"You positively annoy me, Joseph, and make me feel more angry than I
care to admit. The matter is a serious one, and I am deeply distressed.
After thirteen years of the most careful bringing-up there is complete
and absolute failure. It is a miserable reward. And then, to make
matters worse, you laugh at me, and egg the lad on to even greater
crimes!"
"Fiddlesticks, sir! Humbug! A miserable reward indeed!" was the
spirited answer. "No one but yourself would admit it. He is a fine
lad, though a little wild I will own; but for all that a generous,
good-hearted boy. Let him alone! Don't worry him with all these
goody-goody ideas. There is plenty of time for him to settle down, and
meanwhile he will come to no harm, and, I'll be bound, will bring no
discredit on you." The speaker shook his head knowingly, and helped
himself to a large pinch of snuff.
"How can you argue like that, Joseph, when you know what the lad has
done?" the former speaker replied with much sternness. "I hold
practical joking to be at any time disgraceful, but when one's adopted
son is one of three who actually laid a booby-trap for the mayor of this
town in broad daylight, and made him a laughing-stock for all, then
discreditable is the least one can say of it. It is positively
scandalous."
"Nonsense, Edward! Barrington deserved all he got. He is an odious
man, and the fright those youngsters gave him will teach him to mind his
own business in future, and not meddle with other people's affairs.
Serve him right, I say! Just because a lad breaks one of his windows
with a catapult, and by pure accident, he gets the following
half-holiday stopped for the whole school. If he hadn't blustered so
much, and looked so fierce, I've no doubt the culprit would have given
himself up; but he was afraid of the consequences, and most naturally,
too. Ha, ha, ha! It was funny! I saw his worship immediately after he
had fallen a victim to the joke. He was quivering with mingled fear and
rage, and the laughter of the by-standers did not help to soothe him."
Joseph threw himself violently back in his chair, causing it to creak in
an alarming manner and almost overturn, and gave vent to roars of
laughter, followed by chuckles of intense amusement, produced in such
deep tones that they seemed to come from the smart Wellingtons he wore.
He was a stout, comfortable-looking man of middle height, with a round,
clean-shaven face, which, now that he was laughing, was as red as fire
and wrinkled in all directions. He had a shiny head, almost devoid of
hair, and a double chin which half hid the wide collar and large bow he
wore, while smartly-cut trousers and coat, a wide expanse of shirt
front, and a double-breasted waistcoat, which seemed almost too small to
reach across his massive chest and "corporation", completed an
appearance which made Joe Sweetman remarkable. He looked a gentleman
all over, and his merry laugh and jovial manner made one certain at once
that he was a general favourite.
Opposite him, seated in an uncomfortable armchair, and hugging one knee
with his bony hands, was a big, gaunt man, whose heavy face and dull
leaden-looking eyes seemed never to have lightened with a smile. A
square chin, set off by long Dundreary whiskers, and knitted brows
showed him to be a man of fixed purpose; one who, having made up his
mind upon a subject of any importance, would adhere to his decision with
exasperating stubbornness, refusing to be persuaded by any argument, and
holding firmly to his convictions, though their falseness was apparent
to everyone but himself.
A hard, bigoted man was Edward Western, and even good-natured Joe
Sweetman was often within an ace of losing his temper when conversing
with him. An educated man, and in his younger days an officer in a line
regiment, Edward had suddenly taken it into his head that a soldier's
life was not the calling he should follow. Once convinced of this he
sent in his papers, and now for years had acted as the vicar of
Riddington, a town of some importance in Hampshire. A wife, holding
somewhat similar views to his own, and an adopted son of sixteen
completed his family, while Joe Sweetman, his brother-in-law, was so
constantly at the house that he might be said to form one of the
establishment.
The one great aim and object of Edward Western's life was that his
adopted son, Philip, should follow in his footsteps, and one day fill
his place as vicar of the town. Fortune had decreed that he should be
childless, and at first this had not been a matter for regret. But for
many years the vicar of Riddington had declared to all his parishioners,
when lecturing to them and advising them as to the training of their
children, that by careful education they could make them what they
wished. "Neglect your offspring," he would say solemnly, shaking a
warning finger at his audience, "and they will become the evil-doers of
the future. They will disgrace you, and even make you almost long to
disown them. But with diligence, with never-ceasing care, you will
instil into their minds all that is good, and will train them to follow
that profession which you have decided they shall enter. There should
be no need to worry yourselves in the future as to what your sons should
be. Choose now, while they are infants, and bring them up according to
your wishes."
This was all, undoubtedly, very true and excellent advice to give, but
Mr Western went further. "There is no such thing as `breeding' and
`noble blood'," he would declare. "Take a lad from the gutter, and I
will engage that by using towards him the same amount of care as is
devoted to the child of gentlefolks, you will make him a gentleman."
So strongly did he feel upon the subject that, after mature
consideration, he decided to prove the truth of his sayings to all in
the parish. To decide was to act. In spite of Joe Sweetman's
remonstrances he inserted an advertisement in the papers, in which it
was set forth that a certain clergyman, living in a country town, was
anxious to adopt a son.
No difficulty was thrown in his way. An answer reached him by return of
post, stating that a widow with many children would be glad to dispose
of one of them if a good home were offered. A hurried visit and a few
questions satisfied the vicar that the woman was truthful, and that to
relieve her of a child would be an act of charity. A few guineas were
handed to the widow, and Phil Reach, a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy of
two, was hugged in his mother's arms, smothered with kisses and big
tears, and finally, wondering no doubt what all the commotion meant, was
handed over to Mr Western.
He was an interesting little mite too, always happy and bright, and ever
ready for a romp. And to do them justice, Mr Western and his wife
proved a devoted father and mother to their adopted son. They lived for
him, and never for a single moment forgot what was the object of their
lives.
When the child was four years old his training commenced, and from that
day it had proceeded unceasingly. Had his days been made bright and
joyous, success might have attended the efforts of the worthy vicar and
his wife; but Phil Western--as he was now called--seldom knew what it
was to be really happy. Living with an eccentric couple, whose
austerity would have tried an adult, and deprived of playmates, he soon
began to mope and pine. So much so, that at last the doctor ordered
home lessons to be given up, and after a good deal of persuasion his
adopted parents were prevailed upon to send him to the local school.
What a change it was! From sorrow to sunlight. Phil rapidly picked up
his health, and before long had hosts of friends. But at home the old
life still continued. The training was never for one moment forgotten,
and if only the desired end had been attained, Phil would have developed
into one of those abnormally good boys who never do wrong, and whose
lives are a pattern to all others. But, unfortunately, this was not the
case.
Phil, indeed, grew up to be scarcely the studious and sober-minded lad
his adoptive parents had hoped to see. Bottled up by the strictness of
life at home, his spirits simply boiled over when once he left the
house, and at school his masters knew him as a mischievous but
good-hearted youngster, whose courage and lively nature often led him
into doing stupid things, for which he was afterwards full of regret.
There was not a prank played of which he was not the ringleader, and any
batch of culprits mustered outside the doctor's study, waiting for
punishment, was certain to number him in its ranks. And yet he was not
a bad boy.
"He is simply incorrigible. I can do nothing with him, and you must
take him away at the end of the term," the worthy doctor had said when
discussing with Mr Western the affair of the booby-trap laid for the
mayor. "I shall be sorry to lose the lad, for he is upright and
truthful, and has done much for the school in the way of sports and
athletics. But he is never out of mischief, and the example he sets is
simply destroying the discipline of the school. Be advised by me,
Western, and send him away. He is by no means dull at his work, and at
a school where there is more opportunity of controlling him, and where
he will be separated from his present companions in mischief, he will do
well, I feel sure, and be a credit to you."
But no amount of reasoning could convince Phil's father that his son was
all that the Doctor had said.
"He has disgraced me," he said bitterly to Joe Sweetman, "and all our
care has been thrown away. I hoped that he would grow up a quiet and
well-behaved young fellow; but he is never out of mischief, so much so
that I am now obliged to send him to a boarding-school, an institution
of which I have the greatest dislike. And I suppose he will soon be
sent away from there. I really am more than grieved, and how I shall
dare to meet his worship the mayor, after what has occurred, I do not
know!"
"Bother the mayor! He's a prig, and got what he deserved!" Joe
answered, with a sniff and a snap of his fingers. "Send Phil away and
I'll swear he'll be thankful to you. Of course I know it was foolish
and very wrong of those young monkeys to play their tricks on old
Barrington, but then you yourself know what an unpopular man he is. Did
he not try to put an end to the annual procession of the Riddington boys
through the town, on the plea that they made too much noise? That put
the youngsters' backs up; and then he must needs force his way into the
school and demand that the lad who broke his miserable window should be
caned, and in the event of his not being found that the whole school
should lose a holiday. A pig of a fellow, sir, and I'm glad Phil and
his pals paid him out."
This indignant outburst, and the roar of laughter which followed on
Joe's remembering the unhappy mayor's fright, roused Edward Western's
ire. He sat rigidly in his chair, staring blankly before him, with a
fixed expression of annoyance on his face.
"I cannot compel him to follow the profession I have chosen for him," he
said sternly, "but let him disgrace me again and I will pack him off to
London and there find a position for him as a clerk, where he will be
tied to his desk, and where he will have fewer opportunities of doing
wrong."
"Pooh! pooh! You're too hard on Phil by a long way," exclaimed Joe
Sweetman earnestly, springing from his chair and pacing up and down the
room. "Give him a chance. Every dog must have his day, you know. Let
him get rid of some of his wild spirits, and then perhaps he will be
quite ready to fall in with your wishes. You accuse me of constantly
egging the lad on. I deny that charge, Edward, and I do most sincerely
wish that you could see the facts as they are. Perhaps I should not
speak, for he is your protege, not mine; but, just for a moment look
squarely at the facts. Does the lad lead a happy life in his home? I
tell you that he does not. He has comfort and plenty of good food, but
the house is not brightened for the boy, and once within its walls he
has learnt to subdue and cloak a naturally sunny nature simply because
gay laughter and light-hearted chatter are disapproved of. Can you
wonder, then, that he is inclined to run riot outside? His high spirits
get the better of him, and he is ready for any fun--fun, mark you,
Edward, on which you and I might look and never feel ashamed--for,
mischievous though he is, he has a healthy mind."
Joe tossed his head in the air, thrust his fat hands beneath the tails
of his coat, and leaned against the mantel-piece, staring hard at Mr
Western. "Come," he continued, with an easy laugh, "think better of it,
Edward. Pack the lad off to school, and leave him more to himself.
He'll go straight, I'll wager anything upon it."
"Thank you, Joseph! I do not bet," Mr Western replied. "But I will do
as you say. Philip shall go away, and his future must depend upon
himself. Not all the arguments in the world will persuade me that there
is any truth in the saying that it is good for young fellows to sow
their wild oats before settling down to the serious business of life.
Now let us go into the garden."
Mr Western rose slowly from his chair, and, opening a large glass door,
stepped on to a verandah which surrounded his house and formed a most
charming spot in which to sit during the heat of a summer's day. Joe
followed him, still chuckling at the memory of the mayor's discomfiture,
and together they stood looking out across the well-kept garden, with
its beds of bright-coloured flowers, its splashing fountain, and its
walls lined by rows of carefully-pruned trees. It was a scene which
differed greatly from the monotony and lack of joyousness which marked
Phil Western's daily life at home.
Within the house all was dull and sombre. Scarcely a laugh or a smile
brightened his existence. Stern and full of earnestness, his adoptive
parents gave themselves up to their work, the religious education of the
parishioners and the careful bringing-up of their son. Outside there
was a landscape teeming with life and movement; a town of some size in
the hollow below, its streets filled with country folk who had come in
to attend the market, and across the haze caused by the smoke rising
lazily from the chimneys, a huge vista of green trees and fields, broken
here and there by a wide silvery streak which marked the course of the
river, twisting and twining, now hidden by the foliage, and again
running through the open fields, flashing in the brilliant sun, and
bearing upon its smooth surface a host of tiny boats filled with
townspeople out for an afternoon's enjoyment.
A hundred yards or more beyond the outskirts of Riddington was a large,
red-brick building, almost smothered in creeper, and bearing in its
centre a tall tower from the four sides of which the face of a clock
looked out. It was Riddington High School, and the hands of the clock
were pointing close to the hour of four. A moment later there was a
loud "whirr", and then the first stroke of the hour, followed almost
instantly by a hubbub in the building below. Hundreds of shrill voices
seemed to have been let loose, and after them the owners; for from all
sides of the school lads appeared, rushing out in mad haste, some
hatless, others jamming their hats upon their heads, and all in the same
condition of desperate hurry. A minute later they had streamed across
the playground and were racing towards the river, to a spot where an old
waterman stood guard over some dozen boats. Charging down the hill the
mob of excited lads swept the old man aside, laughed merrily at his
expostulations, and in a twinkling were aboard and shoving off from the
river-bank.
But not all the scholars of Riddington High School had joined in the
excited rush. A tall, big-boned lad of some fifteen years, with hair
which was almost red in colour, and a boyish, open face, strode from one
of the doors accompanied by two others. Flinging his hat jauntily upon
his head, Phil Western, for it was none other than he, walked across the
asphalt which formed the playground of the school, and, putting his two
forefingers in his mouth, produced a loud and prolonged whistle. Twice
he repeated it, and after a minute's silence shouted "Rags! Rags! where
are you?"
In the distance a series of short barks answered, and very soon a
fox-terrier dog came racing across the grass.
"Ah, he's waiting all right for his master!" exclaimed Phil, with a
short grunt of satisfaction. "Good dog!--the best in the whole of
Riddington. Now, you fellows," he went on, after having greeted his
canine friend with a pat, "what's the order for to-day? We're all
agreed to give that old concern an airing. The last time the good
people of this town had a chance of looking at it was in the year of the
queen's coronation; and that was thirteen years ago. It's getting
musty, and must certainly have an airing."
"That's exactly what we think, Phil," chimed in one of the other lads, a
merry-looking youngster of fifteen. "Riddington started a state barge a
hundred years ago, to take the mayor and councillors across the river to
the church on great occasions. On other days they rowed over in
ordinary boats or went by the bridge--when it wasn't washed away by the
floods. Then a new stone bridge was built, and for a few years they
kept up the old custom. But for a long while now it has fallen
through--sunk into oblivion, as `old Tommy' would say. It is clearly
our duty to revive this extremely interesting--I may say this unique--
old custom."
"Bah! Stop it!" exclaimed Phil, with a laugh, snatching his comrade's
hat from his head and throwing it at his face. "Tell me what
arrangements you have made."
"Simple. Simple as daylight, Phil. We saunter down to the river-side,
and as soon as Peter looks the other way we enter the boat-house.
Here's the key. It hangs over the pater's mantel-piece, where it has
been for the last two years. He's keeper of the state barge and the
bargemen's costumes."
"Splendid, Tommy! Splendid! We'll be off at once. Come on, you
fellows. Here, Rags!"
Phil hurried off with his companions in mischief towards an old and
somewhat dilapidated boat-house. The lad who had been addressed as
Tommy slipped up to the door, and a few moments later all three entered
and closed it behind them.
A match was produced and a small piece of candle lighted.
"This way, you fellows," cried Tommy, leading the way along a narrow
shelf to the back of the house. Here there was a small room with a
worm-eaten table and chairs and a heavy oak chest.
"It's no use doing things by halves, is it?" asked Tommy, with a broad
grin on his face. "Here, in this old chest, are all the costumes, and
if we don't make that old barge look as well as it ever did, I shall be
astonished."
"You'll probably get licked, you mean," laughed Phil. "But, all the
same, it's a splendid idea. We won't spoil the show for a ha'porth of
tar. Let's see how these things fit."
Ten minutes later, had any councillor of Riddington had sufficient
interest to pay a casual visit to the boat-house, he would have seen a
sight which would certainly have given a rude shock to his nerves. For
in the old and musty building stalked three figures gorgeously attired
in costumes of red velvet, slashed in all directions with what had once
been white, red stockings and big-bowed shoes, heavy chains of brass
round their necks, and huge beef-eater hats upon their heads. Beneath
the hats, where bearded faces should have been, were the merry
countenances of three boys who were bent upon a piece of mischief.
"Look here, Phil, you boss this show," said Tommy shortly, looking at
the other lad to see if he agreed. "We're ready. Give your orders and
we'll get aboard."
"Right, Tommy! Help with this tarpaulin. That's right. Now jump
inside, you fellows, and fish out the rowlocks, and see that a couple of
oars are handy. The rudder is already there. Now we can start. Hop in
there and take your places. I'll open the gates and push her out."
Waiting to see that all was ready, Phil pulled the bolt of the gates
which closed the exit to the river, and threw them open. Then he guided
the old state barge, all bedecked with gold and colours and curious
devices, out into the river, giving a lusty push off, and springing in
just at the last moment.
"Out oars!" he cried. "Tommy, what are you grinning at? Remember you
are a bargeman."
"Beg pardon, sir. Sorry, I'm sure," replied the irrepressible Tommy,
with a broad smile on his face. "I say, Phil, what a sight you do look
in those togs! and sha'n't we catch it when they find out who we are?
Old Barrington will be furious. He said he'd have our blood--or
something like that--when we held him up the other day."
"Oh, bother Barrington! I know he said we were a disgrace to the town,
and that he'd keep a special eye upon us in future," answered Phil, with
a laugh. "But pull hard, you fellows. I'll run up past the town; there
are lots of boats there that we'll go close to. Let's make 'em believe
all's correct. Keep straight faces, and pass them as though nothing
were wrong."
"My eye, what fun!" chuckled Tommy. "But, all right, Phil! we'll do as
you say."
Slowly, and with a stately stroke, the two lads plied their oars, while
Phil, looking almost double his real size in his strange costume, sat
upright in the stern, the dog Rags by his side, and steered the barge
straight up the centre of the river. Soon they were close to the boats,
and not many minutes had passed before their presence caused a
sensation.
"Blest if it bain't his wushup, the mayor!" cried a hulking countryman
out for a day on the river. "Row along, boys, and let's get closer."
From every side cries and shouts of astonishment and pleasure resounded,
and all pressed towards the centre. And through them all the old barge
swept grandly on its way, while its bargemen and the steersman kept a
rigid silence and hastily jerked down their caps to hide the giggles
which would come in spite of all their efforts. On they swept, and soon
a throng of boats was following in their wake, while others ahead lay on
their oars and waited. Suddenly, as they approached one of these, Phil
leant forward and, shading his eyes with his hand, stared at the
occupants.
"Keep on, you fellows," he muttered. "There's a boat ahead of us with
my pater and mater aboard, and I believe the mayor too. There'll be
trouble now, I expect."
And this was exactly the case. It was a lovely day, and, persuaded by
Joe Sweetman, Mr and Mrs Western had engaged a boat, and, happening to
meet the mayor before embarking, had invited him to join the party.
Even as the barge appeared in sight, Mr Western was apologising for his
son's disgraceful behaviour, and telling the mayor what a disappointment
Phil was to him.
"Why, as I live," exclaimed Joe Sweetman suddenly, "that's the old state
barge! What is happening, Barrington?"
"State barge! Yes, so it is. What can it be doing out here?" the
mayor, a fat-faced personage, replied. "I have not given my permission.
We must see to this, Mr Western."
A moment later the barge slipped past, and in spite of Phil's efforts to
conceal his identity he was recognised.
"It's that rascal Western!" exclaimed the mayor, getting red with anger.
"Stop, sir! What do you mean? Are you stealing that barge?"
At the mayor's angry order Tommy and his companion ceased rowing, and,
seeing that all was discovered, Phil swept his hat from his head and
politely wished all "good afternoon."
Mr Barrington almost exploded with rage. "Take that barge back at
once, you young rascal," he shouted. "I'll have you up for stealing.
How dare you? Take it back at once!"
But meanwhile a crowd had gathered, and quickly understanding the joke,
they laughed long and loudly and cheered the three boys. As for Joe
Sweetman, he was convulsed, and this added not a little to the mayor's
ill-temper.
Mr Western had not spoken a word. All the while he gazed sternly at
Phil, as though he could not trust himself to speak, and he had landed
at the steps and was on his way home before he opened his lips.
"The mayor is right," he said bitterly. "Philip is a disgrace, and I
will not allow him to stay at home a single day longer than I can help.
I know an excellent institution where boys of his character can be urged
into obedience. He shall go there, and nothing shall persuade me to
remove him till he has changed utterly and completely."
"What! You would send Phil to a school for backward and incorrigible
boys?" exclaimed Joe Sweetman.
"Yes, that is exactly the class of institution I mean. I know of one
close to London, and will send him there, so that he may be tamed into
obedience."
"Then I tell you that you will do that boy a grievous wrong," cried Joe,
roused to anger by Edward Western's words. "Only boys of vicious nature
are sent to such schools. Of the backward ones I say nothing, for
Phil's wits are as ready as any boy's, and he is decidedly not a dunce.
Nor is he vicious, as you seem to think. For Heaven's sake look with a
more open mind at the matter. Here is a merry, good-hearted lad whom,
because he gets into mischief, you would pack off to a school for unruly
boys. I hope you will not insist on sending him to this place, for, as
I have said, he is not so bad as you think."
"Yes, I insist, Joseph, and no amount of argument will alter that
decision."
"Ah, I wish I had the power to compel you to do so!" said Joe bitterly.
"But perhaps it is all for the best. Such schools, no doubt, are much
as the others, save that a boy starts as it were with a black mark
against his name. Let us hope that the headmaster of the one in your
thoughts will see at a glance what sort of a lad he has in reality to
deal with, and treat him accordingly."