Perhaps I ought to begin this chapter with an apology. Perhaps I ought
to delude my readers into the belief that it gives me far more pain to
describe a fight, than it gave Dick and his antagonist to take part in
it. Perhaps I ought to go back and alter my last chapter, and call in
the dogs of war. Perhaps I should solemnly explain to the reader how
much more beautiful it would have been in Dick, if, instead of letting
his angry passions rise at the sight of young Aspinall's wrongs, he had
walked kindly up to the bully, and laying his hand gently on his
shoulder, asked him with a sweet smile, whether he thought that was
quite a nice thing for a big boy to do to a small one? whether his
conscience didn't tell him he erred? and whether he wouldn't go and
retire for a quiet hour to his study, and think the matter over with the
said conscience? Then, if, at the end of that time he still felt
disposed to use physical force towards the little new boy, would he
allow him, Dick, on this occasion to bear the punishment in his young
friend's place?
I say, I might, perhaps begin my chapter in this fashion, were it not
for two trifling difficulties--one being that I should be a humbug,
which it is not my ambition to be; the other, that Dick, too, would have
been a humbug, which he certainly was not.
The truth about fighting is--if one must express an opinion on so
delicate a subject--that its right and wrong depend altogether on what
you fight about. There are times when to fight is right, and there are
a great many more times when to fight is wrong. And for Dick at the
present moment to hold up his hands and say, "Oh, no, thank you," when
Culver asked him if it was a fight, would have been as bad every bit, as
if he had picked a quarrel and fought with the man who caught him out at
cricket.
Having relieved our minds so far, let us, reader, accompany Basil the
son of Richard, as he strides; surrounded by his myrmidons, and most of
all by the faithful Heathcote, to the Templeton "cock pit," where
already the large-boned Culver, hemmed in no more by the envious grip of
the toga of his mothers sister's son, awaits the fray.
For him Gosse holds the sponge, and bids him hit low, and walk his
foeman over the tapes.
And now a score of officious voices cry out "A ring!" and the surging
waves fall back, as when a whirlpool opens in mid-ocean.
Tall amid the crowding juniors stalks Birket, at sight of whom Dick's
heart rejoices, and Gosse's countenance falls. For Birket will see fair
play.
And now the faithful Heathcote staggers under the weight of his friend's
discarded garments, and whispers words of brotherly cheer as the snowy
sleeves of the hero roll up his arm, and his chafing collar falls from
his swelling neck.
The crowd grows dumb and hearts beat quick, as those two stand there,
face to face, the large-boned, solid Culver, and the compact, light-
footed Dick, with his clean, fresh skin, and well-poised head, and
tight, determined lips; and the signal goes forth that the battle has
begun.
The knowing ones are there, who, with Birket, look close to see what the
new boy is made of, and how he works his left. But the unknowing regard
the size of their Culver, and prophesy fast and furiously.
Then do these two circle slowly round the tapes, attempting nothing
great, but, by feint and parry, seeking each to unmask his man and
discover where he is weak and where strong. The unknowing ones and
Gosse murmur, and cry on their man to let out. And he, irresolute a
moment, yields, and standing drives at his foeman's head. Up goes the
right of Basil the son of Richard, and behold while all cry "a parry!"
in goes his left, quick as a flash, and grazes the chin of the solid
Culver.
Whereat the ring well-nigh breaks with applause, and the knowing ones
nod one at another, and Heathcote leaps for joy and beams like the sun
at mid-day as his hero returns to his knees and girds himself for the
second round.
Birket looks up at the clock and groans to see five minutes gone.
Gosse, too, groans as his man steps forward once more, unsteady and
amazed at what had befallen him. "Hit low!" he whispers.
And now, once more, dead silence falls upon the ring, and all eyes turn
to where Dick steps lightly up and meets his man. All mark the laugh in
his eye, but the knowing ones like it not.
"Steady," says Birket; "don't be too sure."
But Basil the son of Richard heeds him not, and his eyes laugh still.
This time, not Culver, but he is the pursuer, and the unknowing ones
quake for their hero. Yet Culver stands as he stood before and deals
his blow. Once more the new boy parries and drives home with his left.
But, alas! Culver is ready for him, while he, unprepared, with his
right still up, receives the fist of Culver on his chest. And the echo
falls upon the ring like distant thunder.
Where, now, is the laughter in Basil's eyes, or who can see the sunlight
on Heathcote's troubled face? Who now nod their heads but the unknowing
ones? and who looks grave but Birket?
As when a mountain torrent rushes down its bed with huge uproar until it
meet a fiercer, leaping headlong from the cliff, and drowning the lesser
din with a greater, so do the shouts for Basil the son of Richard, grow
faint beneath the shouts that rise for Culver, the large of bone. Nor
when "time" is called, and from the trembling knees of their seconds
those two arise and stalk into the ring, does the clamour cease, till
Birket, with his eye on the clock, breathes threatenings and demands it.
Then you may hear a pin fall, as Basil, stern of eye and tight of lip,
stands fast and waits his man. The knowing ones look anxiously to where
the solid Culver squares, and take cheer; for he is flushed and eager,
and his lips are open as he walks into the fray. And Heathcote calls
loud upon his hero, and Birket bids him straight "go in and win." Gosse
yet again bids the solid one "hit low!" and the unknowing ones cry "two
to one on Culver."
The heroes meet, and Culver, gathering up his might, makes feint at
Basil's head. Up goes the wary arm of Basil, which marking, Culver
smites hard and low, a villain thrust hard on the hero's belt. Whereat
Gosse cries aloud "bravo!" but Heathcote rages and shouts "belt!" and
would himself spring into the fray, but Birket holds him back.
For Basil's eyes flash fire, and on the distant staircase stands already
Cresswell, ready to stop the fight. "A minute more," cries Birket, and
the ring is still as when Etna, ready to burst, sleeps.
Then does Basil the son of Richard gather himself together and draw
breath, while Culver, sure of his man, steps back for a mighty blow.
Dick sees it coming, and marks with a quick cool eye its fierce descent.
With half a step he avoids it, and as the solid form sways past he
greets it right and left with well-aimed blows, which send it headlong
to the dust two long yards distant.
Then, as when the swelling torrent breaks with one furious bound into
the vale below, does the crowd burst into the ring, and, with mighty
shouts, proclaim a victory to the light-footed son of Richard. And,
behold, as they do so, the towering form of Cresswell comes in view and
bears down upon the scene.
Never did swarm of mice, spying Grimalkin afar, scamper quicker to their
holes than do the youths of Templeton vanish before the distant view of
Cresswell. Victor and vanquished, knowing and unknowing--all but one,
fade to sight, and ere the monitor can stop the fight, the fight is
over.
Birket alone remained to meet the senior.
"Well," said the latter, "is it all over?"
"Rather," said the Fifth-form boy. "I'm awfully glad you didn't come
sooner."
"Bless you," said Cresswell, "I've been watching it for the last five
minutes, so I ought to know when to turn up."
"You have? Then you saw the finish? The youngster made as neat a job
of it as I ever saw."
"It was rather pretty," said Cresswell. "He'd something to make up for,
though, after making such an ass of himself in the second round. By-
the-way, was that last shot of Culver's below the belt?"
"It was precious close to the wind, anyhow. You leave that to me,
though. I'll make that all right."
"Thanks," said the monitor. "Something ought to be said about it, or we
shall have more of it. Well, I suppose they'll shake hands after a bit.
You might see to that, too. Ponty's sure to ask, and there ought to be
an end of it."
When Birket, half an hour later, descended to the Den he found a
revolution in active progress. Dick was the hero of the hour. His
valiant stand against solid odds, his last victorious blow, but, most of
all, the cowardly blow of his opponent, had suddenly raised him to a
pinnacle of glory which took away his breath. Culver, despite his
dress-coat, despite his exertions at levee, despite his seniority and
long service, had been ignominiously deposed from office, and subjected
to the rigour of rule 5 by an indignant and resentful populace. The
unknowing ones, who had backed him the loudest, now answered the soonest
to Heathcote's demand for retribution, and Gosse himself, who had an
hour ago whispered nothing but "hit low," now denounced the coward and
proclaimed his deposition.
By a single vote Culver was dethroned, and Dick, amid frantic cheers,
elected president in his stead. Nor did popular clamour cease there,
for Gosse was stripped of his office, too, and Heathcote unanimously
chosen secretary; and, for the first time in history, the Den did homage
to two week-old new boys, and called them its leaders.
It was scarcely possible that Dick, in the midst of all this glory,
should remain unmoved. He tried to look modest, he tried to bear
himself as though he had done nothing out of the common, he even tried
to persuade himself he would rather not accept the office thrust upon
him. But his heart swelled with pride, and his head grew light in its
lofty atmosphere.
Nor did Birket's visit tend to sober him.
"Well, youngster," said the Fifth-form boy, "you managed it at last,
then?"
"Oh, yes," said Dick, grandly, "he's not very good with his parries."
"Isn't he? He's good at coming in on your chest, my boy. Don't you be
too cocky. You're not a Tom Sayers yet."
"The last blow was below the belt, though," said Dick.
"I know. I've come to see about that."
"You needn't bother. He's been licked for it. I didn't touch him, of
course, but the other fellows did."
"Kind of you. Has he apologised?"
"Oh, never mind," said Dick, forgivingly, "it doesn't matter."
"Tut! do you suppose he's got to apologise to you? I was there to see
fair play, and he's to do it to me."
At any other time Dick might have felt snubbed; but now he failed to see
the rebuke, and gave order grandly that Culver should be brought.
"There he is," said he, as the unhappy ex-president of the Den was
conducted into his presence.
"Culver," said Birket, "you are a cad; you hit below the belt."
"No, I didn't, it was an accident," pleaded the culprit. "Please,
Birket, I've been licked already."
"Stand up on that form, and tell all the fellows you apologise for doing
a cowardly action and disgracing Templeton."
Culver promptly obeyed, and repeated the apology word for word.
There were loud cries for Gosse at this point, and Birket yielded to the
popular demand, and ordered the ex-secretary to go through the same
ceremony. Which the ex-secretary cheerfully did.
"Now then," said the Fifth-form boy, turning again to Culver, "shake
hands with Richardson and make it up. You've been licked, so there's
nothing left to settle."
Culver may have secretly differed from Birket on this point, but he kept
his secret to himself and held out his hand. Dick took it, and gave it
an honest shake. It is one of the luxuries victors enjoy, to shake the
proffered hand of the vanquished, and Dick enjoyed it greatly.
"It's all made up now," said Birket, addressing the Den, "and there'd
better be no more row about it, or you'll have one of the Sixth down on
you, and he won't let you off as easy as I have, I can tell you."
But although the fight was over, and the breach of the peace was healed,
the consequences of the fray were of much longer duration.
Their effect on Dick was not, on the whole, beneficial to that doughty
young warrior. Prosperity went harder with him than adversity. As long
as he had his hill to climb, his foe to vanquish, his peril to brave,
Dick had the makings of a hero. But when fortune smoothed his path,
when the foe lay at his feet, when the peril had passed behind, then
Dick's troubles began. Popularity turned his head, and laid him open to
dangers twice as bad as those he had cleared. The more fellows cheered
him, the more he craved their cheers; the more he craved their cheers,
the more willing a slave he became.
"It strikes me, youngster," said Cresswell one day, when the term had
turned the corner, and the Grandcourt match was beginning to loom very
near in the future, "it strikes me you're not doing much good up here.
You're always fooling about with those precious juniors of yours,
instead of sticking to cricket and tennis and your books. Here's young
Aspinall here, ahead of you, by long chalks, in classics, and getting a
break on at tennis that'll puzzle you to pick up unless you wake up.
You can do as you like; only don't blame me if you get stuck among the
louts."
For a time, this friendly advice pulled Dick up in his profitless
career. The dread of being considered a "lout" by your senior is a
motive which appeals forcibly to most boys; and for a week or so Dick
made a feverish show of returning to his outdoor sports, and doing
himself justice.
But the effort died away under the claims of the Den. Den suppers, Den
concerts, Den debates, and Den conclaves always somehow managed to clash
with Templeton work and play; and even Heathcote found it next to
impossible to keep up his batting and his secretarial duties to the
honourable fraternity.
"_I_ shall have to jack it up," said he, one day, dolefully to Dick,
"Pledge always wants me just when things are going on here. Hadn't you
better get some one else?"
"Bosh! Let Pledge get some one else," said Dick, warmly. "What right
has he got to make you fag for him out of school; that's the very thing
we want to stop."
"But I rather like the batting. Cartwright said I was improving."
"Oh, of course; just a dodge to make you stick to it. Don't you let
them gammon you, Georgie. Stick to us, and hang Pledge."
And, of course, Heathcote obeyed, and his cricket suffered; and fellows
who had hopes of him shrugged their shoulders when they saw him rioting
in the Den, and letting another usurp his pads.
Had Dick known the bad turn he was doing his friend he would have
hesitated before requiring him to give up a healthy sport, which, just
then, was one of his chief safeguards against far less healthy
occupations.
The "spider" had not had the fly in his web for five weeks without
casting some light toils around him. Heathcote himself would have said
that Pledge was as inoffensive to-day as he had been on the first day of
the term, and would have angrily scouted the idea that "Junius," or any
one else, had been right in his warnings.
And yet in five weeks Heathcote had begun not to be the nice boy he was.
Not that Pledge, by any direct influence, incited him to evil-doing.
On the contrary, he always corrected him when he prevaricated, and
scolded him when he idled.
But the boy had begun a course of indirect training far more dangerous
to his morals and happiness than any direct training could have been.
He discovered, very gradually, that Pledge's notions of persons and
things were unlike any he had hitherto entertained. In the innocence of
his heart he had always given every one credit for being honest, and
virtuous, until he had good cause to see otherwise. When any one told
him a thing, he usually believed it straight off. If any one professed
to be anything, he usually assumed it was so. The small knot of boys at
Templeton who called themselves religious, who said their prayers
steadily, who refused to do what their conscience would not allow, who
tried to do good in some way or other to their fellows, these Heathcote
had readily believed were Christians, and more than once he had wished
he belonged to their set.
But, somehow, Pledge's influence gave him altogether different ideas on
these points. For instance, he would one evening hear a conversation
somewhat as follows, between his senior and some friend--generally
Wrangham of the Fifth, who usually associated with Pledge:
"I hear Holden is not going to try for the Bishop's scholarship, after
all," says Wrangham, who, by the way, is aesthetic, and adopts an air of
general weariness of the world which hardly becomes a boy of seventeen.
"Did he tell you so himself?" asked Pledge.
"Yes."
"Then, of course, we don't believe it. He'd like us to think so, I
daresay."
"He knows what he is about, though. He got confirmed last week, you
know, and that's bound to go down with Winter."
"Winter's pretty well bound to favour Morris, I fancy, though he's not
pious," says Pledge. "There are three young Morrises growing up, you
know."
Wrangham laughs languidly.
"Nice rotten state the school's in," says he. "Thank goodness, it
doesn't matter much to me; but I've once or twice thought of joining the
saints, just to save trouble."
"Ha, ha! I'd come and look at you, old man. Fancy you and Mansfield
looking over the same hymn-book, and turning up your eyes."
"But," says Heathcote, who has been drinking in all the talk in a
bewildered way, and venturing now, as he sometimes does, to join in it.
"But I always thought Mansfield was really good."
His two hearers laugh till the boy blushes crimson, and wishes he had
not made such an ass of himself.
"Rather," says Wrangham. "He is one of the elect. It's worth fifty
pounds a year to him, so it would be a wonder if he wasn't."
"Yes, my boy," says Pledge, "if you want to get on at Templeton, take
holy orders. Believe everybody's as good as he tries to make out, and
you'll have no trouble at all. When a fellow cracks up your batting,
don't on any account suspect he wants to borrow five shillings of you,
and if he tells you it's naughty to look about in chapel, don't imagine
for a moment he's got half-a-dozen cribs in his study. Bah! They're
all alike. Thank goodness you're not a hypocrite yet, young 'un,
whatever you may become. Now you can cut. Good-night."
And Heathcote obeys, and lies wide awake an hour, wondering how he can
ever have remained a simpleton as long as he has.