We did not see Tempest again till the afternoon. As we most of us
surmised, he was relieving his feelings after his interview with the
doctor by a spin on the river.
How, I wondered, had the interview gone? Had he agreed to the
humiliating condition of apologising to Mr Jarman, or had his pride
been too much for him after all? If so, this was probably his last spin
on the river.
Had our house been Selkirk's, there would, no doubt, have been wagers on
the event. As it was, the Philosophers contented themselves with
bickering. The general impression seemed to be that he had refused to
surrender. That being so, the game was up--there was no object in
keeping up appearances.
A spirit of defiance seemed to get hold of us. We deliberately sat on
the fence of the prohibited playing fields, in the hope that Mr Jarman
or some one would see us. Trimble even went to the length of crossing
it at one corner.
What made it more trying was the conduct of the day boys, who, with an
acuteness which did them credit, seemed to have discovered our delicate
situation, and resolved to make the most of it.
They paraded the field about twenty yards from our fence, jeering at us
openly, and daring us to set foot on the turf.
"Look at them," said one, "hung up like a lot of washing on the palings.
We'll make them cut. Let's have a scientific meeting. That'll clear
them out."
Whereupon the Urbans ranged themselves on the grass under our noses, and
called upon Mr Flitwick to address them on the "Treatment of Lunatics."
This was too much. We were few in number, and the palings were hard and
uncomfortable. But if they thought they were going to frighten us away
by this demonstration, they were mistaken.
Langrish, in a loud voice, called out "Chair," whereupon I, taking the
cue, and assuming that the Philosophers were in congress, called upon
Mr Trimble to favour us with his oration on "Mud."
"Oh, all serene," said Trimble, who till that moment had had as little
notion of his subject as I had had. "Mud is dirty lumps of stuff lying
about on the grass, like what you see in front of you. It has neither
brains nor sense. It's a vile thing to look at, and worse to touch. If
you--"
"--If you," here broke in Mr Flitwick, "want to see what lunatics
really are, you should look on the palings of some of our school playing
fields. If you happen to see a row of squinney-eyed, ill-dressed mules,
with large boots and turn-up noses, and afraid of their lives to move
off where they are, those are the prize lunatics. I have pleasure in
exhibiting a few choice specimens collected from various sources. The
one thing--"
"--The one thing about mud is, it daren't come within reach of you,"
continued Trimble, getting a little random in his statements, "for fear
of getting one in the eye. If you want a sample--"
"--There's one," shouted Flitwick, interrupting our orator with a
fragment of mother earth in his face.
Of course it was all up after that. Doctor or no doctor, we couldn't
sit by and see our treasurer assaulted. So we hurled ourselves on the
foe, regardless of consequences, and a deadly fight ensued. Some of the
more cautious of our number were lucky enough to be able to drag their
men off the prohibited field and engage them on the right side of the
fence.
I was not so lucky--indeed, I was doubly unlucky. For not only was my
adversary my dear friend Dicky Brown, whom I loved as a brother, but he
edged further and further afield as the combat went on, so that at the
last we were cut off from the main body and left to fight our duel
conspicuously in the open.
Dicky was not a scientific pugilist, but he had an awkward way of
closing in with you and getting you round the middle just at the moment
that his left foot got round behind your right calf. And it grieves me
to say that, although I boasted of far more talent in the exercise of
the fistic art than he did, he had me on my back on the grass just as
Mr Sharpe of all persons walked by.
"What are you two doing?" demanded the master, stopping short.
"Fighting, sir," said the stalwart Dicky, "and I licked him."
"Why are you fighting?"
"Because Flitwick shied mud at Trimble," said I.