I
This is the story of the most tremendous thing that ever happened at
Dunston’s, or any other school, I should think. Though in it luckily, I
didn’t do any of the big part, being merely one of those chaps who were
flogged and not expelled afterwards. Trelawny and Bradwell carried the
thing through, and all the other fellows in the Wing Dormitory followed
their lead. And, mind you, everybody had the welfare of the school at
heart. It seemed a jolly brave sort of thing to do, and jolly
interesting. Trelawny arranged the military side of the business, and
Bradwell, whose father is known as the “Whiteley” of some place in
Yorkshire, looked to the commissariat, which means feeding. As to
Trelawny, who really captained the dormitory, he was Cornish, and a
relation of that very chap fifty thousand Cornish men wanted to know the
reason why about long ago. He was going to be a soldier, read history
books for choice, and already knew many military words.
I was Bradwell’s fag at the time, because Watson minor had failed in
some secret enterprise, and I remember the first conversation which led
to everything. Happening to take some tuck in to Bradwell in the Fifth
class-room, I found Trelawny there and heard him say:
“The only way. A protest, and a jolly dignified one, must be made. It’s
for the credit of the school, and if the Doctor will not see it we must
show him. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think if a section of chaps
could put themselves in a strong, fortified position they might demand
to be heard, and even be able to offer an--an ultimatum. Of course,
doing the thing for the good of the school and not for ourselves makes
us morally right.”
“Of course,” said Bradwell.
“But we must be physically strong. In warfare the relative positions of
the sides are always taken into account when the treaties of peace are
arranged.”
“What are you staring at?” said Bradwell to me. “You hook it.”
So I hooked. But I knew perfectly well what they were talking about.
Everybody in the Wing Dormitory did, because they often discussed the
same question after they thought the rest of the chaps were asleep. It
was the new mathematical master, Thompson, who troubled not only
Trelawny and Bradwell but a lot of the other fellows. Trelawny had
called him an “unholy bounder” the third day he was there, and that
seemed to be a general opinion. Yet, with all his bounderishness, he was
awfully clever, and meant well. But he didn’t know anything about chaps
in a general way, and he left out his h’s and stuck them in with awfully
rum effects. Thompson tried hard to be friendly to everybody, but only
the kids liked him. He couldn’t understand somehow, and insulted chaps
in the most frightful way, not seeing any difference between fellows at
the top of the school and mere kids at the bottom. Captains of elevens
were as nothing to him. He seemed to have read up boys like he read
mathematics and stuff--from rotten books. He would say sometimes, “Now,
you fellows, let’s ’ave a jolly game of leap-frog before the bell
rings,” and things like that. Boys never do play leap-frog except in
books really. Once he offered to show Trelawny how to make a kite, and
he asked Chambers--_Chambers_, mind you, the Captain of the First Eleven
at Cricket--whether he knew a shop where there were capital iron hoops
for sale at a shilling each. I heard him say it, and he put it like
this: “I say, Chambers, do you know those splendid ’oops they sell at
Burford’s in ’Igh Street? It’s out of bounds, but if you like I’ll get
you one this evening. They’ve got iron crooks and everything. I make
this offer because you understood a little of what I said about Conic
Sections this afternoon.” Thompson meant so jolly well that nobody could
get in a wax with him personally; and, as I say, the kids, who didn’t
see the “unholy bounder” side of him, and only knew he stood gallons of
ginger-beer on half-holidays in the playing-fields, liked him better
than anybody. But Trelawny took big views, and so did Bradwell, and they
decided to make a definite protest.
Nothing happened till one day Thompson said something about Trelawney’s
“Celtic thickness of skull.” That stung Trelawny like nettles, and he
set to work and arranged the great plot of the Wing Dormitory. He
decided that the fifteen chaps who slept in the isolated Wing Dormitory
of Dunston’s were to fortify the place, and hold it before the world and
the Doctor as a protest against Thompson. Every chap in the dormitory,
from Trelawny and Bradwell to Watson minor, signed their names in their
own blood on a paper Trelawny drew out; and Watson minor fainted while
he was doing it, not being able to see his own gore on a pen without
going off. We swore by a tremendous swear to obey Trelawny, to fortify
the Wing Dormitory against siege, to devote every penny of our week’s
pocket-money to provisions, and to hold out till we starved, having
first signed another paper for Doctor Dunston explaining our united
protest against Thompson, and hoping for the good of the school that he
would be removed. I didn’t understand much about it really. In fact, I
don’t believe anybody did but Trelawny and Bradwell. Only they said we
were acting for the good of the school, and they also said that if we
held the Wing Dormitory properly nothing short of cannon or starvation
could dislodge us. It was a tremendously tall building, complete in
itself, with iron fire-proof doors constructed to cut it off from the
rest of the school, and with a bath-room and a lavatory adjoining, all
at a great height above the ground. The windows were barred to keep
chaps getting out. The bars would also keep chaps getting in, as
Trelawny pointed out. He found also that it was possible when the iron
doors were closed to pull down some wood-work, and stick things behind
the doors so as they could not be opened again. The only entrance to the
Wing Dormitory was through these iron doors, so once shut we were safe
against anything but gunpowder; and Trelawny said Doctor Dunston was not
the man to resort to physical means, especially if it meant knocking the
place about. Bradwell came out wonderfully about the food, and knowing
jolly well that they would turn the water out of the bath-room when the
siege started, he made every chap fill his basin and jug the night
before; because fresh water is vital to a siege.
There were fifteen chaps, and the time came at last, and one night we
laid the manifesto on the mat outside the iron door, made everything
fast, and waited to see what would happen. Some fellows thought that
Thompson would be sent away at once, to avoid the affair becoming
serious; others fancied we should be starved out or expelled to a man.
Trelawny never hazarded any guess at what would be the end of it. “We
are doing our duty in the interests of the school,” he said, “and
whatever happens we mean well; and if it gets into print the sympathy of
all chaps in public schools will be on our side.”