TORN FROM THE BLACK BOOK
Mr. Weevil came to his desk. The other masters took up their positions
at the head of the different forms. Mr. Weevil half closed his eyes for
an instant; then, opening them, fixed them fully upon the eager boys
before him as he said:
"I have a few words to say to you before work commences, boys, and I
regret to say they are not of a very pleasant character. A most
discreditable act--a criminal act--has been committed since we last met
in this hall. This desk"--he turned from the boys to the desk, and
brought his hand down upon it sharply--"has been forced open during the
night, and five pages torn from the Black Book. That is not all. Admiral
Talbot--one of the esteemed governors of this school--has offered a
valuable prize, as you are all aware, for the best essay on 'The
Invasion of Great Britain.' I have taken a great interest in the
subject, and had prepared a few notes, together with a rough plan of the
attempt made by the Dutch under Admiral Tromp to reach these shores.
Those notes have gone."
The boys glanced from one to the other as Mr. Weevil paused. Who was
guilty? They had no great love for the Black Book, for in the pages of
that black-bound ledger were entered the names of every culprit who had
been guilty of breaking the rules and had received punishment at the
hands of the masters. It could be brought forward at any time in
evidence against them. They would willingly have stood by and seen it
burnt, but forcing open the master's desk, stealing from it important
papers, and tearing leaves from the dreaded book was another matter. It
was theft--theft, too, under its worst guise, for the desk had been
opened at night-time, when the rest of the school were supposed to be
sleeping.
"The last entry I made in this book," went on Mr. Weevil, holding up the
Black Book, "was last evening, immediately after school was over. I had
entered in it the reason of my sending Moncrief to Dormitory X. Before
returning the book to its place, I glanced through my notes; then placed
the book on top of them, and locked the desk. I entered the room about
half-past eight this morning, and, on going to my desk, at once found
that it had been opened--for what despicable purpose I have explained to
you. In the absence of Dr. Colville, I consulted with my
colleagues--your masters. That is the reason why the school has not
commenced at the usual hour. We have looked at the matter in every way,
and can only come to the conclusion that some one amongst you has been
guilty of this petty felony. The culprit is pretty well sure to be found
out in the long run, so that it will be much better for him to speak up
now. The longer he keeps silent, the heavier will be his punishment.
Now, then, I am waiting."
Deep silence fell upon the school. Still, the boys glanced from one to
the other. Parfitt flashed a look along the form to where Paul was
sitting. Baldry quietly pinched Plunger, and Plunger returned the
compliment by kicking him under the form; but no word broke the silence.
Failing to get an answer to his appeal, Mr. Weevil tried another plan.
"Did any boy leave his dormitory after lights were out last night?"
A struggle went on in Paul's breast for a moment. Should he speak, or
should he remain silent? If he spoke he would bring upon himself the
terrible suspicion that he had broken open the master's desk, and had
torn out the leaves in which were recorded the punishment of Stanley
Moncrief. It was well known also that he was one of the competitors for
the essay prize.
And then if he confessed the real reason of his absence from his
dormitory, who would believe him? Certainly not Mr. Weevil. How could he
convince him that he was in Dormitory X that night, for had he not
crawled under the bed at the time he looked in? Should he speak--should
he speak? Again and again Paul asked himself the question. Why should
he? What had his absence from his dormitory to do with the theft from
the master's desk? He had been nowhere near the master's desk, so what
was the use of speaking? Looking up, he caught the glance of Parfitt.
"What the deuce is Parfitt glaring at me for?" he thought. "Is it
possible that he could have seen me leave the dormitory?"
As he put to himself the question, the voice of Mr. Weevil once more
broke the silence:
"Does any boy know whether any of his companions was absent from his
dormitory last night? Don't let him keep silent under any false notion
of honour. It is for the honour of the school that he should speak. If
he speaks, I will take care that no punishment falls upon him."
Paul sat rigid as stone. If Parfitt saw him leave the dormitory, now was
his time to speak; but no voice broke the silence.
"Very well; I had hoped that the culprit would own up to his fault, or
that we should have had assistance from some of you to find him out. I
am disappointed in my expectation. As I have been unable to find the
culprit with your assistance, I must do so without it. And be sure I
will," added Mr. Weevil firmly.
Prayers were said and a hymn sung, and the boys were on the point of
filing out to the different class-rooms, when Newall stepped up to Mr.
Weevil's desk.
"I hope Moncrief isn't to be kept in Dormitory X any longer, sir," he
said.
"What's it to do with you--eh?"
"You forget, sir. I was in the row. I ought to have spoken at the time;
it was I really started the row--not Moncrief."
"You, was it? Let me hear how it all happened."
"Well, I was chaffing a new boy, and the new boy happened to be
Moncrief's cousin. It upset Moncrief, and I ought to have left off; but
I didn't. I kept it up, and that's how it was Moncrief came to strike
me."
"Well, it's very honourable of you to own up to it. If every boy in the
school was as honest as you, Newall, we should soon find out who was the
culprit who went to my desk. Moncrief was guilty of a Quixotic act of
disobedience, as it turns out, and I think, in the circumstances he has
been sufficiently punished. It is due to you that he is released."
Newall was quite the hero of the school that morning. He had done a
manly thing in speaking up for Moncrief. That was the general opinion.
Paul thought the same. He had scarcely expected Newall would act up to
the promise that he had given him, but he had carried it out to the
letter. He had, somehow, never liked him, but he couldn't be such a bad
sort of fellow, after all.
"I must try to get over my prejudice against him," he thought.
So Stanley came back to his form, looking none the worse for the night
he had spent in Dormitory X.
It was not, however, till he and Paul were in the grounds that they had
the chance of speaking together.
"I thought Weevil meant keeping me in that wretched dormitory another
day and night," Stanley said, as Paul cordially greeted him. "How did he
come to let me out, I wonder?"
"Guess."
"Have you been speaking up for me?"
"No; Mr. Weevil wouldn't listen to me yesterday, and he wouldn't have
listened this morning. Guess again."
"My young cousin, I suppose," answered Stanley, after a moment's
reflection. "Has he been crying to Weevil?"
"Wrong again."
"Oh, bother! I give it up, then! Who was it?"
"You would never guess. Newall!"
"What?" Stanley stared at Paul incredulously.
"Fact--Newall. And he did it very well, too. He owned up frankly before
the masters and all the school that it was he who commenced the
quarrel."
"Why, I thought he told you that he wouldn't speak?"
"So he did; but he has altered his mind, you see. He told me he was
going to speak, but I couldn't believe my ears till I actually heard
him. A night's reflection has done him good, though he hadn't the
benefit of a change of air in Dormitory X. It's really very decent of
him, and I rather fancy if I were in your place----"
He paused, as though reflecting on what he should do if he were in
Stanley's place.
"Well, if you were in my place--go on."
"I should go up to Newall and shake hands with him."
"Would you really?" said Stanley haltingly. "I--I--don't think I can do
that, Paul. There's so much bad blood between us."
"All the more reason you should shake hands. It's wonderful what a shake
of the hands does for bad blood. It's the finest leech in the
world--takes all the bad blood out."
"Oh, you're a better fellow than I am, and can do that sort of thing. I
can't!"
"Nonsense! It's like a plunge into cold water--quite nice when the
plunge is once made. Come along! I'll go with you."
He tucked his arm in Stanley's, and together they went in search of
Newall. They found him with Parfitt and another companion. Stanley
walked up to him.
"I hear that it's through you, Newall, I've got out of that den I was in
last night. You've done me a good turn, and, if--if--you don't mind, I'd
like to shake hands with you."
He held out his hand as he spoke, but Newall took no notice of it. He
looked straight at Stanley.
"I really didn't know that I'd done you a good turn. What was the good
turn?"
"Speaking up for me this morning to Mr. Weevil, and getting me out of
that wretched dormitory."
"Oh, that"--he broke into a mocking laugh--"that! You call that a good
turn?"
A wave of scarlet came to Stanley's face. The extended hand fell to his
side. He looked to Paul. Had his friend deceived him? Was this only a
ruse on his part to make him shake hands with Newall, or had Newall
taken leave of his senses? He could learn nothing from Paul's face,
except that it looked just as mystified as he was.
"Certainly it was a good turn. I thoroughly upset Weevil yesterday, and
goodness knows how much longer he would have kept me a prisoner if you
hadn't spoken up for me, as Percival here tells me you did."
"Of course he did," put in Paul cheerfully. "He spoke up to Weevil like
a brick. It's no use trying to hide your light under a bushel, Newall."
"Yes, it's true enough I spoke up to Weevil"--the mocking laughter had
died out of Newall's eyes, and there was now a cruel, vindictive light
in them, just as there had been when Paul had spoken to him the day
before--"and it's true enough I wanted to get you out of that hole in
the roof. But it wasn't to shake hands with you. Not at all. I got you
out of that den so that I might meet you squarely face to face."
Stanley began to understand. It was not from any kindly motive Newall
had spoken up for him that morning. The bitterness of his words now told
him that, and the vindictiveness in his eyes spoke even plainer than
speech. Paul had been deceived, and he had been deceived. Why had he
demeaned himself by asking a fellow like Newall to shake hands with him?
He ought to have known better from past experience.
"You understand?" went on Newall in the same bitter tone. "Oh, yes, I
see you do. You struck me a blow. The marks of it are still here, you
see"--pointing to his lip, which was discoloured and cut. "I'm glad of
it. It kept me awake last night, thinking of you. And when I looked at
myself in the glass this morning, I thought of you again. It's nice to
have a memento of your friends, don't you think so?"
Stanley did not answer. What answer was possible to these mocking jibes?
Paul was silent, too. All power of speech seemed taken from him.
"Well, I mean having that blow back--the cowardly blow you gave me over
Percival's shoulder. I could give it to you now"--his fist was clenched
as though he would have dearly liked to make good his words--"but that
would only mean that one or the other would be sent to the den from
which I've just rescued you. That would be idiotic and make matters
worse."
"You mean to say that you don't wish to end the quarrel between us. You
wish to fight it out to the bitter end?" demanded Stanley, at last
finding voice.
"You've got it!" came the slow, firm answer--"to the bitter end!"