For two whole days Heathcote let "Junius's" letter burn holes in his
pocket, not knowing what to think of it, or what to do with it. For him
to take Dick into his confidence was, however, a mere matter of time,
for Heathcote's nature was not one which could hold a secret for many
days together, and his loyalty to his "leader" was such that whenever
the secret had to come out, Dick's was the bosom that had to receive it.
"It's rum," said the latter, after having read the mysterious document
twice through. "I don't like it, Georgie."
"The thing is, I can't imagine who wrote it. You didn't, did you?"
Dick laughed.
"Rather not. I don't see the good of hole-in-the-corner ways of doing
things like that."
"Do you think Cresswell wrote it? He's about the only senior that knows
me, except Pledge."
"I don't fancy he did; it's not his style," said Dick, who seemed quite
to have taken the whipper-in under his wing.
"He might know. I wonder, Dick, if you'd mind trying to find out? It
maybe a trick, you know, after all."
"Don't look like it," said Dick, glancing again at the letter. "It's
too like what everybody says about _him_."
"That's the worst of it. He's hardly said a word to me since I've been
his fag, and certainly nothing bad; and he writes my Latin verses for
me, too. I fancy fellows are down on him too much."
"Well," said Dick, "I'll try and pump Cresswell; but I _wish_ to
goodness, Georgie, you weren't that beast's fag."
Every conversation he had on the subject, no matter with whom, ended in
some such ejaculation, till Heathcote got quite used to it, and even
ceased to be disturbed by it.
Indeed, he was half disappointed, after all the warning and sympathy he
had received, to find no call made upon his virtue, and no opportunity
of making a noble stand against the wiles of the "spider." He would
rather have enjoyed a mild passage of arms in defence of his
uprightness; and it was a little like a "sell" to find Pledge turn out,
after all, so uninterestingly like everybody else.
Dick duly took an opportunity of consulting Cresswell on his friend's
behalf.
"I say, Cresswell," said he, one morning, as the senior and his fag
walked back from the "Tub."
"Who was Forbes?"
"Never mind," said Cresswell, shortly.
This was a rebuff, certainly; but Dick stuck to his purpose.
"Heathcote asked me," he said. "He's Pledge's fag, and everybody says
to him he'll come to grief like Forbes; and he doesn't know what they
mean."
"You gave your chum my message, did you?" said Cresswell.
"Oh, yes; and, do you know, the other evening he had a letter thrown
into him, he doesn't know where from, saying the same thing?"
Cresswell whistled, and stared at his fag.
"Was it signed 'Junius,' and done up in a ball?" he asked, excitedly.
"Yes. Did _you_ send it?"
"And was it in printed letters, so that nobody could tell the writing?"
"Yes. Do you know about it, I say?"
"No," said Cresswell; "no more does anybody. Your chum's had a letter
from the ghost!"
"The what?"
"The Templeton ghost, my boy."
"I don't believe in ghosts," said Dick.
"That's all right. No more do I. But those who do, say its a bad sign
to get a letter from ours. Forbes got one early last term."
"Do you really mean--?" began Dick.
"I mean," said Cresswell, interrupting him, and evidently not enjoying
the topic, "I mean that nobody knows who writes the letters, or why.
It's been a mystery ever since I came here, three years ago. It happens
sometimes twice or thrice a term; and other times perhaps only once in
six months."
"What had Heathcote better do?" asked Dick, feeling anything but
reassured.
"Do! He'd better read the letter. There's no use going and flourishing
it all round the school."
With this small grain of advice Dick betook himself to his friend, and
succeeded in making him more than ever uncomfortable and perplexed. Nor
was his perplexity made less when, during the next few days, it leaked
out somehow, and spread all over Templeton, that Heathcote had had a
letter from the ghost.
Interviewers waited on him from all quarters. Seniors cross-examined
him, Fifth-form fellows tried to coax the letter out of him, and the Den
called upon him, under threats of "Rule 5," to make a full disclosure of
what had befallen him. He had a fair chance of losing his head with all
the attention paid him; and, had it not been for Cresswell's advice,
emphasised by Dick, he might, like the ass in the lion's skin, have made
himself ridiculous. As it was, he was not more than ordinarily
intoxicated by his sudden notoriety, and kept the ghost's letter
prudently hidden in his own pocket.
One fellow, and one only besides Dick, saw it. And that was Pledge.
"What's all this about the ghost?" asked the senior of his fag one
evening during preparation in their study. "Is it true you've had a
letter?"
"Yes," said Heathcote, very uncomfortably.
"Do you mind letting me see it?"
"I'd rather not, please," said the boy.
"Don't you think it was meant for me to see?" asked Pledge.
Heathcote was puzzled. He had never thought so yet, and wished Dick was
at hand to be consulted.
"I don't think so," he said.
"It says, doesn't it, that you are to be on your guard against me, and
that I shall be sure and do you harm, and that the less you see of me
the better, eh?"
"Yes; have you seen the letter?"
"No, or I shouldn't ask to see it.--How would you like to have letters
written about you like that?"
"Not at all. Do you know who wrote it?"
"No. No one knows. And you believe it, of course?"
"No, I don't," said Heathcote, making up his mind at a bound on a
question which had been distracting him for a week.
Pledge seemed neither pleased nor surprised by this avowal.
"Doesn't everybody say you ought to?"
"Perhaps they do," said Heathcote, getting into a corner.
"Doesn't your chum say so?"
"He only goes by what other fellows say."
"You mean Cresswell?"
"I daresay Cresswell may have said something," said the new boy, getting
deeper and deeper, and beginning to shuffle in spite of himself.
"You _know_ he has said something," said Pledge, sternly. "The ghost
didn't tell you to tell falsehoods, did it?"
"No. Cresswell did say something."
"And you think it was very friendly of him, don't you?"
"No, I don't," said the unhappy Heathcote.
"Is Cresswell very fond of you?" asked Pledge.
"No. I hardly ever saw him."
"Why do you suppose he sent you that message, then?"
"I don't know. Perhaps he's got a spite against you."
The boy was fairly out of his depth now, and gave up trying to recover
his feet.
"Would you like to know why; or don't you care?"
"I would like to know, please."
"I daresay you've heard of a fellow called Forbes?"
Heathcote had, from twenty different fellows.
"Forbes was a fag of mine last year--a nice boy, but dreadfully weak-
minded. Any one could twist him round his thumb. As long as I kept my
eye on him he was steady enough; but if ever I let him slide he got into
trouble. I was laid up a month last autumn with scarlet fever, and, of
course, Forbes was on the loose, and spent most of his time with
Cresswell and his set. As soon as I got back I noticed a change in him.
He had got into bad ways, and talked like a fellow who was proud of
what he had learned. He used to swear and tell lies, and other things a
great deal worse. I did all I could to pull him up, and before
Christmas I fancied he was rather steadier. But last term he broke out
again as bad as ever. I could keep no hold of him. He was constantly
cutting me for his other friend; and all the time I, as his senior, got
the credit of his ruin. He was expelled in February for some
disgraceful row he got into, and, because I stuck to him to the end, his
other friend gets up a report that I was to blame for it all. I don't
profess to be better than I ought to be, youngster; I know I should be
better than I am; but I'm not a blackguard."
Heathcote was greatly impressed by this narrative. It cleared up, to
his mind, a great deal of the mystery that had been tormenting him the
last few days, and accounted for most of the stories and rumours which
he had heard. The manner, too, in which Pledge defended himself, taking
no undue credit for virtue, and showing such little bitterness towards
his traducers, went far to win him over.
"It's hard lines on you," he said.
"You see, even a ghost can be wrong sometimes."
"Yes, he can," said Heathcote, resolutely.
"I should like to see the letter, if you have it."
And he did see it, and Heathcote watched the two red spots kindle on his
cheeks as he read it and then crushed it up in his hand.
"You don't want it back, I suppose? You're not going to frame it?"
"No," replied the boy, watching the ghost's letter, rather regretfully,
as it flared up and burned to ashes on the grate.
He wished the unpleasant impression caused in his own mind by the affair
could come to an end as easily as that scrap of paper did.
Care, however, was not wont to sit heavily at any time on the spirit of
George Heathcote, and as Pledge did not again return to the subject, and
even Dick, seeing no immediate catastrophe befall his friend, began to
suspect the whole affair as an intricate and elaborate practical joke at
the expense of two new boys, the matter gradually subsided, and life
went on at its usual jog-trot.
This jog-trot gave place, however, on one eventful afternoon to a more
stately parade, on the occasion of the captain's levee, a week after
Elections.
This ceremony, one of the immemorial traditions of Templeton, which
fellows would as soon have thought of neglecting as of omitting to take
a holiday on the Queen's birthday, was always an occasion of general
interest after the reassembling of the school.
The captain of Templeton on this evening was "at home;" in other words,
he stood on the platform at the top of "Hall" in his "swallows" and
received the school, who all turned up in their very best attire to do
honour to the occasion.
New boys were "presented" by their seniors, and the captain, if he was a
fellow of tact and humour, usually contrived to say something friendly
to the nervous juniors; and generally the occasion was looked upon as
one on which Templeton was expected to make itself agreeable all round
and do itself honour.
For some days previously our heroes had been carefully looking up their
wardrobes in anticipation of the show. Dick, on the very evening of
Elections, had put aside his whitest shirt, and Heathcote had even gone
to the expense of a lofty masher collar, and had forgotten all about the
ghost in his excitement over the washing of a choker which _would_ come
out limp, though he personally devoted a cupful of starch to its
strengthening.
There was, as usual, keen competition among the members of the Den as to
who should achieve the "showiest rig" on the occasion. For some days
the owner of Heathcote's steel chain was mentioned as the favourite,
until rumour got abroad that young Aspinall was a "hot man," and had
white gloves and three coral studs. But Culver outdid everybody at the
last moment by appearing in a real swallow-tail of his own, which he had
secretly borrowed from a cousin during the holidays and kept dark till
now.
This, of course, settled the contest in favour of the president of the
Den, and so much enthusiasm prevailed over the discovery, that a Den
levee was immediately proposed.
The idea took, and, after much debate, it was resolved that the
honourable and original fraternity should take possession of the lower
end of Hall on the captain's night, and, after doing duty at the top
end, repair to the bottom, there to display their loyalty to their own
particular "swallow." Due announcement was made to this effect, and
Rule 5 carefully rehearsed in the ears of all waverers.
The evening came at last. Pontifex, surrounded by the Sixth, rambled up
on to the dais and waited good-humouredly for the show to begin, quite
regardless of his own imposing appearance and of the awe which the array
of senior shirt-fronts struck into the hearts of the new juniors who
looked on.
In solemn order Templeton ascended the dais and rendered homage. With
the Fifth the captain was affable, and with the Upper Fourth he
exchanged a few jocular courtesies. With the Middle school he contented
himself with a shake of the hand and a "How are you, Wright?"
"Ah, Troup, old man," and such-like greetings. Boys he had punished
yesterday he received quite as warmly now as the most immaculate of the
virtuous ones, and boys who had cheeked him two hours ago in the fields
he shook hands with as cordially as he did with the most loyal of his
adherents.
There was a pause as the last of the Middle school descended from the
dais, and the Den, headed by the resplendent Culver, advanced.
Templeton tried to look grave and remember its good manners, but it was
an effort under such an array of glory. Culver himself, with his
borrowed coat so tight under the arms that he could not keep his elbows
down, and his waistcoat pinned back so far that the empty button-hole in
his front quite put the studded ones to shame, might have passed in a
crowd; but Gosse, with his hair parted in the middle and his "whisker"
elaborately curled; Pauncefote, with his light blue silk handkerchief
protruding half out of his waistcoat pocket; and Smith, with the cuffs
that hid the tips of his fingers, were beyond gravity, and a suppressed
titter followed the grandees up the hall and on to the platform.
Pontifex received them all with serene affability and good breeding.
"Hullo, youngster!" said he to Culver, not even bestowing a glance on
his finery: "hope to see you in an eleven this season. Ah, Gosse, my
boy; quiet as ever, eh? You're an inch taller than last levee. How are
you, Pauncefote? How are you, Smith? How goes the novel? not dead, I
hope?"
"No; it's going on," said Pauncefote, blushing.
"Put me down for a copy," said the captain. "Hullo! here come the new
boys."
Time did not appear to have endowed our heroes yet with confidence or
elegance in the art of ascending the Templeton platform. Dick still
retained a painful recollection of his legs, and Heathcote was torn
asunder by the cruel vagaries of his high collar, which would not keep
on the button, but insisted on heeling over, choker and all, at critical
moments to one side. Aspinall made a more respectable show, for he was
too nervous to bestow a thought on his dress, or to notice the curious
eyes turned upon him from remote corners.
New boys were always presented by their seniors, and it was a critical
moment when Cresswell, taking Dick and Aspinall, one by each arm, said
in an audible voice:--
"Captain, allow me to introduce Mr Richardson and Mr Aspinall, two new
boys."
Dick bowed as gracefully as he could, and watched the captain's hand
sharply, in case it might show signs of expecting to be shaken, which it
did, with a cheery--
"Very glad to see you, Richardson. I hear you won the new boys' race.
You've got a good trainer in Cresswell. How do you do, Aspinall?
Feeling more at home here, aren't you? I recollect how lost I was the
first time I tumbled into school."
"Captain, allow me to introduce Mr Heathcote," said Pledge.
Poor Heathcote, whose choker had now got round to his back, turned
crimson, and said, "Thank you," and then made a grab at the captain's
hand, by way of hiding his confusion.
"Ah, how are you, Heathcote?" said the magnate kindly. "Hope to see
plenty of you in the 'Tub,' and down field. You new boys should show up
out of doors all you can."
Mansfield was not the only senior standing by who heard and appreciated
this delicate hint. Pledge heard it too, and knew what it meant.
"If old Ponty," said Mansfield to Cresswell, "would only follow it up,
what a splendid captain he would be. There's not another fellow can go
through levee the way he does. He strokes down everybody. Goodness
knows, when my turn comes, I shall come a cropper."
"Your turn will come soon, if Ponty leaves this term. You're bound to
have levee in your first week. Hullo! what's up down there?"
This last question was caused by the slight excitement of Den levee,
which, according to programme, was in the act of being celebrated at the
bottom of the hall.
Culver, who was really rather sore under the arms, with his long
confinement in his cousin's "swallow," was mounted on a lexicon, and
word being passed that he was ready to receive company, the Den
proceeded to file past him, in imitation of the ceremony which had just
been concluded on the upper dais.
The imitation in this case, however, was not flattery. Culver was not a
dignified youth, and his sense of humour was not of that refined order
which enables a man to distinguish between comedy and burlesque. He had
a general idea that he had to make himself pleasant, which he
accordingly did in his own peculiar style.
"Ah, Gossy, old chap!" he said, as the secretary of the Den presented
himself with his whiskered cheek nearest to his chief. "It's coming on,
my boy. You'll have a hair and a half before the Grandcourt match."
The titter which greeted this sally highly delighted the tight-laced
president, who (especially as his audience consisted of a good
sprinkling of the Middle school, attracted by the chance of sport),
strained every nerve to sustain his reputation for wit.
"How do you do, Pauncefote, my lad?" said he, as the owner of the light
blue silk handkerchief approached. "Why don't you show enough wipe?
Stick a pin in one corner, and leave the rest hanging down. How's the
novel, my boy?"
"Pretty well," said Pauncefote.
"Ah, my venerable chum, Smith," continued the president, holding out his
hand to the joint secretary.
"Why don't you wash your face, and stick your hands up your sleeves.
How's a fellow to flap you a daddle in those cuffs, eh?"
In this refined style of banter, Culver passed his followers in array,
gradually degenerating in his humour as he went on, until the last few
came in for decidedly broad personalities.
But he saved up his final effort for the new boys, of whom Aspinall
happened to be pushed forward first.
"Booh, hoo! poor little baby. Did it come for a little drink of its
'ittle bottle? It should then. Hold out your hand, you young muff."
Aspinall obeyed, and next moment was writhing under the "scrunch" which
the president in his humour bestowed upon it.
"Now make a bow," demanded that gentleman when the greeting was over.
Aspinall made obeisance, amid loud derisive cheers, and was called upon
to repeat the performance several times.
"Now shake hands again."
The boy tried to escape, but his arm was roughly seized, and his hand
once more captured in the ruthless grip of his host.
In vain he tried to get free. The more he struggled the tighter the
grip became, till at last he fairly fell on his knees, and howled for
pain.
Then Dick, who had gradually been boiling over, could stand it no
longer.
"Let his hand go!" he shouted, stepping up to the president, and
emphasising his demand with a slight push.
You might have knocked the Den down with a feather! They stared at one
another, and then at Dick, and then at one another again, until their
eyes ached.
Then Culver, utterly oblivious of his tight sleeves, or his dignified
position, turned red in the face and said--
"What do you mean?"
"What I say," said Dick, a trifle pale, and breathing hard.
"Will you fight?" said Culver.
"Yes," said Dick, in a dream, for his head was swimming round, and he
forgot where he was, and what the row was about.
"You mean it?" once more asked the president.
"Yes, I do," again retorted Dick.
"Very well," said Culver.
Instantly there was a stampede of the Den, and cries of "a fight!" shook
the halls and passages of Templeton.
The Sixth heard it in their lofty regions, whither they had retired
after the fatigue of levee.
"Pity to stop it," said Birket, who reported the state of the matter to
the seniors. "It'll do good."
"Who's the better man?" asked Cresswell.
"Culver, I fancy."
"Humph!" said the captain, "you'd better be there to see fair play,
Birket; and Cresswell will come down and stop it in ten minutes. Eh,
Cress?"
"All serene," said Cresswell.