Bolsover College was in a bad temper. It often was; for as a rule it
had little else to do; and what it had, was usually a less congenial
occupation.
Bolsover, in fact, was a school which sadly needed two trifling reforms
before it could be expected to do much good in the world. One was, that
all its masters should be dismissed; the other was, that all its boys
should be expelled. When these little changes had been effected there
was every chance of turning the place into a creditable school; but not
much chance otherwise.
For Bolsover College was afflicted with dry-rot. The mischief had begun
not last term or the term before. Years ago it had begun to eat into
the place, and every year it grew more incurable. Occasional efforts
had been made to patch things up. A boy had been now and then expelled.
A master had now and then "resigned." An old rule had now and then
been enforced. A new rule was now and then instituted. But you can't
patch up a dry-rot, and Bolsover crumbled more and more the oftener it
was touched.
Years ago it had dropped out of the race with the other public-schools.
Its name had disappeared from the pass list of the University and Civil
Service candidates. Scarcely a human being knew the name of its head-
master; and no assistant-master was ever known to make Bolsover a
stepping-stone to pedagogic promotion. The athletic world knew nothing
of a Bolsover Eleven or Fifteen; and, worse still, no Bolsover boy was
ever found who was proud either of his school or of himself.
Somebody asks, why, if the place was in such a bad way, did parents
continue to send their boys there, when they had all the public-schools
in England to choose from? To that the answer is very simple. Bolsover
was cheap--horribly cheap!
"A high class public-school education," to quote the words of the
prospectus, "with generous board and lodging, in a beautiful midland
county, in a noble building with every modern advantage; gymnasium,
cricket-field, and a full staff of professors and masters," for
something under forty pounds a year, was a chance not to be snuffed at
by an economical parent or guardian. And when to these attractions was
promised "a strict attention to morals, and a supervision of wardrobes
by an experienced matron," even the hearts of mothers went out towards
the place.
After all, argues many an easy-going parent, a public-school education
is a public-school education, whether dear Benjamin gets it at Eton, or
Shrewsbury, or Bolsover. We cannot afford Eton or Shrewsbury, but we
will make a pinch and send him to Bolsover, which sounds almost as good
and may even be better.
So to Bolsover dear Benjamin goes, and becomes a public-school boy. In
that "noble building" he does pretty much as he likes, and eats very
much what he can. The "full staff of professors and masters" interfere
very little with his liberty, and the "attention to morals" is never
inconveniently obtruded. He goes home pale for the holidays and comes
back paler each term. He scuffles about now and then in the play-ground
and calls it athletics. He gets up Caesar with a crib and Todhunter
with a key, and calls it classics and mathematics. He loafs about with
a toady and calls it friendship. In short, he catches the Bolsover dry-
rot, and calls it a public-school training:
What is it makes Benjamin and his seventy-nine school-fellows (for
Bolsover had its full number of eighty boys this term) in such a
particularly ill-humour this grey October morning? Have his professors
and masters gently hinted to him that he is expected to know his lessons
next time he goes into class? Or has the experienced matron been
overdoing her attention to his morals? Ask him. "What!" he says,
"don't you know what the row is? It's enough to make anybody shirty.
Frampton, this new head-master, you know, he's only been here a week or
two, he's going to upset everything. I wish to goodness old Mullany had
stuck on, cad as he was. He let us alone, but this beast Frampton's
smashing the place up. What do you think?--you'd never guess, he's made
a rule the fellows are all to tub every morning, whether they like it or
not. What do you call that? I know I'll get my governor to make a row
about it. It won't wash, I can tell you. What business has he to make
us tub, eh, do you hear? That's only one thing. He came and jawed us
in the big room this morning, and said he meant to make football
compulsory! There! You needn't gape as if you thought I was gammoning.
I'm not, I mean it. Football's to be compulsory. Every man Jack's got
to play, whether he can or not. I call it brutal! The only thing is,
it won't be done. The fellows will kick. I shall. I'm not going to
play football to please a cad like Frampton, or any other cad!"
What Benjamin says is, for a wonder, the truth. A curious change had
come over Bolsover since the end of last term. Old Mr Mullany, good
old fossil that he was, had resigned. The boys had heard casually of
the event at the end of last term. But the old gentleman so seldom
appeared in their midst, and when he did, so rarely made any show of
authority, that the school had grown to look upon him as an inoffensive
old fogey, whose movements made very little difference to anybody.
It was not till the holidays were over, and Mr Frampton introduced
himself as the new head-master, that Bolsover awoke to the knowledge
that a change had taken place. Mr Frampton--he was not even a "Doctor"
or a "Reverend," but was a young man with sandy whiskers, and a red
tie--had a few ideas of his own on the subject of dry-rot. He evidently
preferred ripping up entire floors to patching single planks, and he
positively scared his colleagues and pupils by the way he set to work.
He was young and enthusiastic, and was perhaps tempted to overdo things
at first. When people are being reformed, they need a little breathing
time now and then; but Mr Frampton seemed to forget it.
He had barely been in his post a week when two of the under-masters
resigned their posts. Undaunted he brought over two new men, who shared
his own ideas, and installed them into the vacancies. Then three more
of the old masters resigned; and three more new men took their places.
Then the "experienced matron" resigned, and Mrs Frampton took her
place. No sooner was that done than the order went out that every boy
should have a cold bath every morning, unless excused by the doctor.
The school couldn't resign, so they sulked, and gasped in the unwelcome
element, and coughed heart-rendingly whenever they met the tyrant. The
tyrant was insatiate. Before the school could recover from his first
shock, the decree for compulsory football staggered it.
Compulsory football! Why, half the fellows in the school had never put
their toes to a football in their lives, and those who had had rarely
done more than punt the leather aimlessly about, when they felt in the
humour to kick something, and nobody or nothing more convenient was at
hand. But it was useless to represent this to Mr Frampton.
"The sooner you begin to play the better," was his reply to all such
objections.
But the old goal posts were broken, and the ball was flabby and nearly
worn-out.
"The new goals and ball are to arrive from London to-day."
But they had not got flannels or proper clothes to play in.
"They must get flannels. Every boy must have flannels, and meanwhile
they must wear the oldest shirts and trousers they had."
Shirts and trousers! Then they weren't even to be allowed to wear coats
and waistcoats this chilly weather! Hadn't they better wait till next
week, till they could ask leave of their parents, and get their flannels
and practise a bit?
"No. Between now and Saturday they would have two clear days to
practise. On Saturday, the Sixth would play the School at three
o'clock."
And Mr Frampton, there being nothing more to say on this subject, went
off to see what his next pleasant little surprise should be. Bolsover,
meanwhile, snarled over the matter in ill-tempered conclaves in the
play-ground.
"It's simple humbug," said Farfield, one of the Sixth. "I defy him to
make me play if I don't choose."
"I shall stand with my hands in my pockets, and not move an inch," said
another.
"I mean to sit down on the grass and have a nap," said a third.
"All very well," said a youngster, called Forrester; "if you can get all
the other fellows to do the same. But if some of them play, it'll look
as if you funked it."
"Who cares what it looks like?" said Farfield. "It will look like not
being made to do what they've no right to make us do--that's all I care
about."
"Well, I don't know," said Pridger, another of the Sixth; "if it came to
the School licking us, I fancy I'd try to prevent that."
"And if it came to the Sixth licking us," said young Forrester, who was
of the audacious order, "I fancy _I'd_ try to put a stopper on that."
There was a smile at this, for the valiant junior was small for his age,
and flimsily built. Smiles, however, were not the order of the day, and
for the most part Bolsover brooded over her tribulations in sulky
silence.
The boys had not much in common, and even a calamity like the present
failed to bring them together. The big boys mooned about and thought of
their lost liberties, of the afternoons in the tuck-shop, of the yellow-
backed novels under the trees, of the loafings down town, and wondered
if they should ever be happy again. The little boys--some of them--wept
secretly in corners, as they pictured themselves among the killed and
wounded on the terrible football field. And as the sharp October wind
cut across the play-ground, they shuddered, great and small, at the
prospect of standing there on Saturday, without coats or waistcoats, and
wondered if Frampton was designedly dooming them to premature graves.
A few, a very few, of the more sensible ones, tried to knock up a little
practice game and prepare themselves for the terrible ordeal. Among
these were two boys belonging to the group whose conversation the reader
has already overheard.
One of them, young Forrester, has already been introduced. Junior as he
was, he was a favourite all over Bolsover, for he was about the only boy
in the school who was always in good spirits, and did not seem to be
infected with the universal dry-rot of the place. He was a small,
handsome boy, older indeed then he looked (for he was nearly fifteen),
not particularly clever or particularly jocular. To look at him you
would have thought him delicate, but there was nothing feeble in his
manner. He looked you straight in the face with a pair of brown saucy
eyes; he was ready to break his neck to oblige any one; and his pocket-
money (fancy a Bolsover boy having pocket-money!) was common property.
Altogether he was a phenomenon at Bolsover, and fellows took to him
instinctively, as fellows often do take to one whose character and
disposition are a contrast to their own. Besides this, young Forrester
was neither a prig nor a toady, and devoted himself to no one in
particular, so that everybody had the benefit of his good spirits, and
enjoyed his pranks impartially.
The other boy, who appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen, was of a
different kind. He, too, was a cut above the average Bolsoverian, for
he was clever, and had a mind of his own. But he acted almost entirely
on antipathies. He disliked everybody, except, perhaps, young
Forrester, and he found fault with everything. Scarfe--that was his
name was a Sixth Form boy, who did the right thing because he disliked
doing what everybody else did, which was usually the wrong. He disliked
his school-fellows, and therefore was not displeased with Mr Frampton's
reforms; but he disliked Mr Frampton and the new masters, and therefore
hoped the school would resist their authority. As for what he himself
should do, that would depend on which particular antipathy was uppermost
when the time came.
Curiously enough, Bolsover by no means disliked Scarfe. They rather
respected a fellow who had ideas of his own, when they themselves had so
few; and as each boy, as a rule, could sympathise with his dislike of
everybody else, with one exception, he found plenty of adherents and not
a few toadies.
Forrester was about the only boy he really did not dislike, because
Forrester did not care twopence whether any one liked him or not, and he
himself was quite fond of Scarfe.
"What do you think the fellows will do?" said the junior, after
attempting for the sixth time to "drop" the ball over the goal without
success.
"Why, obey, of course," said Scarfe scornfully.
"Shall you?"
"I suppose so."
"Why, I thought you were going to stick out."
"No doubt a lot of the fellows would like it if I did. They always like
somebody else to do what they don't care to do themselves."
"Well, you and I'll be on different sides," said the youngster, making
another vain attempt at the goal. "I'm sorry for you, my boy."
"So am I; I'd like to see the Sixth beaten. But there's not much chance
of it if the kicking's left to you."
"I tell you what," said Forrester, ignoring the gibe. "I'm curious to
know what Cad Jeffreys means to do. We're bound to have some fun if
he's in it."
"Cad Jeffreys," said Scarfe, with a slight increase of scorn in his face
and voice, "will probably assist the School by playing for the Sixth."
Forrester laughed.
"I hear he nearly drowned himself in the bath the first day, and half
scragged Shrimpton for grinning at him. If he gets on as well at
football, Frampton will have something to answer for. Why, here he
comes."
"Suppose you invite him to come and have a knock up with the ball,"
suggested the senior.
The figure which approached the couple was one which, familiar as it was
to Bolsover, would have struck a stranger as remarkable. A big youth,
so disproportionately built as to appear almost deformed, till you
noticed that his shoulders were unusually broad and his feet and hands
unusually large. Whether from indolence or infirmity it was hard to
say, his gait was shambling and awkward, and the strength that lurked in
his big limbs and chest seemed to unsteady him as he floundered top-
heavily across the play-ground. But his face was the most remarkable
part about him. The forehead, which overhung his small, keen eyes, was
large and wrinkled. His nose was flat, and his thick, restless lips
seemed to be engaged in an endless struggle to compel a steadiness they
never attained. It was an unattractive face, with little to redeem it
from being hideous. The power in it seemed all to centre in its angry
brow, and the softness in its restless mouth. The balance was bad, and
the general impression forbidding. Jeffreys was nineteen, but looked
older, for he had whiskers--an unpardonable sin in the eyes of
Bolsover--and was even a little bald. His voice was deep and loud. A
stranger would have mistaken him for an inferior master, or, judging
from his shabby garments, a common gardener.
Those who knew him were in no danger of making that mistake. No boy was
more generally hated. How he came by his name of Cad Jeffreys no one
knew, except that no other name could possibly describe him. The small
boys whispered to one another that once on a time he had murdered his
mother, or somebody. The curious discovered that he was a lineal
descendant of Judge Jeffreys, of hanging celebrity. The seniors
represented him as a cross between Nero and Caliban, and could not
forgive him for being head classic.
The one thing fellows could appreciate in him was his temper. A child
in arms, if he knew the way, could get a rise out of Cad Jeffreys, and
in these dull times that was something to be thankful for.
Forrester was perhaps the most expert of Jeffreys' enemies. He worried
the Cad not so much out of spite as because it amused him, and, like the
nimble matador, he kept well out of reach of the bull all the time he
was firing shots at him.
"Hullo, Jeff!" he called out, as the Cad approached. "Are you going to
play in the match on Saturday?"
"No," said Jeffreys.
"You're not? Haven't you got any old clothes to play in?"
Jeffreys' brow darkened. He glanced down at his own shabby garments,
and then at Scarfe's neat suit.
"I've got flannels," he said.
"Flannels! Why don't you play, then? Do you think you won't look well
in flannels? He would, wouldn't he, Scarfe?"
"I don't see how he could look better than he does now," replied Scarfe,
looking at the figure before him. Then noticing the black looks on his
enemy's face, he added--
"Forrester and I were having a little practice at kicking, Jeff. You
may as well join us, whether you play in the match or not."
"Why, are you going to play?" asked Jeffreys, not heeding the
invitation. "Frampton has no right to make us do it."
"Why not? He's head-master. Besides, you can get a doctor's
certificate if you like."
"No, I can't; I'm not ill."
"Then you'll have to play, of course. Everybody will, and you'd better
come and practise with us now. Do you know how to play?"
"Of course I do," said Jeffreys, "I've played at home."
"All serene. Have a shot at the goal, then."
The Cad's experience of football at home must have been of a humble
description, for his attempt at a kick now was a terrible fiasco. He
missed the ball completely, and, losing his balance at the same time,
fell heavily to the ground.
"Bravo!" cried Forrester, "I wish I'd learnt football at home; I
couldn't do that to save my life."
"I slipped," said Jeffreys, rising slowly to his feet, and flushing
crimson.
"Did you?" said the irreverent youth. "I thought it was part of the
play. Stand out of the way, though, while I take a shot."
Before, however, Jeffreys could step aside, a neat and, for a wonder,
accurate drop-kick from Forrester sent the ball violently against the
side of the unwieldy senior's head, knocking off his hat and nearly
precipitating him a second time to the earth.
The storm fairly burst now. As the fleet-footed junior darted past him
the other struck out wildly; but missing his blow, he seized the ball
and gave a furious kick in the direction of the retreating enemy.
It was a fine drop-kick, and soared far over the head of its intended
victim, straight between the goal posts, an undoubted and brilliant
goal.
Forrester stopped his retreat to applaud, and Scarfe scornfully joined.
"Awfully good," said he; "you certainly must play on Saturday. We've
nobody can kick like that."
"I meant it to hit Forrester," said Jeffreys, panting with his effort,
and his lips nearly white with excitement.
"Would you like another shot?" called out the young gentleman in
question.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, losing your temper like that,"
said Scarfe bitterly. "Couldn't you see he hit you by accident?"
"He did it on purpose," said Jeffreys savagely.
"Nonsense. He was aiming at the goal and missed. You did the same
thing yourself, only you aimed at him."
"I wish I had hit him!" growled Jeffreys, glaring first at Scarfe, than
at Forrester, and finally shambling off the ground.
"There's a nice amiable lamb," said Forrester, as he watched the
retreating figure. "I'm sometimes half ashamed to bait him, he does get
into such tantrums. But it's awfully tempting."
"You'd better keep out of his way the rest of the day," said Scarfe.
"Oh, bless you, he'll have worked it off in half an hour. What do you
bet I don't get him to do my Latin prose for me this afternoon?"
Forrester knew his man; and that afternoon, as if nothing had happened,
the junior sat in the Cad's study, eating some of the Cad's bread and
jam while the Cad wrote out the junior's exercise for him.