On a raw, damp morning in early spring, a rather forlorn group of three
youngsters might have been seen on the doorstep of Mountjoy Preparatory
School, casting nervous glances up and down the drive, and looking
anything but a picture of the life and spirits they really represented.
That they were bound on an important journey was very evident. They
were muffled up in ulsters, and wore gloves and top hats--a vanity no
Mountjoy boy ever succumbed to, except under dire necessity. Yet it was
clear they were not homeward bound, for no trunks encumbered the lobby,
and no suggestion of _Dulce Domum_ betrayed itself in their dismal
features. Nor had they been expelled, for though their looks might
favour the supposition, they talked about the hour they should get back
that evening, and wondered if Mrs Ashford would have supper ready for
them in her own parlour. And it was equally plain that, whatever their
destination might be, they were not starting on a truant's expedition,
for the said Mrs Ashford presently came out and handed them each a
small parcel of sandwiches, and enjoined on them most particularly to
keep well buttoned up, and not let their feet get wet.
"It will be a cold drive for you, boys," said she; "I've told Tom to put
up at Markridge, so you will have a mile walk to warm you up before you
get to Templeton."
A waggonette appeared at the end of the drive, and began to approach
them.
"Ah, there's the trap; I'll tell Mr Ashford--"
Mr Ashford appeared just as the vehicle reached the door.
"Well, boys, ready for the road? Good bye, and good luck. Don't forget
whose son Edward the Fifth was, Coote. Keep your heads and you'll get
on all right. I trust you not to get into mischief on the way. All
right, Tom."
During this short harangue the three boys hoisted themselves, one by
one, into the waggonette, and bade a subdued farewell to their
preceptor, who stood on the doorstep, waving to them cheerily, until
they turned a corner and found themselves actually on the road to
Templeton.
Not to keep the reader further in suspense as to the purpose of this
important expedition, our three young gentlemen, having severally
attained the responsible age of fourteen summers, and having severally
absorbed into their systems as much of the scholastic pabulum of
Mountjoy House as that preparatory institution was in the habit of
dispensing to boys destined for a higher sphere, were this morning on
their way, in awe and trembling, to the examination hall of Templeton
school, there to submit themselves to an ordeal which would decide
whether or not they were worthy to emerge from their probationary state
and take their rank among the public schoolboys of the land.
Such being the case, it is little wonder they looked fidgety as they
caught their last glimpse of Mr Ashford, and realised that before they
came in sight of Mountjoy again a crisis in the lives of each of them
would have come and gone.
"Whose son was he?" said Coote, appealingly, in about five minutes.
His voice sounded quite startling, after the long, solemn silence which
had gone before.
His two companions stared at him, afterwards at one another; then one of
them said--
"I forget."
"Whose son was he?" said Coote, turning with an air of desperation to
the other.
"Richard the Third's," said the latter.
Coote mused, and inwardly repeated a string of names.
"Doesn't sound right," said he. "Are you sure, Dick?"
"Who else could it be?" said the young gentleman addressed as Dick,
whose real name was Richardson.
"Hanged if I know," said the unhappy Coote, proceeding to write an R and
a 3 on his thumb-nail with a pencil. "It doesn't look right I believe
because your own name's Richardson, you think everybody else is
Richard's son too."
And the perpetrator of this very mild joke bent his head over his
learned thumb-nail, and frowned.
It was a point of honour at Mountjoy always to punish a joke summarily,
whether good, bad, or indifferent. For a short time, consequently, the
paternity of Edward the Fifth was lost sight of, as was also Coote
himself, in the performance of the duty which devolved on Richardson and
his companion.
This matter of business being at last satisfactorily settled, and Tom,
the driver, who had considerately pulled up by the road-side during the
"negotiations," being ordered to "forge ahead," the party returned to
its former attitude of gloomy anticipation.
"It's a precious rum thing," said Richardson, "neither you nor Heathcote
can remember a simple question like that. I'd almost forgot it,
myself."
"I know I shan't remember anything when the time comes," said Heathcote.
"I said my Latin Syntax over to Ashford, without a mistake, yesterday,
and I've forgotten every word of it now."
"What I funk is the _viva voce_ Latin prose," said Coote. "I say, Dick,
what's the gender of 'Amnis, a river?'"
Dick looked knowing, and laughed.
"None of your jokes," said he, "you don't catch me that way--'Amnis,' a
city, is neuter."
Coote's face lengthened, as he made a further note on his other thumb-
nail.
"I could have sworn it was a river," said he. "I say, whatever shall I
do? I don't know how I shall get through it."
"Through what--the river?" said Heathcote. "Bless you, you'll get
through swimmingly."
There was a moment's pause. Richardson looked at Coote; Coote looked at
Richardson, and between them they thought they saw a joke.
Tom pulled up by the road-side once more, while Heathcote arranged with
his creditors on the floor of the waggonette. When, at length, the
order to proceed was given, that trusty Jehu ventured on a mild
expostulation. "Look'ee here, young gem'an," said he, touching his hat.
"You've got to get to Templeton by ten o'clock, and it's past nine now.
I guess you'd better save up them larks for when you're coming home."
"None of your cheek, Tom," said Richardson, "or we'll have you down
here, and pay you out, my boy. Put it on, can't you? Why don't you
whip the beast up?"
The prospect of coming down to be paid out by his vivacious passengers
was sufficiently alarming to Tom to induce him to take their admonition
seriously to heart; and for the rest of the journey, although several
times business transactions were taking place on the floor of the
vehicle, the plodding horse held on its course, and Markridge duly hove
in sight.
With the approaching end of the journey, the boys once more became
serious and uncomfortable.
"I say," said Coote, in a whisper, as if Dr Winter, at Templeton, a
mile away, were within hearing, "do tell me whose son he was. I'm
certain he wasn't Richard the Third's. Don't be a cad, Dick; you might
tell a fellow. I'd tell you, if I knew."
"I've told you one father," said Dick, sternly, "and he didn't have
more. If you want another, stick down Edward the Sixth."
Coote's face brightened, as he produced his pencil and cleaned his
largest unoccupied nail.
"That sounds more--, Oh, but, I say, how can Edward the Sixth be Edward
the Fifth's father? Besides, he had no family and-- Oh, what a howling
howler I shall come!"
His friends regarded him sympathetically, and assisted him to dismount.
"We shall have to step out," said Richardson; "it's five-and-twenty to
ten, and it's a good mile. Look here, Tom; you've got to come and fetch
us at the school, do you hear? We're not going to fag back here after
the exam."
"My orders was to wait here till you pick me up, young gentlemen," said
Tom, grinning. "Mind what you're up to in them 'saminations."
With which parting sally our heroes found themselves alone, with their
faces towards Templeton.
To any wayfarers less overwhelmed with care, that mile walk from
Markridge to Templeton over the breezy downs, with the fresh sea air
meeting you, with the musical hum of the waves on the beach below, and
the glimmer of the spring sun on the ocean far ahead, would have been
bracing and inspiriting. As it was, it was not without its attractions
even for the three boys; for did they not stand on the precincts of that
enchanted ground occupied and glorified by the heroes of Templeton? Was
not this very road along which they walked a highway along which
Templeton walked, or peradventure raced, or it may be bicycled? Were
not these downs the hunting-ground over which the Templeton Harriers
coursed in chase of the Templeton hares? Was not that square tower
ahead the very citadel of their fortress? and that distant bell that
tolled, was it not a voice which spoke to Templeton in tones of familiar
fellowship every hour?
They trembled as they heard that bell and came nearer and nearer to the
grand square tower. They eyed furtively everyone who passed them on the
road, and imagined every man a master and every boy a Templetonian.
A shop with "mortar-boards" displayed in its window seemed like a temple
crowded with shrines; and a confectioner's shop, in which two young
gentlemen in gowns sat and refreshed themselves, was like a distant
glimpse of Olympus where the gods banqueted.
A boy with a towel over his shoulder lounged past them, and surveyed
them listlessly as he went by.
How they cowered and trembled beneath that scrutiny! How they dreaded
lest their jackets might be too long, or that the studs in their shirts
might not be visible! How they hated themselves for blushing, and
wished to goodness they knew what to do with their hands!
How their legs shook beneath them as they came under the shadow of the
great tower and looked nervously for the porter's lodge! They would
have liked to look as if they knew the place; it seemed so foolish to
have to ask any one where the porter lived.
"Just go and see if it's up that passage," said Richardson to Coote,
pointing out a narrow opening on one side of the tower.
Coote looked at the place doubtfully.
"Hadn't we better all try?" said he.
"What's the good? Beckon if it's right, and we'll come."
The unfortunate Coote departed on his quest much as a man who walks into
a cave where a bear possibly resides.
His companions meanwhile occupied themselves with examining the gateway
and trying to appear as if architectural curiosity and nothing else had
been the object of their passing visit to Templeton.
In a few minutes Coote reappeared with a long face.
"Well? is it right?"
"No; it's a dust-bin."
The great clock above them began to boom out ten.
"We must find out somehow," said Richardson. "We'd better ask at this
door."
And, to the alarm of his companions, he boldly tapped on a door under
the gate.
A man in uniform opened it.
"Well, young gentlemen, what's your pleasure?"
"Please can you tell us where the porter's lodge is?" said Richardson,
in his most persuasive tone.
"I can. I'm the porter, and this is the lodge. What do you want?"
"Please we're Mr Ashford's boys, come for the examination. Here's a
note from Mr Ashford for Dr Winter."
The porter took the note, and bade the panic-stricken trio follow him
across the quadrangle.
What a walk that was! Across that noble square, with its two great elm-
trees laden with noisy rooks; with its wide-fenced lawn and sun-dial;
with its cloisters and red brick houses; with its sculptures and Latin
mottoes.
And even all these were as nothing to the few boys who loitered about in
its enclosure--some pacing arm-in-arm, some hurrying with books under
their arms, some diverting themselves more or less noisily, some
shouting or whistling or singing--all at home in the place; and all
unlike the three trembling victims who trotted in the wake of the porter
towards the dreadful hall of examination.
At the door, Richardson felt a frantic clutch on his arm.
"Oh! I say, Dick," gasped Coote, holding out a shaking ringer, with a
legend on its nail, "whatever is this the date for--1476? I put it
down, and-- Oh! I say, can't you remember?"
But Richardson, though he scorned to show it, was too agitated even to
suggest an event to fit the disconsolate date, and poor Coote had to
totter up the stairs, hopelessly convinced that he had nothing at his
fingers' ends after all.
They found themselves walking up a long, high-ceilinged room, with desks
all round and a few very appalling oil portraits ranged along the walls,
to a table where sat a small, handsome gentleman in cap and gown.
He took Mr Ashford's letter, and the boys knew they stood in the
presence of Dr Winter.
"Richardson, Heathcote, Coote," said the Doctor. "Answer to your
names--which is Richardson?"
"I am, please, sir."
"Heathcote?"
"I am, sir, please."
"Coote?"
"I am, if you please, sir."
"Richardson, go to desk 6; Heathcote, desk 13; Coote, desk 25."
Coote groaned inwardly. It was all up with him now, and he might just
as well throw up the sponge before he began. With a friend within call
he might yet have struggled through. But what hope was there when the
nearer of them was twelve desks away?
For two hours a solemn silence reigned in that examination hall, broken
only by the scratching of pens and the secret sighs of one and another
of the victims. The pictures on the walls, as they looked down, caught
the eye of many a wistful upturned face, and marked the devouring of
many a penholder, and the tearing of many a hair.
In vain Coote searched his nails from thumb to little finger. No
question fitted to his painfully collected answers. Edward the Fifth
was ignored, the sex of "Amnis" was not even hinted at, and "1476" never
once came to his rescue. And yet, he reminded himself over and over
again, he and Heathcote had said their Latin syntax to Mr Ashford only
the day before without a mistake.
"Cease writing," said the Doctor, as the clock struck two, "and the boys
at desks 1 to 10 come up here."
This was the signal for the cruellest of all that day's horrors. If the
written examination had slain its thousands, the _viva voce_ slew its
tens of thousands. Even Richardson stumbled; and Heathcote, when his
turn came, gave himself up for lost. The Doctor's impassive face
betrayed no emotion, and gave no token, either for joy, or hope, or
despair. He merely said "That will do" after each victim had performed;
and even when Coote, after a mighty effort, rendered "O tempora! O
mores!" as "Oh, the tempers of the Moors," he quietly said, "Thank you;
now the next boy."
At last it was all over, and they found themselves standing once more in
the great quadrangle, not very sure what had happened to them, but
feeling as if they had just undergone a surgical operation not unlike
that of flaying alive.
However, once outside the terrible portal of Templeton, their hearts
gradually thawed within them. The confectioner's shop, now crowded with
"gods," held them in awe for a season, and as long as the road was
specked with mortar-boards they held their peace, and meditated on their
shirt-studs. But when Templeton lay behind them, and they stepped once
more on to the breezy heath, they shook off the nightmare that weighed
on their spirits and were themselves again.
"Precious glad it's over," said Richardson. "Beast, that arithmetic
paper was."
"I liked it better than the English," said Coote. "I say, is 'for' a
preposition or an adverb? I couldn't remember."
"Oh, look here! shut up riddles now," said Richardson, "we've had enough
of them. Let's talk about our three and not your 'for,' you Coote you."
Whereupon Richardson started to run, a proceeding which at once
convinced his companions that his last observation had been intended as
a joke. As in duty bound they gave chase, but the fleet-footed Dick was
too many for them; and when at last they came up with him he was
strongly intrenched on the box-seat of the empty waggonette at
Markridge, with Tom's whip in his hand, beyond all attack.
"I say," said he, after his pursuers had taken breath and granted an
amnesty, "it would be great fun to drive home by ourselves. Tom's not
here. I asked them. He's gone to see his aunt, or somebody, and left
word he'd be back at three o'clock. Like his cheek. I vote we don't
wait for him."
"All serene," said the others, "but we shall want the horse, shan't we?"
"Perhaps we shall," said Dick, with a grin, "unless you'd like to pull
the trap. The horse is in the stable, and we can tip the fellow to put
him in for us."
The "fellow" was quite amenable to this sort of persuasion, and
grinningly complied with the whim of the young gentlemen; secretly
enjoying the prospect of Tom's dismay.
"'Taint no concern of mine," said he, philosophically. "If you tells me
to do it, I does it."
"And if we tells you to open your mouth and shut your eyes, and you'll
find sixpence in your hand,--you'll find it there," said Dick.
"Of course you knows how to drive," said the stableman.
"Rather! Do you think we're babies? Here, shy us the reins. Come
along, you fellows, there's room for all three on the box. Now then,
Joe, give her her head. Come up, you beast! Swish! See if we don't
make her step out. Let her go!"
With some misgivings, Joe obeyed, and next moment the waggonette swayed
majestically out of the yard very much like a small steam-tug going out
of harbour in half a cap of wind.
"Rum, the way she pitches," said Dick presently; "she didn't do it when
we came."
"Looks to me as if the horse wasn't quite sober," suggested Coote.
"Perhaps, if you pulled both reins at the same time, instead of one at a
time," put in Heathcote, "she wouldn't wobble so much."
"You duffer; she'd stop dead, if I did that."
"Suppose you don't pull either," said Heathcote.
Richardson pooh-poohed the notion, but acted on it all the same, with
highly satisfactorily results. The trap glided along smoothly, and all
anxiety as to the management of the mare appeared to be at an end.
"I left word for Tom," said Richardson, "if he stepped out, he'd catch
us up. Ha, ha! Won't he be wild?"
"Wonder if he'll get us in a row with Ashford?" said Heathcote.
"Not he. What's the harm? Just a little horse-play, that's all."
Heathcote and Coote became grave.
"Look here," said the former, "we let you off last time, but you'll
catch it now. Collar him that side, Coote, and have him over."
"Don't be an idiot, Heathcote," cried the Jehu, as he found himself
suddenly seized on either hand. "Let go, while I'm driving. Do you
hear, Coote; let go, or there'll be a smash!"
But as "letting go" was an accomplishment not taught at Mountjoy House,
Richardson had to adopt stronger measures than mere persuasion in order
to clear himself of his embarrassments.
Dropping the reins and flinging his arms vehemently back, he managed to
dislodge his assailants, though not without dislodging himself at the
same time, and a long and somewhat painful creditors' meeting down in
the waggonette was the consequence.
The mare, whose patience had been gradually evaporating during this
strange journey, conscious of the riot behind her, and feeling the reins
dropping loosely over her tail, took the whole matter very much to
heart, and showed her disapproval of the whole proceedings by taking to
her heels and bolting straight away.
The business meeting inside stood forthwith adjourned. With scared
faces, the boys struggled to their feet, and, holding on to the rail of
the box-seat, peered over to ascertain the cause of this alarming
diversion.
"It's a bolt!" said Richardson, the only one of the three who retained
wits enough to think or speak. "Hang on, you fellows; I'll try and get
the reins. Help me up!"
As well as the swaying of the vehicle would allow it, they helped him
hoist himself up on to the box. But for a long time all his efforts to
catch the reins were in vain, and once or twice it seemed as if nothing
could save him from being pitched off his perch on to the road. Luckily
the mare kept a straight course, and at length, by a tremendous stretch,
well supported from the rear by his faithful comrades, the boy succeeded
in reaching the reins and pulling them up over the mare's tail.
"Hang on now!" said he; "we're all right if I can only guide her."