"It was perfectly plain, Hudson, the boy could not be allowed to remain
any longer a disgrace to the neighbourhood," said my uncle.
"But, sir," began my poor old nurse.
"That will do, Hudson," said my uncle, decisively; "the matter is
settled--Frederick is going to Stonebridge House on Monday."
And my uncle stood up, and taking a coat-tail under each arm,
established himself upon the hearthrug, with his back to Mrs Hudson.
That was always a sign there was no more to be said; and off I was
trotted out of the dreaded presence, not very sure whether to be elated
or depressed by the conversation I had overheard.
And indeed I never was quite clear as to why, at the tender and
guileless age of twelve, I was abruptly sent away from my native village
of Brownstroke, to that select and popular "Academy for Backward and
Troublesome Young Gentlemen," (so the advertisement ran), known as
Stonebridge House, in the neighbourhood of Cliffshire.
Other people appeared to divine the reason, and Mrs Hudson shook her
head and wiped her eyes when I consulted her on the subject. It was
queer. "I must be a very backward boy," thought I to myself, "for try
as I will, I don't see it."
You must know I was an orphan. I never could recollect my mother--nor
could Mrs Hudson. As to my father, all I could recall of him was that
he had bushy eyebrows, and used to tell me some most wonderful stories
about lions and tigers and other beasts of prey, and used now and then
to show me my mother's likeness in a locket that hung on his watch-
chain. They were both dead, and so I came to live with my uncle. Now,
I could hardly tell why, but it never seemed to me as if my uncle
appeared to regard it as a privilege to have me to take care of. He
didn't whack me as some fellows' uncles do, nor did he particularly
interfere with my concerns, as the manner of other uncles (so I am
told), is. He just took as little notice as possible of me, and as long
as I went regularly to Mrs Wren's grammar-school in the village, and as
long as Mrs Hudson kept my garments in proper order, and as long as I
showed up duly on state occasions, and didn't bring more than a square
inch of clay on each heel (there was a natural affinity between clay and
my heels), into his drawing-room, he scarcely seemed to be aware that
his house possessed such a treasure as an only nephew.
The part of my life I liked least was the grammar-school. That was a
horrid place. Mrs Wren was a good old soul, who spent one half of her
time looking over her spectacles, and the other half under them, for
something she never found. We big boys--for twelve is a good age for a
dame's grammar-school--we didn't exactly get on at old Jenny Wren's, as
she was called. For we gradually discovered we knew almost as much as
she did herself, and it dawned on us by degrees that somehow she didn't
know how to keep us in order. The consequence was, one or two boys,
especially Jimmy Bates, the parish clerk's son, and Joe Bobbins, the
Italian oil and colourman's son, didn't behave very well. I was sorry
to see it, and always told them so.
They got us other boys into all sorts of scrapes and trouble. One day
they would hide poor Jenny's spectacles, and then when search was made
the lost treasure would be found in some one else's desk. Or they would
tie cotton reels on the four feet and tail of the old tabby cat, and
launch her, with a horrid clatter, right into the middle of the room,
just as I or one of the others happened to be scampering out. Or they
would turn the little boys' forms upside down, and compel them with
terrible threats to sit on the iron feet, and then in the middle of the
class "sneak" about them.
Poor Jenny couldn't manage the school at all, with such boys as Jimmy
Bates and Joe Bobbins in it. Up to boys of ten she was all right; but
over ten she was all at sea.
However, she worked patiently on, and taught us all she could, and once
or twice gave us a horrible fright by calling up at our houses, and
reporting progress there (Mrs Hudson always received her when she came
up to my uncle's). And for all I know I might be at Jenny Wren's school
still if a tremendous event hadn't happened in our village, which
utterly upset the oldest established customs of Brownstroke.
We grammar-school boys never "hit" it exactly with the other town boys.
Either they were jealous of us or we were jealous of them. I don't
know, but we hated the town boys, and they hated us.
Once or twice we had come into collision, though they always got the
best of it. One winter they snowballed us to such a pitch that as long
as the snow was on the ground a lot of the little kids would no more
venture to school alone than a sane man would step over the side of a
balloon.
Another time they lined the street down both sides, and laughed and
pointed at us as we walked to school. That was far worse than
snowballs, even with stones in them. You should have seen us, with pale
faces and hurried steps, making our way amid the jeers and gibes of our
tormentors--some of the little ones blubbering, one or two of the bigger
ones looking hardly comfortable, and a few of the biggest inwardly
ruminating when and how it would best be possible to kill that Runnit
the news-boy, or Hodge the cow-boy!
These and many other torments and terrors we "Jenny Wrenites" had
endured at the hands of our enemies the town boys, on the whole
patiently. In process of time they got tired of one sort of torment,
and before their learned heads had had time to invent a new one, we had
had time to muster up courage and tell one another we didn't care what
they did.
Such a period had occurred just before my story opens. It was a whole
month since the town boys had made our lives unhappy by calling, and
howling, and yelling, and squeaking on every occasion they met us the
following apparently inoffensive couplet:--
"A, B, C, Look at the baby!"
How we hated that cry, and quailed when we heard it! However, after
about a fortnight's diligent use of this terrible weapon the town boys
subsided for a season, and we plucked up heart again. Four whole weeks
passed, and we were never once molested! Something must be wrong in the
village! Of course we all came to the conclusion that the town boys had
at last seen the error of their ways, and were turning over new leaves.
Rash dream! One day when we were least expecting it, the "Philistines
were upon us" again, and this time their device was to snatch off our
caps! It was too terrible to think of! We could endure to be hooted
at, and pelted, and said "A, B, C" to, but to have our little Scotch
caps snatched off our heads and tossed over pailings and into puddles,
was too much even for the meek disciples of Jenny Wren. The poor little
boys got their mothers to fasten elastics to go under their chins, and
even so walked nearly half a mile round to avoid the market cross. It
was no use, the manoeuvre was discovered, and not only did the
youngsters have their caps taken, but were flipped violently by the
elastics in the face and about the ears in doing so. As for us older
ones, some ran, other walked with their caps under their tunics, others
held them on with both hands. The result was the same; our caps were
captured!
Then did Jimmy Bates, and Joe Bobbins, and Harry Rasper, and I, meet one
day, and declare to one another, that this sort of thing was not to be
stood.
"Let's tell Mother Wren," said one.
"Or the policeman," said another.
"Let's write and tell Fred Batchelor's uncle," said another. That
referred to my relative, who was always counted a "nob" in the village.
"I say, don't do any," said the redoubtable Bobbins. "The next time
they do it to me _I_ mean to kick!"
The sentiment was loudly applauded, and a regular council of war was
held, with the following decision. We four were to go home together
that afternoon, and without waiting to be chased, would ourselves give
chase to the first bully we saw, and take _his_ cap! The consequences
of course might be fearful--fatal; but the blood of the "Jenny Wrenites"
was up. Do it we would, or perish in the attempt.
I think we all got a little nervous as the afternoon school wore on and
the hour for departing approached. Indeed, when we were about to start,
Bates looked very like deserting straight away.
"Oh, you three go on," he said, "I'll catch you up; I just want to speak
to Jenny."
"No we don't," we all protested; "we'll wait here, if it takes you till
midnight to say what you've got to say to Jenny."
This valiant determination put an end to Bates's wavering, and with a
rueful face he joined us.
"Now, mind," said Rasper, "the first you see!"
"Well," exclaimed I, starting suddenly to run, "that's Cad Prog, the
butcher-boy, there; come along."
So it was! Of all our enemies Cad Prog was the most truculent, and most
feared. The sight of his red head coming round the corner was always
enough to strike panic into a score of youngsters, and even we bigger
boys always looked meek when Prog came out to defy us.
He was strolling guilelessly along, and didn't see us at first. Then
suddenly he caught sight of us approaching, and next moment the blue
apron and red head disappeared with a bolt round the corner.
"Come on!" shouted Rasper, who led.
"So we are!" cried we, and hue and cry was made for Cad Prog forthwith.
We sighted him as we turned the corner. He was making straight for the
market. Perhaps to get an axe, I thought, or to hide, or to tell my
uncle!
"Come on!" was the shout.
It's wonderful how a short sharp chase warms up the blood even of a
small boy of twelve. Before we were half down the street, even Bates
had no thought left of deserting, and we all four pressed on, each
determined not to be last.
The fugitive Prog kept his course to the market, but there doubled
suddenly and bolted down Side Street. That was where he lived; he was
going to run into his hole then, like a rabbit.
We gained no end on him in the turn, and were nearly up to him as he
reached the door of his humble home.
He bolted in--so did we. He bolted up stairs--so did we. He plunged
headlong into a room where was a little girl rocking a cradle--so did
we. Then began a wild scuffle.
"Catch him! Take his cap off!" cried Bobbins.
"He hasn't got a cap!" cried Rasper--"butcher-boys never have!"
"Then pull off his apron!" was the cry.
In the scuffle the little girl was trodden on, and the cradle clean
upset. A crowd collected in the street. Cad Prog roared as loud as he
could, so did his little sister, so did the baby, so did Jimmy Bates, so
did Joe Bobbins, so did Harry Rasper, so did I. _I_ did not care what
happened; I went for Cad Prog, and have a vague idea of my hand and his
nose being near together, and louder yells still.
Then all of a sudden there was a tramp of heavy footsteps on the stairs,
and all I can remember after that was receiving a heavy cuff on my head,
being dragged down into the street, where--so it seemed to me for the
moment--at least a million people must have been congregated; and,
finally, I know not how, I was standing in the middle of my uncle's
study floor, with my coat gone, my mouth bleeding, and my cap, after
all, clean vanished!
It was a queer plight to be in. I heard a dinning in my ears of loud
voices, and when I looked at the bust on the top of the bookcase it
seemed to be toppling about anyhow. Some people were talking in the
room, but the only voice I could recognise was my uncle's. He was
saying something about "not wanting to shield me," and "locking-up," the
drift of which I afterwards slowly gathered, when the village
policeman--we only had one at Brownstroke--addressing my uncle as "your
honour," said he would look in in the morning for further orders.
At this interesting juncture the bust began to wobble about again, and I
saw and heard no more till I woke next morning, and found Mrs Hudson
mopping my forehead with something, and saying, "There now, Master
Freddy, lie quite still, there's a good boy."
"What's the matter?" said I, putting up my hand to the place she was
washing.
It was something like a bump!
"It's only a bruise, Master Freddy--no bones broken, thank God!" said
she, motioning me to be silent.
But I was in no mood to be silent. Slowly the recollection of
yesterday's events dawned on me.
"Did they get off Cad Prog's apron," I inquired, "after all?"
Of course, the good old soul thought this was sheer wandering of the
mind, and she looked very frightened, and implored me to lie still.
It was a long time before I perceived any connection between our chase
of the redoubtable Cad Prog up Side Street yesterday and my lying here
bruised and in a darkened room to-day. At last I supposed Mr Prog must
have conquered me; whereat I fired up again, and said, "Did the other
fellows finish him up?"
"Oh, dear me, yes," said the terrified nurse; "all up, every bit--there
now--and asked for more!"
This consoled me. Presently a doctor came and looked at my forehead,
and left some powders, which I heard him say I was to take in jam three
times a day. I felt still more consoled.
In fact, reader, as you will have judged, I was a little damaged by the
adventure in Side Street, and the noble exploit of my companions and
myself had not ended all in glory.
A day or two after, when I got better, I found out more about it, and
rather painfully too, because my uncle landed one day in my bedroom and
commenced strongly to arraign me before him.
He bade me tell him what had happened, which I did as well as I could.
At the end of it he said, "I suppose you are not aware that for a day or
two it was uncertain whether you had not killed that child that was in
the room?"
"I?" I exclaimed. "I never touched her! Indeed I didn't, uncle!"
"You knocked over the cradle," said my uncle, "and that's much the same
thing."