Oh wood I was a lark, a lark all lofty in the sky,
I do not know what I should do to quench my blazing eye.
I'd look me down on Dominic's, and think of the days when I was young,
Or would I was an infant meek all sucking of my thumb.
Again Simon, who had watched with intense interest the reception of his
poem, was perplexed to notice the amusement it had caused. Even Pembury
had mistaken its "inmost soul," for he had placed it in the column
devoted to "Facetiae." Nor could Simon understand why, for the next
week, every one he met had his thumb in his mouth. It was very queer--
one of life's mysteries--and he had thoughts of embodying the fact in
his "Sole's Allegery," which was now rapidly approaching completion.
After this bubbling up of pure verse there followed a few remarks about
Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, which had the effect of highly incensing those
young gentlemen. The paragraph was entitled--
"Market Intelligence.
"Half a dozen mixed Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were offered for sale by
auction on the centre landing yesterday. There was only a small
attendance. The auctioneer said he couldn't honestly recommend the lot,
but they must be got rid of at any cost. He had scrubbed their faces
and combed their hair for the occasion, but couldn't guarantee that
state of things to last. But they might turn out to be of use as
substitutes in case worms should become scarce; and, any way, by boiling
down their fingers and collars, many gallons of valuable ink could be
obtained. The first bid was a farthing, which seemed to be far beyond
the expectation of the salesman, who at once knocked the lot down. The
sale was such a success that it is proposed to knock down several more
lots in a like manner."
The rage of the Fourth Junior on reading this paragraph was something
awful to witness. Bramble, feeling he must kick somebody on the legs,
kicked Stephen, who, forgetting that he was on police duty, seized
Bramble by the hair of his head and rushed off with him to the
"meeting," closely followed by Paul and the whole swarm. That meeting
lasted from three to five. What awful threats were uttered, and what
awful vows taken, no one knew. At five o'clock Stephen's fight with
Bramble came off as usual, and all that evening Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles
did nothing but make paper darts. It was certain a crisis had come in
their history. The "dogs of war" were let loose! They would be
revenged on somebody! So they at once began to be revenged on one
another, till it should be possible to unite their forces against the
common foe.
But the remainder of the crowd stayed on to read one more extract from
the _Dominican_. Under the title of "Reviews of Books," Anthony had
reviewed in style the last number of the _Sixth Form Magazine_ as
follows:--
"This book appears to be the praiseworthy attempt of some ambitious
little boys to enter the field of letters. We are always pleased to
encourage juvenile talent, but we would suggest that our young friends
might have done better had they kept to their picture-books a little
longer before launching out into literature on their own account. In
the words of the poet we might say--
"Babies, wait a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger,
Then you'll fly away."
"Nevertherless, we would refer to one or two of these interesting
attempts. Take, for example, the essay on the `Character of Julius
Caesar,' by one who signs himself Raleigh. This is very well written.
Pains have been taken about the formation of the letters, and some of
the capitals are specially worthy of praise. For one so young, we
rarely saw the capital D so well done. Dr Smith, were he alive, would
be pleased to see his remarks on Caesar so well and accurately copied
out. Master Wren gives us some verse--a translation out of Horace. We
wonder if Mr Wren is any relation to the late Jenny Wren who married
Mr Cock Robin. We should imagine from these verses that Mr Wren must
be well acquainted with _Robbin_. Take one more, Master Loman's `A
Funny Story.' We are sorry to find Master Loman tells stories. Boys
shouldn't tell stories; it's not right. But Master Loman unfortunately
does tell stories, and this is one. He calls it `A Funny Story.' That
is a story to begin with, for it is not funny. We don't know what
Master Loman thinks funny; perhaps he calls being run out at cricket
funny, or hitting another boy in the mouth when he's looking another
way. In any case, we can't make out why he calls this story funny. The
only funny thing about it is its title, and his spelling `attach'
`attatch.' The last is really funny. It shows how partial Mr Loman is
to _tea_. If this funny story is the result of his partiality to tea,
we are afraid it was very weak stuff."
Loman, who had already been made dreadfully uncomfortable by Simon's
poem, made no secret of his rage over this number of the _Dominican_.
He was one of those vain fellows who cannot see a jest where it is
levelled at themselves. The rest of the Sixth had the sense, whatever
they felt, to laugh at Anthony's hard hits. But not so Loman; he lost
his temper completely. He ordered the _Dominican_ to be taken down; he
threatened to report the whole Fifth to the Doctor. He would not allow
the junior boys to stand and read it. In short, he made a regular ass
of himself.
Undoubtedly Anthony had put a great deal of venom into his pen. Still,
by taking all the poison and none of the humour to himself Loman made a
great mistake, and displayed a most unfortunate amount of weakness.
He shut himself up in his study in a fume; he boxed Stephen's ears for
nothing at all, and would see no one for the rest of the evening. He
knew well he could not have given his enemies a greater crow over him
than such conduct, and yet he could not command his vanity to act
otherwise.
But that evening, just before tea-time, something happened which gave
Loman more to think about than the _Dominican_. A letter marked
"Immediate" came to him by the post. It was from Cripps, to say that,
after all, Sir Patrick _had_ won the Derby!