There is a queer elasticity about boys which no one, least of all
themselves, can account for. A quarter of an hour after the big
practice had begun Stephen had forgotten all about his examination, and
could think of nothing but cricket.
As he sat cross-legged on the grass among half a dozen youngsters like
himself, he even began to forget that he was a new boy, and was
surprised to find himself holding familiar converse with one and another
of his companions.
"Well bowled, sir!" shouted Master Paul, as a very swift ball from
Ricketts took Bullinger's middle stump clean out of the
ground--"rattling well bowled! I say," he added, turning round; "if
Ricketts bowls like that to-day week, the others will be nowhere."
"Oh," said Stephen, to whom this remark seemed to be addressed.
Master Paul looked sharply round.
"Hullo, young 'un, is that you? Jolly good play, isn't it? Who are you
for, A or Z?"
"What do you mean?"
"Mean? Do you back the A's or the Z's? that's what I mean. Oh, I
suppose you don't twig, though. A to M, you know, against N to Z."
"Oh," said Stephen, "I back the A to M's, of course; my brother is in
that half."
"So he is--isn't that him going in now? Yes; you see if Ricketts
doesn't get him out in the first over!"
Stephen watched most eagerly and anxiously. They were not playing a
regular game, only standing up to be bowled at in front of the nets, or
fielding at fixed places; but each ball, and each hit, and each piece of
fielding, was watched and applauded as if a victory depended on it, for
out of those playing to-day the two elevens for the Alphabet match were
to be chosen; and out of those two elevens, as every one knew, the
School eleven, which would play the County in June, was to be selected.
Oliver, despite Paul's prophecy, stood out several overs of Rickett's,
and Loman's, and the school captain's, one after the other, cutting some
of their balls very hard, and keeping a very steady guard over his
wicket. At last a ball of Loman's got past him and snicked off his
bails.
Stephen looked inquiringly round at Paul, and then at the small knot of
Sixth fellows who were making notes of each candidate's play.
"He's all right," said Paul; "I guess Raleigh," (that was the school
captain) "didn't fancy his balls being licked about like that. Never
mind--there goes Braddy in."
And so the practice went on, each candidate for the honour of a place in
the eleven submitting to the ordeal, and being applauded or despised
according as he acquitted himself. Wraysford, of course, came out of
the trial well, as he always did.
"I declare, the Fifth could lick the Sixth this year, Tom," said Pembury
to Tom Senior, as they sat together looking on.
"I'm sure they could; I hope we challenge them."
Just then a Sixth Form fellow strolled up to where the speakers were
standing.
"I say, Loman," said Pembury, "we were just saying our men could lick
yours all to fits. Don't you think so yourself?"
"Can't say I do; but you are such a wonderful lot of heroes, you Fifth,
that there's no saying what you couldn't do if you tried," replied
Loman, with a sneer.
"But you take such precious good care we shall not try, that's just it,"
said Pembury, winking at his companion. "Never mind, we'll astonish you
some day," growled the editor of the _Dominican_ as he hobbled away.
Loman strolled up to where the small boys were sitting.
"Which of you is young Greenfield?" he said.
"I am," said Stephen, promptly.
"Run with this letter to the post, then, and bring me back some stamps
while you are there, and get tea ready for two in my study by half-past
six--do you hear?"
And off he went, leaving Stephen gaping at the letter in his hand, and
quite bewildered as to the orders about tea.
Master Paul enjoyed his perplexity.
"I suppose you thought you were going to get off fagging. I say, you'll
have to take that letter sharp, or you'll be late."
"Where's the post-office?"
"About a mile down Maltby Road. Look here, as you are going there, get
me a pound of raisins, will you?--there's a good chap. We'll square up
to-night."
Stephen got up and started on his errands in great disgust.
He didn't see why he was to be ordered about and sent jobs for the other
boys, just at a time, too, when he was enjoying himself. However, it
couldn't be helped.
Three or four fellows stopped him as he walked with the letter in his
hand to the gates.
"Oh, are you going to the post? Look here, young 'un, just call in at
Splicer's about my bat, will you? thanks awfully!" said one.
Another wanted him to buy a sixpenny novel at the library; a third
commissioned him to invest threepence in "mixed sweets, chiefly
peppermint;" and a fourth to call at Grounding, the naturalist's, with a
dead white mouse which the owner wanted stuffed.
After this, Stephen--already becoming a little more knowing--stuffed the
letter in his pocket, and took care, if ever he passed any one, not to
look as if he was going anywhere, for fear of being entrusted with a
further mission.
He discharged all his errands to the best of his ability, including that
relating to the dead mouse, which he had great difficulty in rescuing
from the clutches of a hungry dog on the way down, and then returned
with Paul's raisins in one pocket, the mixed sweets in another, the book
in another, and the other boy's bat over his shoulder.
Paul was awaiting him at the gate of Saint Dominic's.
"Got them?" he shouted out, when Stephen was still twenty yards off.
Stephen nodded.
"How much?" inquired Paul.
"Eighteenpence."
"You duffer! I didn't mean them--pudding raisins I meant, about
sixpence. I say, you'd better take them back, hadn't you?"
This was gratitude! "I can't now," said Stephen.
"I've got to get somebody's tea ready--I say, where's his study?"
"Whose? Loman's? Oh, it's about the eighth on the right in the third
passage; next to the one with the kicks on it. What a young muff you
are to get this kind of raisin! I say, you'd have plenty of time to
change them."
"I really wouldn't," said Stephen, hurrying off, and perhaps guessing
that before he met Mr Paul again the raisins would be past changing.
The boy to whom belonged the mixed sweets was no more grateful than Paul
had been.
"You've chosen the very ones I hate," he said, surveying the selection
with a look of disgust.
"You said peppermint," said Stephen.
"But I didn't say green, beastly things!" grumbled the other. "Here,
you can have one of them, it's sure to make you sick!"
Stephen said "Thank you," and went off to deliver up the bat.
"What a time you've been!" was all the thanks he got in that quarter.
"Why couldn't you come straight back with it?"
This was gratifying. Stephen was learning at least one lesson that
afternoon--that a fag, if he ever expects to be thanked for anything he
does, is greatly mistaken. He went off in a highly injured frame of
mind to Loman's study.
Master Paul's directions might have been more explicit--"The eighth door
on the right; next to the one with the kicks." Now, as it happened, the
door with the kicks on it was itself the eighth door on the right, with
a study on either side of it, and which of these two was Loman's Stephen
could not by the unaided light of nature determine. He peeped into
Number 7; it was empty.
"Perhaps he's cut his name on the door," thought Stephen.
He might have done so, but as there were about fifty different letters
cut on the door, he was not much wiser for that.
"I'd better look and see if his name is on his collars," Stephen next
reflected, remembering with what care his mother had marked his own
linen.
He opened a drawer; it was full of jam-pots. At that moment the door
opened behind him, and the next thing Stephen was conscious of was that
he was half-stunned with a terrific box on the ears.
"Take that, you young thief!" said the indignant owner of the study;
"I'll teach you to stick your finger in my jam. What do you mean by
it?" and a cuff served as a comma between each sentence.
"I really didn't--I only wanted--I was looking for--"
"That'll do; don't tell lies as well as steal; get away."
"I never stole anything!" began Stephen, whose confusion was being
rapidly followed by indignation at this unjust suspicion.
"That'll do. A little boy like you shouldn't practise cheating. Off
you go! If I catch you again I'll take you to the Doctor."
In vain Stephen, now utterly indignant, and burning with a sense of
injustice, protested his innocence. He could not get a hearing, and
presently found himself out in the passage, the most miserable boy in
all Saint Dominic's.
He wandered disconsolately along the corridor, trying hard to keep down
his tears, and determined to beg and beseech his brother to let him
return home that very evening, when Loman and a friend confronted him.
"Hullo, I say, is tea ready?" demanded the former.
"No," said Stephen, half choking.
"Why ever not, when I told you?"
Stephen looked at him, and tried to speak, and then finally burst into
tears.
"Here's an oddity for you! Why, what's the row, youngster?"
"Nothing," stammered Stephen.
"That's a queer thing to howl at. If you were weeping because you
hadn't made my tea, I could understand it. Come along, I'll show you
how to do it this time, young greenhorn."
Stephen accompanied him mechanically, and was ushered into the study on
the other side of the door with the kicks to that in which he had been
so grievously wronged.
He watched Loman prepare the meal, and was then allowed to depart, with
orders to be in the way, in case he should be wanted.
Poor Stephen! Things were going from bad to worse, and life was already
a burden to him. And besides--that exam paper! It now suddenly dawned
upon him. Here it was nearly seven o'clock, and by ten to-morrow he was
to deliver it up to Dr Senior!
How _ever_ was he to get through it? He darted off to Oliver's study.
It was empty, and he sat down, and drawing out the paper, made a dash at
the first question.