Mansfield returned to Templeton like a man who knows that his work is
cut out for him, and who means to do it, _coute qui coute_, as the
French say.
Any one else might have been afraid of the task before him, and doubtful
of success. Mansfield was neither; at any rate, as far as any one else
could see. He set himself up neither for a Hercules nor a Galahad. It
never occurred to him what he was. But it did occur to him that
Templeton wanted reform, and that the Captain of Templeton ought to
reform it. And with that one clear purpose before him, Mansfield was
the sort of fellow to go straight through thick and thin to reach it, or
perish in the attempt.
They say that when a certain Russian Emperor wanted a railway made
between the two chief cities of his dominion, and was asked what route
it should take, so as to benefit the largest number of intervening towns
and villages, he called for a map and ruler, and drawing a straight line
between the two places, said, "Let it go that way."
That was pretty much the style of Mansfield. He didn't understand
turning to right or left to give anybody a lift on the way. All he knew
was that Templeton was not up to the mark, and that Templeton must be
brought up to the mark. Between those points he ruled his straight
line, and that way he meant to go.
If the line cut a snug little set of chums in half, if it turned one or
two settled school customs out of house and home, if it sent one or two
waverers hopelessly over to the wrong side--well, so be it. It was a
pity, especially if the innocent had to suffer with the guilty. But the
good of Templeton was at stake, and woe to the traitor who thought
anything more important than that!
Dear old Ponty, whom Templeton had never loved so much as when it missed
him, had curled his line about in snug, comfortable ins-and-outs, so as
not to disturb anybody. Mansfield didn't think himself better than
Ponty, whom he loved as a brother. But Mansfield couldn't draw curling
in-and-out lines. He only knew one line, and that was a straight one;
and so, for better or worse, Mansfield called for his map and his ruler,
and dashed into his task.
"Give the little chaps a chance," Ponty had said, in his last will and
testament, and the new Captain of Templeton was willing to make one
little curve, in order to carry out his friend's wish.
On the fourth evening of the term, as the Den was assembled in full
session, for the purpose of swearing in Coote and denouncing the powers
that be, that honourable fraternity was startled out of its never
superabundant wits by an apparition far more terrible than the Templeton
Ghost.
Dick was in the chair at the time, and Heathcote was in the act of
moving a resolution, "That this Den considers all the monitors ought to
be hanged, and hopes they will be," when the Captain of Templeton
suddenly entered the room.
Then fell there a silence on the Den, like to the silence of a kennel of
dogs when the whip of the master cracks! The word "hanged" died half-
uttered on the lips of Heathcote, and Dick slipped aghast from his
eminence. The tongue of Coote clave to the roof of his mouth, and even
Gosse's heart turned to stone in the midst of a "swop." Never did
condemned criminals stand more still, or wax-works more dumb.
Mansfield closed the door behind him, and marched straight to the top of
the room, where stood Dick's vacant chair. Was he going to drive them
out single-handed? Was he going to arrest their leader? Or was he
going to make a speech?
As soon as they perceived he was going to do neither the first nor the
second, and knew he was going to do the last, they groaned. They could
have endured a stampede round the Quad; they could have brought
themselves to see their leader immolated in a good cause; but to have to
stand still and hear Jupiter speak--what had they done to deserve that?
"Look here, you youngsters," began Mansfield, needing not even a motion
of his hand to command silence, "I've not come as an enemy, but a
friend."
"What will it be like," mused Coote, "when he comes as an enemy?"
"And I've only a very few words to say to you."
Was it a sigh of relief or disappointment that escaped the Den?
Mansfield didn't know; he wasn't well up in sighs.
"There's a great deal goes on in the Den that isn't right. Some of you
youngsters think the only use of school rules is to break them, and that
it's a fine thing to disobey the monitors. You're wrong, and, unless
you give up that sort of thing, you'll find it out. The school rules
are made to be kept, and the monitors are appointed to see they _are_
kept; and any boy that says otherwise is an enemy to Templeton, and he
will be treated accordingly. Some of you don't approve of all that goes
on here, and yet you don't like to stand up against it. That's not
right. You can't be neutral. If you mean to be steady, you are bound
to stand out and have nothing to do with the bad lot. I want you all to
understand this once for all, and not say you've had no warning. I warn
you now. Rules are made to be kept, and you must keep them.
Pontifex--"
The Captain had to stop; for the Den, which had stood in breathless
silence thus far, sprang, at the mention of the name, into a cheer which
spoke quite as much for the tension of their own feelings at this moment
as for their affection for the old Captain.
Mansfield let them have it out; he liked them none the worse for their
love to his friend, and what he had to say would by no means spoil by
keeping till the cheers were over.
They were over at last. The sight of the Captain there, tall, upright,
determined, with his dark eyes bent on them, cut them short and brought
the Den back to silence as deep as that which had just been broken.
"Pontifex was fond of you youngsters. He said to me a day or two before
he went, 'Give the little chaps a chance.'"
They could not help it; Captain or no Captain, they must cheer again.
And again Mansfield waited patiently and ungrudgingly till it was over.
"This is why I've come here to-night. You have your chance. Let
everybody choose for himself, and don't let any one say he didn't know
what to expect. There's to be a Captain's levee on Thursday. I don't
want any one to come to it who is not prepared to stand by Templeton
rules this term. Those who are prepared will do well to show up."
So ended Jupiter's speech to the Den. He stalked down the room and out
of the door amid a solemn silence, which was not broken until his firm
footsteps died away down the passage.