of boldly-asserted party aggression, and, as the Blue-coat boys were
as determined to preserve their rights as the others were to invade
them, many and well-contested were the consequent fights and struggles.
And thus the two boys, Jabez Clegg and Laurence Aspinall, brought
together first at the church door and the baptismal font, came into
collision again. But now there was no deferential stepping aside of
the humble foundling to make way for the merchant’s son. They stood
upon neutral ground, strangers to each other, equal in their respective
participation in the benefits of a charitable foundation. Nay, if
anything, Jabez had the higher standpoint. His orphanhood and poverty
had given him a right to his position in Humphrey Chetham’s Hospital;
the very wealth of the gentleman’s son made Laurence little better than
a usurper in Hugh Oldham’s Grammar School.
But it is no part of the novelist’s province to prate of the use or
abuse of charitable institutions, or to set class in opposition against
class. It is only individual character and action as they bear upon one
another with which we have to deal.
On more than one occasion Jabez—since his conquest of the snake, the
recognised champion of his form—had stopped Laurence Aspinall at the
head of a file of boys, and had done his best to bar their passage
through the quadrangle.
Success depended on which school was first released.
If in time, Jabez planted himself by the little wicket with one or
two companions, and, like Leonidas at Thermopylæ, fought bravely
for possession of the pass, and generally contrived to beat off the
intruders. Sometimes the Blue-coat boys made a sortie from the yard,
and, falling upon the others pell-mell, left and bore away marks of the
contest in swollen lips and black eyes.
At length matters were brought to a crisis. Thrice had Laurence and
his clique been repulsed, and the shame of their defeat heightened by
derisive shouts from a tribe of Millgate urchins—“Yer’s th’ Grammar
Skoo’ lads beat by th’ yaller petticoats agen!” “Yaller petticoats fur
iver!” “College boys agen Skoo’! Hoorray!”
Master Laurence might have ground his teeth, and harangued his
followers, without obtaining an additional recruit, or spurring them to
a fresh attempt, but for the taunts of the rabble. But the ignominy of
defeat by petticoated College boys was too much for the blood of the
Grammar School, and youngsters threw themselves into the party quarrel
who had hitherto stood aloof.
Laurence Aspinall was superseded. A big, raw-boned fellow named Travis,
took the lead, and rallied round him not only the lads from the lower
school, but the bulk of the juniors in the upper room. It is only
fair to add that the senior students were in no wise cognisant of the
league, or, being so, carefully shut their eyes and ears.
As the result of this organism, on a set day, towards the close of
October, when the dusk gathered as the school dispersed, the boys who
ran down the wide steps from the upper, and the juveniles who ran
up from the lower room, instead of darting forward with a “Whoop!”
and “Halloo!” through the iron gate on their homeward way, clustered
together within the school-yard, and made way for seniors and masters
to pass out before them.
“Get off home with you, and don’t loiter there!” cried Joshua Brookes,
as he turned in at his own gate, and saw the crowd massing together in
the outer playground.
“Get home yourself, St. Crispin!” shouted Laurence, but not before the
house door had closed upon the irascible master.
All books and slates not purposely left in school were consigned to
three or four of the smallest boys, duly instructed to carry them to
Hunt’s Bank in readiness for their owners.
For a week or more the College boys had been unmolested; not a
forbidden foot had stepped within the wicket. The school-master had
remarked to the governor, in the presence of his pupils, that he
thought Dr. Smith must have prohibited further intrusion.
All the greater was the surprise that dusky October afternoon when a
troop of young ruffians, who had stolen quietly one by one through the
wicket, and kept under the cavernous shade of the deep gateway until
all were within, rushed, with vociferous shouts, from under cover, and
tore across the large yard in the direction of the other gate, daring
anyone to check them.
The College boys, just emerging from their school-room door in the
corner, were, for the moment, taken aback. Then, from the mouth of
Joshua Brookes’s new Latin scholar, rang, clear and distinct, Humphrey
Chetham’s motto—“Quod tuum tene!” (What you have, hold!) and the
Blue-coat boys, with one George Pilkington for their leader, threw
themselves, at that rallying cry, like a great wave, headlong upon the
intruders.
They met the shock as a rock meets a wave, and down went many a gallant
Blue-coat in the dust. Up they were in an instant, face to face with
the besiegers; and then, each singling out an opponent, fought or
wrestled for the mastery with all the courage and animosity, if not the
skill, of practised combatants. Ben Travis and George Pilkington fought
hand to hand, and Jabez—not for the first time—measured his strength
with Laurence.
Heavier, stronger, older by a few months, Jabez might have overmatched
his antagonist; but Laurence had profited by the lessons of Bob the
discarded groom, and every blow was planted skilfully, and told. Then
Bob’s teaching had been none of the most chivalrous, and Laurence took
unfair advantages. He “struck below the belt,” and then tripping Jabez
up, like the coward that he was, kicked him as he lay prostrate, with
the fury of a savage.
Governor, schoolmaster, librarian, and porter had hastened to the
scene; but the assailants nearly doubled the number of the College
boys, and set lawful authority at defiance, hurling at them epithets
such as only schoolboys could devise.
Fortunately, their own Blue-coat boys were amenable to discipline, and,
called off, one by one, retreated to the house, often with pursuers
close at their heels. Then the Grammar School tribe set up a scornful,
triumphant shout, and, with Ben Travis and Laurence Aspinall at their
head, marched out of the College Yard at the Hunt’s Bank gate, exulting
in their victory, even though they left one of their bravest little
antagonists insensible behind them.
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.
THE BLUE-COAT BOY.
Those were rough days, when an occasional brawl was supposed essential
to test the mettle of man or boy, so that bruises and black eyes (the
result of an encounter for the honour of the school) were passed over
with much lighter penalties than would be dealt out now-a-days, if
young gentlemen in a public academy descended to blackguardism.
At that time, too, the pupils of the Grammar School assembled at seven
in the morning, and sure punishment awaited the laggard who failed to
present himself for prayers. There were few loiterers on that drear
October morning. Conscience, and perhaps a dread of consequences,
had kept the preceding day’s war-party sufficiently awake even where
sore limbs did not. But, with the exception of a few smart raps with
the ferule, to warm cold fingers, and a general admonition—little
heeded—the early hours of the morning passed quietly enough, and
whispers ran along classes, and from form to form, more congratulatory
than prophetic.
That day went by, and the next. Laurence Aspinall, whose “science”
had saved his head from more damage than a cut lip, was especially
boastful, and, after his own underhand fashion, strove to stir big Ben
Travis to fresh demonstrations.
Then a cloud loomed in the horizon, and darkened every master’s brow.
Another whisper was in circulation that Governor Terry had been seen
to enter the head-master’s ancient black and white old house, and had
been closeted with Dr. Smith for more than an hour. Still the quiet was
unbroken, and, to the wise, the very calm was ominous.
The second of November brought a revelation. On the slightly-raised
floor of the high school, at the Millgate end of the room, sat, not
only Dr. Jeremiah Smith, but the trustees of the school, the Reverend
Joshua Brookes, and the assistant masters; and with them was Governor
Terry, of the Chetham Hospital—all grave and stern. Dr. Smith’s mild
face was unusually severe, and Joshua’s shaggy brows lowered menacingly
over his angry eyes. The senior pupils, chiefly young men preparing for
college, were ranged on either side.
As the last of these awful personages filed in through the two-leaved
door, and took his place, the palpitating hearts of the delinquents
beat audibly, and courage oozed from many a clammy palm.
The boys were summoned from the lower school, and one by one, name by
name, Ben Travis and his followers were called to take their stand
before this formidable tribunal, Laurence Aspinall shrinking edgeways,
as if to screen himself from observation.
There was little need for Dr. Smith to strike his ferule on the table
to command attention, silence was so profound. Even nervous feet forgot
to shuffle. Dr. Smith’s commanding eye swept the trembling rank from
end to end, as he stood with impressive dignity to address them.
After a brief exordium, in which he recounted the several charges
brought against the boys by Governor Terry, he proceeded to say that
the good character of the Manchester Grammar School was imperilled by
lawless conduct such as the boys before him had exhibited the previous
Tuesday, in forcibly entering, and then rioting within, the College
Yard.
One of the youths—most likely Ben Travis—blurted forth that they had a
right to go through the College Yard, and that the College boys stopped
them.
“You mistake,” said the doctor, sternly, “there is no public right
of road through the College Yard. Permission is courteously granted,
but there is no _right_. There is a right for the public to pass to
and from the College and its library on business, within the hours
the gates are open; but even that must be in order and decency. Your
conduct was that of barbarians, not gentlemen.”
At this point of the proceedings Jabez Clegg came into the school-room,
leaning on the arm of George Pilkington. The face of the latter was
bruised and swollen, but Jabez looked deplorable. His long overcoat
was rent in more than one place; he walked with a limp: a white
bandage round his head made his white face whiter still, showing more
distinctly the livid and discoloured patches under the half-closed
eyes. In obedience to a nod from Governor Terry, George Pilkington led
his Blue-coat brother to a seat beside him; but Dr. Smith, drawing the
boy gently to his side, removed the bandage, and showed Jabez to the
school with one deeply-cut eyebrow plastered up.
“What boy among you has been guilty of this outrage?” he asked, sternly.
There was no answer. Some of the little ones took out their
handkerchiefs and began to whimper, fearing condign punishment. The
doctor repeated his question. The boys looked from one to another, but
there was still no reply. Laurence Aspinall edged farther behind his
coadjutor, but he had not the manliness either to confess or regret.
His only fear was detection, or betrayal by a traitor. There was little
fear of that; grammar-school boys have a detestation of a “sneak.”
“Boys, we cannot permit the perpetrator of such an outrage to remain in
your midst; he must be expelled!”
Still no one spoke.
“Do you think you could recognise your assailant—the boy who kicked you
after you were down?” (a murmur ran round the school as the classes
were ordered to defile slowly past Dr. Smith’s desk).
Ben Travis walked with head erect—he would have scorned such a deed—and
Laurence tried to do the same, but his cruel blue eyes could not meet
those of his possible accuser.
There was a struggle going on in the heart of Jabez. It was in his
power to revenge himself for many taunts and sarcasms, and much
previous abuse. He called to mind—for thought is swift—that Shrove
Tuesday when Laurence and his friends caught him as he descended Mrs.
Clowes’s steps with a penny-worth of humbugs in his hand, and snatching
his cap from his head, kicked it about Half Street and the churchyard
as a football. And he seemed to feel again the twitch at his dark
hair and the dreadful pain in his spine and loins, as they bent him
backwards over the coping of the low wall, in order to wrest his sweets
from him, and held him there perforce till stout Mrs. Clowes, armed
with a rolling-pin, came to his rescue, laying about her vigorously,
and kept him in her back parlour until he revived.
“Forgive and forget” are words for the angels, and Jabez was not an
angel, but a boy with quick beating pulses, and a vivid memory. There
was a fight going on in his breast fiercer than either that in Half
Street or that in the College Yard. His sore, stiff limbs and smarting
brow urged him like voices to “pay him off for all,” and revenge began
to have a sweet savour in his mouth.
As he hesitated, watching the slow approach of his foe among his nobler
mates, a harsh voice behind him called out “Jabez, why do you not
answer Dr. Smith?”
The emphasis Joshua Brookes had laid upon the “Jabez” recalled the
boy’s better self. The oft-repeated text flashed across his mind,
“Jabez was an honourable man,” and it shaped his reply.
“Well, sir, it was almost dark, and—and”—he was going to add too dark
to distinguish features, but he recollected that that would be a
falsehood, and lying was no more honourable than malice.
“And you could not recognise him, you mean?” suggested Dr. Smith.
His lip quivered.
“No, sir, I do not mean that. It was very dark, but I think I should
know him again. But, oh! if you please, sir, I should not like to turn
him out of school. You see, we were all fighting together, and we were
all in a passion, and—and—it would be very mean of me to turn him out
of school because he hurt me in a fight” (Jabez did not say a fair
fight).
“Ah!” said Dr. Smith, and, turning to Mr. Terry asked, “Are all the
Chetham lads reared on the same principle?”
Then there was a low-voiced discussion amongst trustees and masters.
Finally, Dr. Smith turned round. His clear eye had detected the culprit
as he winced beneath the gaze of Jabez. But the injured boy had
forgiven, and it was not for him to condemn.
Again he spoke—proclaimed how Jabez had magnanimously declined to
single out his cowardly antagonist; and that the boy, whoever he
might be, had to thank his most honourable victim that he was not
ignominiously expelled. Then quietly but emphatically he pronounced
the decision of the trustees that instant expulsion should follow any
or every repetition of the offence which had called them together—not
only the expulsion of the ringleaders, but of all concerned; and that
even a fair fight between a Grammar School, and a Blue-coat boy should
be visited with suspension pending enquiry, the offender to be expelled
whether from school or College.
“Good lad, Jabez!—good lad!” said Joshua Brookes to him, as George
Pilkington helped his limping steps from the room.
On the broad flat step outside the door they encountered big Ben
Travis, who caught the hand of Jabez in a rough grip, with the
exclamation, “Give us your fist, my young buck! You’ve more pluck in
your finger than that carroty Aspinall in his whole carcase, the mean
cur! an’ look you, my lad, if any of them set on you again, I’ll stand
by and see fair play; or I’ll fight for you if it’s a big chap, or my
name’s not Ben Travis.”
“Who talks of fighting? Haven’t you had enough for one while, you great
raw-boned brute? You’d better keep your ready fists in your pockets
Travis, if you don’t want to be kicked out of school!” After which
gruff reminder Joshua left them, and Jabez went back to the College
with one more friend in the world; but that friend was not Laurence
Aspinall.
He, smarting under a sense of obligation, shrunk away to bite his nails
and vent his spleen in private, conscious that he was shunned by his
classmates, and despised by honest Ben Travis.
As months and seasons sped onwards, they plucked the hairs from Simon
Clegg’s crown, and left a bald patch to tell of care or coming age;
they stole the roundness from Bessy’s figure, the hope from her heart
and eyes. There was less vigour in the beat of her batting-wand, less
elasticity in her step. The periodical holidays and cheering visits
of Jabez were the only pleasant breaks in the monotonous life of the
Cleggs. Beyond the knowledge obtained at the billeting office in King
Street that Tom Hulme had entered the army and gone abroad with his
regiment, no tidings of the self-exiled soldier had come to them. In
the great vortex of war his name had been swallowed up and lost. But
she never said “Ay” to Matthew Cooper, though he waited and waited,
smoking his Sunday pipe by the fireside even till his own Molly was old
enough to have a sweetheart, and to want to leave her father’s crowded
hearth for a quieter one of her own.
Those same months and years added alike to the stature and attainments
of Jabez Clegg and Laurence Aspinall, though in very unequal ratio.
The former, though he had long since astonished Simon with his fluent
rendering of the big Bible, was but a plodding scholar of average
ability, the range of whose studies was limited, notwithstanding Parson
Joshua’s voluntary Latin lessons. The latter had an aptitude for
learning, which made his masters press him forward; and Joshua Brookes
forgave the tricks he played, his translations were so clear and so
correct. Yet, when he wrote stinging couplets or “St. Crispin” on the
Parson’s door, or put cobblers’-wax on the pedagogue’s chair, the
covert reference to his parentage, stung the irascible man more than
the damage to kerseymere, and in his wrath he birched his pupil into
penitence.
His penitence took a peculiar form. A discovery was made that a general
dance in the school-room would shake the pewter platters and crockery
down from dresser and corner cupboard in Joshua’s house adjoining.
Whenever the dominie had growled over bad lessons with least cause,
Laurence was sure to propose a grand hornpipe after school hours. Back
would rush Joshua fast as his short legs would carry him, spluttering
with passion; but the nimbler lads disappeared when they heard the
crash, and, as a rule Joshua’s temper cooled before morning.
Laurence Aspinall’s chief source of amusement from his first entrance
into the Grammar School had been the crippled father of Joshua Brookes.
As the old fellow staggered home drunk, the street-boys would hoot
at him, pull him about, pelt him with mud, and mock at him, till his
impotent fury found vent in a storm of vile and opprobrious language.
Laurence was sure to enjoy a scene of this kind, but he was generally
sly enough to act as prompter, not as principal.
The old man was a great angler; and that he might enjoy unmolested his
favourite pastime, his son had obtained from Colonel Hansom permission
for him to fish in Strangeways Park ponds. Thither he had an empty
hogshead conveyed, and the crippled old cobbler, with a flask of rum
for company, sat within it, often the night through, to catch fish. The
Irk had not then lost its repute for fine eels, and old Brookes—who, by
the way, wore his hair in a pigtail—was likewise wont to plant himself,
with rod and line, on what was the Waterworth Field, on the Irwell side
of Irk Bridge, to catch eels.
Returning one afternoon (Joshua was busied with clerical duties),
Laurence Aspinall and his fellows met the old man staggering along with
his rod over his shoulder and a basket of eels in one hand.
He had called at the “Packhorse” for a dram, and went on, as was his
wont, talking noisily to himself. He had steered round the corner in
safety; but hearing one lively voice call out, “Here’s old Fishtail;”
and another, “Here’s St. Crispin’s Cripple;” and a third, “Make way for
Diogenes,” as he was passing the high-master’s ancient house he gave a
lurch, meaning to reprove them solemnly—the top of his rod caught in
the prominent pillar of the doorway, and was torn from his insecure
grasp. Striving to recover it, he pitched forward, and in falling
dropped his basket in the mud, and set the writhing, long-lived fish at
liberty to swim in the gutter swollen with recent rain.
The lounging lads at once set up a shout; but Laurence, with a timely
recollection that the front of Dr. Smith’s was scarcely the most
convenient place for his purpose, winked at his companions, and, with
an aspect of mock commiseration, politely assisted the old man to rise,
begged the others to capture the eels and carry the basket for him,
and, under pretence of putting the angler’s rod in order, contrived to
fasten the hook to the end of his old-fashioned pigtail.
Then he helped his unsteady steps until they were fairly out of Dr.
Smith’s sight and hearing; but they did not suffer him to reach his
son’s house before they showed their true colours. Loosing his hold,
Laurence snatched at the rod, and, darting with it towards the College
gate, cried out in high glee, “I’ve been fishing; look at the fine snig
(eel) I’ve caught!” And, as he capered about, he dragged the poor old
cripple hither and thither backwards by his pigtail, to which hook and
line were attached.
Old Brookes screamed in impotent rage and pain; the boys laughed and
shouted the louder. The one with his basket set it on his head, and
paraded about, crying, “Who’ll buy my snigs? Fine fresh snigs!” with
the nasal drawl of a genuine fish-seller.
Once or twice the old man fell down, uttering awful threats and
imprecations; but Laurence only laughed the more, and jerked him up
again with a smart twitch of the line, which was a strong one; and the
other three or four young ruffians put up their shoulders, and limped
about singing—
“The fishes drink water,
Old Crispin drinks gin;
But the fishes come out
When the hook he throws in.
Tol de rol.”
It may be wondered that none of the neighbours interfered. But it must
be remembered that they were accustomed, not only to the uproar of a
boyish multitude, but to the drunken ravings of Old Brookes, who was an
intolerable nuisance. Public traffic then was not as now, and policemen
were unborn.
The satisfaction of Laurence was at its height. He kept hold of the
line; one of his comrades, named Barret, lashed the persecuted man
with an eel for a whip, and their mirth was boisterous, when Jabez
(now thirteen) came quietly through the wicket on an errand from the
governor.
He took in the scene at a glance. He could not stand by and see
injustice done. His dark eyes flashed with indignation as he dashed
forward, pulling the line from the hand of Laurence, and tried to
disentangle the cruel hook from the unfortunate pigtail.
“Who asked you to interfere, you petticoated jackanapes?” bawled
Laurence, darting forward, his face as red as his hair, at the same
time dealing Jabez a heavy blow on the chest.
“My duty!” answered Jabez, stoutly, taking no notice of the sneer at
himself. “How could you gentlemen torment a poor old cripple like that?”
“He’s a drunken old sot!” cried Barret.
“It’s downright cruel!” continued Jabez, as he stood between the
jabbering drunkard and his tormentors.
“We’re no more cruel than he is! He’s been catching fishes all day.
We’ve only given him a taste of his own hook; and we’ll have none of
your meddling!” and out went the pugilistic arm of Laurence straight
from the shoulder to deal another blow, when it was caught from behind
by the bony hand of Ben Travis, bigger and stronger by two year’s
growth, whilst the other hand gripped his jacket collar.
“So you’re at your cowardly tricks again, Aspinall!” exclaimed he,
holding the other as if in a vice. “But if I see you lay another finger
on that lad, I’ll report you to Dr. Smith.”
“Oh! you’d turn sneak, would you?” sneered Laurence, striving to twist
himself loose, and disordering his broad white frill in the endeavour.
“I’d think I did the Grammar School a service to turn either you or
Barret out of it, I would! Think of you setting on that noble chap who
wouldn’t turn tell-tale, though he’ll carry the mark of your boot to
his grave with him!”