Willoughby wore its ordinary work-a-day look on the morning following
the eventful May races. And yet any one who had seen the old school
just then would have admitted that a more picturesque place could hardly
have been found. It was one of those lovely early summer days when
everything looks beautiful, and when only schoolboys can have the heart
to lie in bed. The fresh scent of the sea came up with the morning air
across the cliff-bound uplands; and far away, from headland to headland
of Craydle Bay, the waters glowed and sparkled in the sunlight. Inland,
too, along by the river, the woods were musical with newly-awakened
birds, and the downs waved softly with early hay. And towering above
all, amid its stately elms, and clad from end to end with ivy, stood the
old school itself, glowing in morning brightness, as it had stood for
two centuries past, and as those who know and love it hope it may yet
stand for centuries to come.
But though any one else could hardly have failed to be impressed with
the loveliness of such a morning in such a spot, on Master Frederick
Parson, head monitor's fag of Parrett's House, as he kicked the
bedclothes pensively off his person, and looked at the watch under his
pillow, the beauties of nature were completely lost. Parson was in a
bad frame of mind that morning. Everything seemed against him. He'd
been beaten in the junior hundred yards yesterday, so had Telson. Just
their luck. They'd run in every race for the last two years, and never
won so much as a shilling penknife yet. More than that; just because he
had walked across the quadrangle to see Telson home after supper last
night (Telson belonged to the SchoolHouse) he had been caught by a
monitor and given eight French verbs to write out for being out-of-
doors, after lock-up. What harm, Parson would like to know, was there
in seeing a friend across the quad? Coates, the monitor, probably had
no friend--he didn't deserve to have one--or he wouldn't have been down
on Parson for a thing like that.
Then, further than that, he (Parson) had not looked at his Caesar, and
Warton had promised to report him to the doctor next time he showed up
without preparation. Bother Warton! bother the doctor! bother Caesar!
what did they all want to conspire together for against a wretched
junior's peace? He'd have to cram up the Caesar from Telson's crib
somehow, only the nuisance was Bloomfield had fixed on this particular
morning for a turn on the river with Game, and Parson would of course
have to steer for them. Just his luck again! He didn't mind steering
for Bloomfield, of course, and if he must fag he'd as soon fag for him
as anybody, especially now that he would be captain of the eleven and of
the boats; but how, Parson wanted to know, was he to do his Caesar and
his French verbs, and steer Bloomfield and Game up the river at one and
the same time? He couldn't take the books in the boat.
Well, he supposed he'd have to get reported; and probably "Paddy" would
give it him on the hands. He was always getting it on the hands, far
oftener than Telson, who was Riddell's fag, and never had to go and
steer boats up the river. In fact, Riddell, he knew, looked over
Telson's lessons for him--catch Bloomfield doing as much for Parson!
All these considerations tended greatly to impair the temper of Master
Parson this beautiful morning. But the worst grievance of all was that
he had to get up that moment and call Bloomfield, or else he'd get a
licking. That would be worse any day than getting it on the hands from
the doctor.
So he kicked off the clothes surlily, and put one foot out of bed. But
the other was a long time following. For Parson was fagged. He'd
dreamt all night of that wretched hundred yards, and wasn't a bit
refreshed; and if he had been refreshed, he'd got those eight French
verbs and the Caesar on his mind, and he could have done them
comfortably in bed. But--
A sudden glance at the watch in his hand cut short all further
meditation. Parson is out of his bed and into his flannels in the
twinkling of an eye, and scuttling down the passage to his senior's room
as if the avenger of blood was at his heels.
Bloomfield, if truth must be told, is as disinclined to get up as his
fag has been; and Parson has almost to use personal violence before he
can create an impression on his lord and master.
"What's the time?" demands the senior.
"Six--that is, a second or two past," replies Parson.
"Why didn't you call me punctually?" asks Bloomfield, digging his nose
comfortably into the pillow. "What do you mean by a second or two?"
"It's only seven past," says Parson, in an injured tone.
"Very well; go and see if Game's up."
Parson skulks off to rouse Game, knowing perfectly well that Bloomfield
will be sound asleep again before he is out of the door, which turns out
to be the case. After super-human efforts to extract from Game an
assurance that he's getting up that moment, and Parson needn't wait, the
luckless fag returns to find his master snoring like one of the seven
sleepers. The same process has to be repeated. Shouts and shakes, and
an occasional sly pinch, have no effect. Parson is tempted to leave his
graceless lord to his fate, and betake himself to his French verbs; but
a dim surmise as to the consequences prevents him. At last he braces
himself up for one desperate effort. With a mighty tug he snatches the
clothes off the bed, and, dragging with all his might at the arm of the
obstinate hero, yells out, "I say, Bloomfield, it's half-past six, and
you wanted to be up at six. Get up!"
The effect of these combined efforts is that Bloomfield sits up in bed,
rubbing his eyes, and demands, "Half-past six! Why didn't you call me
at six, you young cad, eh?"
"So I did."
"Don't tell crams. If you'd called me at six I should have been up,
shouldn't I?" exclaimed Bloomfield. "I tell you I did call you,"
retorts the fag.
"Look here," says Bloomfield, becoming alarmingly wide-awake, "I don't
want any of your cheek. Go and see if Game's up, and then see if the
boat's ready. The tub-pair, mind; look sharp!"
"Please, Bloomfield," says Parson, meekly, "do you mind if I get Parks
to cox you? I've not looked at my Caesar yet, and I've got eight French
verbs to do besides for Coates."
"Do you hear me? Go and see if Game's up," replies Bloomfield. "If you
choose not to do your work overnight, and get impositions for breaking
rules into the bargain, it's not my lookout, is it?"
"But I only went--" begins the unfortunate Parson.
"I'll went you with the flat of a bat if you don't cut," shouts
Bloomfield. Whereat his fag vanishes.
Game, of course, is fast asleep, but on him Parson has no notion of
bestowing the pains he had devoted to Bloomfield. Finding the sleeper
deaf to all his calls, he adopts the simple expedient of dipping the end
of a towel in water and laying it neatly across the victim's face,
shouting in his ear at the same time, "Game, I say, Bloomfield's waiting
for you down at the boats." Having delivered himself of which, he
retreats rather hastily, and only just in time.
The row up the river that morning was rather pleasant than otherwise.
When once they were awake the morning had its effect on the spirits of
all three boys. Even Parson, sitting lazily in the stern, listening to
the Sixth Form gossip of the two rowers, forgot about his Caesar and
French verbs, and felt rather glad he had turned out after all.
The chief object of the present expedition was not pleasure by any means
as far as Bloomfield and Game were concerned. It was one of a series of
training practices in anticipation of the school regatta, which was to
come off on the second of June, in which the rival four-oars of the
three houses were to compete for the championship of the river. The
second of June was far enough ahead at present, but an old hand like
Bloomfield knew well that the time was all too short to lick his crew
into shape. Parrett's boat, by all ordinary calculation, ought to win,
for they had a specially good lot of men this year; and now Wyndham had
left, the schoolhouse boat would be quite an orphan. Bloomfield himself
was far away the best oar left in Willoughby, and if he could only get
Game to work off a little of his extra fat, and bully Tipper into
reaching better forward, and break Ashley of his trick of feathering
under water, he had a crew at his back which it would be hard indeed to
beat. This morning he was taking Game in hand, and that substantial
athlete was beginning to find out that "working off one's extra fat" in
a tub-pair on a warm summer morning is not all sport.
"I wonder if Tipper and Ashley will show, up," said Bloomfield, who was
rowing bow for the sake of keeping a better watch on his pupil. "They
promised they would. Ashley, you know--(do keep it up, Game, you're
surely not blowed yet)--Ashley's about as much too light as you are too
fat--(try a little burst round the corner now; keep us well out, young
'un)--but if he'll only keep his blade square till he's out of the
water--(there you go again! Of course you're hot; that's what I brought
you out for. How do you suppose you're to boil down to the proper
weight unless you do perspire a bit?)--he'll make a very decent bow.
Ah, there are Porter and Fairbairn in the schoolhouse tub--(you needn't
stop rowing, Game; keep it up, man; show them how you can spurt). I
never thought they'd try Porter in their boat. They might as well try
Riddell. Just shows how hard-up they must be for men. How are you?" he
cried, as the schoolhouse tub went clumsily past, both rowers looking
decidedly nervous under the critical eye of the captain of Parrett's.
Poor Game, who had been kept hard at it for nearly a mile, now fairly
struck, and declared he couldn't keep it up any longer, and as he had
really done a very good spell of work, Bloomfield consented to land at
the Willows and bathe; after which he and Game would run back, and young
Parson might scull home the tub.
Which delightful plan Master Parson by no means jumped at. He had
calculated on getting at least a quarter of an hour for his Caesar
before morning chapel if they returned as they had come. But now, if he
was expected to lug that great heavy boat back by himself, not only
would he not get that, but the chances were he would get locked out for
chapel altogether, and it would be no excuse that he had had to act as
galley-slave for Bloomfield or anybody else.
"Look alive!" cries Bloomfield from the bank, where he is already
stripped for his header. "And, by the way, on your way up go round to
Chalker's and tell him only to stick up one set of cricket nets in our
court; don't forget, now. Be quick; you've not too much time before
chapel."
Saying which, he takes a running dive from the bank and leaves the
luckless Parson to boil over inwardly as he digs his sculls spitefully
into the water and begins his homeward journey.
Was life worth living at this rate? If he didn't tell Chalker about the
nets that imbecile old groundsman would be certain to stick up half a
dozen sets, and there'd be no end of a row. That was 7:30 striking now,
and he had to be in the chapel at five minutes to eight, and Chalker's
hut was a long five minutes from the boat-house. And then those eight
French verbs and that Caesar--
It was no use thinking about them, and Parson lashed out with his
sculls, caring little if that hulking tub went to the bottom. He'd
rather like it, in fact, for he wanted a swim. He hadn't even had time
to tub that morning, and it was certain there'd be no time now till
goodness knew when--not till after second school, and then probably he'd
be spending a pleasant half-hour in the doctor's study.
At this point he became aware of another boat making down on him, manned
by three juniors, who were making up in noise and splashing what they
lacked in style and oarsmanship.
Parson knew them yards away. They were rowdies of Welch's house, and he
groaned inwardly at the prospect before him. The boy steering was our
old acquaintance Pilbury, and as his boat approached he shouted out
cheerily, "Hullo, there, Parson! mind your eye! We'll race you in--give
you ten yards and bump you in twenty! Pull away, you fellows! One,
two, three, gun! Off you go! Oh, well rowed, my boat! Now you've got
him! Wire in, now! Smash him up! scrunch him into the bank! Hooroo!
two to one on us! Lay on to it, you fellows; he can't go straight! Six
more strokes and you're into him! One, two, three--ha, ha! he's funking
it!--four, five--now a good one for the last--six! Hooroo! bump to us!
Welch's for ever!"
So saying, the hostile boat came full tilt on to the stern of the
Parrett's tub, and the outraged Parson found himself next moment
sprawling on his back, with the nose of his boat firmly wedged into the
clay bank of the river, while his insulting adversaries sped gaily away
down stream, making the morning hideous with their shouts and laughter.
This little incident, as may be supposed, did not tend to compose the
fluttered spirits of the unhappy Frederick. To say nothing of the
indignity of being deliberately run down and screwed into the bank by a
crew of young "Welchers," the loss of time involved in extricating his
boat from the muddy obstacle which held her by the nose, put all chance
of getting in in time to go round to Chalker's before chapel out of the
question. Indeed, it looked very like a shut-out from chapel too, and
that meant no end of a row.
By a super-human effort he got his boat clear, and sculled down hard
all, reaching the boat-house at seven minutes to eight. He had just
presence of mind enough to shout the message for Chalker to the boat-
boy, with a promise of twopence if he delivered it at once; and then
with a desperate rush he just succeeded in reaching the chapel and
squeezing himself in at the door as the bell ceased ringing.
Chapel was not, under the circumstances, a very edifying service to
Parson that morning. His frame of mind was not devotional, and his
feelings of bottled-up wrath at what was past, and dejected anticipation
of what was to come, left between them no room for interest in or
meaning for the words in which his schoolfellows were joining. The only
satisfaction morning prayers brought to him was that, for ten minutes at
least, no one could harry him; and that at least was something to be
grateful for.
Morning chapel at Willoughby was supposed to be at 7:15, and was at 7:15
all the months of the year except May, June, and July, when, in
consideration of the early-morning rowing and bathing, it was postponed
for three-quarters of an hour--a concession made up for by the sacrifice
of the usual half-hour's interval between breakfast and first lesson.
This arrangement was all against Parson, who, if the half-hour had been
still available, could at least have skimmed through his Caesar, and
perhaps have begged a friend to help him with the French verbs, and
possibly even have had it out with Pilbury for his morning's diversion.
As it was, there was no opportunity for the performance of any one of
these duties, and at the sound of the pitiless bell he slunk into first
lesson, feeling himself a doomed man.
His one hope was Telson. Telson sat next him in class, and, he knew
well, would help him if he could.
"Telson," he groaned, directly he found himself beside his faithful
ally, "I've not looked at it!"
Telson whistled. "There'll be a row," he muttered, consolingly; "it's a
jolly hard bit."
"Haven't you got the crib?"
Telson looked uncomfortable. "Riddell caught me with it and made me
give it up."
"What on earth business has Riddell with your cribs, I'd like to know?"
exclaimed Parson, indignant, not at all on the question of morality, but
because the last straw on which he had relied for scrambling through his
Caesar had failed him.
"He didn't take it, but he advised me to give it up."
"And you were fool enough to give in to him?"
"Well, he made out it wasn't honourable to use cribs," said Telson.
"Grandmother!" snarled Parson. "Why, Telson, I didn't think you'd have
been such a soft!"
"No more did I, but somehow--oh! I'm awfully sorry, old man; I'll try
and get it back."
"Doesn't much matter," said Parson, resignedly. "I'm in for it hot to-
day."
"I'll prompt you all I can," said the repentant Telson.
"Thanks; I'd do the same to you if I could," replied Parson.
"It is a long lane that has no turning," as the proverb says, and
Parson, after all, was destined to enjoy one brief glimpse of the smiles
of fortune that day. The first boy put up to translate stumbled over a
somewhat intricate point of syntax. Now Mr Warton, the master--as the
manner of many masters is--was writing a little book on Latin Syntax,
and this particular passage happened to be a superb example of a certain
style of construction which till this moment had escaped his notice.
Delighted with the discovery, he launched out into a short lecture on
the subject generally, citing all the examples he had already got in his
book, and comparing them with other forms of construction to be found
scattered through the entire range of Latin classical literature.
How Parson and Telson enjoyed that lecture! They listened to it with
rapt attention with hearts full of gratitude and faces full of sympathy.
They did not understand a word of it, but a chapter out of "Midshipman
Easy" could not have delighted them more; and when they saw that the
clock had slowly worked round from nine to ten they would not have
interrupted it for the world.
"Ah!" said Mr Warton, taking out his watch, "I see time's up. We've
had more Syntax than Caesar to-day. Never mind, it's a point worth
remarking, and sure to be useful as you get on in Latin. The class is
dismissed."
Little he knew the joy his words carried to two small hearts in his
audience.
"Jolly good luck that!" said Parson, as he strolled out into the passage
arm-in-arm with his friend. "Now if I can only get those beastly verbs
done before Coates asks for them! I say, Telson, do you know the dodge
for sticking three nibs on one pen and writing three lines all at one
time?"
"Tried it once," said Telson, "but it didn't pay. It took longer to
keep sticking them in when they fell out, and measuring them to write on
the lines, than to write the thing twice over the ordinary way. I'll
write out part, old man."
"Thanks, Telson, you're an awful brick. I suppose Riddell wouldn't
think it wicked of you to write another fellow's impot, would he?"
"I half fancy he would; but I won't tell him. Hullo! though, here comes
Coates."
A monitor wearing his "mortar-board" approached.
"Where's your imposition, Parson?" he asked.
"I'm awfully sorry," said Parson, "but it's not quite done yet, Coates."
"How much is done?" demanded Coates.
"Not any yet," said Parson, with some confusion. "I was just going to
begin. Wasn't I, Telson?"
"Won't do," said Coates; "you were up the river this morning, I saw you.
If you can go up the river you can do your impositions. Better come
with me to the captain."
Coming with a monitor to the captain meant something unpleasant. The
discipline of Willoughby, particularly in outside matters, was left
almost entirely in the hands of the monitors, who with the captain,
their head, were responsible as a body to the head master for the order
of the school. It was very rarely that a case had to go beyond the
monitors, whose authority was usually sufficient to enable them to deal
summarily with all ordinary offenders.
It was by no means the first time that Parson, who was reputed by almost
every one but himself and Telson to be an incorrigible scamp, had been
haled away to this awful tribunal, and he was half regretting that he
had not met his fate over the Caesar after all, and so escaped his
present position, when another monitor appeared down the passage and met
them. It was Ashley.
"Hullo! Coates," said he, "I wish you'd come to my study and help me
choose half a dozen trout-flies, there's a good fellow. I've had a book
up from the town, and I don't know which are the best to use."
"All serene," said Coates, "I'll be there directly. I'm just going to
take this youngster to the captain."
"Who is the captain?" said Ashley. "Wyndham's gone, and no one's been
named yet that I know of. I suppose it's Bloomfield."
"Eh? I never thought of that. No, I expect it'll be a schoolhouse
fellow. Always is, isn't it. Parson, you can go. Bring me twelve
French verbs written out to my study before chapel to-morrow. Come on,
Ashley."
And Parson departed, consoled in spirit, to announce to Telson and the
lower school generally that Willoughby was at present without a captain.