The events of Charlie's first day at Randlebury had at least taught him
one salutary lesson, and that was, to moderate his enthusiasm with
regard to me, and consequently for the next few weeks I had a quiet time
of it. True enough, my master would occasionally produce me in
confidence to a select and admiring audience, and would ever and again
proffer the use of me to his protector, Joe Halliday, but he gave up
flourishing me in the face of every passer-by, and took to buttoning his
jacket over the chain, I found my health all the better for this gentler
usage, and showed my gratitude by keeping perfect time from one week's
end to the other.
It is hardly necessary for me to say that Charlie was not long in making
friends at Randlebury. Indeed some of his acquaintance looked upon this
exceeding friendliness in the boy's disposition as one of his weak
points.
"I do believe," said Walcot, who was only four from the head of the
school, to his friend, Joe Halliday, one day, about a month after my
master's arrival at Randlebury--"I do believe that young fag of yours
would chum up to the poker and tongs if there were no fellows here."
"Shouldn't wonder," said Joe. "He's a sociable young beggar, and keeps
my den uncommon tidy. Why, only the other day, when I was in no end of
a vicious temper about being rowed about my Greek accents, you know, and
when I should have been really grateful to the young scamp if he'd given
me an excuse for kicking him, what should he do but lay wait for me in
my den with a letter from his father, which he insisted on reading aloud
to me. What do you think it was about?"
"I couldn't guess," said Walcot.
"Well, you must know he's lately chummed up very thick with my young
brother Jim in the second, and--would you believe it?--he took it into
his head to sit down and write to his governor to ask him if he would
give Jim and me each a watch like the one he's got himself. What do you
think of that?"
"Did he, though?" exclaimed Walcot, laughing. "I say, old boy, you'll
make your fortune out of that youngster; and what did his father say?"
"Oh, he was most polite, of course; his boy's friends were his friends,
and all that, and he finished up by saying he hoped we should both come
and spend Christmas there."
"Ha! ha! and did he send the watches?"
"No; I suppose he wants to spy out the land first."
"Well," said Walcot, "the boy's all right with you, but he'll go making
a fool of himself some day if he makes up to everybody he meets."
My master, in fact, was already a popular boy with his fellows. He had
a select band of admirers among the youth of the Second-Form, who
cackled round him like hens round a bantam. Together they groaned over
their Latin exercises and wrestled with their decimals; together they
heard the dreaded summons to the master's desk; and side by side, I am
sorry to say, they held out their open palms to receive his cane. If a
slate bearing on its surface an outline effigy of the gentleman who
presided over the lessons of the class was brought to light, and the
names of its perpetrators demanded, Charlie's hand would be seen among a
forest of other upraised, ink-stained hands, and he would confess with
contrition to having contributed the left eye of the unlucky portrait.
And if, amid the solemn silence which attended a moral discourse from
the master on the evils of gluttony, a sudden cataract of nuts, apples,
turnips, and jam sandwiches on to the floor should drown the good man's
voice, Charlie would be one of the ill-starred wights who owned to a
partnership in the bag of good things which had thus miserably burst,
and would proceed with shame first to crawl and grope on the dusty floor
to collect his contraband possessions, and then solemnly to deposit the
same jam, turnips, and all, on the desk of the offended dominie as a
confiscated forfeit.
By these and many other like experiences Charlie identified himself with
his comrades, and established many and memorable bonds of sympathy. He
took the allegiance of his followers and the penalties of his masters in
equal good part. He was not the boy to glory in his scrapes, but he was
the boy to get into them, and once in, no fear of punishment could make
a tell-tale, a cheat, or a coward of him.
With the elder boys he was also a favourite, for what big boy does not
take pride in patronising a plucky, frank youngster? Patronising with
Charlie did not mean humiliation. It is true he would quake at times in
the majestic company of the heroes of the Sixth Form, but without
hanging his head or toadying. It is one thing to reverence a fellow-
being, and another to kneel and lick his boots.
Altogether Charlie had what is called "fallen on his feet" at
Randlebury. By the end of two months he was as much at home there as if
he had strutted its halls for two years. His whistle was as shrill as
any in the lobbies, and Mrs Packer stuck her fingers in her ears when
he burst into her parlour to demand a clean collar. He had already
signalised himself too on the cricket field, having scored one run (by a
leg-bye) in the never-to-be-forgotten match of First Form, First Eleven,
against Second-Form, Second Eleven; and he had annihilated the
redoubtable Alfred Redhead in the hundred yards hopping match,
accomplishing that distance in the wonderfully short time of forty-five
seconds!
But the dearest of all his friends was Jim Halliday, his lord and
master's young brother. To Jim, Charlie opened his own soul, and me,
and the knife; with Jim he laid his schemes for the future, and
arranged, when he was Governor-General of India and Jim was Prime
Minister, he would swop a couple of elephants for one of Ash and
Tackle's best twenty-foot fishing-rods, with a book of flies complete.
With Jim, Charlie talked about home and his father, and the coming
holidays, till his face shone with the brightness of the prospect. Nor
was the faithful Jim less communicative. He told Charlie all about his
sisters down at Dullfield, where his father had once been clergyman, and
gave it as his opinion that Jenny was the one Charlie had better marry;
and to Charlie he imparted, as an awful secret not to be so much as
whispered to any one, that he (Jim) was going to array his imposing
figure for the first time in a tail-coat at Christmas.
With two friends on such a footing of confidence, is it a wonder they
clave one to the other in mute admiration and affection? Many a
sumptuous supper, provided at the imminent peril of embargo by the
authorities on the one hand, and capture by hungry pirates on the other,
did they smuggle into port and enjoy in company; on many a half-holiday
did they fish for hours in the same pool, or climb the same tree for the
same nest; what book of Jim's was there (schoolbooks excepted) that
Charlie had not dog's-eared; and was not Charlie's little library
annotated in every page by Jim's elegant thumbs? In short, these two
were as one. David and Jonathan were nothing to them.
But in the midst of all his comfort and happiness one continually
recurring thought troubled Charlie, that was about Tom Drift. He had
promised the mother to be a friend to her son, and although he owned to
himself he neither liked nor admired Tom, he could not be easy with this
broken promise on his mind.
One day, about a month after the quarrel outside the head master's
study, my master, after a hard inward struggle, conceived the desperate
resolve of going himself to the lion in his den and seeking a
reconciliation.
He walked quickly to Tom's study, for fear his resolution might fail
him, and knocked as boldly as he could at the door.
"Come in!" cried Tom inside.
Charlie entered, and found his late antagonist sprawling on two chairs,
reading a yellow-backed novel.
At the sight of Charlie he scowled, and looked anything but
conciliatory.
"What do you want?" he said angrily.
"Oh, Tom Drift!" cried Charlie, plunging at once into his subject, "I do
wish you'd be friends; I am so sorry I hurt you."
This last was an ill-judged reference; Tom was vicious enough about that
bruise on his forehead not to need any reminder of the injuries he had
sustained in that memorable scuffle.
"Get off with you, you little beast!" he cried. "What do you mean by
coming here?"
"I know I've no business, Tom Drift; but I do so want to be friends,
because--because I promised your mother, you know."
"What do I care what you promised my mother? I don't want you. Come,
off you go, or I'll show you the way."
Charlie turned to go, yet still lingered. A desperate struggle was
taking place, I could feel, within him, and then he stammered out, "I
say, Tom Drift, if you'll only be friends I'll _give_ you my watch."
Poor boy! Who knows what that offer cost him? it was indeed the dearest
bribe he had to give.
Tom laughed sneeringly. "Who wants your watch, young ass?--a miserable,
second-hand, tin ticker; I'd be ashamed to be seen with it. Come, once
more, get out of here or I'll kick you out!"
Charlie obeyed, miserable and disappointed.
He could stand being spoken roughly to, he could bear his
disappointment, but to hear his father's precious gift spoken of as a
"miserable, second-hand tin ticker," was more than he could endure, and
he made his way back to his room conscious of having lost more than he
had gained by this thankless effort at reconciliation.
"What are you in the sulks about?" inquired Halliday that evening, as
Charlie was putting away his lord and master's jam in the cupboard.
"I don't want to be sulky," Charlie said, "but I wish I could make it up
with Tom Drift."
"With who?" exclaimed Joe, who, as we have before observed, was subject
to occasional lapses of grammar.
"Tom Drift, you know; we had a row the first day."
"I know," replied Joe; "about that everlasting watch of yours, wasn't
it?"
"Yes," said Charlie, "I didn't like to lend it him, because--"
"I know all about that," said Halliday. "You were squeamish about
something or other he wanted it for. Well, the watch belonged to you, I
suppose, and you aren't obliged to lend it to anybody. What on earth do
you want to go worrying about the thing any more for?"
"I'm not; only I wanted to be friends with Tom Drift."
"What for?" demanded Joe.
"Oh, because--because I promised his mother I would be," pleaded
Charlie.
"All I can say is, you had no business to promise any one to be friends
with a fellow you never saw."
"But she said he was a nice fellow; and besides he made my watch go when
it had stopped," added Charlie, as a great argument.
"Why, Charlie, you are a greater little noodle than I took you for.
Every one who calls that precious watch a good name is your master, and
you're his slave."
"Not so bad as that, Joe," said Charlie; "but I say, isn't Tom Drift a
nice boy, then?"
"Isn't he? that's all," replied the other. "I'm not going to abuse him
behind his back, but take my advice, young un. You are better off as
Tom's enemy than his friend, and don't you try to make up to him any
more."
"Why not?" asked Charlie in bewilderment.
"Never you mind," was all Joe's reply; "and now hand me down my Liddell
and Scott and make yourself scarce."
Charlie, sorely puzzled, did as he was bid.
He certainly was not in love with Tom Drift; but it was not easy for him
to give up, without an effort, his promise to be his friend.
Tom, however, was by no means in need of friends. Not many weeks after
the day when Charlie had left his study, disappointed and miserable, he
might have been seen entertaining company of quite a different sort.
[My readers, let me here observe, must not be too curious to understand
how it is I am able to speak of so many things which must have taken
place beyond the range of my observation. They will find the reason all
in good time.]
The supper party over which Tom presided consisted of four boys,
including himself. One was Shadbolt, on whose account, it will be
remembered, Tom had desired to borrow Charlie's watch. Shadbolt was an
unwholesome-looking fellow of fifteen, with coarse features and eyes
that could not look you straight in the face if they had tried. He was
accompanied by his chum Margetson, who certainly had the advantage of
his friend in looks, as well as in intellect. The quartet was completed
by Gus Burke, one of the smallest and most vicious boys at Randlebury.
He was the son of a country squire, who had the unenviable reputation of
being one of the hardest drinkers and fastest riders in his county; and
the boy had already shown himself only too apt a pupil in the lessons in
the midst of which his childhood had been passed. He had at his
tongue's tip all the slang of the stables and all the blackguardisms of
the betting-ring; and boy--almost child--as he was, he affected the
swagger and habits of a "fast man," like a true son of his father.
At Randlebury he had wrought incredible mischief. Tom Drift was not the
only soft-minded vain boy whom he had infected by his pernicious
example. Like all reckless swaggerers, he had his band of admirers, who
marked every action and drank in every word that fell from their hero's
lips.
It was just with such boys as Drift that his influence was most telling;
for Tom was a boy not without aptitude to note and emulate a powerful
example, whether it were good or bad, while his vanity rendered him as
pliant as wax to the hand of the flatterer.
Such was the party which assembled surreptitiously in Tom's study that
evening and partook of the smuggled supper.
Tom had had hard work to provide for his guests, and had succeeded only
at the risk of grave penalties if detected.
"I say, Tom, old horse, this is a prime spread!" said Gus; "where did
you get it?"
"Oh!" said Tom, "I had a new hat coming from Tiler's, so I got old
Tripes (the butcher) to make a neat brown-paper parcel of the kidneys,
and got them up in my gossamer. The old donkey might have done the
thing better though, for the juice squeezed through, and the inside of
my hat looks as if I had lately been scalped."
"Hard lines! But never mind, perhaps they'll put it down to the crack
you got on your forehead."
Tom flushed scarlet; any reference to his inglorious scuffle with
Charlie Newcome was odious to him, as Gus and the others knew well
enough. He said nothing, however, only scowled angrily.
"What!" said Gus, "does it hurt you still then? Never mind, it was a
good shot, and I wouldn't be ashamed of having floored you myself."
"He didn't floor me; I fell!" cried Tom indignantly.
"Did you? Rather a way fellows have when they get knocked down!"
"I was not knocked down, Gus, I tell you; and you'd better shut up!"
"All right, old horse! you mustn't mind a bit of chaff. I'm sure you've
taken it all very well."
"Yes," said Margetson, "everybody thinks you must take after your
mother; you're such a sweet-tempered chap."
"What do you know about my mother?" snarled Tom.
"Only what your young friend tells everybody about her."
"What business has he to go talking all over the school about my
affairs?" exclaimed Tom furiously. "What's my mother to do with him?"
"A great deal, it seems," replied Margetson, "for he promised her, on
the strength of her assertion that you were a nice boy, to be your
friend, and now he's awfully hurt you won't let him."
"I thought it was Tom who was awfully hurt," put in Gus, by way of
parenthesis.
"I tell you what it is, you fellows," said Tom, "it may be all very
funny for you, but I've had quite enough of it. Ever since that young
canting humbug came here I've led the life of a dog. If, instead of
making a fool of me, you'd tell me how I can pay him out, I should be
better pleased."
"All very fine," said Margetson; "why don't you pay your own bills?"
"If you want some one to punch his head," said Shadbolt the ugly, "I
don't mind trying; my life is insured."
"Suppose we make him stupid," suggested Gus, "with milk punch, and shove
him inside the doctor's study."
"Couldn't you get hold of his watch and boil it?" said Margetson, who
had heard of the experiments practised on me in Mrs Packer's parlour.
"If I got hold of it I'd smash it into fifty pieces!" growled Tom
between his teeth.
"Look here, you fellows, I've got a glorious plan!" exclaimed Gus
suddenly.
"What is it?" they all cried.
But Gus's plan requires a new chapter.