not been a day in the house when we began to feel the honor that his
visit conferred on us. He was modest almost to the verge of shyness; but
it was the modesty that is worn by a man who knows he can afford it.
While Peterkin was there Rawlins had no need to boast, for Peterkin did
the boasting for him. When, however, the captain exerted himself to
talk, Peterkin was contented to retire into the shade and gaze at him.
He would look at all of us from his seat in the background, and note how
Rawlins was striking us. Peterkin's face as he gazed upon that of the
captain went far beyond the rapture of a lover singing to his mistress's
eyebrow. He fetched and carried for him, anticipated his wants as if
Rawlins were an invalid, and bore his rebukes meekly. When Rawlins
thought that Peterkin was speaking too much, he had merely to tell him
to shut up, when Peterkin instantly collapsed. We noticed one great
change in Peterkin. Formerly, when he came home for the holidays he had
strongly objected to making what he called drawing-room calls, but all
that was changed. Now he went from house to house, showing the captain
off. "This is Rawlins," remained his favorite form of introduction. He
is a boy who can never feel comfortable in a drawing-room, and so the
visits were generally of short duration. They had to go because they
were due in another house in a quarter of an hour, or he had promised to
let Jemmy Clinker, who is our local cobbler and a great cricketer, see
Rawlins. When a lady engaged the captain in conversation, Peterkin did
not scruple to sign to her not to bother him too much; and if they were
asked to call again, Peterkin said he couldn't promise. There was a
remarkable thing the captain could do to a walking stick, which Peterkin
wanted him to do everywhere. It consisted in lying flat on the floor and
then raising yourself in an extraordinary way by means of the stick. I
believe it is a very difficult feat, and the only time I saw our guest
prevailed upon to perform it he looked rather apoplectic. Sometimes he
would not do it, apparently because he was not certain whether it was a
dignified proceeding. He found it very hard, nevertheless, to resist the
temptation, and it was the glory of Peterkin to see him yield to it.
From certain noises heard in Peterkin's bedroom it is believed that he
is practicing the feat himself.
Peterkin, you must be told, is an affectionate boy, and almost
demonstrative to his relatives if no one is looking. He was consequently
very anxious to know what the captain thought of us all, and brought us
our testimonials as proudly as if they were medals awarded for saving
life at sea. It is pleasant to me to know that I am the kind of governor
Rawlins would have liked himself, had he required one. Peterkin's
mother, however, is the captain's favorite. She pretended to take the
young man's preference as a joke when her son informed her of it, but in
reality I am sure she felt greatly relieved. If Rawlins had objected to
us it would have put Peterkin in a very awkward position. As for Grizel,
the captain thinks her a very nice little girl, but "for choice," he
says (according to Peterkin) "give him a bigger woman." Grizel was
greatly annoyed when he told her this, which much surprised him, for he
thought it quite as much as she had any right to expect. On the whole,
we were perhaps rather glad when Rawlins left, for it was somewhat
trying to live up to him. Peterkin's mother, too, has discovered that
her boy has become round-shouldered. It is believed that this is the
result of a habit he acquired when in Rawlins's company of leaning
forward to catch what people were saying about the captain.
THOUGHTFUL BOYS MAKE THOUGHTFUL MEN.
Urquhart is a boy who lives in fear that his friends and relations will
send him the wrong birthday presents. Before his birthday came round
this year, he dropped them pretty broad hints as to the kind of gift he
would prefer, supposing they meant to remember the occasion. He worked
his people differently, according to the relationship that existed
between him and them. Thus to his mother he simply wrote, "A fishing-rod
is what I want;" but to an uncle, from whom there was only the
possibility of the present, he said, "By the way, next Monday week is my
birthday, and my mother is going to send me a fishing-rod. Wouldn't it
be jolly rot if any other body sent me a fishing-rod?--Your affectionate
and studious nephew, Thomas Urquhart." To an elderly lady, with whom he
had once spent part of his summer holiday, he wrote, "By-the-bye" (he
always came to the point with by-the-bye), "next Monday week is my
birthday. I am wondering if anybody will send me a cake like the ones
you bake so beautifully."
That lady should, of course, figuratively have punched Urquhart's head,
but his communication charmed her. She did not, however, send him a
cake. He had a letter from her in a few days, in which, without
referring to his insinuating remarks about his birthday and her cakes,
she expressed a hope that he was working hard. Urquhart thought this
very promising, and sent a reply that undid him. "I am sweating," he
said, "no end; and I think there is no pleasure like perusing books.
When the other chaps go away to play, I stay at the school and peruse
books." After that Urquhart counted the old lady among his certainties,
and so she was, after a manner. On his birthday he received a gift from
her, and also a letter, in which she said that her original intention
had been to send him a cake. "But your nice letter," she went on, "in
which you say you are fond of reading, reminds me that you are getting
to be a big boy, so I send you a book instead," Urquhart anxiously undid
the brown paper in which the book was wrapped. It was a volume of mild
biographies, entitled, "Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men."
From its first appearance among us, this book caused a certain amount of
ill-feeling. I learned by accident that Urquhart, on the strength of the
lady's letter, had stated for a fact to his comrades that she was going
to send him a cake. He had also taken Fleming Secundus to a
pastry-cook's in the vicinity of the school, and asked him to turn his
eyes upon a cake which had the place of honor in the centre of the
window. Secundus admitted with a sigh that it was a beauty. Without
comment Urquhart led him to our local confectioner's, and pointed out
another cake. Secundus again passed favorable criticism, the words he
used, I have reason to believe, being "Oh, Crikey!" By this time
Urquhart had exhausted the shops of an interesting kind in our
neighborhood, and he and his companion returned to the school. For a
time Urquhart said nothing, but at last he broke the silence. "You saw
yon two cakes?" he asked Secundus, who replied, with a smack of the
lips, in the affirmative. "Then let me tell you," said Urquhart,
solemnly, "that the two of them rolled together don't come within five
miles of the cake I'm to get on my birthday." Tremendous news like this
spreads through a school like smoke, and Urquhart was courted as he had
never been before. One of the most pitiful cases of toadyism known to me
was witnessed that very day in the foot-ball field. I was playing in a
school match on the same side as Urquhart and a boy called Cocky Jones
by his associates because of his sublime impertinence to his master.
While Urquhart was playing his shoelace became loosened, and he stooped
to tie it. "I say, Urquhart," cried Cocky, "let me do that for you!" It
will thus be seen, taking one thing with another, that Urquhart's
confidence in the old lady had raised high hopes. "Is this the day
Urquhart gets his cake?" the "fellows" asked each other. Consider their
indignation when he got, instead, "Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men."
Secundus refused to speak to him; Williamson, Green, Robbins, Tosh and
others scowled as if he had stolen their cake; Cocky Jones kicked him
and bolted.
The boy who felt the disappointment most was, however, Urquhart himself.
He has never been a shining light in his classes, but that day he
stumbled over the Latin grammar at every step. From nine to ten he was
quiet and sullen, like one felled by the blow. It is, I believe,
notorious that in a fair fight Cocky Jones could not stand up before
Urquhart for a moment; yet, when Cocky kicked, Urquhart did not pursue
him. Between ten and eleven, Urquhart had a cynical countenance, which
implied that his faith in humanity was gone. By twelve he looked fierce,
as if he meant to write his benefactress, and give her a piece of his
mind. I saw him during the dinner-hour in hot controversy with Green and
Tosh, who were evidently saying that he had deceived them. From this
time he was pugnacious, like one determined to have it out with
somebody, and as he can use his fists, this mood made his companions
more respectful. Fleming Secundus is his particular chum, and after the
first bitterness of disappointment, Secundus returned to his allegiance.
He offered to mark Cocky Jones' face, I fancy, for I saw him in full
pursuit of Cocky in the playground. Having made it up, he and Urquhart
then discussed the matter calmly in a corner. They had several schemes
before them. One was to send the book back, saying that Urquhart had
already a copy of it.
"But, I haven't," said Urquhart.
"Williamson has read it, though," said Secundus, as if that was much
the same thing.
"But though we did send it back," Urquhart remonstrated, "the chances
are that she would send me another book in its place."
His faith, you see, had quite gone.
"You could tell her you had got such a lot of books that you would
prefer a cake for a change?"
Urquhart said that would be putting it too plain.
"Well, then," said Secundus, "even though she did send you another book,
it would perhaps be a better one than that. Tell her to send 'The Boy
Crusoes.' I haven't read it."
"I have, though," said Urquhart.
"Well, she could send 'The Prairie Hunters.'"
"She's not the kind," said Urquhart. "It's always these improving books
she buys."
Ultimately the two boys agreed upon a line of action which was hardly
what the reader might expect. Urquhart wrote letters of thanks to all
those who had remembered his birthday, and to the old lady the letter
which passed through my hands read as follows:
"DEAR MISS ----:
I sit down to thank you very faithfully for your favor, namely, the
book entitled 'Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men.' It is a jolly
book, and I like it no end better than a cake, which would soon be
ate up, and then nothing to show for it. I am reading your
beautiful present regular, and hoping it will make me a thoughtful
boy so as I may be a thoughtful man, no more at present,
I am, Dear Miss ----,
Your very sincere friend,
THOMAS URQUHART."
Our boys generally end up their letters in some such way as that, it
being a method of making their epistles cover a little more paper. As I
feared, Urquhart's letter was merely diplomatic. He had not come round
to the opinion that after all a book was better than the cake, but he
had seen the point of Fleming's sudden suggestion, that the best plan
would be to "keep in" with his benefactress. Secundus had shown that if
Miss M---- was bothered about this year's present, she would be less
likely to send anything next year, and this sank into Urquhart's mind.
Hence the tone of his letter of thanks.
It remains to follow the inglorious career of this copy of "Thoughtful
Boys make Thoughtful Men." First, Urquhart was openly contemptuous of
it, and there seemed a probability of its only being used as a missile.
Soon, however, he dropped hints that it was a deeply interesting story,
following these hints up with the remark that he was open to offers. He
and Fleming Secundus had quite a tiff about it, though they are again
good friends. Secundus, it appears, had gone the length of saying that
it was worth a shilling, and had taken it to his bed to make sure of
this. Urquhart considered it as good as bought, but Secundus returned it
to him next day. Examination of the book roused the suspicions of
Urquhart, who charged Secundus with having read it by peeping between
the pages, which, to enhance its commercial value, had remained uncut.
This Secundus denied, but he had left the mark of his thumb on it.
Eventually the book was purchased by Cocky Jones, but not without a row.
Cocky went up to Urquhart one day and held out a shilling, saying that
he would give it for "Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men." The owner
wanted to take the shilling at once, and give up the book later in the
day, but Cocky insisted on its being put into his hands immediately.
That Jones should be anxious to become the possessor of an improving
book surprised Urquhart, but in his haste to make sure of the shilling,
he handed over "Thoughtful Boys Make Thoughtful Men." Within an hour of
the striking of this bargain a rumor reached Urquhart's ears that Cocky
had resold the work for one and sixpence. Inquiries were instituted,
which led to a discovery. At our school there is a youth called Dicky
Jenkinson, who, though not exactly a thoughtful boy, has occasional
aspirations in that direction. Being for the moment wealthy, Jenkinson
had remarked, in the presence of Cocky, that one and sixpence would not
be too much to give for Urquhart's copy of "Thoughtful Boys Make
Thoughtful Men." Feeling his way cautiously, Cocky asked whether he
meant that the book would be cheap at one and sixpence to anybody who
wanted it, or whether he (Dicky) was willing and able to expend that sum
on it. Thus brought to bay, Jenkinson solemnly declared that he meant to
make Urquhart an offer that very day. Cocky made off to think this
matter over, for he was aware that the book had been already offered to
Fleming Secundus for a shilling. He saw that by taking prompt action he
might clear sixpence before bedtime. Unfortunately, he was not able to
buy the book from Urquhart, for he was destitute of means, and he knew
it would be mere folly to ask Urquhart for credit. In these painful
circumstances he took Robbins into his confidence. At first he merely
asked Robbins to lend him a shilling, and Robbins merely replied that he
would do no such thing. To show that the money would be returned
promptly, Cocky then made a clean breast of it, after which Robbins was
ready to lend him an ear. Robbins, however, stipulated that he should
get half of the spoils.
Cocky, as has been seen, got the book from Urquhart, but when it came to
the point, Jenkinson was reluctant to part with the one and sixpence. In
this extremity Cocky appealed to Robbins, who at once got hold of Dicky
and threatened to slaughter him if he did not keep to his bargain. Thus
frightened, Jenkinson bought the book.
On hearing of this, Urquhart considered that he had been swindled, and
set off in quest of Cocky. That boy was not to be found, however, until
his threepence had disappeared in tarts. I got to know of this affair
through Robbins' backing up of Cocky, and telling Urquhart that nobody
was afraid of him. A ring was immediately formed round Urquhart and
Robbins, which I had the pleasure of breaking up.
Since I sat down to write the adventures of "Thoughtful Boys Make
Thoughtful Men," I have looked through the book. Jenkinson read several
chapters of it, and then offered it for next to nothing to anybody who
had a fancy for being thoughtful. As no bidder was forthcoming, he in
the end lost heart and presented it to the school library. A gentleman
who visited us lately, and looked through the library, picked it up, and
said that he was delighted to observe that the boys kept their books so
clean. Yet not so long ago he was a boy at our school himself.
IT.
As they were my friends, I don't care to say how it came about that I
had this strange and, I believe unique, experience. They considered it a
practical joke, though it nearly unhinged my reason. Suffice it that
last Wednesday, when I called on them at their new house, I was taken up
stairs and shown into a large room with a pictorial wall paper. There
was a pop-gun on the table and a horse with three legs on the floor. In
a moment it flashed through my mind that I must be in a nursery. I
started back, and then, with a sinking at the heart, I heard the key
turn in the lock. From the corner came a strange uncanny moan. Slowly I
forced my head round and looked, and a lump rose in my throat, and I
realized that I was alone with It.
I cannot say how long I stood there motionless. As soon as I came to
myself I realized that my only chance was to keep quiet. I tried to
think. The probability was that they were not far away, and if they
heard nothing for a quarter of an hour or so they might open the door
and let me out. So I stood still, with my eyes riveted on the thing
where It lay. It did not cry out again, and I hoped against hope that It
had not seen me. As I became accustomed to the room I heard It breathing
quite like a human being. This reassured me to some extent, for I saw
that It must be asleep. The question was--Might not the sleep be
disturbed at any moment, and in that case, what should I do? I
remembered the story of the man who met a wild beast in the jungle and
subjugated it by the power of the human eye. I thought I would try that.
All the time I kept glaring at It's lair (for I could not distinguish
itself), and the two things mixed themselves up in my mind till I
thought I was trying the experiment at that moment. Next it struck me
that the whole thing was perhaps a mistake. The servant had merely shown
me into the wrong room. Yes; but why had the door been locked? After
all, was I sure that it was locked? I crept closer to the door, and with
my eyes still fixed on the corner, put my hand gently--oh, so
gently!--on the handle. Softly I turned it round. I felt like a burglar.
The door would not open. Losing all self-control, I shook it; and then
again came that unnatural cry. I stood as if turned to stone, still
clutching the door handle, lest it should squeak if I let it go. Then I
listened for the breathing. In a few moments I heard It. Before It had
horrified me; now It was like sweet music, and I resumed breathing
myself. I kept close to the wall, ready for anything; and then I had a
strange notion. As It was asleep, why should I not creep forward and
have a look at It? I yielded to this impulse.
Of course I had often seen Them before, but always with some responsible
person present, and never such a young one. I thought It would be done
up in clothes, but no, It lay loose, and without much on. I saw Its
hands and arms, and It had hair. It was sound asleep to all appearances,
but there was a queer smile upon Its face that I did not like. It
crossed my mind that It might be only shamming, so I looked away and
then turned sharply around to catch It. The smile was still there, but
It moved one of Its hands in a suspicious way. The more I looked the
more uncomfortable did that smile make me. There was something saturnine
about It, and It kept it up too long. I felt in my pocket hurriedly for
my watch, in case It should wake; but, with my usual ill-luck, I had
left it at the watchmaker's. If It had been older I should not have
minded so much, for I would have kept on asking what Its name was. But
this was such a very young one that It could not even have a name yet.
Presently I began to feel that It was lying too quietly. It is not Their
nature to be quiet for any length of time, and, for aught I knew, this
one might be ill. I believe I should have felt relieved if It had cried
out again. After thinking it over for some time I touched It to see if
It would move. It drew up one leg and pushed out a hand. Then I bit my
lips at my folly, for there was no saying what It might do next. I got
behind the curtain, and watched It anxiously through a chink. Except
that the smile became wickeder than ever, nothing happened. I was
wondering whether I should not risk pinching It, so as to make It scream
and bring somebody, when I heard an awful sound. Though I am only
twenty, I have had considerable experience of life, and I can safely say
that I never heard such a chuckle. It had wakened up and was laughing.
I gazed at It from behind the curtain; Its eyes were wide open, and you
could see quite well that It was reflecting what It ought to do next. As
long as It did not come out I felt safe, for It could not see me.
Something funny seemed to strike It, and It laughed heartily. After a
time It tried to sit up. Fortunately Its head was so heavy that It
always lost its balance just as It seemed on the point of succeeding.
When It saw that It could not rise, It reflected again, and then all of
a sudden It put Its fist into Its mouth. I gazed in horror; soon only
the wrist was to be seen, and I saw that It would choke in another
minute. Just for a second I thought that I would let It do as It liked.
Then I cried out, "Don't do that!" and came out from behind the curtain.
Slowly It moved Its fist and there we were, looking at each other.
I retreated to the door, but It followed me with Its eyes. It had not
had time to scream yet, and I glared at It to imply that I would stand
no nonsense. But, difficult though this may be to believe, It didn't
scream when It had the chance. It chuckled instead and made signs for me
to come nearer. This was even more alarming than my worst fears. I shook
my head and then my fist at It, but It only laughed the more. In the end
I got so fearful that I went down on my hands and knees, to get out of
Its sight. Then It began to scream. However, I did not get up. When they
opened the door they say I was beneath the table, and no wonder. But I
certainly was astonished to discover that I had only been alone with It
for seven minutes.
TO THE INFLUENZA.
The time has come for you to leave this house. Seventeen days ago you
foisted yourself upon me, and since then we have been together night and
day. You were unwelcome and uninvited, and you made yourself intensely
disagreeable. We wrestled, you and I, but you attacked me unawares in
the back, and you threw me. Then, like the ungenerous foe that you are,
you struck me while I was down. However, your designs have failed. I
struggle to my feet and order you to withdraw. Nay, withdraw is too
polite a word. Your cab is at the door; get out. But, stop, a word with
you before you go.
Most of your hosts, I fancy, run you out of their houses without first
saying what they think of you. Their one desire is to be rid of you.
Perhaps they are afraid to denounce you to your face. I want, however,
to tell you that I have been looking forward to this moment ever since
you put me to bed. I said little while I was there, but I thought a
good deal, and most of my thoughts were of you. You fancied yourself
invisible, but I saw you glaring at me, and I clenched my fists beneath
the blankets. I could paint your portrait. You are very tall and stout,
with a black beard, and a cruel, unsteady eye, and you have a way of
crackling your fingers while you exult in your power. I used to lie
watching you as you lolled in my cane-chair. At first it was empty, but
I felt that you were in it, and gradually you took shape. I could hear
your fingers crackling, and the chair creak as you moved in it. If I sat
up in fear, you disappeared, but as soon as I lay back, there you were
again. I know now that in a sense you were a creature of my imagination.
I have discovered something more. I know why you seemed tall and stout
and bearded, and why I heard your fingers crackling.
Fever--one of your dastard weapons--was no doubt what set me drawing
portraits, but why did I see you a big man with a black beard? Because
long ago, when the world was young, I had a schoolmaster of that
appearance. He crackled his fingers too. I had forgotten him utterly. He
had gone from me with the love of climbing for crows' nests--which I
once thought would never die--but during some of these seventeen days
of thirty-six hours each I suppose I have been a boy again. Yet I had
many schoolmasters, all sure at first that they could make something of
me, all doleful when they found that I had conscientious scruples
against learning. Why do I merge you into him of the crackling fingers?
I know. It is because in mediaeval times I hated him as I hate you. No
others have I loathed with any intensity, but he alone of my masters
refused to be reconciled to my favorite method of study, which
consisted, I remember (without shame) in glancing at my tasks, as I
hopped and skipped to school. Sometimes I hopped and skipped, but did
not arrive at school in time to take solid part in lessons, and this
grieved the soul of him who wanted to be my instructor. So we differed,
as Gladstonian and Conservative on the result of the Parnell Commission,
and my teacher, being in office, troubled me not a little. I confess I
hated him, and while I sat glumly in his room, whence the better boys
had retired, much solace I found in wondering how I would slay him,
supposing I had a loaded pistol, a sword, and a hatchet, and he had only
one life. I schemed to be a dark, morose pirate of fourteen, so that I
might capture him, even at his black-board, and make him walk the plank.
I was Judge Lynch, and he was the man at the end of the rope. I charged
upon him on horseback, and cut him down. I challenged him to single
combat, and then I was Ivanhoe. I even found pleasure in conceiving
myself shouting "Crackle-fingers" after him, and then bolting round a
corner. You must see now why I pictured you heavy, and dark, and
bearded. You are the schoolmaster of my later years. I lay in bed and
gloried in the thought that presently I would be up, and fall upon you
like a body of cavalry.