AFTER THE MATCH.
"----Some food we had."--_Shakespeare._
[Greek: "es potos hadus."]--_Theocr., Id._
CELEBRATING THE VICTORY.
As the boys scattered away from the ground, and East, leaning on Tom's
arm and limping along, was beginning to consider what luxury they
should go and buy for tea to celebrate that glorious victory, the two
Brookes came striding by. Old Brooke caught sight of East and stopped,
put his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said, "Bravo, youngster! you
played famously. Not much the matter, I hope?"
"No, nothing at all," said East; "only a little twist from that
charge."
"Well, mind and get all right for next Saturday;" and the leader
passed on, leaving East better for those few words than all the
opodeldoc[1] in England would have made him, and Tom ready to give one
of his ears for as much notice. Ah! light words of those whom we love
and honor, what a power ye are, and how carelessly wielded by those
who can use them! Surely for these things, also, God will ask an
account.
[1] #Opodeldoc#: a liniment.
"Tea's directly after locking-up, you see," said East, hobbling along
as fast as he could, "so you come along down to Sally Harrowell's;
that's our School-house tuck-shop,[2]--she bakes such stunning
murphies, we'll have a penn'orth each for tea; come along, or they'll
all be gone."
[2] #Tuck-shop#: cook or pastry shop.
Tom's new purse and money burnt in his pocket; he wondered, as they
toddled through the quadrangle and along the street, whether East
would be insulted if he suggested further extravagance, as he had not
sufficient faith in a pennyworth of potatoes. At last he blurted
out,--
"I say, East, can't we get something else besides potatoes? I've got
lots of money, you know."
"Bless us, yes, I forgot," said East, "you've only just come. You see
all my tin's been gone this twelve weeks; it hardly ever lasts beyond
the first fortnight; and our allowances were all stopped this morning
for broken windows, so I haven't got a penny. I've got a tick[3] at
Sally's of course; but then I hate running it high, you see, towards
the end of the half, 'cause one has to shell out for it all directly
one comes back, and that's a bore."[4]
[3] #Tick#: credit.
[4] #Bore#: an annoyance.
Tom didn't understand much of this talk, but seized on the fact that
East had no money, and was denying himself some little pet luxury in
consequence. "Well, what shall I buy?" said he; "I'm uncommon hungry."
"I say," said East, stopping to look at him and rest his leg, "you're
a trump, Brown. I'll do the same by you next half. Let's have a pound
of sausages, then; that's the best grub for tea I know of."
"Very well," said Tom, as pleased as possible; "where do they sell
them?"
"Oh, over here, just opposite;" and they crossed the street and walked
into the cleanest little front room of a small house, half parlor,
half shop, and bought a pound of most particular sausages; East
talking pleasantly to Mrs. Porter while she put them in paper, and Tom
doing the paying part.
HARROWELL'S.
From Porter's they adjourned to Sally Harrowell's, where they found a
lot of School-house boys waiting for the roast potatoes, and relating
their own exploits in the day's match at the top of their voices. The
street opened at once into Sally's kitchen, a low bricked-floored
room, with large recess for fire, and chimney-corner seats. Poor
little Sally, the most good-natured and much enduring of woman-kind,
was bustling about with the napkin in her hand, from her own oven to
those of the neighbors' cottages, up the yard at the back of the
house. Stumps, her husband, a short easy-going shoemaker, with a
beery, humorous eye and ponderous calves, who lived mostly on his
wife's earnings, stood in a corner of the room, exchanging shots of
the roughest description of repartee with every boy in turn. "Stumps,
you lout, you've had too much beer again to-day." "'Twasn't of your
paying for, then." "Stumps's calves are running down into his ankles;
they want to get to grass." "Better be doing that, than gone
altogether like yours," etc., etc. Very poor stuff it was, but it
served to make time pass; and every now and then Sally arrived in the
middle with a smoking tin of potatoes, which was cleared off in a few
seconds, each boy as he seized his lot running off to the house with
"Put me down two-penn'orth, Sally;" "Put down three penn'orth between
me and Davis," etc. How she ever kept the accounts so straight as she
did, in her head and on her slate, was a perfect wonder.
East and Tom got served at last, and started back for the School-house
just as the locking-up bell began to ring; East on the way recounting
the life and adventures of Stumps, who was a character. Amongst his
other small avocations, he was the hind carrier of a sedan-chair,[5]
the last of its race, in which the Rugby ladies still went out to tea,
and in which, when he was fairly harnessed and carrying a load, it was
the delight of small and mischievous boys to follow him and whip his
calves. This was too much for the temper even of Stumps, and he would
pursue his tormentors in a vindictive and apoplectic manner when
released, but was easily pacified by twopence to buy beer with.
[5] #Sedan-chair#: a kind of covered chair for carrying a
single person, borne on poles by two men.
TEA AND ITS LUXURIES.
The lower-school boys of the School-house, some fifteen in number,
had tea in the lower-fifth school, and were presided over by the old
verger or head-porter. Each boy had a quarter of a loaf of bread and
pat of butter, and as much tea as he pleased; and there was scarcely
one who didn't add to this some further luxury, such as baked
potatoes, a herring, sprats, or something of the sort; but few, at
this period of the half-year, could live up to a pound of Porter's
sausages, and East was in great magnificence upon the strength of
theirs. He had produced a toasting-fork from his study, and set Tom
to toast the sausages, while he mounted guard over their butter and
potatoes; "'cause," as he explained, "you're a new boy, and they'll
play you some trick and get our butter, but you can toast just as well
as I." So Tom, in the midst of three or four more urchins similarly
employed, toasted his face and the sausages at the same time before
the huge fire, till the latter cracked, when East from his watch-tower
shouted that they were done, and then the feast proceeded, and the
festive cups of tea were filled and emptied, and Tom imparted of the
sausages in small bits to many neighbors, and thought he had never
tasted such good potatoes or seen such jolly boys. They on their part
waived all ceremony, and pegged away at the sausages and potatoes,
and, remembering Tom's performance in goal, voted East's new crony a
brick. After tea, and while the things were being cleared away, they
gathered round the fire, and the talk on the match still went on; and
those who had them to show, pulled up their trousers and showed the
hacks they had received in the good cause.
They were soon however all turned out of the School, and East
conducted Tom up to his bedroom, that he might get on clean things and
wash himself before singing.
"What singing?" said Tom, taking his head out of his basin, where he
had been plunging it in cold water.
"Well, you are jolly green," answered his friend from a neighboring
basin. "Why, the last six Saturdays of every half, we sing, of course,
and this is the first of them. No first lesson to do, you know, and
lie in bed to-morrow morning."
"But who sings?"
"Why, everybody, of course; you'll see soon enough. We begin directly
after supper, and sing till bed-time. It isn't such good fun now
though as in the summer half, 'cause then we sing in the little fives'
court, under the library you know, and we cut about the quadrangle
between the songs, and it looks like a lot of robbers in a cave. And
the louts[6] come and pound at the great gate, and we pound back
again, and shout at them. But this half we only sing in the hall. Come
along down to my study."
[6] #Louts#: here, town men or boys, "outsiders."
Their principal employment in the study was to clear out East's table,
removing the drawers and ornaments and table-cloth; for he lived in
the bottom passage, and his table was in requisition for the singing.
SUPPER.
Supper came in due course at seven o'clock, consisting of bread and
cheese and beer, which was all saved for the singing; and directly
afterward the fags went to work to prepare the hall. The School-house
hall, as has been said, is a great long high room, with two large
fires on one side, and two large iron-bound tables, one running down
the middle, and the other along the wall opposite the fire-places.
Around the upper fire the fags placed the tables in the form of a
horse-shoe, and upon them the jugs[7] with the Saturday night's
allowance of beer. Then the big boys used to drop in and take their
seats, bringing their song-books with them; for although they all knew
the songs by heart, it was the thing to have an old manuscript book
descended from some departed hero, in which they were all carefully
written out.
[7] #Jugs#: pitchers.
The sixth-form boys had not yet appeared; so to fill up the gap, an
interesting and time-honored ceremony was gone through. Each new boy
was placed on the table in turn, and made to sing a solo, under the
penalty of drinking a large mug of salt and water, if he resisted or
broke down. However, the new boys all sing like nightingales to-night,
and the salt water is not in requisition; Tom, as his part, performing
the old west-country song of "The Leather Bottel," with considerable
applause. And at the half-hour down come the sixth and fifth-form
boys, and take their places at the tables, which are filled up by the
next biggest boys; the rest, for whom there is no room at the table,
standing round outside.
BROOKE'S HONORS.
The glasses and mugs are filled, and then the fugle-man[8] strikes up
the old sea song:--
"A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
And a wind that follows fast," etc.,
which is the invariable first song in the School-house, and all the
seventy voices join in, not mindful of harmony, but bent on noise,
which they attain decidedly, but the general effect isn't bad. And
then follow the "British Grenadiers," "Billie Taylor," "The Siege of
Seringapatam," "Three Jolly Post-boys," and other vociferous songs in
rapid succession, including the "Chesapeake and Shannon,"[9] a song
lately introduced in honor of old Brooke; and when they come to the
words:--
"Brave Broke he waved his sword, crying, Now, my lads, aboard,
And we'll stop their playing Yankee-doodle-dandy, oh,"
you expect the roof to come down. The sixth and fifth know that "brave
Broke" of the Shannon was no sort of relation to our old Brooke. The
fourth form are uncertain in their belief, but for the most part hold
that old Brooke _was_ a midshipman then on board his uncle's ship. And
the lower-school never doubt for a moment that it was our old Brooke
who led the boarders, in what capacity they care not a straw.
[8] #Fugle-man#: leader.
[9] #Chesapeake and Shannon#: a song on the famous naval duel
off Boston Harbor, in 1813, between the American frigate
Chesapeake, and the British ship Shannon. The English gained
the victory; but later, the Americans effectually beat them.
Then Warner, the head of the house, gets up and wants to speak, but he
can't, for every boy knows what's coming; and the big boys who sit at
the tables pound them and cheer; and the small boys who stand behind
pound one another and cheer, and rush about the hall cheering. Then
silence being made, Warner reminds them of the old School-house custom
of drinking the healths, on the first night of singing, of those who
are going to leave at the end of the half. He sees that they know what
he is going to say already--(loud cheers)--and so won't keep them, but
only ask them to treat the toast as it deserves.
"It is the head of the eleven, the head of big-side foot-ball, their
leader on this glorious day--Pater[10] Brooke!"
[10] #Pater Brooke#: Father Brooke, because he was now an "old
boy" about to graduate.
BROOKE DISCOURSETH ON UNION.
And away goes the pounding and cheering again, becoming deafening when
old Brooke gets on his legs; till, a table having broken down, and all
throats getting dry, silence ensues, and the hero speaks, leaning his
hands on the table, and bending a little forward. No action, no tricks
of oratory; plain, strong, and straight, like his play.
"Gentlemen of the School-house! I am very proud of the way in which
you have received my name, and I wish I could say all I should like in
return. But I know I sha'n't. However, I'll do the best I can to say
what seems to me ought to be said by a fellow who's just going to
leave, and who has spent a good slice of his life here. Eight years,
it is, and eight such years as I can never hope to have again. So now
I hope you'll all listen to me--(loud cheers of "that we will")--for I
am going to talk seriously. You're bound to listen to me, for what's
the use of calling me 'pater,' and all that, if you don't mind what I
say? And I am going to talk seriously, because I feel so. It's a jolly
time, too, getting to the end of the half, and a goal kicked by us
first day--(tremendous applause)--after one of the hardest and
fiercest day's play I can remember in eight years--(frantic
shoutings). The School played splendidly, too, I will say, and kept it
up to the last. That last charge of theirs would have carried away a
house. I never thought to see anything again of old Crab there, except
little pieces, when I saw him tumbled over by it--(laughter and
shouting, and great slapping on the back of Jones by the boys nearest
him). Well, but we beat 'em--(cheers). Ay, but why did we beat 'em?
answer me that--(shouts of "your play"). Nonsense! 'Twasn't the wind
and kick-off either--that wouldn't do it. 'Twasn't because we've half
a dozen of the best players in the School, as we have. I wouldn't
change Warner, and Hedge, and Crab, and the young un, for any six on
their side--(violent cheers). But half a dozen fellows can't keep it
up for two hours against two hundred. Why is it, then? I'll tell you
what I think. Its because we've more reliance on one another, more of
a house feeling, more fellowship than the School can have. Each
of us knows and can depend on his next-hand man better--that's why
we beat 'em to-day. We've union, they've division--there's the
secret--(cheers). But how's this to be kept up? How's it to be
improved? That's the question. For I take it, we're all in earnest
about beating the School, whatever else we care about. I know I'd
sooner win two School-house matches running than get the Balliol
scholarship[11] any day--(frantic cheers).
[11] #Balliol scholarship#: a scholarship in Balliol College,
one of the leading colleges of Oxford. Such scholarships are
frequently worth from $800 to $1000 a year.
"Now, I'm as proud of the house as any one. I believe it's the best
house in the School, out-and-out--(cheers). But it's a long way from
what I want to see it. First, there's a deal of bullying going on. I
know it well. I don't pry about and interfere; that only makes it more
underhand, and encourages the small boys to come to us with their
fingers in their eyes telling tales, and so we should be worse off
than ever. It's very little kindness for the sixth to meddle
generally--you youngsters, mind that. You'll be all the better
foot-ball players for learning to stand it, and to take your own
parts, and fight it through. But depend on it, there's nothing breaks
up a house like bullying. Bullies are cowards, and one coward makes
many; so good-by to the School-house match if bullying gets ahead
here. (Loud applause from the small boys, who look meaningly at
Flashman and other boys at the tables.) Then there's fuddling about in
the public-houses, and drinking bad spirits, and punch, and such
wretched stuff. That won't make good drop-kicks or chargers of you,
take my word for it; and drinking isn't fine or manly, whatever some
of you may think of it.
"One other thing I must have a word about. A lot of you think and say,
for I've heard you, 'there's this new Doctor[12] hasn't been here so
long as some of us, and he's changing all the old customs. Rugby, and
the School-house especially, are going to the dogs. Stand up for the
good old ways, and down with the Doctor!' Now, I'm as fond of old
Rugby customs and ways as any of you, and I've been here longer
than any of you, and I'll give you a word of advice in time, for
I shouldn't like to see any of you getting sacked. 'Down with the
Doctor,' is easier said than done. You'll find him pretty tight on his
perch, I take it, and an awkwardish customer to handle in that line.
Besides, now, what customs has he put down? There was the good old
custom of taking the linch-pins out of the farmers' and bagmen's gigs
at the fairs, and a cowardly blackguard custom it was. We all know
what came of it, and no wonder the Doctor objected to it. But, come
now, any of you, name a custom that he has put down."
[12] #Doctor#: Doctor Arnold. He became head-master of Rugby
in 1828. He was a power for good in every direction. He
reconstructed the school system, and put the boys on their
honor, never in any way questioning their word, so that it
came to be a saying in the school, "that it was a shame to
tell Arnold a lie; he always believes one." Perhaps no teacher
in England was so beloved or had such influence.
"The hounds," calls out a fifth-form boy, clad in a green cutaway with
brass buttons and cord trousers, the leader of the sporting interest,
and reputed a great rider and a keen hand generally.
"Well, we had six or seven mangy harriers and beagles[13] belonging to
the house, I'll allow, and had had them for years, and the Doctor put
them down. But what good ever came of them? Only rows with all the
keepers[14] for ten miles round; and big-side Hare and Hounds[15] is
better fun ten times over. What else?"
[13] #Harriers and beagles#: dogs used for hunting hares.
[14] #Keepers#: game-keepers.
[15] #Hare and Hounds#: next to foot-ball, this is the great
sport at Rugby. Several boys representing the hares, start to
run a certain course, and are shortly after followed by the
whole school as hounds. In some cases thirteen miles have been
run in less than an hour and a half.
No answer.
STANDETH UP FOR "THE DOCTOR."
"Well, I won't go on. Think it over for yourselves; you'll find, I
believe, that he doesn't meddle with any one that's worth keeping. And
mind now, I say again, look out for squalls, if you will go your own
way, and that way isn't the Doctor's, for it'll lead to grief. You all
know that I am not the fellow to back a master through thick and thin.
If I saw him stopping foot-ball, or cricket, or bathing, or
sparring,[16] I'd be as ready as any fellow to stand up about it. But
he doesn't--he encourages them. Didn't you see him put to-day for half
an hour watching us?--(loud cheers for the Doctor)--and he's a strong
true man, and a wise one too, and a public-school man too. (Cheers.)
And so let's stick to him, and talk no more stuff, and drink his
health as the head of the house. (Loud cheers.) And now I have done
blowing up, and very glad I am to have done. But it's a solemn thing
to be thinking of leaving a place which one has lived in and loved for
eight years; and if one can say a word for the good of the old house
at such a time, why, it should be said, whether bitter or sweet. If I
hadn't been proud of the house and you--ay, no one knows how proud--I
shouldn't be blowing you up. And now let's get to singing. But before
I sit down I must give you a toast, to be drunk with three-times-three
and all the honors. It's a toast which I hope every one of us,
wherever he may go hereafter, will never fail to drink when he thinks
of the brave bright days of his boyhood. It's a toast which should
bind us all together, and to those who've gone before, and who'll come
after us here. It is the dear old School-house--the best house of the
best School in England!"
[16] #Sparring#: boxing.
SCHOOL IDOLATRIES.
My dear boys, old and young, you who have belonged, or do belong, to
other schools and other houses, don't begin throwing my poor little
book about the room, and abusing me and it, and vowing you'll read no
more when you get to this point. I allow you've provocation for it.
But, come now--would you, any of you, give a fig for a fellow who
didn't believe in, and stand up for, his own house and his own school?
You know you wouldn't. Then don't object to my cracking up the old
School-house, Rugby. Haven't I a right to do it, when I'm taking all
the trouble of writing this true history for all of your benefits? If
you aren't satisfied, go and write the history of your own houses in
your own times, and say all you know for your own schools and houses,
provided it's true, and I'll read it without abusing you.
The last few words hit the audience in their weakest place; they had
been not altogether enthusiastic at several parts of old Brooke's
speech; but "the best house of the best School of England," was too
much for them all, and carried even the sporting and drinking
interests off their legs into rapturous applause, and (it is to be
hoped) resolutions to lead a new life and remember old Brooke's words;
which, however, they didn't altogether do, as will appear hereafter.
But it required all old Brooke's popularity to carry down parts of his
speech: especially that relating to the Doctor. For there are no such
bigoted holders by established forms and customs, be they never so
foolish or meaningless, as English schoolboys, at least the schoolboys
of our generation. We magnified into heroes every boy who had left,
and looked upon him with awe and reverence, when he revisited the
place a year or so afterwards, on his way to or from Oxford or
Cambridge; and happy was the boy who remembered him, and sure of an
audience as he expounded what he used to do and say, though it were
sad enough stuff to make angels, not to say head-masters, weep.
"THE DOCTOR" AND HIS WORKS.
We looked upon every trumpery little custom and habit which had
obtained in the School as though it had been a law of the Medes and
Persians,[17] and regarded the infringement or variation of it a sort
of sacrilege. And the Doctor, than whom no man or boy had a stronger
liking for old school customs, which were good and sensible, had, as
has already been hinted, come into most decided collision with several
which were neither the one nor the other. And as old Brooke had said,
when he came into collision with boys or customs, there was nothing
for them but to give in or take themselves off; because what he said
had to be done, and no mistake about it. And this was beginning to be
pretty clearly understood; the boys felt that there was a strong man
over them, who would have things his own way; and hadn't yet learned
that he was a wise and loving man also. His personal character and
influence had not had time to make itself felt, except by a very few
of the bigger boys with whom he came more directly in contact; and he
was looked upon with great fear and dislike by the great majority even
of his own house. For he had found School and School-house in a state
of monstrous license and misrule, and was still employed in the
necessary but unpopular work of setting up order with a strong hand.
[17] #Medes and Persians#: ancient nations of the east; noted
for their adherence to the laws of their forefathers.
However, as has been said, old Brooke triumphed, and the boys cheered
him, and then the Doctor. And then more songs came, and the healths of
the other boys about to leave, who each made a speech, one flowery,
another maudlin,[18] a third prosy, and so on, which are not necessary
to be here recorded.
[18] #Maudlin#: silly.
Half-past nine struck in the middle of the performance of "Auld Lang
Syne," a most obstreperous proceeding; during which there was an
immense amount of standing with one foot on the table, knocking mugs
together and shaking hands, without which accompaniments it seems
impossible for the youth of Britain to take part in that famous old
song. The under-porter of the School-house entered during the
performance, bearing five or six long wooden candlesticks, with
lighted dips[19] in them, which he proceeded to stick into their holes
in such part of the great tables as he could get at; and then stood
outside the ring till the end of the song, when he was hailed with
shouts.
[19] #Dips#: cheap tallow candles.
"Bill, you old muff,[20] the half-hour hasn't struck."
[20] #Muff#: usually a soft, useless kind of person; here,
codger.
"Sing us a song, old boy." "Don't you wish you may get the table?"
Bill remonstrated: "Now, gentlemen, there's only ten minutes to
prayers, and we must get the hall straight."
Shouts of "No, no!" and a violent effort to strike up "Billie Taylor"
for the third time. Bill looked appealingly to old Brooke, who got up
and stopped the noise. "Now, then, lend a hand, you youngsters, and
get the tables back, clear away the jugs[21] and glasses. Bill's
right. Open the windows, Warner." The boy addressed, who sat by the
long ropes, proceeded to pull up the great windows, and let in a
clear fresh rush of night air, which made the candles flicker and
gutter and the fires roar. The circle broke up, each collaring his
own jug, glass, and song-book; Bill pounced on the big table, and
began to rattle it away to its place outside the buttery-door. The
lower-passage boys carried off their small tables, aided by their
friends, while above all, standing on the great hall table, a knot of
untiring sons of harmony made night doleful by a prolonged performance
of "God save the King." His Majesty King William IV.[22] then reigned
over us, a monarch deservedly popular amongst the boys addicted to
melody, to whom he was chiefly known from the beginning of that
excellent, if slightly vulgar song in which they much delighted:--
"Come, neighbors all, both great and small,
Perform your duties here,
And loudly sing 'live Billy our King,'
For bating[23] the tax upon beer."
[21] #Jugs#: pitchers.
[22] #William IV.#: 1830 to 1837.
[23] #Bating#: lowering.
LAST LOYAL STRAINS.
Others of the more learned in songs also celebrated his praises in a
sort of ballad, which I take to have been written by some Irish
loyalists. I have forgotten all but the chorus, which ran:--
"God save our good King William, be his name forever blest,
He's the father of all his people, and the guardian of all the rest."
In truth we were loyal subjects in those days, in a rough way. I trust
that our successors make as much of her present majesty, and, having
regard to the greater refinement of the times, have adopted or written
other songs equally hearty, but more civilized, in her honor.
PRAYERS.
Then the quarter to ten struck, and the prayer-bell rang. The sixth
and fifth form boys ranged themselves in their school order along the
wall, on either side of the great fires, the middle fifth and
upper-school boys around the long table in the middle of the hall, and
the lower-school boys round the upper part of the second long table,
which ran down the side of the hall furthest from the fires. Here Tom
found himself at the bottom of all, in a state of mind and body not at
all fit for prayers, as he thought; and so tried hard to make himself
serious, but couldn't for the life of him do anything but repeat in
his head the choruses of some of the songs, and stare at all the boys
opposite, wondering at the brilliancy of their waistcoats, and
speculating what sort of fellows they were. The steps of the
head-porter are heard on the stairs, and a light gleams at the door.
"Hush!" from the fifth-form boys who stand there, and then in strides
the Doctor, cap on head, book in one hand, and gathering up his gown
in the other. He walks up the middle, and takes his post by Warner,
who begins calling over the names. The Doctor takes no notice of
anything, but quietly turns over his book, and finds the place, and
then stands, cap in hand, and finger in book, looking straight before
his nose. He knows better than any one when to look, and when to see
nothing; to-night is singing-night, and there's been lots of noise and
no harm done. So the Doctor sees nothing, but fascinates Tom in a
horrible manner, as he stands there, and reads out the Psalm in that
deep, ringing, searching voice of his. Prayers are over, and Tom still
stares open-mouthed after the Doctor's retiring figure, when he feels
a pull at his sleeve, and turning round, sees East.
TOSSING.
"I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket?"
"No," said Tom; "why?"
"'Cause there'll be tossing to-night, most likely, before the sixth
come up to bed. So if you funk,[24] you just come along and hide, or
else they'll catch you and toss you."
[24] #Funk#: feel afraid.
"Were you ever tossed? Does it hurt," inquired Tom.
"Oh, yes, bless you, a dozen times," said East, as he hobbled along by
Tom's side up-stairs. "It doesn't hurt unless you fall on the floor.
But most fellows don't like it."
They stopped at the fire-place in the top passage, where were a crowd
of small boys whispering together, and evidently unwilling to go up
into the bedrooms. In a minute, however, a study door opened, and a
sixth-form boy came out, and off they all scuttled up the stairs, and
then noiselessly dispersed to their different rooms. Tom's heart beat
rather quick as he and East reached their room, but he had made up his
mind.
"I sha'n't hide, East," said he.
"Very well, old fellow!" replied East, evidently pleased; "no more
shall I--they'll be here for us directly."
The room was a great big one, with a dozen beds in it, but not a boy
that Tom could see, except East and himself. East pulled off his coat
and waistcoat, and then sat on the bottom of the bed, whistling, and
pulling off his boots. Tom followed his example.
A noise and steps are heard in the passage, the door opens, and in
rush four or five great fifth-form boys, headed by Flashman in his
glory.
Tom and East slept in the further corner of the room, and were not
seen at first.
"Gone to ground, eh?" roared Flashman; "push 'em out then, boys! look
under the beds;" and he pulled up the little white curtain of the one
nearest him. "Who-o-op," he roared, pulling away at the leg of a small
boy, who held on tight to the leg of the bed, and sung out lustily for
mercy.
"Here, lend a hand, one of you, and help me pull out this young
howling brute. Hold your tongue, sir, or I'll kill you!"
"Oh, please, Flashman, please, Walker, don't toss me! I'll fag for
you, I'll do anything, only don't toss me."
"You be hanged," said Flashman, lugging the wretched boy along,
"'twon't hurt you,----you! Come along! boys, here he is."
"I say Flashey," sung out another one of the big boys, "drop that; you
heard what old Pater Brooke said to-night. I'll be hanged if we'll
toss any one against his will--no more bullying. Let him go, I say."
Flashman, with an oath and a kick, released his prey, who rushed
headlong under his bed again, for fear they should change their minds,
and crept along underneath the other beds, till he got under that of
the sixth-form boy, which he knew they daren't disturb.
EAST AND TOM DEVOTE THEMSELVES.
"There's plenty of youngsters don't care about it," said Walker.
"Here, here's Scud East--you'll be tossed, won't you, young un?" Scud
was East's nickname, or "black," as we called it, gained by his
fleetness of foot.
"Yes," said East, "if you like, only mind my foot."
"And here's another who didn't hide. Hullo! new boy; what's your name,
sir?"
"Brown."
"Well, Whitey Brown, you don't mind being tossed?"
"No," said Tom, setting his teeth.
"Come along, then, boys," sung out Walker, and away they all went,
carrying along Tom and East, to the intense relief of four or five
other small boys, who crept out from under the beds and behind them.
"What a trump Scud is!" said one. "They won't come back here now."
"And that new boy, too; he must be a good plucky one."
"Ah, wait until he has been tossed on to the floor; see how he'll like
it then!"
Meantime the procession went down the passage to No. 7, the largest
room, and the scene of the tossing, in the middle of which was a great
open space. Here they joined other parties of the bigger boys, each
with a captive or two, some willing to be tossed, some sullen, and
some frightened to death. At Walker's suggestion, all who were afraid
were let off, in honor of Pater Brooke's speech.
Then a dozen big boys seized hold of a blanket, dragged from one of
the beds. "In with Scud, quick! there's no time to lose." East was
chucked into the blanket. "Once, twice, thrice, and away!" Up he went
like a shuttle-cock, but not quite up to the ceiling.
"Now, boys, with a will!" cried Walker. "Once, twice, thrice, and
away!" This time he went clear up, and kept himself from touching the
ceiling with his hands; and so again a third time, when he was turned
out, and up went another boy. And then came Tom's turn. He lay quite
still, by East's advice, and didn't dislike the "once, twice, thrice,"
but the "away" wasn't so pleasant. They were in good wind now, and
sent him slap up to the ceiling the first time, against which his
knees came rather sharply. But the moment's pause before descending
was the rub, the feeling of utter helplessness, and of leaving his
whole inside behind him sticking to the ceiling. Tom was very near
shouting to be set down, when he found himself back in the blanket,
but thought of East, and didn't; and so took his three tosses without
a kick or a cry, and was called a young trump for his pains.
A BULLY'S REFINEMENTS.
He and East, having earned it, stood now looking on. No catastrophe
happened, as all the captives were cool hands, and didn't struggle.
This didn't suit Flashman. What your real bully likes in tossing, is
when the boys kick and struggle, or hold on to one side of the
blanket, and so get pitched bodily on to the floor; it's no fun to him
when no one is hurt or frightened.
"Let's toss two of them together, Walker," suggested he. "What a
cursed bully you are, Flashey!" rejoined the other. "Up with another
one."
And so after all, the two boys were not tossed together. The peculiar
hardship of which tossing, is that it's too much for human nature to
lie still then and share troubles; and so the wretched pair of small
boys struggle in the air which shall fall atop in the descent, to the
no small risk of both falling out of the blanket, and the huge delight
of brutes like Flashman.
But now there's a cry that the praepostor of the room is coming; so the
tossing stops, and all scatter to their different rooms, and Tom is
left to turn in with the first day's experience of a public school to
meditate upon.