The Cloud with the Silver Lining
Loving Foxenby with all his heart, as one who had been far happier
there than at home, Dick Forge had always hitherto come back to it in
joyful expectation of pleasant days in store.
As its captain he had striven hard, particularly on the athletic side,
to keep it well in the picture, and there was evidence of his zeal in
the hall, where the County Schools' cricket-shield now hung. Moreover,
he had steered the Socker team into the final of the football cup, and
there was still a chance of winning that and bringing off the double
event.
Never had a winter term started with greater possibilities, yet Dick
entered upon it with leaden feet and downcast spirits. It appeared to
him that, unless something approaching a miracle happened in less than
a fortnight, a storm would burst over his head that he would be unable
to weather. He would have to pack up stealthily and go.
With frank or half-concealed curiosity everybody stared at his bruised
face and half-closed optic. Old Man Wykeham, in discussing with him
the prospects of the term, seemed to have eyes for nothing other than
those scars of battle; Mr. Rooke was even more inquisitive, and made no
bones about asking him the reason of it.
"I'd rather not say, sir, if you don't mind," Dick answered.
How long, he wondered, would the story of yesterday's encounter be in
making its way to Foxenby? By anyone mischievously disposed towards
him, it might so easily be described as "a pothouse brawl".
His fears in this direction were only too well grounded. Lyon, the
cup-team's doughty full-back, speedily brushed away his last hope that
the affair might never reach the school.
"I say, Forge, old man, somebody's set a nasty tale about concerning
you," said the full-back anxiously.
"Why, what's being said?" Dick inquired, fearing the worst.
"Oh, some tin-pot yarn about you picking a quarrel with a yokel in
Moston--a stupid clown who couldn't fight for toffee. The impression
is that you were showing off your superior pugilistic skill, and that
you sort of butchered this unscientific chawbacon to make a Moston
holiday. Awful rot, of course, but what did actually happen?"
Dick groaned in spirit. Was he never to enjoy a minute's freedom from
malice? There could be no doubt about it--Lyon was looking hard and
pointedly at his battered and still-swollen face, and it was that close
scrutiny which proved Dick's undoing. With all his nerves on edge he
lost his temper.
"Well, Lyon, if you like to believe lots of confounded tosh, it's your
own affair entirely," he burst out. "Let the old woman's tale go round
the school. I shall take no trouble to contradict it!"
He left Lyon gasping there, and went off in search of the only person
from whom he seemed likely to gain any sympathy--Roger Cayton, to wit.
But Roger had not yet arrived, nor was there any sign that his baggage
had come on in front of him.
The absence of the Prefect of Rooke's House on the first day of a new
term was a matter of some concern, and Dick at once reported it to Mr.
Rooke.
"I was just coming to see you about that very matter, Forge," the
housemaster said. "Cayton's father has written to say that the poor
lad is down with cerebral inflammation."
"Ill!" exclaimed Dick, blankly.
"Rather seriously, I fear. Over-study during the holidays, his father
says. Been working hard, unknown to the rest of the family, when he
ought to have been in bed. Trying to make sure of his Varsity
scholarship, no doubt."
"Do--do you think I could get leave to go and see him, sir?" stammered
Dick, pale of face and visibly distressed.
"No use if you could, Forge. They wouldn't admit you to a delirious
patient. Better wait and hope for the best. I'll let you know the
bulletins as they arrive, or you can write for information yourself."
Calamity on calamities! Trouble heaped on trouble, pressed down and
brimming over. Deprived of the moral support of his trustiest friend,
Dick had now to face his editorial dilemma entirely alone, with the
added anguish of knowing that Roger might succumb to the fever and be
for ever lost to him.
No shame to the Captain of Foxenby that he locked himself in his
study--_their_ study--that night, and, with his head buried in
his-arms, gave way to silent sobbing. The slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune were coming too fast about his ears--it was more
than human endurance could be expected to withstand!
He was soon bitterly angry with himself for this outburst of grief.
He, the Captain of Foxenby, blubbering like a First Form kid with the
toothache! A smile must be pumped up from somewhere for that last walk
along the dormitories--poor old Roger's work if he had been there. It
must never be said that Foxenby's Captain went to bed, on the first
night of the term, with a countenance as long as a fiddle.
Pride brought the smile, and sheer physical weariness--the reaction of
yesterday's fight--the sleep. And in the morning his damaged eye was
heaps better, and the marks of Juddy's fist were far less noticeable.
So Dick set about his duties with philosophical resignation, determined
to look facts in the face, intent on wearing a mask of nonchalance
which would deceive all but the shrewdest boys around him.
One of his first ordeals was to eat humble-pie over the _Rooke's House
Rag_. With many pen-scratchings and painful recommencements, he
prepared and pinned on the notice-board the following announcement:--
_THE ROOKE'S HOUSE RAG_
Subscribers to the above Magazine are notified that, pending the
recovery of the funds lost in the burglary last term, the publication
of the Rag has been temporarily suspended. As soon as arrangements can
be made its issue will certainly be renewed. In the meantime, any
Subscriber who desires the return of his unexpired subscription may
receive it on application to the undersigned,
Richard Forge,
Editor.
"The flaw in that literary 'wangle'," thought Dick, as he gazed
ruefully at the foolscap sheet, "is the rash promise to refund
unexpired subscriptions. If many of the Foxes take advantage of that,
I shall be cleaned out of 'tin' for the rest of the term."
He walked off sharply as though from an unclean thing. Had he turned
his head, he would have seen that Luke Harwood was the first to read
his public confession of failure. And he might have had some of his
laudable faith in human nature torn from him could he have observed the
self-satisfied smirk on the face of _The Foxonian's_ editor. "I told
him so--I knew it," was the verbal key to that smug expression.
Luke Harwood had reason to feel at peace with all the world to-day.
After long waiting, things were coming his way at last. This humble
suspension of the _Rag_ would not be exactly popular with those who had
subscribed to it. They would laugh ironically at the clause "pending
the recovery of the funds lost". How very likely that the burglars,
conscience-stricken, were saving up stolen money for an opportunity of
returning it! Then there was that ugly affair at the public-house--the
fight with the ignorant yokel. Very severe things were being said
about that in school. If any other Fox had been guilty of a vulgar
scrap in such squalid surroundings, would not Forge himself, as
captain, have reported the offender to the Head? Then, the School was
asking, why did not he report himself?
Oh, truly, reflected Luke, when the annual election of Foxenby's
captain took place at Easter, it would not be altogether such a
walk-over for Dick Forge as it had been in the two previous years!
During the rest of that miserable week, better news of Roger provided
the only relief to the background of dull misery. Roger, his father
wrote to say, had made a wonderful recovery, and was already itching to
get back to school. Such good tidings served to sustain Dick's pluck
as he saw, on almost every side, the growing animosity towards him. It
was suspicious, too, that nobody had asked for a return of a
subscription to the _Rag_. Was that also a conspiracy against him--a
sort of half-veiled boycott? Even Lyon, that reliable old football
warhorse, avoided him whenever possible. Forge was distinctly in the
School's black books this term.
Feeling almost an outcast, Dick grew morose and silent, and it was with
difficulty that he spoke civilly to Robin Arkness, leader of the Merry
Men, when that bland young gentleman accosted him outside his study
door.
"What d'ye want, youngster?" he asked irritably. "Sing out, quick; I'm
busy just now."
The quite unexpected answer took him, metaphorically speaking, off his
feet.
"Oh, please, Forge, will you sign your name in my autograph album?"
asked Robin, producing from behind his back an oblong book in a
somewhat grubby, red-leather binding.
"Why, kid, what's the game? No nonsense, now? I've a pretty rough way
of dealing with Juniors who try to pull my leg."
"Oh, honour bright, Forge, I want your autograph ever so much,"
declared Robin with the utmost gravity. "Put it here, please, on the
page I keep for footballers and boxers."
"Boxers! What are you driving at, you little monkey? You are trying
to pull my leg, after all!"
"Indeed, no, Forge! Do sign. There, underneath the autograph of the
light-weight champion of the world."
Dick found himself breathing rather fast as he looked from Robin to the
book, and from the book back to Robin again.
"Though you don't seem to realize it, younker, this is rather a tender
subject for me," he said at last, quietly. "You say you want me to
sign your book amongst the footballers and boxers! Footballer I may
be, in a measure, but why boxer?"
"Because you beat big Juddy Stockgill to a frazzle on the Anvil Inn
bowling-green," Robin replied, almost reverently.
Dick gasped. This was a newer and altogether pleasanter version of the
episode, anyhow!
"But that's not what the School thinks, kid. Foxenby's opinion is
that, for swank, I selected a nice, fat, juicy victim, and used him as
a punching-ball. Have you heard a different story?"
"No, Forge. But one of the--that is, somebody said they'd seen it was
Juddy Stockgill you walloped, and I know what a big brute he is, 'cos
my uncle had a farm next to the one where Juddy works. And he must
have been doing something rotten, or you wouldn't have struck him,
Forge."
Here was a golden opportunity to put things right, and Dick, after
slightly hesitating, took it.
"Juddy and his choice associates were knocking Fluffy Jim about rather
badly," he said. "I chipped in because of that, kid, and not for
personal glory. You believe me, I suppose?"
"Up to the hilt, Forge! You're a 'white man'. Sign my book, please,
so's I can 'hop' it back to 'prep'."
With a cheerier laugh than he had uttered for weeks, Dick did himself
the unsought honour of placing his signature beneath that of the
world's light-weight boxing champion, and Robin cleared off contentedly.
"Never say die, after all," Dick told himself, more hopefully. "With
Robin Hood and his Merry Men behind me, and Roger burning to get back
to my side, I think I can discern a tiny rift in the clouds at last!"