There was one person, however, who cherished a strong suspicion that the
Centipedes had had a hand in the business; and that person was Conway.
His red hair seemed to change to a livelier red, and his sallow cheeks
to a deeper sallow, as we glanced at him stealthily over the tops of our
slates the next day in school. He knew we were watching him, and made
sundry mouths and scowled in the most threatening way over his sums.
Conway had an accomplishment peculiarly his own--that of throwing his
thumbs out of joint at will. Sometimes while absorbed in study, or on
becoming nervous at recitation, he performed the feat unconsciously.
Throughout this entire morning his thumbs were observed to be in a
chronic state of dislocation, indicating great mental agitation on the
part of the owner. We fully expected an outbreak from him at recess; but
the intermission passed off tranquilly, somewhat to our disappointment.
At the close of the afternoon session it happened that Binny Wallace
and myself, having got swamped in our Latin exercise, were detained in
school for the purpose of refreshing our memories with a page of Mr.
Andrews's perplexing irregular verbs. Binny Wallace finishing his task
first, was dismissed. I followed shortly after, and, on stepping into
the playground, saw my little friend plastered, as it were, up against
the fence, and Conway standing in front of him ready to deliver a blow
on the upturned, unprotected face, whose gentleness would have stayed
any arm but a coward's.
Seth Rodgers, with both hands in his pockets, was leaning against the
pump lazily enjoying the sport; but on seeing me sweep across the
yard, whirling my strap of books in the air like a sling, he called out
lustily, “Lay low, Conway! Here's young Bailey!”
Conway turned just in time to catch on his shoulder the blow intended
for his head. He reached forward one of his long arms--he had arms like
a windmill, that boy--and, grasping me by the hair, tore out quite a
respectable handful. The tears flew to my eyes, but they were not the
tears of defeat; they were merely the involuntary tribute which nature
paid to the departed tresses.
In a second my little jacket lay on the ground, and I stood on guard,
resting lightly on my right leg and keeping my eye fixed steadily on
Conway's--in all of which I was faithfully following the instructions of
Phil Adams, whose father subscribed to a sporting journal.
Conway also threw himself into a defensive attitude, and there we were,
glaring at each other motionless, neither of us disposed to risk an
attack, but both on the alert to resist one. There is no telling how
long we might have remained in that absurd position, had we not been
interrupted.
It was a custom with the larger pupils to return to the playground
after school, and play baseball until sundown. The town authorities
had prohibited ball-playing on the Square, and, there being no other
available place, the boys fell back perforce on the school-yard. Just at
this crisis a dozen or so of the Templars entered the gate, and, seeing
at a glance the belligerent status of Conway and myself, dropped bat and
ball, and rushed to the spot where we stood.
“Is it a fight?” asked Phil Adams, who saw by our freshness that we had
not yet got to work.
“Yes, it's a fight,” I answered, “unless Conway will ask Wallace's
pardon, promise never to hector me in future--and put back my hair!”
This last condition was rather a staggerer.
“I sha'n't do nothing of the sort,” said Conway, sulkily.
“Then the thing must go on,” said Adams, with dignity. “Rodgers, as I
understand it, is your second, Conway? Bailey, come here. What's the row
about?”
“He was thrashing Binny Wallace.”
“No, I wasn't,” interrupted Conway; “but I was going to because he knows
who put Meeks's mortar over our door. And I know well enough who did it;
it was that sneaking little mulatter!” pointing at me.
“O, by George!” I cried, reddening at the insult.
“Cool is the word,” said Adams, as he bound a handkerchief round my
head, and carefully tucked away the long straggling locks that offered a
tempting advantage to the enemy. “Who ever heard of a fellow with such
a head of hair going into action!” muttered Phil, twitching the
handkerchief to ascertain if it were securely tied. He then loosened my
gallowses (braces), and buckled them tightly above my hips. “Now, then,
bantam, never say die!”
Conway regarded these business-like preparations with evident misgiving,
for he called Rodgers to his side, and had himself arrayed in a similar
manner, though his hair was cropped so close that you couldn't have
taken hold of it with a pair of tweezers.
“Is your man ready?” asked Phil Adams, addressing Rodgers.
“Ready!”
“Keep your back to the gate, Tom,” whispered Phil in my ear, “and you'll
have the sun in his eyes.”
Behold us once more face to face, like David and the Philistine. Look
at us as long as you may; for this is all you shall see of the combat.
According to my thinking, the hospital teaches a better lesson than the
battle-field. I will tell you about my black eye, and my swollen lip, if
you will; but not a word of the fight.
You'll get no description of it from me, simply because I think it would
prove very poor reading, and not because I consider my revolt against
Conway's tyranny unjustifiable.
I had borne Conway's persecutions for many months with lamb-like
patience. I might have shielded myself by appealing to Mr. Grimshaw; but
no boy in the Temple Grammar School could do that without losing caste.
Whether this was just or not doesn't matter a pin, since it was so--a
traditionary law of the place. The personal inconvenience I suffered
from my tormentor was nothing to the pain he inflicted on me indirectly
by his persistent cruelty to little Binny Wallace. I should have lacked
the spirit of a hen if I had not resented it finally. I am glad that I
faced Conway, and asked no favors, and got rid of him forever. I am glad
that Phil Adams taught me to box, and I say to all youngsters: Learn to
box, to ride, to pull an oar, and to swim. The occasion may come round,
when a decent proficiency in one or the rest of these accomplishments
will be of service to you.
In one of the best books (1) ever written for boys are these words:
“Learn to box, then, as you learn to play cricket and football. Not one
of you will be the worse, but very much the better, for learning to box
well. Should you never have to use it in earnest there's no exercise in
the world so good for the temper, and for the muscles of the back and
legs.
“As for fighting, keep out of it, if you can, by all means. When the
time comes, if ever it should, that you have to say 'Yes' or 'No' to a
challenge to fight, say 'No' if you can--only take care you make it plain
to yourself why you say 'No.' It's a proof of the highest courage, if
done from true Christian motives. It's quite right and justifiable, if
done from a simple aversion to physical pain and danger. But don't say
'No' because you fear a licking and say or think it's because you fear
God, for that's neither Christian nor honest. And if you do fight, fight
it out; and don't give in while you can stand and see.”
And don't give in when you can't! see! For I could stand very little,
and see not at all (having pommelled the school pump for the last twenty
seconds), when Conway retired from the field. As Phil Adams stepped up
to shake hands with me, he received a telling blow in the stomach;
for all the fight was not out of me yet, and I mistook him for a new
adversary.
Convinced of my error, I accepted his congratulations, with those of the
other boys, blandly and blindly. I remember that Binny Wallace wanted to
give me his silver pencil-case. The gentle soul had stood throughout the
contest with his face turned to the fence, suffering untold agony.
A good wash at the pump, and a cold key applied to my eye, refreshed me
amazingly. Escorted by two or three of the schoolfellows, I walked home
through the pleasant autumn twilight, battered but triumphant. As I went
along, my cap cocked on one side to keep the chilly air from my eye, I
felt that I was not only following my nose, but following it so closely,
that I was in some danger of treading on it. I seemed to have nose
enough for the whole party. My left cheek, also, was puffed out like
a dumpling. I couldn't help saying to myself, “If this is victory, how
about that other fellow?”
“Tom,” said Harry Blake, hesitating.
“Well?”
“Did you see Mr. Grimshaw looking out of the recitation-room window just
as we left the yard?”
“No was he, though?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Then he must have seen all the row.”
“Shouldn't wonder.”
“No, he didn't,” broke in Adams, “or he would have stopped it short
metre; but I guess be saw you pitching into the pump which you did
uncommonly strong--and of course be smelt mischief directly.”
“Well, it can't be helped now,” I reflected.
“--As the monkey said when he fell out of the cocoanut tree,” added
Charley Marden, trying to make me laugh.
It was early candle-light when we reached the house. Miss Abigail,
opening the front door, started back at my hilarious appearance. I
tried to smile upon her sweetly, but the smile, rippling over my
swollen cheek, and dying away like a spent wave on my nose, produced an
expression of which Miss Abigail declared she had never seen the like
excepting on the face of a Chinese idol.
She hustled me unceremoniously into the presence of my grandfather in
the sitting-room. Captain Nutter, as the recognized professional warrior
of our family, could not consistently take me to task for fighting
Conway; nor was he disposed to do so; for the Captain was well aware of
the long-continued provocation I had endured.
“Ah, you rascal!” cried the old gentleman, after hearing my story. “Just
like me when I was young--always in one kind of trouble or another. I
believe it runs in the family.”
“I think,” said Miss Abigail, without the faintest expression on her
countenance, “that a table-spoonful of hot-dro--” The Captain interrupted
Miss Abigail peremptorily, directing her to make a shade out of
cardboard and black silk to tie over my eye. Miss Abigail must have been
possessed with the idea that I had taken up pugilism as a profession,
for she turned out no fewer than six of these blinders.
“They'll be handy to have in the house,” says Miss Abigail, grimly.
Of course, so great a breach of discipline was not to be passed over by
Mr. Grimshaw. He had, as we suspected, witnessed the closing scene
of the fight from the school-room window, and the next morning, after
prayers, I was not wholly unprepared when Master Conway and myself
were called up to the desk for examination. Conway, with a piece of
court-plaster in the shape of a Maltese cross on his right cheek, and
I with the silk patch over my left eye, caused a general titter through
the room.
“Silence!” said Mr. Grimshaw, sharply.
As the reader is already familiar with the leading points in the case of
Bailey versus Conway, I shall not report the trial further than to say
that Adams, Marden, and several other pupils testified to the fact that
Conway had imposed on me ever since my first day at the Temple School.
Their evidence also went to show that Conway was a quarrelsome character
generally. Bad for Conway. Seth Rodgers, on the part of his friend,
proved that I had struck the first blow. That was bad for me.
“If you please, sir,” said Binny Wallace, holding up his hand for
permission to speak, “Bailey didn't fight on his own account; he fought
on my account, and, if you please, sir, I am the boy to be blamed, for I
was the cause of the trouble.”
This drew out the story of Conway's harsh treatment of the smaller boys.
As Binny related the wrongs of his playfellows, saying very little
of his own grievances, I noticed that Mr. Grimshaw's hand, unknown to
himself perhaps, rested lightly from time to time on Wallace's sunny
hair. The examination finished, Mr. Grimshaw leaned on the desk
thoughtfully for a moment and then said:
“Every boy in this school knows that it is against the rules to
fight. If one boy maltreats another, within school-bounds, or within
school-hours, that is a matter for me to settle. The case should be laid
before me. I disapprove of tale-bearing, I never encourage it in
the slightest degree; but when one pupil systematically persecutes a
schoolmate, it is the duty of some head-boy to inform me. No pupil has a
right to take the law into his own hands. If there is any fighting to be
done, I am the person to be consulted. I disapprove of boys' fighting;
it is unnecessary and unchristian. In the present instance, I consider
every large boy in this school at fault, but as the offence is one of
omission rather than commission, my punishment must rest only on the two
boys convicted of misdemeanor. Conway loses his recess for a month,
and Bailey has a page added to his Latin lessons for the next four
recitations. I now request Bailey and Conway to shake hands in the
presence of the school, and acknowledge their regret at what has
occurred.”
Conway and I approached each other slowly and cautiously, as if we were
bent upon another hostile collision. We clasped hands in the tamest
manner imaginable, and Conway mumbled, “I'm sorry I fought with you.”
“I think you are,” I replied, drily, “and I'm sorry I had to thrash
you.”
“You can go to your seats,” said Mr. Grimshaw, turning his face aside to
hide a smile. I am sure my apology was a very good one.
I never had any more trouble with Conway. He and his shadow, Seth
Rodgers, gave me a wide berth for many months. Nor was Binny Wallace
subjected to further molestation. Miss Abigail's sanitary stores,
including a bottle of opodeldoc, were never called into requisition. The
six black silk patches, with their elastic strings, are still dangling
from a beam in the garret of the Nutter House, waiting for me to get
into fresh difficulties.
(1) “Tom Brown's School Days at Rugby”