The holidays went by rapidly enough. I tore myself away from Dicky's
consoling companionship three days from the end, and rushed home to see
my mother. I wonder what she thought of the difference a couple of
weeks had made in me? When I started to Dicky's I had been limp,
dejected, and down on my luck. Now she found me chirpy, and with a
stiff upper lip. She did not make remarks, but I could see how relieved
she was.
My mother was not the person to take a mean advantage of me, or get me
into a corner to lecture me. Rather not! She took me for what I was,
and let me see how she loved me. That was the proper sort of help for
me. In some ways she made less of me than usual, but I could see why
she did that; she saw I wanted letting alone, and she did it, bless her!
Only on the last evening, a Sunday, as we walked back from church, she
said--
"Are you glad or sorry to be going back to-morrow, Tom?"
"Sorry for some things--glad for others. I fooled a bit last term, you
know, mother."
"Ah, well, sonny, it's part of the lessons of school to find out our
mistakes now and then. It was all new to you at first. I expect you
tried to do too much, you know."
"I know--you mean I'd best lie low a bit, mother."
"Yes. I know what you mean," said she.
"There you are!" exclaimed I, staggered by this new coincidence, "that's
what every chap has said. I'll do my best, really, mother; only it's
jolly hard. Don't be awfully sorry if I don't get right all at once;
I'll try, you know."
"You can't do more than your best, sonny dear."
"Redwood says," continued I, "that I shall probably tool about more or
less to the end of my time. It's in my line, he says; but he rather
backs me to pull myself together for all that."
"So do I, Tom. And the best friend you have does so too."
My journey next day was very different from the strange journey of a
term ago. I had neither tan boots nor square-topped hat nor lavender
gloves; and I could afford to smile with Langrish (who joined me _en
route_) at some of the poor little greenhorns on their way to make their
entry into Low Heath.
How different it was, too, to be hailed by half a dozen voices from the
top of the omnibus at the station and told to hop up beside them! And
how jolly to ride in triumph up Bridge Street, exchanging shouts with
familiar passengers on the way, or uttering defiant war-whoops at the
day boys!
And how jolly to tumble in at Sharpe's door once more, and slap one
another on the back, and crowd up into the old familiar faggery, and
hear all the old chaff and slang, interspersed with stories of the
holidays, and second-hand Christmas jokes!
And how jolly to hear the organ again in the chapel, and the prayers,
with friends all round you; and finally, when the day was over, tuck up
again in the little cubicle, and hear your chum's voice across the
partition droning more and more sleepily, till finally you and it
dropped off together!
One of the last to arrive during the day was Tempest, who had run from
the station, and came in flushed with exercise, but grave and tight
about the lips. The ovation he received from the Philosophers scarcely
drew a smile from him, and when he reached his own study he slammed the
door ominously and cheerlessly behind him. We none of us liked it.
"What's it to be?" said Coxhead. "Is he to be cock of the house this
term, or has he chucked it up?"
That was the question which was agitating us all. Till the form orders
were posted to-morrow no one could tell. Crofter, we knew, had been
doing all he knew to get ahead, and considering the slack way in which
Tempest had let things go all last term, it seemed very much as if he
might succeed.
If he did, our duty would be a difficult one. Crofter had a claim on us
for having saved Tempest from being expelled, and we could hardly refuse
to own him should he come out cock of the house. On the other hand.
Tempest was the man of our heart, and our tender imagination failed to
picture him in any secondary position in Sharpe's,--secondary to
Crofter, above all other things.
The day closed with one curious incident.
Langrish came to me after supper in a state of wrathful perturbation.
"Look here, young Sarah," said he, "are you Tempest's fag or not?
That's all about it."
"I don't know," said I; "I was, but he told me--"
"He told you he didn't want a cad like you hanging about his place. All
very well--that doesn't follow I'm his fag as well as Crofter's. Here,
catch hold; you've got to take this to Crofter. _I'm_ not going to take
it--it means a licking most likely, and I don't see why I'm to be let in
for it."
He handed me an envelope, evidently containing coin, addressed
"Crofter," in Tempest's well-known writing.
I did not relish the commission, for I had my guess as to the contents
of the missive. Curiosity, however, prompted me to take it and proceed
to Crofter's study.
"Well, youngster," said Crofter, "turned up again? Have you seen
Tempest yet?"
"Yes--he sent this," said I.
Crofter took the envelope and opened it. Five sovereigns and a half-
sovereign dropped out on the table. No letter accompanied the money,
but its meaning was clear enough. Crofter's brow contracted, and his
habitual smile deserted him for once.
"What is this? Some mistake," said he.
"It's what he owes you," suggested I.
"I suppose so; but that was only £4 17 shillings 6 pence."
"Perhaps the rest is something for yourself," I remarked, making myself
scarce in time to escape the task of returning the change.
Bother it! Crofter must square this part of the business up with his
enemy. _I_ didn't want to be dragged any more into it.
There was a rush for the house board early next morning to learn our
fate as to the captaincy of Sharpe's.
"Whew!" said Langrish, as we reached it; "bracketed."
So it was. Tempest's and Crofter's names were braced together at the
head of the list.
"That's a nice go! I suppose they'll have to go halves. All the worse
for us."
"I should think, as Tempest was captain last term, he'll go on again
this," I said.
"He wasn't captain when term ended; Crofter was."
"I vote they fight it out," said Warminster. "Two to one on the
winner."
"It would save trouble if they made Pridgin head; he's third man up."
"Pridgin!" The easy-going owner of the name was spared something by not
being present to hear the amused contempt with which the suggestion was
greeted.
An hour later the doctor came down to settle matters for us.
"Under the circumstances," said he, "it seems right that Crofter should
take charge of the house. I understand that Tempest's debts, on account
of which he was removed from the headship last term, are now all
honourably settled. But as he was more than once reported for breaking
rules last term, it is only fair that Crofter, whose marks are equal,
and against whom no complaint was recorded, should captain the house."
That was all. Tempest, on the whole, looked relieved. Crofter smiled a
satisfied smile. Pridgin and Wales looked blue; and the Philosophers
took time to consider what they thought.
As for me, although Tempest had thrown me over, I could guess what a
blow this was for him; not personally, for he would probably be glad to
be rid of the responsibility, but as a public disgrace it was sure to
wound him keenly.
I longed to be able to go and tell him how sorry I was; but after what
had happened last term I dare not. In that respect, whether I liked it
or not, I must "lie low."
The Philosophers were not long in formally exchanging opinions on the
situation.
A meeting was summoned for the same evening to inaugurate things
generally. I was a little doubtful what I ought to do. Last term
philosophy had not tended to diligent work, and with my good resolutions
in view I felt that I should be better out of it. The little tiff with
my comrades before the holidays had almost solved the difficulty; but
since then I had been formally re-admitted to the fold, and it would be
almost treasonable to "scratch" now.
"I _move_ and third, and old Trim seconds and fourths," announced
Langrish, "that old Sal be, and is, president as before."
"And I carry that motion," said Warminster, who prided himself on his
acquaintance with the procedure of public meetings.
"I move an amendment," said I.
"Shut up, or you'll be kicked out again," said the secretary.
"Shut up yourself, or you'll be kicked in," retorted I, feeling I must
carry everything with a high hand if I was to carry them at all. "No.
Look here, you chaps, I'm not so green as I look."
"Then you must look fearfully green," muttered Coxhead.
I took no heed of the interruption, which was not relevant, and
proceeded,--
"It was all very well last term, but it won't wash this. What I say is,
that if the cock of the school is the head boy in the school, and the
cock of the house is the head boy in the house, the president of the
Philosophers has got to be the chap highest up in the Philosophers, and
that's not me. Now old Warminster is. _He's_ a jolly clever chap, and
got the form prize on his head, and he's a rattling good speaker, and a
middling sprinter, and writes a fairly good hand! _He's_ the sort of
chap we want. We want some one who can keep the secretary, and
treasurer, and auditor, and registrar, and all that lot, in their place,
and doesn't mind telling them they're idiots when they are. I never
could do it. It's rough on the club not to have a chap like
Warminster," continued I, waxing warm, and undaunted by the murmurs of
my audience. "He can make you all sit up. He's not the sort of chap to
let the Philosophers go rotting about, talking what they know nothing
about and all that. He'll see that the louts are kept out of it, and
only fellows who've got a record of something are let in. Bless you, I
used to let in any sort of bounder that asked! Look round you and see.
That's the sort of lot I let in. It won't wash, though. Fancy having a
lot of outsiders who can't translate a Latin motto, and make 'corpore' a
feminine genitive! Now old Warminster's a nailer at Latin, and can put
one or two of us to bed at Euclid. He'll keep us out of blunders of
that sort, that make all the school grin at us. I therefore propose,
fifth, fourth, third, and second, that Tip. Warminster is the president
of the Philosophers, and that the secretary, treasurer, auditor,
registrar, and all that lot, get a month's notice to jack it up unless
they're on the front desk. There you are! Of course they won't like
it--can't help that. No back-deskers for us. Front desk or nothing!"
This oration, the longest I ever delivered so far, and in all
probability the longest I ever shall deliver, was listened to with a
curious mixture of discomfort and attention. At first it was nearly
howled down, but it took as it went on. Warminster, for whom I really
did not feel quite so much admiration as my words seemed to imply, but
who yet was the hard-working man of our lot--Warminster was wonderfully
pleased with it. The others, one by one, dropped their noisy protests,
and looked out of the window. Trimble attempted a little bravado, by
sticking his tongue in his cheek; but my peroration was listened to with
marked attention.
"Cuts down the club a bit," said Coxhead, who occupied a desk in class
on the third row, "if it's only to be top-deskers."
"Cuts old Sal out, to begin with," said Langrish, who was just on the
bench of honour.
"It'll cut you out next week, old hoss," said I.
"Me! What are you talking about?"
"You wait till the week's order is up: you'll see."
Langrish glared indignantly.
"If you think an idiot like you is going to--"
"Look here," said Warminster, "I vote we go easy at first, and make it
any one who's not gone down in order in a month."
"I say, nobody who's not gone up one in the term," suggested Langrish,
glancing defiantly at me.
"All serene," said I, "that'll suit my book. It'll be roughish on you,
though."
"Will it? See how you'll feel when you're chucked out neck and crop, my
beauty!"
My main object had been to get out of being president. But, somehow, in
doing it I had struck a note which made the Philosophers sit up. It was
no credit to me it happened so, but it was one of those lucky flukes
which sometimes turn out well and do a good stroke without the striker
being aware of it.
Warminster was unanimously elected president, and bore his blushing
honours with due meekness.
"Old Sal"--the Philosophers had taken to abbreviating my pet name this
term, I know not on what principle of familiarity--"Old Sal piles it on
a bit," remarked he. "Of course he couldn't help rotting the club a bit
last term. That's the way he's born. But considering what a rank
outsider he was, I suppose he did his best." (Laughter, and cries of
"What about Jarman's guy?") "Yes, that was a howling mess. I vote we
keep out of that this term, or leave it to the louts. I tell you what,"
said he, "I vote we make a show up at the sports next month, and take
some of the side out of those day-boy kids. They fancy themselves a
jolly sight too much."
"Dicky Brown told me," said I, "they were sure of both the jumps and the
Quarter-mile and the Tug--and that Selkirk's were going to pull off the
others, all except the Half-mile Handicap; and we may get that, he says,
because they'll probably give us fifty or sixty yards' lead."
"Howling cheek!" exclaimed every one in furious rage. The idea of being
given sixty yards' start in a half-mile by a day boy was too much even
for a Philosopher.
Whereupon we solemnly considered the list of events "under 15," and
divided them out among ourselves, with a vow to eat our heads if we
didn't pull off as many for Sharpe's as all the rest of the school put
together.
We decided to postpone making our entries till the last moment, so as to
delude the enemy into the impression that we were shirking the sports
altogether. Then we would, as Warminster politely put it, "drop down
and rot the lot."
Before we adjourned for the night the question of Tempest and Crofter
came up, _a propos_ of a report, which some one mentioned, that Tempest
had entered for the Open Mile against Redwood, and was expected to prove
a warm customer.
"Is Crofter in?"
"No--Pridgin is, but of course he won't come up to scratch, and Wales
only enters for the show of the thing."
"Crofter couldn't look in at Tempest over the Mile," said Langrish, "but
he ought to enter, for all that."
"Can he look in at Tempest over anything?" said I.
"Don't ask questions, and you won't be told no whoppers," astutely
replied Trimble. "I wonder if he expects us to back him up?"
"I sha'n't," said one. "Nor shall I," said one or two others.
"I vote we let him alone," said Coxhead. "What's he got to do with us?
When does he come across us? Only when there's a row on. He's got
nothing at all to say to us at other times."
"You mean, if we want to let him alone we shall have to shut up rows?"
inquired Langrish. "Rather rough, isn't it?"
"Not if he knows the reason," suggested I. "Let's send him a round-
robin and let him know."
"Not half a bad idea."
Whereupon the following candid epistle was concocted and signed by all
present:--
"To T. Crofter, Esquire, Captain Sharpe's _pro tem_., etcetera,
etcetera, etcetera.
"Dear Crofter,--We the undersigned Philosophers wish to say we're going
steady this term on our own hooks, and hope you will not think it's
because of you. We don't want to be interfered with by any chap except
old Tempest, who ought to be cock of Sharpe's, so we've decided to go
steady, so as not to be interfered with, because we would rather not you
interfered with us, because we're all serene and are backing up Tempest,
and hope he'll pull off the Mile that you've not entered for. We aren't
down on you, because you pulled Tempest through last term, but it's
rough you're cock of the house instead of him, and therefore on that
account we are going steady, so as not to give you the fag of
interfering with us, which we don't mind Tempest doing because we
consider he has more right to interfere with us than you. Hoping you
are well and in good health, as this leaves us, Believe us, with kind
regards to all at home, Yours very kindly and in alphabetical order, so
that you needn't know who started this letter. Samuel Wilberforce
Coxhead, Thomas Jones, Everard Langrish, Jonathan T. Purkis, Alfred
James Remington Trimble, Percy Algernon Warminster, and others."
This important document, the writing of which, I grieve to say,
necessitated frequent reference to the English Dictionary, Langrish, as
Crofter's fag, undertook to deliver, and faithfully discharged his
mission by leaving it on the captain's table when he was out of his
study.
It was decided to resist the temptation of sending Mr Jarman a similar
explanatory letter, for fear it might lead to a row which would call for
interference. Nor was it deemed prudent under the circumstances to
commit ourselves in writing to Tempest, whom we hoped to convince of our
loyalty by cheering him on every possible occasion and otherwise making
things pleasant for him.
How Crofter enjoyed his letter we none of us knew. He was inconsiderate
enough to give no sign of having received it; and still more
inconsiderate to allow himself on more than one occasion to be publicly
complimented by the doctor and Mr Sharpe on the order of the house.
Meanwhile the Philosophers stuck to their new programme. I had the
satisfaction of pulling down Langrish from his place on the top desk at
the end of the first week, and he had the triumph of recovering his seat
at the end of the week after. In the seclusion of the faggery we
indulged in a few mild recriminations, which were the natural outcome of
our rivalry; but they only served to blow off steam, and we were too
keen to win our self-imposed battles in class to allow personal feeling
to interfere much with our work.
Mr Sharpe was fairly astonished, and took off his glasses, and rubbed
his mild eyes as he read over our really meritorious exercises and
listened to our sometimes positively coherent feats of construing.
Secretly, too, but with great precaution, and in spots far removed from
the detection of the day boys, we practised grimly at jumping and
sprinting and record-breaking generally, and finally, as the critical
time for making our entries approached, agreed upon the particular
exploit which each of us was to undertake for the honour and glory of
Sharpe's house in general and Philosophy in particular.
Before that time arrived, however, one awkward incident occurred, to
remind me I had even yet not quite purged myself of the follies of last
term. I stumbled against Crofter just outside his door.
"Come in," said he.
I obeyed, guessing that at last we were to hear something of our famous
letter.
I was disappointed, however. Crofter made no reference to it, but
said--
"Those bills you paid for me last term, Jones iv.--did none of the
people allow you any discount?"
"Discount," said I, "what's that? We haven't got to it yet in Syntax."
"Don't be a young ass. Did none of them give you any change?"
"Rather, all of them. I brought it back, or used it to pay the rest."
"What I mean is, you didn't make anything out of it for yourself, did
you?"
"Me--oh!" the conscious blushes suddenly mounted as I grasped his
meaning.
"Yes, you."
"Well, only, you see, it was--"
"Come, no lies. I know all about it. Did you or did you not?"
"Not from the hat man," said I.
"From all the others?"
"Only--"
"Yes or no, that's what I want to know."
"Yes, but--"
"That will do. Now I understand why you were so pleased with the job.
It's a profitable thing to help a friend sometimes. Tempest will be
amused when he hears."
"Oh, I say, don't--really I didn't fancy--"
"That will do, I say. Cut--do you hear? I only wanted to know whether
I was right or not in what I told Tempest."
"Oh, but--" pleaded I, with a groan of misery.
"If you don't cut I'll lick you for disobedience."
This, after all my good resolutions and hopes that all was squared and
that before long Tempest would believe in me again!
I slunk away in despair, and curled myself up in my bed that night, the
most miserable boy in Low Heath.