Pledge was a type of fellow unfortunately not uncommon in some public
schools, whom it is not easy to describe by any other word than
dangerous. To look at him, to speak to him, to hear him, the ordinary
observer would notice very little to single him out from fifty other
boys of the same age and condition. He was clever, good-humoured, and
obliging, he was a fine cricketer and lawn tennis player, he was rarely
overtaken in any breach of school rules and he was decidedly lenient in
the use of his monitorial authority.
For all that, fellows steered clear of him, or, when they came across
him, felt uncomfortable till they could get out of his way. There were
ugly stories about the harm he had done to more than one promising
simple-minded young Templetonian in days past who had had the ill-luck
to come under his influence. And although, as usual, such stories were
exaggerated, it was pretty well-known why this plausible small boys'
friend was called "spider" by his enemies, who envied no one who fell
into his web.
Heathcote accordingly came in for very little congratulation that
evening after Elections when he was formally sworn in to the Den as the
"spider's" fag and was thoroughly frightened by the stories he heard and
the still more alarming mysterious hints that were dropped for his
benefit.
However, like a philosopher as he was, he determined to enjoy himself
while he could, and therefore entered with spirit into the lively
proceedings of that evening's Den.
That important institution was, our heroes discovered, by no means an
assembly of one idea. Although its leading motive might be said to be
disorder, it existed for other purposes as well; as was clearly set
forth in the articles of admission administered to each new boy on
joining its honourable company.
Terrible and sweeping were the "affirmations" each Denite was required
to make on the top of a crib to Caesar's Commentaries.
(1) "I promise to stick by every chap of the Den whenever I am called
upon."
(2) "I promise never to sneak, or tell tales of any chap of the Den,
under any circumstances."
(3) "I promise never to fag for anybody more than I can possibly help."
(4) "I promise to do all I can to make myself jolly to the Den."
(5) "If I break any of these rules, I promise to let myself be kicked
all round by the chaps of the Den, as long as I am able to stand it."
Our heroes and young Aspinall were called upon solemnly to subscribe to
each of these weighty promises, under threat of the most awful vengeance
if they refused. And, as it seemed to each he might safely venture on
the promise required, they went dutifully through the ceremony, and had
the high privilege of exercising their new rights, ten minutes later, in
kicking a couple of recalcitrant Denites, one of whom, as it happened,
was the high-minded Mr Gosse, who had been detected in the act of
telling tales to a monitor of one of his companions.
Mr Gosse availed himself on this occasion of the last clause of Rule 5,
and lay down on the ground, after the first kick. He was, however,
persuaded to resume his feet, and finally had the inward satisfaction of
feeling that he had obeyed the requirements of the rule to the utmost.
This little matter of business being disposed of, and the usual
patriotic speeches having been delivered, the Den, which was nothing if
it was not original, proceeded to its elections--a somewhat tedious
ceremony, which it was very difficult for a stranger to understand.
A vicious-looking youth, called Culver, was elected president of the
club, Pauncefote (the rejected post fag) and Smith were appointed
treasurers, and, greatly to the surprise of the new boys, but of no one
else, Mr Gosse, still barely recovered from his loyalty to Rule 5, was
elected secretary, and made a very amiable and highly-applauded speech,
in returning thanks for the compliment paid to him.
After this, the Den resolved itself into a social gathering, and became
rather tedious.
Dick was interrupted in a yawn by Messrs. Pauncefote and Smith, who
politely waited upon him for his subscription, a request which Culver,
as president, and Gosse, as secretary, were also in attendance to see
complied with.
"How much?" said Dick.
"Threepence," said Smith, but was instantly jostled by a violent nudge
from Gosse.
"How much tin have you got?" demanded that official.
Dick, who had long ere this lost any reverence he might be expected to
entertain towards the secretary of the Den, replied:
"Threepence."
"Howling cram!" observed Gosse. "I know you've more than that."
"Ah! you've been putting your hands in my pockets then?"
Whereat there was a mighty cheer, and the Den was called to order to
hear the joke, which it did with genuine merriment; and then and there
passed a resolution unanimously, requesting Mr Gosse once more to
comply with Rule 5. That young gentleman got out of it this time by
making a public apology, and in no way abashed by the incident,
proceeded to attend the treasurers during the remainder of their
business circuit. Culver stayed behind, and said to Dick:--
"Awfully well you shut him up. I say, by the way, I suppose you don't
want a knife, do you?"
"Yes, I do. Have you got one?"
"Rather! but I'd sooner have a dog's-head pin instead. I suppose you've
not got one."
Considering that Dick's dog's-head pin, the gift of his particular aunt,
was all this time within a few inches of Culver's nose, the inquiry was
decidedly artless.
"Yes, I have," said Dick, pointing to his scarf; "a jolly one, too."
"How'd you like to swop?"
"Let's see the knife," replied the business-like Dick.
Culver produced the knife. Rather a sorry weapon, as regarded its chief
blades. But it had a saw, and a gouge to remove stones from one's boot.
"It's a jolly fine knife," said Culver, seeing that it was already
making an impression; "and I'd be sorry to part with it."
Dick mused on the weapon, and lightly rubbed his chin against his aunt's
dog's-head.
"All right," said he, putting the knife into his pocket, and slowly
pulling out the pin. His conscience half smote him, as he saw his
treasure being transferred to Culver's scarf. But he was too proud to
try to revoke his bargain, and consoled himself as best he could by
fondling the knife in his pocket, and thinking how useful the gouge
would be.
Before the evening was over he made the discovery that "swopping" was a
favourite pastime of the leisure hours of the Den. He was startled at
one period of the evening to notice Heathcote's steel chain adorning the
waistcoat of Gosse, and an hour later to find it in the possession of
Raggles, who came over to Dick with it, and asked casually.
"I suppose you wouldn't care to swop a knife for this?"
Dick was proof against the temptation. He didn't want a steel chain.
But he wished Culver would be moved to transfer the dog's-head to some
one who wanted a knife. That, however, Culver did not do. He seemed,
as indeed his experience in business justified him in being, a good
judge of a good bargain; and stuck very faithfully to his new pin, in
spite of a considerable number of offers.
After joining in a few songs the airs of which were somewhat vague, the
Den adjourned. As its proceedings had consisted in an uninterrupted
uproar for two consecutive hours, the new boys, none of whom were
seasoned to it, were all more or less tired.
Poor young Aspinall, in particular, was very tired. He had had a rough
time of it; and had tremblingly complied with every demand any one chose
to make of him. He had parted with all his available "swoppable" goods;
he had stood on a form and sung little hymns to a derisive audience; he
had answered questions as to his mother, his sister, and other members
of his family; he had endured buffeting and kicks, till he was fairly
worn out, and till it ceased to be amusing to torment him.
When finally he was released, and found himself on his way to the
dormitory, under Dick's sheltering wing, he broke down.
"I wish I was dead," he said, miserably, "it's awful here."
"Don't talk like that," said Dick, a trifle impatiently, for with all
his good heart he got tired of the boy's perpetual tears. "You'll get
used to it soon. Haven't you got any pluck in you?"
"It's all very well for you," said the boy; "fellows seem to let you
alone, and not care to touch you; but they see I can't stand up for
myself."
"More shame if they do," said Dick bluntly; "I don't believe you when
you say so. I call it cant. How do you know? You can't tell till you
try."
"Oh, don't be angry, please," said the boy. "I know you are right; I
really will try, if you stick up for me."
"Never mind me," said Dick, getting into bed.
Aspinall did not pursue the topic; but as he lay awake that night,
feeling his heart jump at every footstep and word in the room, he made
the most desperate and heroic resolves to become a perfect griffin to
all Templeton. For all that, he also nearly made up his mind to steal
out of bed and peep from the window, to see if there were any
possibility of escaping home, while Templeton slept, to Devonshire.
The new boys all obeyed the summons of the half-past-six bell next
morning with nervous alacrity. For it was something more than a mere
call to shake off "dull sloth"--it was a reminder that they were fags,
and that their masters lay in bed depending on them to rouse them in
time for morning chapel.
The old fags smiled to see the feverish haste with which the new ones
flung themselves into their garments, and started each on his rousing
mission. These veterans had had their day of the same sort of thing.
Now they knew better, and as long as they could continue occasionally to
be found by their seniors with a duster in their hands, or toasting a
piece of bread before the fire, the "new brooms" could be left to do all
the other work, for which the old ones reaped the credit.
Heathcote, with very dismal forebodings, knocked at Pledge's door.
"It's time to get up, please," said he.
"All right. Fetch me some hot water, will you? and brush my lace
boots."
Heathcote, as he started off to fetch the water, thought that the voice
of his new master was certainly not as repulsive as he had been led by
his numerous sympathisers to expect.
"However," said he to himself, "you can't always judge of a fellow by
his voice."
Which was very true, as he found immediately afterwards, when, as he was
kneeling down at the tap, trying to coax the last few drops of hot water
into his can, a voice behind him said--
"Look sharp, you fellow, don't drink it all up," and he looked up and
saw Dick, and Dick's can, bound on the same errand as his own.
"Hallo," he said, "you won't find much left."
"You'll have to give me some of yours then," said Dick.
"I can't, I've only got half a can-full as it is."
"But Cresswell sent me, I tell you."
"And Pledge sent me."
"Pooh! He doesn't matter. He's a beast. Come, go halves, old man."
Of course Heathcote went halves, and enquired as he did so whether Dick
had got any boots to clean.
"I've put the young 'un on to that," said Dick, rather grandly. "I left
him crying on them just now."
"How many fags has Cresswell got?"
"Us two," said Dick, "at least I've not seen any more."
"I believe I'm the only one Pledge has got."
"Poor beggar! Thanks, Georgie. Get next to me at chapel."
And the two friends went each his own way.
Pledge seemed, on the whole, agreeably surprised to get as much as a
quarter of a can of hot water; and Heathcote, as he polished up the lace
boots, felt he had begun well. His new master said little or nothing to
him, as he put the study tidy, arranged the books, and got out the cup
and saucer and coffee-pot ready for the senior's breakfast.
"Is there anything else?" he asked as the chapel bell began to toll.
"No, that's all just now. You can come and clear up after breakfast,
and if you've got nothing to do after morning school, you can come and
take a bat down at the nets, while I bowl."
At the very least Heathcote had expected to be horrified, when this
terrible ogre did speak, by a broadside of bad language; and he felt
quite bewildered as he recalled the brief conversation and detected in
it not a single word which could offend anybody. On the contrary,
everything had been most proper and considerate, and the last invitation
coming from a first eleven man to his new fag was quite gratuitously
friendly.
"I don't think he's so bad," he remarked to Dick, as they went from
chapel to breakfast.
"All I know is," said Dick, "Cresswell was asking me if it was my chum
who had been drawn by Pledge, and when I told him, he told me I might
say to you, from him, that you had better be careful not to get too
chummy with the 'spider;' and the less you hang about his study the
better. I don't think Cresswell would say a thing like that unless he
meant it."
"I dare say not," said Heathcote. "But I wish to goodness some one
would say what it all means. I can't make it out."
After breakfast he repaired to his lord's study, and cleared the table.
"Well," said Pledge. "What about cricket?"
"Thanks, awfully," said the fag, "I'd like it."
"All serene. Come here as soon as school is up." Which Heathcote did,
and was girt hand and foot with pads, and led by his senior down into
the fields, where for an hour he stood gallantly at the wickets, swiping
heroically at every ball, and re-erecting his stumps about once an over,
as often as they were overturned by the desolating fire of the crack
bowler of Templeton.
A few stragglers came up and watched the practice; but Heathcote had the
natural modesty to know that their curiosity did not extend to his
batting, gallant as it was. Indeed, they almost ignored the existence
of a bat anywhere, and even failed to be amused by the gradual
demoralisation of the fag who wielded it, under the sense of the eyes
that were upon him.
"Pledge is on his form this term," said Cresswell, one of the onlookers,
to his friend Cartwright.
"Tremendously," said Cartwright. "Grandcourt won't stand up to it, if
it's like that on match day. Who's the kid at the wicket?"
"His new fag--poor little beggar!"
"It's a pity. Poor Forbes was just like him a couple of years ago."
"Never mind," said Cresswell, "Mansfield has got his eyes open, and I
fancy he'll be down in that quarter when he's captain. Old Ponty won't
do it. He's worse than ever. Won't even come to practice, till he's
finished 'Pickwick,' he says."
And the two friends strolled off rather despondently.
In due time Heathcote was allowed to divest himself of his armour, and
accompany his senior indoors.
"You didn't make a bad stand, youngster," said Pledge, as they walked
across the field, "especially at the end. Have you done much cricket?"
"Not much," said Heathcote, blushing at the compliment.
"You should stick to it. You'll get plenty of chance this term."
"And yet," said Heathcote to himself, "this is the fellow everybody
tells me is a beast to be fought shy of, and not trusted for a minute."
He was almost tempted to interrogate Pledge point-blank on what it all
meant; but his shyness prevented him.
Nothing occurred during the day to solve the mystery. There was
comparatively little to be done in the way of fagging; and what little
there was, was amply compensated for by the help Pledge gave him in his
Latin composition in the evening.
Later on, while Pledge was away somewhere, Heathcote was putting the
books away on to the shelves, and generally tidying up the study, when
the door partly opened, and a small round missive was tossed on to the
floor of the room.
Heathcote regarded the intruder in a startled way, as if it had been
some infernal machine; but presently took courage to advance and take
the missive in his hand. It was a small round cardboard box, about the
size of a tennis ball, which, much to his surprise, bore his own name,
printed in pen and ink, on the outside. He opened it nervously, and
found a note inside, also addressed to himself, which ran thus:--
"Heathcote.--This is from a friend. You are in peril. Don't believe
anything Pledge tells you. Suspect everything he does. He will try
to make a blackguard of you. You had much better break with him,
refuse to fag for him and take the consequences, than become his
friend. Be warned in time.--Junius."
This extraordinary epistle, all printed in an unrecognisable hand, set
Heathcote's heart beating and his colour coming and going in a manner
quite new to him. Who was this "Junius," and what was this conspiracy
to terrify him? "Suspect everything he does." A pretty piece of
advice, certainly, to anybody. For instance, what villainy could be
concealed in his bowling for an hour at the wickets, or rescuing young
Aspinall from his tormentors? "He will try to make a blackguard of
you." Supposing Junius was right, would it not be warning enough to
fight shy of him when he began to try? Heathcote had reached this stage
in his meditations when he heard Pledge approaching. He hurriedly
crushed the letter away into his pocket, and returned to the bookcase.
"Hullo, young fellow," said Pledge, entering. "Putting things straight?
Thanks. What about your Latin verses? Not done, as usual, I suppose.
Let's have a look. I'll do them for you, and you can fetch them in the
morning. Good-night."
Heathcote retired, utterly puzzled. He could believe a good deal that
he was told, but it took hard persuasion to make him believe that a
senior who could do his Latin verses for him could be his worst enemy.