And now, reader, we are at the end of our story, and there only remain
the usual "last words" before we say good-bye.
Saint Dominic's flourishes still, and only last season beat the County
by five wickets! The captain on that occasion was a fellow called
Stephen Greenfield, who carried his bat for forty-eight in the first
innings. He is a big fellow, is the captain, and has got a moustache.
Though he is the oldest boy at Saint Dominic's, every one talks of him
as "Greenfield junior." He is vastly popular, and fellows say there
never was such a good Sixth at the school since the days of his brother,
Greenfield senior, five years ago. The captain is an object of special
awe among the youngsters of the Fourth Junior, who positively quake in
their shoes whenever his manly form appears in the upper corridor.
These youngsters, by the way, are still the liveliest section of Saint
Dominic's. The names Guinea-pig and Tadpole have died out, and left
behind them only the Buttercups and Daisies, who, however, are as fierce
rivals and as inky scamps as even their predecessors were. There is a
lout of a fellow in the Fourth Senior called Bramble, who is extremely
"down" on these juveniles, always snubbing them, and, along with one
Padger, a friend of his, plotting to get them into trouble. But somehow
they are not much afraid of Bramble, whereat Bramble is particularly
furious, and summons Padger to a "meeting" about once a week in his
study, there to take counsel against these irreverent Buttercups and
Daisies.
About the only other fellow the reader will recollect is Paul, now in
the Sixth, a steady-going sort of fellow, who, by the way, has just won
the Nightingale Scholarship, greatly to the delight of his particular
friend the captain.
Last year the Fifth tried to revive an old institution of their Form, in
the shape of a newspaper entitled the _Dominican_, directed chiefly
against the members of the Sixth. But somehow the undertaking did not
come off. The _Dominican_ was a very mild affair for one thing, and
there was nothing amusing about it for another thing, and there was a
good deal offensive about it for another thing; and for another thing,
the captain ordered it to be taken down off the wall on the first day of
its appearance, and announced that if he had any more of this nonsense
he would thrash one or two whose names he mentioned, and knock one or
two others out of the first eleven.
The _Dominican_ has not appeared since.
The big cricket match against the County I spoke of just now was a
famous event for more reasons than one. The chief reason, of course,
was the glorious victory of the old school; but another reason, almost
as notable, was the strange muster of old boys who turned up to witness
the exploits of the "youngsters."
There was Tom Braddy, for instance, smoking a big cigar the size of a
pencil-case, looking the picture of a snob. And with him a
vacant-looking young man with a great crop of whiskers on his puffy
cheeks. His name was Simon. The great idea of these two worthies
seemed to be to do the grand before their posterity. They were
convinced in their own minds that in this they were completely
successful, but no one else saw it.
Boys took a good deal more interest in a lame gentleman present, who was
cracking jokes with everybody, and hobbling about from one old crony to
another in a manner that was perfectly frisky. Every one seemed to like
Mr Pembury, and not a _few_ to be afraid of him. Perhaps that was
because he was the editor of a well-known paper of the day, and every
one likes to be on good terms with an editor.
Then there were a batch of fellows whose names we need hardly enumerate,
who had run over from Oxford, or Cambridge, or London for the day, and
who got into clusters between the innings and talked and laughed a great
deal over old times, when "Bully did this," and "Rick did that," and so
on. A nice lot of fellows they looked on the whole, and one or two, so
people said, were doing well.
But among these _the_ lions of the day were two friends who strolled
about arm-in-arm, and appeared far more at home in Saint Dominic's even
than the boys themselves. One of them was the big brother of the
captain--a terrible fellow by all accounts. He rowed in the boat of his
'Varsity the last year he was at Cambridge, and since then he has been
called to the bar, and no one knows what else! People say Oliver
Greenfield is a rising man; if so, we may hear of him again. At any
rate in the eyes of the admiring youngsters of Saint Dominic's he was a
great man already.
So was his friend Wraysford, a fellow of his college, and a "coach" for
industrious undergraduates. He does not look like a tutor, certainly,
to judge by his jovial face and the capers he persisted in cutting with
some of his old comrades of years ago. But he is one, and Saint
Dominic's Junior eyed him askance shyly, and thought him rather more
learned and formidable a person than the old Doctor himself.
No one enjoyed themselves on that day more than these two, who prowled
about and visited every nook and cranny of the old place--studies,
passages, class-rooms, Fourth Junior and all.
The match is over, the jubilations of victory have subsided, and one by
one the visitors depart. Among the last to leave are Oliver and
Wraysford; they have stayed to dine with the Doctor, and when at last
they do turn their backs on the old school it is getting late.
Stephen accompanies them down to the station. On the way they pass the
well-known Cockchafer. The old board is still there, but a new name is
upon it.
"Hullo! what's become of Cripps?" asked Wraysford.
"Oh! he's gone," said Stephen. "Didn't you know?"
"No! When was that?"
"The very time you and Noll went up to Cambridge. The magistrates took
away his licence for allowing gambling to go on at his house. He stuck
on at the lock-house for some time, and then disappeared suddenly. They
said he was wanted for some bit of swindling or other. Anyhow, he's
gone."
"And a very good riddance too," says Oliver.
"So it is," replies Stephen. "By the way, Noll, what's the last news of
Loman?"
"Oh, I meant to tell you. He's coming home; I had a letter from him a
week or two ago. He says the four or five years' farming and knocking
about in Australia have pulled him together quite; you know how ill he
was when he went out?"
"So he was," says Wraysford.
"He's coming home to be near his father and mother. He's been reading
law, he says, out in the backwoods, and means to go into his father's
office."
"I'm glad he's coming home," says Wraysford. "Poor fellow! I wonder
when he'll come to this old place again."
A silence follows, and Oliver says, "When he does, I tell you what: we
must all make up a jolly party and come down together and help him
through with it."
"Well, old man!" said Stephen, taking his brother's arm, "if it hadn't
been for you, he--"
"Hullo, I say! there's the train coming!" breaks out Oliver. "Look
alive, you fellows, or we shall be late!"