The Printer is Polite no Longer
Christmas appeared to have upset the liver of the printer of _The
Rooke's House Rag_. He was half-way down Dick's throat, in a manner of
speaking, the moment that unfortunate young editor entered the works.
"There'll be no more copies of your precious magazine issued from this
establishment, I warn you," he flared. "Call yourself captain of a
gentlemen's school! You're captain of a lot of prigs and bullies,
that's what you are!"
Dick was getting used to reverses of fortune nowadays, and he received
this outburst calmly.
"I've some recollection that you called me the soul of honour last
term," he replied. "Now you apparently think me a hooligan."
"I didn't say that. But you're a captain of hooligans all the same,
Mr. Forge. A nice life you let them lead my poor boy last term! I
sent him to Foxenby to learn to be a gentleman--not having had the
advantages of a public-school education myself--and instead he's
set-upon and browbeaten daily by gangs of young blackguards, and you
never lift a finger to protect him."
Dick looked bewildered. "I don't know what you're talking about," he
said. "How, please, does this concern me? Your son at Foxenby! Who,
pray, may that be?"
"My name is Mawdster, and my son's name is Peter. Now, perhaps you'll
'get' me. My poor, delicate boy has been shockingly ill-treated, and
you've stood by and looked on. Come, you don't deny it, Mr. Forge."
This was truly an eye-opener to Dick. Clear as noonday now became the
mystery of young Mawdster's championship of the _Rag_. That parting
shot of his, in which he had told the co-editors that he had not meant
to praise the contents of the _Rag_, but only its printing and
"make-up", was fully explained. The manager of the Cleartype Press and
the fat, unhealthy Squirm were father and son.
"Well, Mr. Mawdster, I admit that your boy has become unpopular with
his class-mates, but he boards in Holbeck's House and is therefore not
under my protection. His remedy for ill-treatment lies with his own
prefect and housemaster. I cannot interfere in any circumstances."
"Oh, can't you, Mr. High-and-mighty Captain!" snarled the manager,
mocking Dick's dignified tones. "But you'll jolly well have to, or
I'll know the reason why. You've got into my ribs for a lot of
money--more perhaps than you dream of--and I guess I hold the whip-hand
of you all right. You'll either take my poor boy's part at Foxenby or
sup sorrow, Mr. Forge."
"Don't be vulgar, and don't be absurd, Mr. Mawdster. Keep business and
private affairs apart. Admittedly, I cannot pay you yet for publishing
the magazine, but on that account you shall not blackmail me."
At this the manager suddenly dropped his threatening manner, and became
more like his old suave self. He commenced to wheedle.
"Look here, Mr. Forge, don't let us quarrel, you and me," he said.
"You've got a rare lot of power at Foxenby if you like to use it. I
appeal to you as a father. I love my boy--he's the only child we've
got, and it cost a little fortune to rear him, he was so weak at first.
But I'd spend another fortune--ay, all I've got in the world--to see
him happy and to know he was making nice chums amongst gentlemen's sons
up yonder. Stop them bullyin' him, Mr. Forge, and--and----"
"And what?" asked Dick.
"And I'll present you with a signed receipt for every penny that your
magazine has cost me," the printer blurted out. "I say, that's fair,
isn't it? You couldn't have a more sporting offer."
Beneath his calm exterior Dick was conscious of a heart that beat
quickly and uncomfortably. Here, if he could bring himself to adopt
it, was a way out of all his difficulties! But he gave no second
thought to the temptation.
"It is neither a sporting offer nor a workable one, Mr. Mawdster," he
answered, without hesitation. "I am sorry you are unhappy about your
son, but I can do nothing for him."
"What! You, the Captain of Foxenby, can't save my poor lad from being
beaten black and blue?"
"I have told you I cannot. It would be an unpardonable breach of
school etiquette."
"Etiquette be blowed!" cried the manager. "You've got to stick up for
my boy, or else----"
"Drop that, Mr. Mawdster. I won't be threatened. If you are
dissatisfied with your son's treatment, why don't you write to his
housemaster, or direct to the Head himself?"
"And have the poor, dear lad hounded out of the place as a tell-tale!
Not much, young fellow--he's suffered enough already without that. See
here, Mr. Stiff-neck Forge, you and I have got to have a straight talk
about this editorial stunt of yours."
"Certainly. That's why I came here so soon."
"I've published three numbers of the magazine on art paper, and they've
cost a lot of money. If I pass you the bill now, can you pay it?"
"I'm sorry to say I cannot."
"Very well, then. You're a minor, and therefore I can't sue you in the
County Court. I knew of that risk when I took your job on, but I
trusted to your honour as a gentleman."
"You shall be paid every farthing in the end."
"So you say! But I'm not prepared to wait. Either you'll pay now, on
the nail, or you'll protect my boy from insult and injury!"
"I have already explained that I can do neither."
The two faced each other angrily now. No quarter was asked or given.
"Is that your last word, Mr. Forge?"
"Quite!"
"Then your blood be on your own stupid head. A fortnight from to-day,
when your next number is due to be published, I shall go to your
headmaster and tell him how you've let me in! Politely ask him, I
shall, to write to your people about it, or to give me their address
so's I can write them myself."
At once Dick's thoughts turned home in alarm to his distressed aunt and
disdainful stepmother. There were strong reasons, of a different
character, why neither should know of his humiliating bother.
"Oh, don't do that, Mr. Mawdster, please!" he pleaded.
"Ah, that touches you, does it?" sneered the printer. "You wince now,
my proud young aristocrat. Well, I rather thought you'd see reason in
the end. You've got a fortnight's grace. Stretch a protectin' wing
over my poor, delicate boy, and all will be well. Be pig-headed, and
it won't! Your people will know all about it, and so will the whole
school. Nice pie for the editor of _The Foxonian_, eh? He won't half
smack his lips over it!"
These were the taunting words which followed Dick through the doorway
as he wisely decided to go. It was a relief to pass from the stuffy
printing-office into the clear air of a frosty January afternoon. Out
in the street he had rather less of the feeling of a rat caught
hopelessly in a trap.
"The beggar has me by the throat," he groaned inwardly. "Either I've
got to save the skin of his corpulent skunk of a son, or be shown up at
home and here as a fellow who doesn't pay his debts. Dear old Roger
little guessed what a rod he was making for my back when he egged me on
to start journalism."
It was the Moston half-holiday, and farm-lads were strolling about in
their best bell-bottomed trousers, in search of more amusement than the
little place was capable of providing. Some of them had gathered in
the Tavern Square, and were entertaining themselves by roughly baiting
Fluffy Jim, the village idiot.
One big rustic, probably about eighteen years of age, though he had the
beginnings of a strong beard on his unbarbered chin, was holding Fluffy
Jim's head tightly between his legs while the other lads took turns at
knocking dust out of the idiot's clothes with the ash-sticks and canes
they carried.
"Nah then, yo' chaps, let drive at him," shouted the biggest tyrant.
"Iverybody as makes him 'bale oot' scoöars one point, and them chaps
'at he 'shoots' moöast for gets a fat cigar apiece!"
To "bale oot" and to "shoot" meant the same thing in the dialect of the
district--the poor half-witted boy was to be made to shout out in pain
beneath the succession of strokes, and from this cruel pastime the
yokels were obviously deriving coarse amusement. Now, Dick had no
reason to feel tenderly disposed towards the village idiot, who had had
so much to do with one of the greatest disappointments of his life.
Nevertheless his blood boiled as he joined the little crowd of
watchers, some of them elderly men, and realized that, far from showing
any desire to interfere, they seemed actually to be enjoying the "fun".
Dick had meant going straight into the inn to claim the shelter of the
snug little private room which he had booked. His brain was in a
whirl, and above everything he craved quietude. His last wish was to
be mixed up in a brawl with skylarking farm-hands. The Captain of
Foxenby could not really afford the luxury of a "scrap" in the open
street.
A very genuine howl of agony from Fluffy Jim settled the matter,
however. Dick suddenly appeared in the centre of the laughing rustics,
and tapped the leader of them on the shoulder.
"That'll do, you," he said, curtly. "Let Fluffy Jim go. He's had
enough knocking about for to-day."
The young horseman gaped, as well he might, for this was an audacious
thing that the Foxenby schoolboy had done. The square was thick with
the yokel's friends, a united rush by whom would speedily have put the
intruder out and under.
"Oh, by gum! An' who's thee when tha're at hoöam?" inquired the
horseman. "Run away to thee mammy, kid, afoöar tha gets hurt!"
Great laughter rewarded this outburst of rural wit. But Dick's reply,
eagerly awaited, was not in words. Catching hold of the yokel's
neckcloth he jerked him smartly back, thereby releasing Fluffy Jim from
that unhappy youth's painful position. In an instant there was angry
uproar.
"Hit 'im in t'mooth, Juddy! Clart 'im in t'lug, lad! Rub 'is cheeky
nose in t'snow, Juddy, boy!"
Thus urged on all sides to action, "Juddy" bunched together a fist of
terrifying size, swung it round a few times to emphasize its power, and
then lifted it carefully to the level of Dick's eyes.
"See that?" he said. "It's what tha're goin' to get for interferin'
wi' the likes o' me. Ah've gi'en thee fair warnin', so look art!"
[Illustration: "SEE THAT?" HE SAID]
He drew back his arm to strike, and Dick, secretly somewhat dismayed by
the size of the fist he had been invited to inspect, got ready to
defend himself. Then it was that the landlord of the "Anvil Inn", an
old quartermaster-sergeant, took a hand in the game.
"Not here, gentlemen, I beg," said he. "Do you both want to spend a
night in the lock-up? There's the bowling-green behind, nice and
handy. If you must fight, come and have it out there!"
This fresh turn of events was still more hateful to Dick, who would
have preferred to be done with the unfortunate affair after a quick
set-to in the open. But some gratis sport of a thrilling character was
exactly what the crowd wanted, and they swept both Dick and the
horseman, willy-nilly, on to the snow-covered bowling-green at the rear.
"Now then, gents, you all know me as an old boxer and a clean
sportsman," the landlord shouted. "So I'll be referee and see fair
play. Juddy here will have plenty of supporters, but who's going to
hold the sponge for the representative of Foxenby?"
"I will, old bean," said a man at the back of the crowd, which parted
to make way for him. "Give me your coat, youngster. I'll see you
through this all right."
And it was with a thankful heart that Dick saw "Chuck" Smithies, his
travelling companion of the previous day, elbowing his way towards him.
In this hostile crowd he was now assured of at least one friend!