PREPARING FOR FLIGHT
That night Bertie Bailey dreamed a dream. In fact, he dreamed several
dreams; his slumber-time was passed in dreamland, journeying from
dream to dream.
He dreamed of the Land of Golden Dreams; of Mr. Bankes and Washington
Villa; of a boy traversing a road which ran right around the world; of
tumbling into ponds and scrambling out of them; of some mysterious
country, peopled by a race of giants, to which there came a boy, who,
single-handed, brought them low, and claimed the country for his own,
and the soil of that land consisted of gold and silver, with judicious
variations of precious stones. In his dreams he saw weapons flashing
in the air, and he heard the sound of strange instruments of music.
Just before he woke he dreamed the most vivid dream of all. A moment
before all had been a chaos of bewilderment, but all at once he found
himself alone, in the centre of some wild place, not quite sure what
sort of place it was, nor where, nor of anything about it, but he knew
that it was wild. A voice was heard in the air, and he knew that it
was the voice of Mr. George Washington Bankes. The voice kept
repeating, "A life of adventure's the life for me!" and every time the
words were uttered the boy's heart leapt up within him, and he went
bounding on. The one voice became several, the world was full of
voices, yet he knew that they all belonged to the original Mr. George
Washington Bankes; and over and over again they repeated the same
refrain, "A life of adventure's the life for me!" till the whole world
was alive with it, and birds and beasts and sticks and stones caught
up the same refrain, "A life of adventure's the life for me!" and the
boy's heart was filled with a great and wondrous exultation. But all
at once the voices ceased; all was still; and the boy found that he
was standing in front of a mighty mountain, which filled the world
with darkness, and barred the way in front of him. And he was
beginning to be afraid, when out of the silence and the darkness came,
in a still small whisper--which he knew to be the whisper of Mr.
George Washington Bankes--the words, "A life of adventure's the life
for me!" and they put courage into his heart, and he stretched out his
arm and touched the mountain, and, behold! at his touch it was cleft
asunder, and in its bosom were all the treasures of the earth.
But it was unfortunately at this point that he awoke. It was not
unnatural that for some moments he should have refused to have
acknowledged the fact--to confess that he really was awake, and that
it had been nothing but a dream.
It was broad daylight. The sun was peeping through the windows, along
the edges of the ill-fitting blinds. It was nothing but a dream. As he
began to realize the fact of the gleaming sunshine, even he was
obliged to admit that it had been nothing but a dream. He turned in
his bed with a dissatisfied grunt.
"I never dreamed anything like that before, nothing half so real! It
seemed as if I had only to put out my hand to touch that mountain
now."
But it only seemed, for there was no mountain there, only a coverlet,
and a sheet, and a blanket or two, and a bolster, and a mattress, and
a bed. Bertie lay on his back, with his eyes closed, attempting, by an
effort of his will, to bring back the vanished dream. And to some
extent he succeeded, for as he lay quiescent he seemed to hear,
ringing in his ears, the words he had heard in his dream--
"A life of adventure's the life for me!"
He seemed so certainly to hear them that, just as they had done in his
dream, they filled him with a sudden fire. Thoroughly aroused, he sat
up in bed, grasping the bedclothes with eager hands. And to himself he
said, half beneath his breath, "A life of adventure's the life for
me!"
The other boys were still asleep in the little iron bedsteads on
either side of him, but he made no attempt to recompose himself to
slumber. He remained sitting up in bed, his knees huddled up to his
chin, engaged in a very unwonted act for him, the act of thinking.
The events of the night before were vividly before him, but
principally among them, a giant in the foreground, was the figure of
Mr. George Washington Bankes.
"Why don't you run away?" Mr. Bankes' question rang in his ears.
"A life of adventure's the life for me!" Those other words of Mr.
Bankes, which had been with him through the dream-haunted night, still
danced before his eyes.
Than Bertie Bailey a less romantic-looking youth one could scarce
conceive. But history tells us that some of the greatest heroes of
romance, real, live, flesh-and-blood heroes, who actually at some time
or other did exist, were anything but romantic in their persons.
Perhaps Bailey was one of these. Anyhow, stowed away in some
out-of-the-way corner of his unromantic-looking person was a vein of
romance of the most pronounced and unequivocal kind.
His range of reading was not wide, yet he had his heroes of fiction
none the less. They were rather a motley crew, and if he had been
asked the question, say in an examination paper, "Who is your
favourite hero? give a short sketch of his life," he would have
hesitated once or twice before he would have written Dick Turpin,
Robin Hood, Robinson Crusoe, or Jack the Giant-Killer. Perhaps he
would have hesitated still longer before he had attempted to sketch
the life of any one of them. Yet, had he told the truth, the gentleman
selected would have been one of these.
Possibly in the act of selection his greatest difficulty would have
lain. He never could quite make up his mind which of the four
gentlemen named above he liked the best. There were points about Dick
Turpin which struck his fancy. He would rather have ridden that ride
to York than have had ten thousand pounds. It would have been worth
his while to have been Dick Turpin if only to possess that horse of
horses, Black Bess, the coal-black steed of his heart's desire, though
it may be mentioned in passing that up to the present moment Bertie
Bailey had never figured upon a horse's back. He had once ridden a
donkey from Ramsgate to Pegwell Bay, but a donkey was not Black Bess.
On the other hand, there was no part of England with which he was
better acquainted--theoretically--than the glades of Sherwood Forest.
To have lived in those glades with Robin Hood, Bailey would heave a
great sigh at the prospect; ah, that he only could! Yet certainly one
had only to speak of the desert island, and of Robinson Crusoe on its
lonely shore, for Bertie to feel a wild longing to plough the distant
main, a longing which was scarcely consistent with his desire for the
glades of Sherwood Forest. It is the fashion to sneer at fairy tales,
and to speak of them as though they were beneath the supposititious
dignity of the common noun boy, and certainly the marvellous history
and adventures of Jack the Giant-Killer belong to the domain of the
fairies. Possibly Bertie would have been himself ashamed to own his
partiality for that hero of the nursery; and yet, to have had Jack's
courage and strength and skill, to have slaughtered giants and taken
castles and rescued maidens--Bertie sometimes dreamt of himself as
another Jack, and then always with a rapture too deep for words.
Perhaps his real, ideal, and favourite hero would have consisted of a
judicious combination of the four--something of Dick Turpin, and
something of Robin Hood, and something of Robinson Crusoe, and
something of Jack the Giant-Killer. Take all these somethings and mix
them well together, and you would have had the man for Bailey.
Emphatically, although almost unconsciously, in all his waking dreams,
a life of adventure had been the life for him.
Mr. George Washington Bankes had applied the match to the powder. As
he thought of all that gentleman had said, even in the cool of the
morning, all his soul was on fire. Seeing him in his nightshirt of
doubtful cleanliness, and with his touzled hair, you might not have
supposed that there was fire in his soul, but there was. Run away! He
had heard of boys running away from school before to-day.
Boys had run away from Mecklemburg House, and there were stories of
one who, within quite recent times, had made a dash for liberty. Some
said he had got as far as Windsor, some said Dorking, before he had
changed his mind and decided to come back again. But he had come back
again. Bailey made up his mind that when he ran away he would never
come back again; never! or, at any rate, not till he had traversed the
world in several different directions, as Mr. George Washington Bankes
had done.
It had already become a question of _when_ he ran away. With that
quickness in arriving at a decision which, so some tell us, is the
sure sign of a commanding intellect, he had already decided that he
would; there only remained the question of time and opportunity.
"Why don't you run away?" Mr. Bankes had asked. Yes, why, indeed?
especially if one had only to run away to step at once into the Land
of Golden Dreams!
When the boys took their places in the schoolroom after breakfast,
prepared for morning school, a startling announcement was made to them
by Mr. Fletcher. Bailey and his friends had expected that something
would be said to them on the subject of their escapade of the night
before; but so far, so far as those in authority were concerned, their
expectations had been disappointed. They had been sufficiently
cross-examined by their fellow-pupils, and in spite of a slight
suggestive foreboding of something unpleasant to come, when they
perceived how their proceedings appeared in the eyes of their
colleagues, they were almost inclined to look upon themselves somewhat
in the light of heroes. Griffin, indeed, had not heard the last of the
pond, and it was not of the tragic side of his misadventure that he
heard the most. There were some disagreeable remarks made by personal
friends who would not see that he had run imminent risk of being
drowned. He almost began to wish that he had been.
"You wouldn't have laughed at it then," he said. But they laughed at
it now.
But neither from Mr. Till, nor from Mr. Shane, nor from Mr. Fletcher,
nor from the far more terrible Mrs. Fletcher, had either of the young
gentlemen heard a word.
And just when they were preparing for morning school Mr. Fletcher made
his startling announcement.
At first the quartett thought, not unreasonably, that his remarks were
going to have particular reference to them and to their misdoings, but
they were wrong. The headmaster was seated at his desk, in a seemingly
more than usually preoccupied mood; but he too often was preoccupied
in school, so they paid no heed, and got out their books and slates,
and other implements of study, with the ordinary din and clatter.
Suddenly he spoke.
"Boys, I want to speak to you."
The boys looked at him, and the quartett looked at each other. Mr.
Fletcher did not raise his head, but with his eyes fixed on the desk
in front of him continued to speak as though he found considerable
difficulty in saying what he had to say.
"I have had heavy losses lately in carrying on the school. Some of you
know that the number of boys has grown smaller by degrees and
beautifully less."
There was a faint smile about Mr. Fletcher's mouth which did not quite
betoken mirth.
"But I do not complain. I should not have mentioned it, only"--he
paused, raised his head, and looked round the room, his eyes resting
for a moment on each of the boys as they passed--"only when one has no
boys one can keep no school. I have found, very certainly, that
without boys school cannot keep me--my wife and I. Our wants are not
large--they have grown even smaller of recent years--but to satisfy
the most modest wants something is required, and we have nothing."
Again he paused, and again something like the ghost of a smile flitted
across his face. By this time the boys were listening with their eyes
and ears, and Mr. Shane and Mr. Till listened with the rest.
"I am a ruined schoolmaster. I should not have told you this--it is
not a pleasant thing to have to tell--only my ruin is so complete, and
so near. It will necessitate your returning home at once. Mecklemburg
House will no longer be able to offer shelter to either you or I, and
I--I was born here; you will perhaps be able to go with lighter
hearts. I have communicated with your parents. You must pack your
things at once; some of you will, perhaps, be fetched in an hour or
two. I have advised your parents that you had better be all of you
removed by to-morrow morning at the latest. Under these circumstances
there will, of course, be no morning school; nor, indeed, in
Mecklemburg House any more school at any time."
Perhaps, in that schoolroom, the silence had never been so marked as
it was when Mr. Fletcher ceased. The boys looked at each other, and at
their master, scarcely understanding what it was that he had said, and
by no means certain that they were entitled to believe their ears. No
morning school! Mecklemburg House ceased to exist! Pack up! Going home
at once! These things were marvellous in their eyes. There were those
among them who had not failed to see the way in which things were
tending, who knew that Mecklemburg House was very far from being what
it was, that the glory was departed; but for such a thunderclap as
this they were wholly unprepared. Pack up! Going home at once! The
boys could do nothing else but stare.
"You will disperse now, and go into the playground. Put your books
away quietly You will be called in as you are wanted to assist in
packing."
They put their books away. It was unnecessary to bid them do it
quietly; their demeanour had never been so decorous. Then they filed
out silently, one after the other, and the headmaster and his ushers
were left alone.
One boy there was who walked out of that schoolroom as though he were
walking in a dream. This was Bailey. It was all wonderful to him. He
was watching for an opportunity to fly--he knew not why, he knew not
where; but that is by the way. He had only begun to watch an hour or
two ago, and here was the opportunity thrust into his hand. He never
doubted for an instant that here was the opportunity thrust into his
hand.
It was now or never. He had reasons of his own for knowing that when
he had left Mecklemburg House he had left boarding-school for ever. He
might have a term or two at a day-school, but what was the use of
running away from a school of that description? It was heroic to run
away from boarding-school, but from day-school--where was the heroic
quantity in that? No, it was now or never, and Bertie Bailey resolved
it should be now. So in a secluded corner of the playground he matured
his adventurous scheme; for even he was not prepared to rush through
the playground gate and dash into the world upon the spot.
"I must get some money."
So much he decided. It may be mentioned that he arrived at this
decision first of all. It may be added that his consciousness of the
desirability of getting money was not lessened by the fact that he
possessed none now; no, not so much as a specimen of the smallest
copper coinage of the realm.
"I must try to borrow some from some of the chaps." He was aware that
this was not a hopeful field. "But a fellow can't go without any money
at all; even Mr. Bankes said he had ninepence-halfpenny." He
remembered every word which Mr. Bankes had said. "Wheeler had
sevenpence, and he promised to lend me twopence, but he's such a
selfish beast I shouldn't be surprised if he's changed his mind.
Besides, I ought to have more than twopence, or sevenpence, either.
Perhaps he might lend me the lot; he's not a bad sort sometimes.
Anyhow, I'll try."
He tried. Slipping his arm through Wheeler's he drew him on one side.
He approached the matter diplomatically.
"I say, Wheeler, I know you're a trump."
This sort of diplomacy was a mistake; Wheeler was at once on the
alert.
"What are you buttering me up for? Don't you think you're going to get
anything out of me, because you just aren't; so now you know it."
This was abrupt, not to say a little brutal, perhaps. Bailey perceived
the error he had made; he changed his tone with singular presence of
mind.
"Look here, Wheeler, I want you to lend me that sevenpence of yours."
"Then you'll have to want; I like your cheek!"
"Lend me sixpence."
"I won't lend you a sight of a farthing."
"You promised to lend me twopence."
"Oh, did I? Then I won't. I'm going to buy sevenpenn'orth of cocoanut
candy, and perhaps I'll give you a bit of that, though I don't
promise, mind; and it'll only be a little bit, anyhow."
"But look here, I want it for something--I do, I really do, or else I
wouldn't ask you for it."
"What do you want it for?" asked Wheeler, struck by something in the
other's tone.
"Oh! for something particular."
"What do you want it for? If you tell me, perhaps I'll lend it."
This was a bait; but Bailey did not trust his friend so completely as
he might have done. He suspected that if he told him what it really
was wanted for, the story might be all over the playground in a
minute; and it was possible that his friends might not view his
intended flight from the heroic point of view from which it appeared
to him. So he temporized.
"If you'll lend me the sevenpence first, I'll tell you afterwards."
"You catch me at it! What do I want to know what you want it for? I
know I want it myself, and that's quite enough for me."
Wheeler turned away; Bailey caught him by the arm.
"Lend me the twopence which you promised."
"I won't lend you a brass farthing."
Bertie felt the moment was not propitious. It occurred to him that he
might pick a quarrel with his friend and fight him, and that when he
had fought him long enough his friend might see things in a different
light, and a loan might be arranged. But of this he was by no means
certain. He was not clear in his own mind as to the amount of
hammering which would be required to bring about a conversion. He had
never measured his strength with Wheeler; and it even occurred to him
that he might be the hammered one, and not his friend. On the whole,
he thought that he had better leave that scheme untried; sevenpence
might be bought too dearly.
Baffled in one quarter he tried another. In quest of money he
buttonholed all the school. But this, again, was a mistaken step. It
soon got about that Bailey was in search of some one to devour, and,
in consequence, those who were worth devouring took the hint--they by
no means showed themselves anxious to be devoured. In spite of his
repeated efforts, he only met with one success, and that was one of
which he was scarcely entitled to be proud.
Willie Seymour, Bailey's cousin, has been already mentioned. He was
the youngster who led Mr. Shane's German grammar on its final road to
ruin. A little pale-faced boy, certainly not more than nine years old,
and without even the strength of his years.
Bertie caught him by the jacket.
"Now then, where's that money of yours?"
His temper was not improved by the want of confidence his friends had
shown, and this was not a case in which he thought delicacy was
required.
"What money? Bertie, don't! you're hurting my arm!"
"Yes, and I'll hurt it, too! Where's that money of yours? I know
you've got some."
"I've only got one and fivepence. Mamma sent it me last week to buy a
birthday present. It was my birthday, you know."
"Oh, was it! Then I'll buy you a birthday present--something spiffing.
Fork it up!"
"But, Bertie----"
"Fork it up!"
"It's in my desk."
"Then just you let me see your desk. It's never safe to leave money in
your desk; it might get stolen."
And Bailey dragged his relative indoors. It may be mentioned that
Willie's mother (Bertie's aunt) had particularly commended her lad to
Bertie's care. This was the first symptom of a careful disposition he
had shown.