ to be reviewed; but after waiting about
six months for a notice to appear, he went down to the office, and the
editor said that the manuscript was lost, and that Aston ought to have
enclosed stamps if he wanted it returned. Godson, one of the prefects,
said he saw a bit at Snell's the fish-shop, where they were using it to
wrap up screws of shrimps; but that was all rot, and he only said it
because the fellows in the Sixth were jealous. Well, then, it was
suggested that the magazine should be printed, and the members
subscribed towards bringing out the first number; but after they'd
raked in all the money they could get, they found there wasn't enough
for the purpose, so they decided to spend what they'd got in having a
feed at 'Duster's,' and it was agreed it should be an annual affair.
"When I was made president I brought out two numbers of the
'Portfolio,' but in the second I wrote rather a smart thing on old
Ward, and called it 'The Career of a Class Master.' It was really so
good I thought he'd enjoy reading it, and so I got another fellow to
show it him; but he didn't properly appreciate it, and cut up rough.
He said he would overlook the personal allusions, but he really
couldn't allow any fellow in his form to be so backward in spelling,
and therefore I must borrow a spelling-book from one of the kids, and
learn two pages a day until I improved. He used to hear me before we
began first lessons. It was rather rough on the president of a
literary society, making him stand up every morning and reel off two
pages of 'Butter's Spelling-Book.' And that squashed the 'Portfolio;'
fellows wouldn't send in any more papers, for fear they should be
hauled up in the same manner.
"But they went on subscribing for the feed," continued Tinkleby,
brightening up. "We didn't let that fall through. It comes off on the
breaking-up day, after the old boys' match. The Sixth are always
invited in to have supper with the swells; but I know a lot or them
would much rather be with us having a blow-out at 'Duster's.' Well,
that's the meaning of our literary society; the subscription is only
two-pence a week, so you'd better join."
The two cousins promised they would do so. Every Monday morning, in
the classroom, Tinkleby passed round an old missionary box, crying,
"Now then! pay up, you beggars. No broken glass or brace buttons!" It
was always a race to get the collection over by the time Mr. Ward
entered the room; but the sprightly Tinkleby, who seemed to have
undertaken the combined duties of president, secretary, and treasurer,
hurried through it somehow; and each week the box grew heavier, and the
hearts of the contributors lighter as they looked forward to the time
when they should sit down to the long-expected banquet.
The term passed very pleasantly for Jack and Valentine; and what
between cricket, bathing, and the prospect of spending the coming
holiday at Brenlands, they had good reason for feeling contented and
happy. Only one thing happened to disturb their peace of mind, and
that an incident of rather a curious nature.
They were strolling back to the school one afternoon, and had got
within twenty yards of the main entrance, when some one hurrying along
behind them touched Jack on the shoulder, and looking round they found
themselves once more confronted by the same shabby-looking man who had
accosted them on a previous occasion.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Fenleigh," he began. "I'm Ned Hanks; you'll remember,
sir. Maybe you've got a copper or two you can spare a poor fellow
who's out of work."
"I've got no money to give away to beggars," said Jack; "and I tell you
once more we don't know you."
"That's rather ungrateful, I calls it," answered the man. "I did you
two gents a good turn last year, and got precious little for it. I
might have made more out of the other party."
By this time they had reached the school-gates.
"Look here," broke in Valentine, "don't you bother us any more, or
we'll put a policeman on your track. I don't understand a word of what
you've been saying, and--"
"Stop, stop, Fenleigh!" interrupted a deep voice. "What's the meaning
of this, pray?"
The two boys looked up and found they were standing in the presence of
the headmaster.
"What's the meaning of this?" he repeated. "Who is this man you're
talking to?"
There was a moment's silence, during which the seedy stranger slunk
away, and disappeared round the corner.
"I ask who is this man you are speaking to?"
"I don't know, sir," answered Valentine.
"Nonsense!" retorted Mr. Westford sharply. "I saw you two boys holding
a conversation with him once before. You must know who he is; answer
my question immediately."
"He told us his name was Hanks," said Jack; "but we don't know him. He
came up and spoke to us of his own accord."
"And, pray, what did he want to speak to you about?"
"I don't know, sir," answered Valentine--"that is--he wanted to beg
some money."
"I don't understand your answer, Fenleigh," replied Mr. Westford. "I
fear you are not telling me the truth--or, at all events, you are
trying to keep something back which ought to come to my knowledge.
There must be some reason for my having twice found you in conversation
with that disreputable-looking fellow. Both of you will not go outside
the school premises for a fortnight without special permission."
Jack stormed and raved, and threatened what he would do if they should
encounter the tramp again; but of the two, Valentine felt the
punishment far more acutely than his cousin. He was not accustomed to
rows; and for a boy with his naturally high sense of honour, the mere
thought that the headmaster suspected him of telling a falsehood was
ten times worse than the fact of being "gated."
The term ran on, and at length the last day arrived; a day of perfect
happiness, with no more work, and a letter by the first post from Queen
Mab, saying that the pony-carriage would meet the train as usual at
Hornalby station. The prize-giving, with the Mayor of Melchester in
the chair, and Augustus Powler, Esq., M.P., and other grandees, upon
the platform, was a very serious and formal business; the Past and
Present match, in which Preston, the coming man in bowling, took seven
wickets, and dear old Clayton, a bygone captain, lifted a ball over the
roof of the pavilion, was certainly more interesting; but, at all
events, in the opinion of all those concerned, the chief event of the
day was the annual supper of the Fifth Form Literary Society.
"Come along," cried Tinkleby, as the cheers which greeted a win for the
Present were gradually dying away--"come along. I told Duster to have
the grub ready at half-past five sharp, and it's a quarter to six."
"Shan't we get into a row for cutting tea?" asked Jack.
"No fear," answered the other. "Old Ward knows where we're going; and
it's all right as long as we get back before lock-up."
The confectioner's shop patronized by the Melchester boys was situated
in a quiet street some five minutes' walk from the school-gates. Why
the proprietor's name should have been changed from Downing to "Duster"
it would be difficult to say; but as long as his customers came
furnished with ready money and good appetites, the probability is that
the former would have been quite content to serve them under any
nickname which they chose to invent.
At the back of "Duster's" establishment was a little square parlour,
where boys repaired to eat ices and drink alarming quantities of
Duster's famous home-made ginger-beer--a high explosive, which always
sent the cork out with a bang, and to drink two bottles of which
straight off would have been a risky business for any boy to attempt
without first testing the staying power of his waistcoat-buttons, and
putting several bags of sand in his jacket-pockets. In this parlour it
was that the literary society assembled for their banquet; as many as
could find room squeezing themselves on to the two short forms on
either side of the table, and the remainder camping out wherever they
could find room on the chairs, window-ledge, and a small sofa. At the
close of a summer day the place was decidedly hot and stuffy, and the
first thing everybody did was to pull off their coats and blazers and
appear in their shirt-sleeves.
Tinkleby, as president, took the post of honour at the head of the
table, and hammering the festive board with his fist, called on
"Duster" to "bring in the grub and something to drink." To describe
the banquet itself would need an abler pen than mine. The sausages
were browned to perfection, the ices were pinker than a maiden's cheek,
and the ginger-beer was stronger and more filling at the price than it
had ever been before, and made those who drank it gasp for breath and
feel as though they had swallowed a cyclone. James, surnamed "Guzzling
Jimmy," distinguished himself by finishing up with ices, and then
beginning all over again with cold ham and pickles; but at length, when
even he had finished, there was a general hammering of the table, and a
call for "speeches."
"Well, fire away," said the president. "Who's going to start?"
"I will," cried a boy named Dorris. "Gentlemen, I beg to propose a
toast--success to the Fifth Form Literary Society, and with it I couple
the name of our worthy president, Mr. Tinkleby; may he live long and be
happy!"
This sentiment, though not very original, was received with great
enthusiasm, the company showing their approval of it by administering
to themselves fresh doses of "Duster's" liquid explosive.
The president, rising slowly to his feet, sticking his thumbs in the
armholes of his waistcoat, and expanding that portion of his body which
contained his supper, in imitation of the movements of Augustus Powler,
Esq., M.P., cleared his throat, and began in pompous tones: "Mr. Mayor,
ladies and gentlemen, I cannot well express to you the delight with
which I stand here to fulfil the pleasing duties which you have so
kindly called upon me to perform. When I look round on the bright,
young faces before me--"
The speaker paused to dodge a shower of crusts, corks, and other
missiles; the owners of the "bright, young faces" evidently resented
this personal allusion.
"Shut up, Tinky!" cried several voices. "Talk sense, can't you?"
The president smiled, and readjusted his nippers.
"I was about to remark," he continued in his natural tone, and with his
accustomed fluency of speech, "I was about to remark that I thank you
very much for having drunk my health. You were good enough to couple
my name with that of our society. Gentlemen, I am convinced that the
Fifth Form Literary Society has a great future before it. (Laughter.)
I look forward to the time when we shall not grub here at 'Duster's,'
but dine together in premises of our own. Our friend Mr. James has a
nice little plot of ground in a soap-box, where he now grows
mustard-and-cress, but which I have no doubt he would let to us on
reasonable terms for building purposes. But, perhaps, I am looking a
little too far ahead. As regards our immediate future, I intend making
a determined effort to publish another number of the 'Portfolio.'
(Cheers.) Mr. Ward has intimated his willingness to contribute a large
number of Latin lines written by members of his class; while Mr. Sam
Jones, the boot-cleaner, has offered to place his talented brush at our
disposal, and produce a grand New-Year's Illustrated Supplement,
entitled, 'Christmas in the Coal-Hole.' Gentlemen, I fear I am
trespassing on your time and good nature. Mr. James, I see, is anxious
to drink another toast. Once more I thank you for having drunk my
health, and would now call upon you to drink that of Mr. Preston, who
distinguished himself this afternoon by taking no less than seven of
the old boys' wickets."
Great applause greeted the finish of the president's speech, and
Preston's health was drunk amid a scene of the wildest enthusiasm.
Cries of "On your pins, Preston!"--"Well bowled,
sir!"--"Order!"--"Speak up!" etc., rent the air; while the pounding of
fists and drumming of feet were continued until a game leg of one of
the forms suddenly gave way, causing a temporary disappearance of half
the company beneath the table.
Preston might have been able to howl, but he certainly could not talk,
and it was hard for him to follow such a glib speaker as the president.
However, the fact remained that he had distinguished himself, and
brought honour to the Fifth Form in general by taking seven wickets;
and for this reason his comrades would have been content had he merely
stood up and reeled off the list of prepositions which govern the
accusative, or quoted selections from the multiplication table. As it
was, they awarded him a cordial reception, and filled up the pauses in
his disjointed utterances with tumultuous applause.
"I'm much obliged to you fellows for drinking my health," began the
bowler. "It's jolly good of you, and--all that sort of thing.
(Cheers.) I did manage to bag seven wickets." (Renewed applause,
interrupted by a warning shout of "Look out! this form's going again!")
"I was going to say," continued the speaker, attempting to hide his
embarrassment by pretending to drink out of an empty glass, "that it
was rather a fluke--" (Shouts of "No! no!" "More pop for the
gentleman!" and fresh outbursts of cheering.) "Well, I did the best I
could, and--well--glad you're pleased, and all that sort of thing.
(Alarums and excursions.) I suppose I ought to say something about
this society, but, as regards that matter, the former speaker has
rather taken the sails out of my wind. (Cheers and laughter.) No, I
should say the _whales_ out of my-- (Yells of laughter.) Any way,"
concluded Preston, shouting to be heard above the general uproar, "I'm
much obliged to you, and--all that sort of thing--"
It was not until several ginger-beer bottles had rolled off the table,
and the rickety form had once more gone down with every soul on board,
that a sufficient amount of order was restored to enable the president
to call on somebody for a song.
"Sing yourself, Tinkleby," was the answer. "Give us 'Little Brown
Jug.'"
The president complied with the request. Mead, a musical companion,
ground out an unearthly accompaniment on "Duster's" little,
broken-winded harmonium; and the company shrieked the chorus,
regardless of time, tune, or anything but the earnest desire of each
individual to make more noise than any one else.
When this deafening uproar had at length subsided, everybody was forced
to remain quiet for a few moments to regain their breath. "Now, then,"
said Tinkleby, "who's next? What's that? All right. Bos. Jones says
he will give us a recitation."
The announcement was received with a groan. Mr. Boswell-Jones was
rather a pompous young gentleman, who expended most of his energies
trying to live up to his double surname, and in consequence was not
very popular with his schoolfellows. He rather fancied himself as an
elocutionist; and though he might have seen "rocks ahead" in the manner
in which the audience received the president's announcement,
Boswell-Jones had sufficient confidence in his own powers to be blind
to any lack of appreciation on the part of other people. He stood up
and adjusted his necktie, cleared his throat, and began,--
"I remembah, I remembah,
The house where I was bawn,
("Euh! re--ah--lly!" murmured the listeners.)
The leetle window where the sun
Came peeping in at mawn."
"Whose little son?" interrupted Dorris.
"Shut up!" cried the president.
"Well, I only wanted to know," said Dorris in an injured tone. "I
should call it jolly good cheek of anybody's son to come peeping in
through my bedroom window--"
"Shut _up_!" exclaimed Tinkleby. "Go on, Bos."
"He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now"--
continued the reciter with a great amount of pathos,
--"I often wish the night
Had bawn my breath away!"
"So do I," mumbled Paterson. "Let's have another song."
"I remembah, I remembah,
The roses, red and white--"
"Go on, Bossy," ejaculated the irrepressible Dorris; "you don't
remember it at all, you're simply making it up as you go along."
A general disturbance followed this last interruption--the audience
laughed, the president vainly endeavoured to restore order, and
Boswell-Jones sat down in a rage, and refused to continue his oration.
"A song, a song!" cried several voices. "Jack Fenleigh, you know
something; come on, let's have it."
Jack had a good voice, and with Mead extracting fearful groans and
growls out of the harmonium, he started off on the first verse of "The
Mermaid," a song which he was destined in after years to sing under
strangely different circumstances:--
"Oh, 'twas in the broad Atlantic, 'mid the equinoctial gales,
That a gay young tar fell overboard, among the sharks and whales;
And down he went like a streak of light, so quickly down went he,
Until he came to a mermaid at the bottom of the deep blue sea."
Then the audience took up the chorus, and yelled,--
"Rule, Britannia! Bri--tann--ia rules the waves!
And Bri--tons never, never, ne--ver shall be
Mar--ri--ed to a mer--mai--ed
At the bottom of the deep blue sea!"
The song was received with great enthusiasm, and the performers might
have been kept repeating the last chorus until break of day on the
following morning, it Tinkleby had not suddenly jumped up, crying, "I
say, you chaps, it's five-and-twenty past seven. We shall be late for
lock-up."
Every one sprang to his feet. Dorris was the first to reach the door,
and being of a playful disposition caught up a bundle of coats and
blazers and bolted with them under his arm. A moment later certain of
the peaceful citizens of Melchester were astonished at the sight of a
dozen or more young gentlemen tearing madly down the street in their
shirt-sleeves. And so ended the third annual supper of the Fifth Form
Literary Society.