Amongst other facts, patent to common and uncommon sense, is the very
obvious one that a man cannot be in two places at once. In like manner,
no author, that I ever heard of, was able to relate two different
portions of his narrative at one and the same time. Thus you will
readily understand, that if I devoted the last chapter to Mr. Galloway,
his clerks and their concerns generally, it could not be given to Mr.
Ketch and _his_ concerns; although in the strict order of time and
sequence, the latter gentleman might have claimed an equal, if not a
premier right.
Mr. Ketch stood in his lodge, leaning for support upon the shut-up
press-bedstead, which, by day, looked like a high chest of drawers with
brass handles, his eyes fixed on the keys, hanging on the opposite nail.
His state of mind may be best expressed by the strong epithet, “savage.”
Mr. Ketch had not a pleasant face at the best of times: it was yellow
and withered; and his small bright eyes were always dropping water; and
the two or three locks of hair, which he still possessed, were faded,
and stood out, solitary and stiff, after the manner of those pictures
you have seen of heathens who decorate their heads with upright tails.
At this moment his countenance looked particularly unpleasant.
Mr. Ketch had spent part of the night and the whole of this morning
revolving the previous evening’s affair of the cloisters. The more he
thought of it, the less he liked it, and the surer grew his conviction
that the evil had been the work of his enemies, the college boys.
“It’s as safe as day,” he wrathfully soliloquized. “There be the right
keys,” nodding to the two on the wall, “and there be the wrong ones,”
nodding towards an old knife-tray, into which he had angrily thrown
the rusty keys, upon entering his lodge last night, accompanied by the
crowd. “They meant to lock me up all night in the cloisters, the wicked
cannibals! I hope the dean’ll expel ‘em! I’ll make my complaint to the
head-master, I will! Drat all college schools! there’s never no good
done in ‘em!”
“How are you this morning, Ketch?”
The salutation proceeded from Stephen Bywater, who, in the boisterous
manner peculiar to himself and his tribe, had flung open the door
without the ceremony of knocking.
“I’m none the better for seeing you,” growled Ketch.
“You need not be uncivil,” returned Bywater, with great suavity. “I am
only making a morning call upon you, after the fashion of gentlefolks;
the public delights to pay respect to its officials, you know. How _do_
you feel after that mishap last night? We can’t think, any of us, how
you came to make the mistake.”
“I’ll ‘mistake’ you!” shrieked Ketch. “I kep’ a nasty old, rusty brace
o’ keys in my lodge to take out, instead o’ the right ones, didn’t I?”
“How uncommonly stupid it was of you to do so!” said Bywater, pretending
to take the remark literally. “_I_ would not keep a duplicate pair of
keys by me--I should make sure they’d bring me to grief. What do you
say? You did _not_ keep duplicate keys--they were false ones! Why,
that’s just what we all told you last night. The bishop told you so. He
said he knew you had made a mistake, and taken out the wrong keys for
the right. My belief is, that you went out without any keys at all. You
left them hanging upon the nail, and you found them there. You had not
got a second pair!”
“You just wait!” raved old Ketch. “I’m a-coming round to the
head-master, and I’ll bring the keys with me. He’ll let you boys know
whether there’s two pairs, or one. Horrid old rusty things they be; as
rusty as you!”
“Who says they are rusty?”
“Who says it! They _are_ rusty!” shrieked the old man. “You’d like
to get me into a madhouse, you boys would, worrying me! I’ll show you
whether they’re rusty! I’ll show you whether there’s a second brace
o’ keys or not. I’ll show ‘em to the head-master! I’ll show ‘em to the
dean! I’ll show ‘em again to his lordship the bi--What’s gone of the
keys?”
The last sentence was uttered in a different tone and in apparent
perplexity. With shaking hands, excited by passion, Mr. Ketch was
rummaging the knife-box--an old, deep, mahogany tray, dark with age,
divided by a partition--rummaging for the rusty keys. He could not find
them. He searched on this side, he searched on that; he pulled out the
contents, one by one: a black-handled knife, a white-handled fork, a
green-handled knife with a broken point, and a brown-handled fork with
one prong, which comprised his household cutlery; a small whetstone,
a comb and a blacking-brush, a gimlet and a small hammer, some
leather shoe-strings, three or four tallow candles, a match-box and an
extinguisher, the key of his door, the bolt of his casement window, and
a few other miscellanies. He could not come upon the false keys, and,
finally, he made a snatch at the tray, and turned it upside down. The
keys were not there.
When he had fully taken in the fact--it cost him some little time to do
it--he turned his anger upon Bywater.
“You have took ‘em, you have! you have turned thief, and stole ‘em! I
put ‘em here in the knife-box, and they are gone! What have you done
with ‘em?”
“Come, that’s good!” exclaimed Bywater, in too genuine a tone to admit a
suspicion of its truth. “I have not been near your knife-box; I have not
put my foot inside the door.”
In point of fact, Bywater had not. He had stood outside, bending his
head and body inwards, his hands grasping either door-post.
“What’s gone with ‘em? who ‘as took ‘em off? I’ll swear I put ‘em
there, and I have never looked at ‘em nor touched ‘em since! There’s an
infamous conspiracy forming against me! I’m going to be blowed up, like
Guy Fawkes!”
“If you did put them there--‘_if_,’ you know--some of your friends must
have taken them,” cried Bywater, in a tone midway between reason and
irony.
“There haven’t a soul been nigh the place,” shrieked Ketch.
“Except the milk, and he gave me my ha’porth through the winder.”
“Hurrah!” said Bywater, throwing up his trencher. “It’s a clear case of
dreams. You dreamt you had a second pair of keys, Ketch, and couldn’t
get rid of the impression on awaking. Mr. Ketch, D.H., Dreamer-in-chief
to Helstonleigh!”
Bywater commenced an aggravating dance. Ketch was aggravated
sufficiently without it. “What d’ye call me?” he asked, in a state of
concentrated temper that turned his face livid. “‘D?’ What d’ye mean by
‘D?’ D stands for that bad sperit as is too near to you college boys;
he’s among you always, like a ranging lion. It’s like your impedence to
call me by his name.”
“My dear Mr. Ketch! call _you_ by his name! I never thought of such a
thing,” politely retorted Bywater. “You are not promoted to that honour
yet. D.H., stands for Deputy-Hangman. Isn’t it affixed to the cathedral
roll, kept amid the archives in the chapter-house”--John Ketch, D.H.,
porter to the cloisters! “I hope you don’t omit the distinguishing
initials when you sign your letters?”
Ketch foamed. Bywater danced. The former could not find words. The
latter found plenty.
“I say, though, Mr. Calcraft, don’t you make a similar mistake when you
are going on public duty. If you were to go _there_, dreaming you had
the right apparatus, and find, in the last moment, that you had brought
the wrong, you don’t know what the consequences might be. The real
victim might escape, rescued by the enraged crowd, and they might put
the nightcap upon you, and operate upon you instead! So, be careful. We
couldn’t afford to lose you. Only think, what a lot of money it would
cost to put the college into mourning!”
Ketch gave a great gasp of agony, threw an iron ladle at his tormentor,
which, falling short of its aim, came clanking down on the red-brick
floor, and banged the door in Bywater’s face. Bywater withdrew to a
short distance, under cover of the cathedral wall, and bent his body
backwards and forwards with the violence of his laughter, unconscious
that the Bishop of Helstonleigh was standing near him, surveying
him with an exceedingly amused expression. His lordship had been an
ear-witness to part of the colloquy, very much to his edification.
“What is your mirth, Bywater?”
Bywater drew himself straight, and turned round as if he had been shot.
“I was only laughing, my lord,” he said, touching his trencher.
“I see you were; you will lose your breath altogether some day, if
you laugh in that violent manner. What were you and Ketch quarrelling
about?”
“We were not quarrelling, my lord. I was only chaff--teasing him,”
rejoined Bywater, substituting one word for the other, as if fearing the
first might not altogether be suited to the bishop’s ears; “and Ketch
fell into a passion.”
“As he often does, I fear,” remarked his lordship. “I fancy you boys
provoke him unjustifiably.”
“My lord,” said Bywater, turning his red, impudent, but honest face full
upon the prelate, “I don’t deny that we do provoke him; but you can have
no idea what an awful tyrant he is to us. I can’t believe any one was
ever born with such a cross-grained temper. He vents it upon every one:
not only upon the college boys, but upon all who come in his way. If
your lordship were not the bishop,” added bold Bywater, “he would vent
it upon you.”
“Would he?” said the bishop, who was a dear lover of candour, and would
have excused a whole bushel of mischief, rather than one little grain of
falsehood.
“Not a day passes, but he sets upon us with his tongue. He would keep
us out of the cloisters; he would keep us out of our own schoolroom. He
goes to the head-master with the most unfounded cram--stories, and when
the master declines to notice them (for he knows Ketch of old), then
he goes presumingly to the dean. If he let us alone, we should let
him alone. I am not speaking this in the light of a complaint to your
lordship,” Bywater added, throwing his head back. “I don’t want to get
him into a row, tyrant though he is; and the college boys can hold their
own against Ketch.”
“I expect they can,” significantly replied the bishop. “He would keep
you out of the cloisters, would he?”
“He is aiming at it,” returned Bywater. “There never would have been
a word said about our playing there, but for him. If the dean shuts
us out, it will be Ketch’s doings. The college boys have played in the
cloisters since the school was founded.”
“He would keep you out of the cloisters; so, by way of retaliation,
you lock him into them--an uncomfortable place of abode for a night,
Bywater.”
“My lord!” cried Bywater.
“Sir!” responded his lordship.
“Does your lordship think it was I who played that trick on Ketch?”
“Yes, I do--speaking of you conjointly with the school.”
Bywater’s eyes and his good-humoured countenance fell before the steady
gaze of the prelate. But in the gaze there was an earnest--if Bywater
could read it aright--of good feeling, of excuse for the mischief,
rather than of punishment in store. The boy’s face was red enough at all
times, but it turned to scarlet now. If the bishop had before suspected
the share played in the affair by the college boys, it had by this time
been converted into a certainty.
“Boy,” said he, “confess it if you like, be silent if you like; but do
not tell me a lie.”
Bywater turned up his face again. His free, fearless eyes--free in the
cause of daring, but fearless in that of truth--looked straight into
those of the bishop. “I never do tell lies,” he answered. “There’s not
a boy in the school punished oftener than I am; and I don’t say but I
generally deserve it! but it is never for telling a lie. If I did tell
them, I should slip out of many a scrape that I am punished for now.”
The bishop could read truth as well as any one--better than many--and
he saw that it was being told to him now. “Which of you must be punished
for this trick as ringleader?” he asked.
“I, my lord, if any one must be,” frankly avowed Bywater. “We should
have let him out at ten o’clock. We never meant to keep him there all
night. If I am punished, I hope your lordship will be so kind as allow
it to be put down to your own account, not to Ketch’s. I should not like
it to be thought that I caught it for _him_. I heartily beg your
pardon, my lord, for having been so unfortunate as to include you in the
locking-up. We are all as sorry as can be, that it should have happened.
I am ready to take any punishment, for that, that you may order me.”
“Ah!” said the bishop, “had you known that I was in the cloisters, your
friend Ketch would have come off scot free!”
“Yes, that he would, until--”
“Until what?” asked the bishop, for Bywater had brought his words to a
standstill.
“Until a more convenient night, I was going to say, my lord.”
“Well, that’s candid,” said the bishop. “Bywater,” he gravely added,
“you have spoken the truth to me freely. Had you equivocated in the
slightest degree, I should have punished you for the equivocation. As
it is, I shall look upon this as a confidential communication, and _not_
order you punishment. But we will not have any more tricks played at
locking up Ketch. You understand?”
“All right, my lord. Thank you a hundred times.”
Bywater, touching his trencher, leaped off. The bishop turned to enter
his palace gates, which were close by, and encountered Ketch talking to
the head-master. The latter had been passing the lodge, when he was seen
and pounced upon by Ketch, who thought it a good opportunity to make his
complaint.
“I am as morally sure it was them, sir, as I am that I be alive.” he was
saying when the bishop came up. “And I don’t know who they has dealings
with; but, for certain, they have sperited away them rusty keys what did
the mischief, without so much as putting one o’ their noses inside my
lodge. I placed ‘em safe in the knife-box last night, and they’re gone
this morning. I hope, sir, you’ll punish them as they deserve. I am
nothing, of course. If they had locked me up, and kept me there till I
was worn to a skeleton, it might be thought light of; but his lordship,
the bishop”--bowing sideways to the prelate--“was a sufferer by their
wickedness.”
“To be sure I was,” said the bishop, in a grave tone, but with a twinkle
in his eye; “and therefore the complaint to Mr. Pye must be preferred by
me, Ketch. We will talk of it when I have leisure,” he added to Mr. Pye,
with a pleasant nod, as he went through the palace gates.
The head-master bowed to the bishop, and walked away, leaving Ketch on
the growl.
Meanwhile, Bywater, flying through the cloisters, came upon Hurst, and
two or three more of the conspirators. The time was between nine and ten
o’clock. The boys had been home for breakfast after early school, and
were now reassembling, but they did not go into school until a quarter
before ten.
“He is such a glorious old trump, that bishop!” burst forth Bywater. “He
knows all about it, and is not going to put us up for punishment. Let’s
cut round to the palace gates and cheer him.”
“Knows that it was us!” echoed the startled boys. “How did it come out
to him?” asked Hurst.
“He guessed it, I think,” said Bywater, “and he taxed me with it. So I
couldn’t help myself, and told him I’d take the punishment; and he said
he’d excuse us, but there was to be no locking up of Mr. Calcraft again.
I’d lay a hundred guineas the bishop went in for scrapes himself, when
he was a boy!” emphatically added Bywater. “I’ll be bound he thinks we
only served the fellow right. Hurrah for the bishop!”
“Hurrah for the bishop!” shouted Hurst, with the other chorus of voices.
“Long life to him! He’s made of the right sort of stuff! I say, though,
Jenkins is the worst,” added Hurst, his note changing. “My father says
he doesn’t know but what brain fever will come on.”
“Moonshine!” laughed the boys.
“Upon my word and honour, it is not. He pitched right upon his head; it
might have cost him his life had he fallen upon the edge of the stone
step, but they think he alighted flat. My father was round with him this
morning at six o’clock.”
“Does your father know about it?”
“Not he. What next?” cried Hurst. “Should I stand before him, and take
my trencher off, with a bow, and say, ‘If you please, sir, it was the
college boys who served out old Ketch!’ That would be a nice joke! He
said, at breakfast, this morning, that that fumbling old Ketch must have
got hold of the wrong keys. ‘Of course, sir!’ answered I.”
“Oh, what do you think, though!” interrupted Bywater. “Ketch can’t find
the keys. He put them into a knife-box, he says, and this morning they
are gone. He intended to take them round to Pye, and I left him going
rampant over the loss. Didn’t I chaff him?”
Hurst laughed. He unbuttoned the pocket of his trousers, and partially
exhibited two rusty keys. “I was not going to leave them to Ketch for
witnesses,” said he. “I saw him throw them into the tray last night, and
I walked them out again, while he was talking to the crowd.”
“I say, Hurst, don’t be such a ninny as to keep them about you!”
exclaimed Berkeley, in a fright. “Suppose Pye should go in for a search
this morning, and visit our pockets? You’d floor us at once!”
“The truth is, I don’t know where to put them,” ingenuously acknowledged
Hurst. “If I hid them at home, they’d be found; if I dropped them in the
street, some hullaballoo might arise from it.”
“Let’s carry them back to the old-iron shop, and get the fellow to buy
them back at half-price!”
“Catch him doing that! Besides, the trick is sure to get wind in the
town; he might be capable of coming forward and declaring that we bought
the keys at his shop.”
“Let’s throw ‘em down old Pye’s well!”
“They’d come up again in the bucket, as ghosts do!”
“Couldn’t we make a railway parcel of them, and direct it to ‘Mr. Smith,
London?’”
“‘Two pounds to pay; to be kept till called for,’” added Mark Galloway,
improving upon the suggestion. “They’d put it in their fire-proof safe,
and it would never come out again.”
“Throw them into the river,” said Stephen Bywater. “That’s the only safe
place for them: they’d lie at the bottom for ever. We have time to do it
now. Come along.”
Acting upon the impulse, as schoolboys usually do, they went galloping
out of the cloisters, running against the head-master, who was entering,
and nearly overturning his equilibrium. He gave them an angry word of
caution; they touched their caps in reply, and somewhat slackened their
speed, resuming the gallop when he was out of hearing.
Inclosing the cathedral and its precincts on the western side, was
a wall, built of red stone. It was only breast high, standing on the
cathedral side; but on the other side it descended several feet, to the
broad path which ran along the banks of the river. The boys made for
this wall and gained it, their faces hot, and their breath gone.
“Who’ll pitch ‘em in?” cried Hurst, who did not altogether relish being
chief actor himself, for windows looked on to that particular spot
from various angles and corners of the Boundaries. “You shall do it,
Galloway!”
“Oh shall I, though!” returned young Galloway, not relishing it either.
“You precious rebel! Take the keys, and do as I order you!”
Young Galloway was under Hurst. He no more dared to disobey him than he
could have disobeyed the head-master. Had Hurst ordered him to jump into
the river he must have done it. He took the keys tendered him by Hurst,
and was raising them for the pitch, when Bywater laid his hand upon them
and struck them down with a sudden movement, clutching them to him.
“You little wretch, you are as deaf as a donkey!” he uttered. “There’s
somebody coming up. Turn your head, and look who it is.”
It proved to be Fordham, the dean’s servant. He was accidentally
passing. The boys did not fear him; nevertheless, it was only prudent to
remain still, until he had gone by. They stood, all five, leaning
upon the wall, soiling their waistcoats and jackets, in apparent
contemplation of the view beyond. A pleasant view! The river wound
peacefully between its green banks; meadows and cornfields were
stretched out beyond; while an opening afforded a glimpse of that lovely
chain of hills, and the white houses nestled at their base. A barge,
drawn by a horse, was appearing slowly from underneath the city bridge,
blue smoke ascending from its chimney. A woman on board was hanging
out linen to dry--a shirt, a pair of stockings, and a handkerchief--her
husband’s change for the coming Sunday. A young girl was scraping
potatoes beside her; and a man, probably the husband, sat steering, his
pipe in his mouth. The boys fixed their eyes upon the boat.
“I shouldn’t mind such a life as that fellow’s yonder!” exclaimed young
Berkeley, who was fonder of idleness than he was of Latin. “I’ll turn
bargeman when other trades fail. It must be rather jolly to sit steering
a boat all day, and do nothing but smoke.”
“Fordham’s gone, and be hanged to him! Now for it, Galloway!”
“Stop a bit,” said Bywater. “They must be wrapped up, or else tied close
together. Better wrap them up, and then no matter who sees. They can’t
swear there are keys inside. Who has any paper about him?”
One of the boys, Hall, had his exercise-book with him. They tore a sheet
or two out of it, and folded it round the keys, Hurst producing some
string. “I’ll fling them in,” said Bywater.
“Make haste, then, or we shall have to wait till the barge has gone by.”
Bywater took a cautious look round, saw nobody, and flung the parcel
into the middle of the river. “_Rari nantes in gurgite vasto_!”
ejaculated he.
“Now, you gents, what be you throwing into the river?”
The words came from Hudson, the porter to the Boundaries, who appeared
to have sprung up from the ground. In reality, he had been standing on
the steps leading to the river, but the boat-house had hidden him from
their view. He was a very different man from the cloister porter; was
afraid of the college boys, rather than otherwise, and addressed them
individually as “sir.” The keeper of the boat-house heard this, and came
up the steps.
“If you gentlemen have been throwing anything into the river you know
that it’s against the rules.”
“Don’t bother!” returned Hurst, to the keeper.
“But you know it _is_ wrong, gentlemen,” remonstrated the keeper. “What
was it you threw in? It made a dreadful splash.”
“Ah! what was it?” coolly answered Hurst. “What should you say to a dead
cat? Hudson, have the goodness to mind _your_ business, unless you would
like to get reported for interfering with what does not concern you.”
“There’s a quarter to ten!” exclaimed Bywater, as the college clock
chimed the three-quarters. “We shall be marked late, every soul of us!”
They flew away, their feet scarcely touching the ground, clattered up
the schoolroom stairs, and took their places. Gaunt was only beginning
to call over the roll, and they escaped the “late” mark.
“It’s better to be born lucky than rich,” said saucy Bywater.