It so happened that on the day following Stephen Greenfield's arrival at
Saint Dominic's, the head master, Dr Senior, was absent.
This circumstance gave great satisfaction to the new boy when his
brother told him of it, as it put off for another twenty-four hours the
awful moment when he would be forced to expose his ignorance before that
terrible personage.
"You'd better stick about in my room while I'm in school," said Oliver,
"and then you can come down to the cricket-field and see the practice.
By the way, some of the fellows may be in to bag my ink; they always run
short on Friday; but don't let them take it, for I shall want it
to-night. Ta, ta; give my love to the _mater_ if you're writing home.
I'll be back for you after the twelve bell."
And off he went, leaving Stephen to follow his own sweet devices for
three hours.
That young gentleman was at no loss how to occupy part of the time. He
must write home. So after much searching he unearthed a crumpled sheet
of note-paper from one of the drawers, and set himself to his task. As
he wrote, and his thoughts flew back to the home and the mother he had
left only yesterday, his spirits fell, and the home-sickness came over
him worse than ever. What would he not give to change places with this
very letter, and go back home!
Here, no one cared for him, every one seemed to despise him. He wasn't
used to those rough public schools, and would never get on at Saint
Dominic's. Ah! that wretched Tenth Fiji War. What _would_ become of
him to-morrow when the Doctor would be back? There was no one to help
him. Even Oliver seemed determined to let him fight his own battles.
Poor boy! He sat back in his chair and let his mind wander once more
back to the snug little home he had left. And, as he did so, his eyes
unconsciously filled with tears, and he felt as if he would give
anything to escape from Saint Dominic's.
At this moment the door opened and a small boy entered.
He did not seem to expect to find any one in the room, for he uttered a
hurried "Hullo!" as he caught sight of Stephen.
Stephen quickly dashed away a tear and looked up.
"Where's Greenfield?" demanded the small boy.
"He's in school," replied Stephen.
"Hullo! what are you blubbering at?" cried the small boy, growing very
bold and patronising all of a sudden, "eh?"
Stephen did not answer this home question.
"I suppose you are a new kid, just left your mammy?" observed the other,
with the air of a man of forty; "what's your name, young 'un?"
"Stephen Greenfield."
"Oh, my! is it? What form are you in?"
"I don't know yet."
"Haven't you been examined?"
"No, not yet."
"Oh, of course; old Senior's away. Never mind, you'll catch it
to-morrow, blub-baby!"
This last epithet was thrown in in such a very gratuitous and offensive
way, that Stephen did not exactly like it.
The small youth, however, finding himself in a bantering mood, pursued
his questions with increasing venom.
"I suppose they call you Steenie at home?" he observed, with a sneer
that was meant to be quite annihilating.
"No, they don't," replied Stephen; "mother calls me Steevie."
"Oh, Steevie, does she? Well, Steevie, were you ever licked over the
knuckles with a ruler?"
"No," replied Stephen; "why?"
"Because you will be--I know who'll do it, too, and kick you on the
shins, too, if you're cheeky!"
Stephen was quite at a loss whether to receive this piece of news in the
light of information or a threat. He was inclined to believe it the
latter; and as he was a rash youth, he somewhat tartly replied, "_You_
won't!"
The small boy looked astounded--not that he ever contemplated attempting
the chastisement about which he had talked; but the idea of a new boy
defying _him_, one of the chosen leaders of the Tadpoles, who had been
at Saint Dominic's two years, was amazing. He glared at the rash
Stephen for half a minute, and then broke out, "Won't I? that's all! you
see, you pretty little blubber boy! Yow-ow-ow! little sneak! why don't
you cut behind your mammy's skirt, if you're afraid? I would cry if I
were you. Where's his bottle? Poor infant! Yow-ow-boo-boo!"
This tornado, delivered with increasing vehemence and offensiveness,
quite overpowered Stephen, who stared at the boy as if he had been a
talking frog.
That youth evidently seemed to expect that his speech would produce a
far deeper impression than it did, for he looked quite angry when
Stephen made no reply.
"Wretched little sneak!" the amiable one continued; "I suppose he'll go
peaching to his big brother. Never mind, _we'll_ pay you out, see if we
don't! Go and kiss your mammy, and tell your big brother what they did
to little duckie Steevie, did they then? they shouldn't! Give him a
suck of his bottle! oh, my!" and he finished up with a most withering
laugh. Then, suddenly remembering his errand, he walked up to the
table, and said, "I want that inkpot!"
Now was Stephen's time. He was just in the humour for an argument with
this young Philistine.
"What for?"
"What's that to you? give it up!"
"I shan't give it up; Oliver said it was not to be taken."
"What do you say?" yelled the small boy, almost beside himself with rage
and astonishment. "It's my brother's ink, and I'm not to give it up,"
said Stephen, shutting the top and keeping his hand on it.
It was enough! The patriarch of the Tadpoles knew his strong point was
in words rather than action; but this could not be endured. At whatever
risk, the dignity of his order must be maintained, and this insolent,
mad new boy must be--kicked.
"I'll kick you on the legs if you don't give it up," said the Tadpole,
in a suppressed white heat.
Stephen said nothing, but kept his hand on the pot, and awaited what was
to follow.
The hero stepped back a pace or two, to allow of a run worthy of the
coming kick; and what might have happened no one knows. At that moment
the door opened, and Pembury entered on his crutches.
At sight of this Fifth Form celebrity the Tadpole cringed and cowered,
and tried to sneak out of the study unobserved. But Anthony was too
quick for him. Gently hooking him by the coat-collar with the end of a
crutch, he brought him back.
"What are you doing here?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, he is," shouted Stephen; "he's been trying to take, away Oliver's
ink."
"Silence, young gentleman, pray!" said Pembury, very grandly. Then,
turning to the Tadpole, he added, "Oh, so you've been trying to bag some
ink, have you?"
"Well, I only wanted a little; and this--"
"Silence! how much ink did you want?"
"Only half a potful."
"You shall have half a potful!" said Pembury. "Come here."
The Tadpole obeyed, and glared triumphantly at Stephen.
"Now, Master Greenfield," said Pembury, addressing Stephen; "have the
kindness to hand me the ink."
Stephen hesitated; he felt _sure_ Anthony was a master; and yet Oliver's
directions had been explicit.
"Do you hear?" thundered Anthony.
"Do you hear?" squeaked the Tadpole, delighted to have the tables turned
on his adversary.
"Oliver said I wasn't to let it go," faltered Stephen.
"Do you hear me, sir?" again demanded Anthony.
"Do you hear? give it up!" again squeaked the Tadpole.
Stephen sighed, and surrendered the inkpot. There was an air of
authority about Pembury which he dared not defy.
"Now, Master Tadpole, here's your ink; half a pot you said? Put your
hands behind you, and stir if you dare!" and Pembury looked so awful as
he spoke that the wretched boy was quite petrified.
The Fifth Form boy then solemnly emptied half the inkpot on to the top
of the young gentleman's head, who ventured neither by word nor gesture
to protest.
"Now you can go, sir!" and without another word he led the small youth,
down whose face trickled a dozen tiny streams of black, making it look
very like a gridiron, to the door, and there gently but firmly handed
him into the passage. The wretched youth flew off to proclaim his
sorrows to his confederates, and vow vengeance all over Tadpole and
Guinea-pig-land against his tormentor and the new boy, who was the
author of all his humiliation.
Pembury meanwhile returned to Stephen. That young gentleman had felt
his belief in Pembury's authority somewhat shaken by this unusual mode
of punishment, but the Fifth Form boy soon reassumed his ascendency. He
produced from his pocket a paper, and thus addressed Stephen: "Dr
Senior regrets that he should be absent at such an important time in the
history of Saint Dominic's as the day of your arrival, Master
Greenfield, but he will be back to-morrow. Meanwhile, you are to occupy
yourself with answering the questions on this paper, and take the
answers to the head master's study at ten to-morrow. Of course you will
not be so dishonourable as to show the questions to any one, not even
your brother, or attempt to get the slightest help in answering them.
Good-bye, my boy. Don't trouble to stare at my left leg, if it _is_
shorter than the other. Good-bye."
Poor Stephen felt so confused by the whole of this oration, particularly
the last sentence, which made him blush scarlet with shame, that for
some time after the lame boy had hobbled off he could not bring himself
to look at the paper. At last, however, he took it up.
This, then, was the awful examination paper which was to determine his
position at Saint Dominic's, or else expose his ignorance to the scorn
of his masters. How he wished he was on the other side of it, and that
the ordeal was over!
"Question 1. Grammar. Parse the sentence, `Oh, ah!' and state the
gender of the following substantives: `and,' `look,' `here.'"
Stephen scratched his head and rubbed his eyes. This was not like
anything he had learned at home. They must learn out of quite different
books at Saint Dominic's.
"Question 2. History--"
"Hullo," thought Stephen, "they don't give many questions in grammar;
that's a good job."
"Question 2. History. Whose daughter was Stephen the Second, and why
was he nicknamed the `Green?'"
Stephen laughed. He had found out a mistake in his examiners.
"`Daughter,' the paper said, should be `son' of course. Funny for Dr
Senior to make such a slip," thought he.
"Question 3. History and Geography. Who built England? and state the
latitude and longitude of Saint Dominic's, and the boundaries of Gusset
Weir."
"_However_ am I to know?" murmured Stephen, in despair. "I was never
here before in my life. Oh, dear, I shall _never_ pass!"
"Question 4. Compound Theology. Give a sketch of the rise and history
of the Dominicans from the time of Herod the Conqueror to the death of
Titmus."
"Whew!" was Stephen's despairing ejaculation. "I never heard of Titmus;
it sounds like a Latin name."
"Question 5. Pure Theology. Who was Mr Finis? Give a list of the
works bearing his signature, with a short abstract of their contents.
What is he particularly celebrated for?"
"Mr Finis?" groaned Stephen. "How can they expect a boy like me to
know who he was? And yet I seem to know the name. Oh dear me!"
"Question 6, and last but one," ("That's a comfort," sighed Stephen).
"Mathematics. What is a minus? Describe its shape, and say how many
are left when the whole is divided by seven. Reduce your answer to
vulgar decimals."
"I'm certain I can never do that. Minus? Minus? I know the name, too.
But here's the last."
"Question 7. Miscellaneous. Give a brief history of your own life from
the earliest times, being particular to state your vicious deeds in
chronological order."
Stephen sighed a sigh of relief. "I can answer that, after a fashion,"
he said; "but I can't even then be sure of all the dates. As for the
others--" and he dashed the paper down on the table with an air of
bewildered despair.
"What am I to do? They are all too hard for me. Oh! I wish I might
just show them to Oliver. If I was only at home, mother could help me.
Oh, dear! I wish I had never come here!"
And he gave himself over to the extreme of misery, and sat staring at
the wall until the twelve bell rang, and Oliver and Wraysford broke in
on his solitude.
"Hullo, young 'un; in the dumps? Never mind; you'll be used to it in a
day or two, won't he, Wray?"
"Of course you will," said Wraysford, cheerily; "it's hard lines at
first. Keep your pecker up, young 'un."
The young 'un, despite this friendly advice, felt very far from keeping
up his pecker. But he did his best, and worked his face into a
melancholy sort of a smile.
"Fish us my spike shoes out of that cupboard, Stee, there's a good
fellow," said Oliver, "and come along to the cricket-field. There's a
big practice on this afternoon."
Stephen hesitated.
"I've got to do my exam before ten to-morrow. Some one brought me up
the paper and said so. Perhaps I'd better stop here and do it?"
"I thought you weren't to be had up till the Doctor came back. Who
brought you the paper? I suppose it was Jellicott, the second master?"
"I suppose so," said Stephen, who had never heard of Mr Jellicott in
his life before.
"Let's have a look at it," said the elder brother.
"I promised I wouldn't."
"Oh, all serene; I only wanted to see the questions. It's a new dodge
giving papers, isn't it, Wray? We were examined _viva voce_ in the
Doctor's study. Well, come on, old man, or we shall be late. You'll
have lots of time for that this evening."
And off they went, the wretched Stephen wrestling mentally with his
problems all the while.
Of course, profound reader, you have made the brilliant discovery by
this time that Master Stephen Greenfield was a very green boy. So were
you and I at his age; and so, after all, we are now. For the more we
think we know, the greener we shall find we are; that's a fact!