What followed the First Number
The manager of the Moston Fairtype Press made no bones whatever about
undertaking the publication of _The Rooke's House Rag_. Competition
was healthy, he said, and he believed there was plenty of room for a
second magazine in a big school like Foxenby, "whose pupils," he
declared, "were drawn almost exclusively from the noblest and
wealthiest classes."
Also, he continued, he welcomed the chance of showing what his firm
could do in trade rivalry with Greatorex & Co., who printed and
published _The Foxonian_ for "Mr. Harwood". A rough estimate of the
possible cost? Certainly, if the young gentlemen wished it, but it
would be rather a waste of time, as, from the standpoint of one who had
the interests of Foxenby at heart, he was prepared to cut the price as
low as it was possible to do it without actually losing money on the
job.
Deposit? He wasn't at all concerned about that. He could take it that
Mr. Forge held himself personally responsible for the cost of
production? That would do, then; the word of honour of the Captain of
Foxenby was good enough for him, any day.
"Send your 'copy' along in due course, gentlemen, and it shall have my
personal attention from the moment it enters our doors," he declared.
"I can't say fairer than that, can I?"
The two boys, who had quite anticipated some hard bargaining, were
almost overwhelmed by this ready support of their optimistic plans.
Their amazement was so obviously reflected in their faces that the
manager laughed.
"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Forge--keep smilin', Mr. Cayton," he said. "I'm
not givin' anythin' away! Though nominally manager of this place, I
am, in the main, its proprietor, and I shall not lose in chargin' you
on the very lowest scale. There is somethin' in advertisement, you
know."
[Illustration: "DON'T BE ALARMED, MR. FORGE"]
Reassured, Dick took away with him the cash he had come prepared to
deposit, and both adjourned to the nearest café to celebrate their good
fortune in finding so accommodating a publisher. A happy omen, surely,
for the success of the new magazine!
All that week Dick, not without a twinge of conscience, accepted help
from Roger in his "prep." so that they might both give more time to the
arrangement of the _Rag's_ first number. Outsiders had not yet been
invited to contribute; the first issue was to be a surprise. Every boy
in the school was to receive a free copy, in the confident hope that
his subscription would be forthcoming when he had digested the mental
food afforded by its contents.
It is the way of all amateurs to be over-sure at first.
A rude awakening awaited Dick and Roger. Had the Thames flowed past
Foxenby on the morning of publication, it would have run no risk of
being set afire. Nimble youngsters aided in the distribution of the
copies, and by midday every boy in the school had received _The Rooke's
House Rag_. There was, however, no sign of anyone missing a meal to
read it. Some copies, alas, were flapping against the shrubbery
trees--cast adrift, as is often the fate of literature circulated free.
Bravely pretending that their hearts were not somewhere in the region
of their boots, Dick and Roger smiled at one another.
"Taken their breath away, I fancy, old chap," said Dick. "Knocked them
speechless. Anyhow, the silence is uncanny."
His comment was immediately followed by the appearance of Luke Harwood,
who came towards him with outstretched hand. With such a smile,
too--radiantly disarming!
"Congratulations, Forge, old man!" he said. "A clinking idea, and a
topping first number. How 'squat' you kept it, too--quite a refreshing
surprise."
Gripping Harwood's hand hard, Dick positively blushed.
"You like it, Harwood?"
"Rather! It's hot stuff. The real goods!"
"Awfully sporting of you to say so, Harwood, old man. You're the first
to congratulate us. I say 'us', because Cayton's as much an editor of
the _Rag_ as I am. Decent of Harwood to give us such a send-off, isn't
it, Roger?"
"Oh--ah--to be sure!" agreed Roger, thinking something altogether
different. (He would have preferred laughing sarcastically in the
Foxonian Editor's bland face.)
"You've done it handsome, too--fine art paper, and all that," said
Harwood appreciatively. "Always coveted a similar 'get-up' myself.
Never had the pluck to risk it, though. Hope you'll get your
subscriptions in all right."
"Leave that to me," Roger cut in, rather waspishly "I'm cashier."
Harwood smilingly cleared off then, and nothing further happened till
afternoon school ended. Then, at Roger's suggestion, the co-editors
entered the study to talk matters over. It was a warm autumn evening,
and a full moon kept the darkness at bay. Consequently, the yard was
thronged with boys, and through the study window, open at the top, it
was possible at last to hear _Rooke's House Rag_ being discussed.
"Class one, I call it. A reamer," declared a fresh young voice, raised
high, as if in challenge. "Chews the ears off _The Foxonian_--makes a
grocer's sugar-bag of it, by comparison."
Roger peered at Dick over his spectacles. "Hear that, my worthy
editor?" he whispered. "The dulcet voice of Robin Arkness sings your
praises. Bravo, Robin! Whatever lead he takes his 'Merry Men' are
bound to follow. We've a doughty champion there!"
Sure enough, a chorus of approval followed. The Rag was spiffing,
top-hole, full of ginger, had the Foxonian skinned a mile--of such a
type were the compliments that flew about for a time, making sweet
music for the co-editors' ears. Then, as was perhaps inevitable, came
the jarring note.
"All rot, seems to me, bringing out another school magazine," quoth a
dissentient Junior. "How many of you chaps who are cracking it up have
bothered to read it? Dull as ditchwater in my opinion, and half a
crown a term thrown away."
"That's the leader of the Fourth Form Opposition--young Osbody from
Holbeck's House," explained Roger. "Impossible to take his criticism
seriously. Matter of creed with him to oppose whatever Arkness says.
Listen--all the 'Squirms' will back him up in slating us."
The title of "The Squirms" had been invented by Robin Arkness for the
discomfiture of his rivals, and was not, perhaps, unfair to them on the
whole, as they seemed to have the unhappy knack of drawing to their
side some of the least wholesome of Foxenby's Juniors. Among the
shortcomings of a few of them was a disregard for the laws of
hygiene--in other words, a rooted dislike to soap and water. In the
matter of personal cleanliness Foxenby's reputation stood high, and the
small minority who fell below the standard were deservedly unpopular.
The "Squirms" justified Roger's inference by shrilly attacking the
_Rag_--not because they had intelligent fault to find with it, but
because they felt compelled to dissent from "Robin Hood's" views in any
case. Word-thrusts were given without mercy and taken without
flinching. The Merry Men were accused of becoming subscribers only to
curry favour with the captain; the Merry Men retaliated by declaring
that fear of Harwood's ash-stick prejudiced the Squirms in the
_Foxonian's_ favour. All these verbal fireworks would have gone off
harmlessly but for the amazing conduct of one particular Squirm, who,
during a breath-taking lull, had the nerve to speak well of the _Rag_.
"I say, all you chaps," he chimed in, "The _Foxonian's_ all right, of
course, but you can't help admitting that _Rooke's House Rag_ is a
jolly sight better got up--first easily in quality of paper and style
of printing!"
What a set-back for the Squirms! The Merry Men uttered an ironical
cheer at this falling away from the enemy's ranks, and Osbody rounded
furiously on his weak-kneed supporter. "Shut up, Mawdster, you ass!"
he cried. "When you're asked for your opinion, give it--not sooner,
unless it's a split lip you're seeking."
"Oh, please, Osbody," Robin intervened, in mock terror, "don't split
poor Mawdster's lip. If you do he might have to wash his india-rubber
collar before Christmas!"
Now, Osbody himself being always irreproachable in tidiness, Robin well
knew that this exaggerated taunt would touch his rival's pride more
than anything. But even Robin was unprepared for the speed with which
Osbody leapt at him and hit him in the face. A rough-and-tumble in the
"Forest", well screened by tall evergreens, was a safe amusement
compared with a free fight in the school-yard itself.
Keeping cool, Robin warded off Osbody's blows without attempting to
retaliate.
"Don't be a loon, Osbody," he said. "Wanting to scrap here, right
beneath the windows--it's a madman's trick. Come and settle it in the
'Forest'."
But feeling ran too high for compromise now. The swift attack on their
chief had fired the blood of the Merry Men. Each selected an
antagonist and went for him, so that Dick and Roger, peeping cautiously
through the curtains, were the uncomfortable witnesses of a pitched
battle, of which their editorial venture was the primary cause.
"This is an advertisement we didn't bargain for, Roger," said Dick.
"Hang it, yes! There'll be a miniature eruption of Vesuvius if the Old
Man hears of it. Not another prefect about, of course."
"We must run downstairs and nip it in the bud, Roger."
"Most inconveniently for us. Can't we lie 'doggo', Dick?"
"Indeed, no. It's up to us, old man. I've winked at these little
Donnybrooks in the shrubbery, but discipline goes overboard for 'keeps'
if we let them paint one another's eyes beneath our windows."
"Seems a pity to interfere when our side's getting the best of it!"
It was the voice of the tempter, but Dick heeded it not.
"Stay here, Roger. No good both of us courting unpopularity," said
Dick, and Roger, ever a failure as a disciplinarian, willingly remained
behind. Unseen himself, he watched the captain hop between the
infuriated combatants.
"Ease off, you hooligans!" Forge said. "This is a school-yard, not a
cockpit. Boys of Rooke's House will report to me at my study after
tea. The rest of you will be reported to the head prefect of Holbeck's
House for--for" (he was about to say fighting, but withdrew it in
favour of a softer term) "unseemly behaviour. No back talk, now, any
of you; clear!"
The Juniors scattered sulkily and formed up again in opposite corners
of the yard. In the bright light of the moon Dick watched them long
enough to gather that his interference had not been taken
philosophically. One Merry Man, of whose identity he was not certain,
took out a copy of the _Rag_ and ostentatiously tore it up. It was
whisked away by the warm wind to join other spurned copies in the
bushes.
Dick mounted the stairs slowly, sick with disappointment.
"So much for our literary ambition, Roger, old pard," he groaned.
"What sort of a kick-off do you call this? Couldn't be rottener, in my
opinion."
And Roger, at a loss for words of consolation, savagely knocked a
dictionary off the table.