THE DISCOMFITURE OF DUCKY THORNTON
Fifth Form year in a school like Deal usually marks a decided change
in the boys; they have grown more mature, have become more serious in
various ways, have definitely put away—the most of them—the childish
things of school life, and are to be counted as standing for the most
part on the side of the powers of law and order. They are used to the
ways of the place, are thoroughly imbued with the school spirit and
tradition, and consciously aim at keeping themselves and their fellows
in the good old ways.
Tony’s first year at Deal in the Third Form, as we have seen, had
been a varied one. After the exciting events of the Michaelmas and
Lent terms, his life had pursued a more even tenor of way. Chapin’s
detection and expulsion had served to reinstate Deering in the
confidence of both masters and boys, and his genial sunshiny nature was
winning for him a deserved popularity. He and Carroll, the latter now
a Sixth Former, though they no longer roomed together, were excellent
friends, but his real intimates were Kit Wilson and Jimmie Lawrence,
the latter of whom shared his room in Standerland, while Kit lived but
a few doors down the corridor. With Mr. Morris, the house master, he
was on very good terms indeed. He had made his place in the football
team in Fourth Form year, and had played a good game but he had not
distinguished himself that year. Now again in the Michaelmas term of
the Fifth Form year he was engaged in daily football practice, and was
again looking forward to the exciting contest in November.
It is scarcely necessary to say that Tony’s two friends had not taken
his declaration of making a friend of Finch very seriously, though they
decided with him in a good-natured way to protect the new boy from the
thoughtless or ill-natured hazing he was like to get at the hands of
lower formers.
A night or so after Finch’s arrival at school, Reggie Carroll dropped
in at Number Five Standerland to see his younger friends. Jimmie was
working in the study, but Tony had turned in early. Reggie stuck his
head into the door of Deering’s bedroom and discovered its occupant,
having got ready for bed, just about to turn off the light. “Come in,”
said Tony, “and find something comfortable to sit down on—the bed will
do. Where are you wandering this time of night?”
“Well, it is only nine o’clock,” said Reggie, “and as a matter of fact,
I was wandering over to have a ‘jaw’ with you, as you sometimes so
delicately term a heart to heart talk.”
“Well, fire away,” said Tony, but in tones that did not hint he
expected to find the conversation interesting. He was rather pensive,
unwontedly silent, and looked out of his window over the dark fields.
Reggie essayed several topics of conversation, but without much
success. He was about to take his leave, when something in Tony’s
expression arrested his attention.
“What on earth is the matter with you, boy?” he asked at last, as he
playfully grabbed Tony by the shoulder and began to maul him.
“Let up!” cried Tony. “Can’t you see I’m thinking out the problems of
the universe? You mess me all up and I don’t know where I’m at.”
“Well, compose yourself, and let me offer you advice.”
“Let up then, do! And consider the appropriateness of the figures of
speech, as Gumshoe would say. Bill Morris has been darn white to me——”
“Rather,” commented Reggie, with a smile, “we are all green with envy
at his whiteness.”
“Don’t interrupt; as I was trying to say, Mr. Morris has been
exceedingly white to me; so much so that I have often wondered how I
might show him I appreciate it. Well, the fact is, he has asked me to
do something just lately that I don’t in the least want to do, and I
don’t see how in the deuce I am to get out of it.”
“Knowing Morris,” commented Carroll, lazily, “I don’t in the least
fancy you are going to get out of it. He lays his plans too well. What
does he want?”
“Have you seen Finch, the new boy?”
“Finch?—oh! the kid they call Pinch. Yes, boy, I have seen him; one
look was too much. It’s awful.” Then Reggie’s eyes lighted, and he gave
an exclamation. “By Jove, I see it all—the whole thing—Bill wants you
to be his guardian angel.”
“Precisely,” said Tony, with an expression of infinite disgust.
“And you, my child, fully mean to be.”
“Hang it!” said Tony. “I suppose I do.”
For a moment Carroll was silent and his expression changed from one of
good-natured raillery to one of subtle sadness.
“Poor little devil!” he said at last, “why not?” Tony looked at him to
see if he were joking. “Oh, I know I couldn’t do it,” Reggie went on.
“I haven’t the knack or the grace, or whatever it is called. But old
Bill is right; you have. Why, kiddo, the world’s a hell for a lot of
people just because the rest of us, who have had more of a chance, sit
tight and comfy and don’t care.”
“I suppose it is,” said Tony grimly, “but to tell the truth, I hate to
think about such things—for a while yet, anyway.”
“There is one thing to be said,” Carroll continued, without paying any
attention to Tony’s remark, “if you do it, do it from the bottom up.
Make a good job of it.”
“It’s sheer asininity,” protested Tony. “I can’t do it. Oh, Reggie, I
hate him! he’s a loathsome little reptile.”
“Naturally he is that, or Bill would not be so extraordinary on the
subject. He doesn’t mess with our affairs very often, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Tony muttered.
“Do you chance to know why the Head took him?”
“Not really—some family obligation, I believe. The kid was left to
him by unspeakable parents who died of disgust at their work.”
Carroll smiled. “Have you begun yet?” he asked.
“No. I have sworn fifty times a day that I’d have nothing to do with
it. And now I am going to get up this blessed minute and go in and have
a talk with him. Talk to Jim a bit, and I’ll be back and tell you about
it.”
“All right,” said Carroll with a smile. Tony jumped out of bed, folded
his blue wrapper about him tragically, struck a dramatic attitude, and
stalked out of the room. Reggie joined Lawrence in the study.
Half an hour later Tony returned.
“How’s Pinch?” exclaimed Lawrence.
“How did it go?” asked Carroll.
Tony flopped down on a couch with an air of exhaustion. “Oh, so, so.
I found him greasing on his confounded Virgil in a blue funk for fear
I’d come to haze him. I made him read me twenty-five lines to give him
a chance to recover himself, while I looked to see if I could find a
redeeming feature. But Nature left that out. After a while I began
firing questions at him, and when he gradually grew accustomed to the
idea that I was only trying to be decent, he thawed a bit, and told me
a little about himself. He’s had a tough time generally since he had
the misfortune to come into the world at all. His father, who was an
old college chum of the Doctor’s, seems to have turned out a sort of a
rotter. He did something or other that disgraced them, and then he died
and left that kid and his mother to face the music alone. She, poor
woman, didn’t last long, and then the Head stepped in, for old time’s
sake, and out of mistaken kindness of his stupid old heart brought
Finch here.... All the spirit has been kicked out of him. He’ll do at
his books—he read the Virgil pretty well—but he hasn’t the spunk to
resent being kicked by a First Former. He seems to live in a perpetual
terror of his own shadow. I suspect Ducky Thornton and his gang have
been ragging him on the quiet, and if I catch that fat loafer at it,
I promise you he’ll be sorry. I think I’ll give him a good kicking
to-morrow on general principles.”
“Do!” said Reggie, “that will be good for him in any case.... It might
be well for you both to keep an eye on Ducky’s whereabouts in the
afternoons. I have a notion that he skulks in the fives court till the
master of the day is out of the way, and then sneaks back into the
house. I have seen him half-a-dozen times inside, and if I had been a
prefect I should have kicked him out myself.”
“Oh, hang being a prefect where kicking Ducky is concerned. To do that
would be good for both our souls.”
Carroll laughed. “Well, at it, boy.” He said good-night then, and left
them.
The next day—a bright fair day in mid-November, only a few days
before the Boxford game, when the first team were laying off from
practice, Tony and Kit, instead of going out early for a walk with
their team-mates, went into the fives court after dinner and began a
game, keeping an eye, however, on the on-lookers. It rejoiced them to
see Thornton’s fat ill-natured face amongst a crowd of loafers on the
benches. The bell rang for call-over, and the boys ran out to report
to the master of the day, who was accustomed to take his stand at
the Gymnasium door. To-day Mr. Roylston happened to be on duty. The
roll call over, most of the boys went off to engage upon some form of
exercise or game for the afternoon; but a few lazy ones, disdaining the
occupations open to them, straggled back into the fives court to watch
the games going on there. Later they would swim in the tank, and then
stand for half-an-hour under a steaming hot shower, unless a vigilant
master happened to catch them and send them about better things. Among
these stragglers was Ducky Thornton.
About half-an-hour later Mr. Roylston, beginning to make his rounds of
the various houses—a customary duty of the master in charge—came into
the fives courts. He stood at the door, noting on his rollslip the boys
who were present. By this time only Tony and Kit were playing and some
half-a-dozen smaller boys were squabbling on the benches. Tony glanced
at the master, and saw beyond him, standing outside on the deserted
tennis-courts, the forlorn Finch who looked about him in a bewildered
fashion as if he did not know what to do.
As Mr. Roylston finished making his notes, he fixed Tony and Kit with
a glare of unmitigated contempt. “The delight of doing nothing for
some boys,” he said in a sharp, jerky tone, “is only equalled by their
incapacity to do anything. Get out into the air, and take some manly
exercise, or I shall send the lot of you for a walk to the end of the
point.”
The younger boys sheepishly slipped out, the scowling Thornton amongst
them, who, Tony noticed, stopped outside and spoke to Finch for a
moment. Suddenly he realized that Mr. Roylston was still speaking. “Oh,
I beg your pardon, sir,” he said quickly. “I did not understand that
you were speaking to us.”
“If you would condescend occasionally, Deering,” said the master, “to
abstract yourself from the depths of self-satisfaction into which you
are habitually plunged, you would not make it necessary for me to take
your inattention for mere bad manners.”
Tony flushed, started to speak, bit his tongue, and kept silent. He met
Mr. Roylston’s glance unflinchingly. “Did you wish to say anything,
sir?” he said at last, with tantalizing politeness.
Mr. Roylston’s eyes turned aside from the cool but perfectly courteous
gaze with which the boy regarded him. “Merely,” he added, as he
turned away, “that I think you older boys—members of the first team
at that—set a very bad example by frowsing in the fives court on a
glorious autumn afternoon like this.”
“Why, it’s the first game we’ve played this year,” cried impulsive Kit.
“It’s come to a pretty pass if Fifth Formers can’t play a game of fives
without being accused of setting a bad example.”
“That will do, Wilson,” exclaimed Mr. Roylston sharply, facing them
again with an indignant glare in his eye. “You have not yet got over
your unpleasant habit of impertinence when occasion offers. Be good
enough, please, to leave the courts immediately.”
Kit reached for his coat, and as he did so he flung the fives ball
with a vicious twist against the side of the courts, so that it bounced
back with a tremendous spring, and narrowly escaped collision with the
master’s head as he was passing through the doorway. But Mr. Roylston,
having scored, as he thought, did not give them the satisfaction of
looking back. “Gosh!” exclaimed Kit, “I wish it had hit him.”
“Wish it had!” said Tony. “Come on; time’s up anyway. Gumshoe’ll go
through the Old School now, and we’ll have a look to see what has
become of Ducky.... I’ll wager Finch has sneaked back to his own room.
He mopes there all free times, and has about fifty marks already for
doing it. If Ducky’s not there, we’ll send him out for a run. If Ducky
is—well, kiddo—?”
“Come on,” said Kit, significantly stuffing a long leathern strap into
his trousers pocket.
They turned out of the courts. No one was in sight; the small boys
under the influence of Mr. Roylston’s “suggestions” had vanished; even
Finch, who had been annihilated by a sarcastic phrase as the master
passed him, had crept somewhere to hide till it was time for afternoon
school. Tony and Kit watched Mr. Roylston until he disappeared into the
Old School, then they started on a run for Standerland.
“I’ll bet the brute has got Finch in his room. It’s just the time for
it; besides Bill has gone over to the Woods with a lot of kids. Softly,
Kit,” he said, as they pushed open the big doorway leading into the
main hallway of Standerland House. They tiptoed cautiously upstairs,
and when they got to the head, stopped to listen, holding their breath.
“Sish! what’s that?” whispered Kit.
They heard a clear long wail in a high shrill voice—“Pleaseeeee!”
ending in a squeal, followed by a deeper guffah, and the sound of a
whip’s lash.
“Hurry!” said Tony. “We’ll make that bully sweat for this.” Quick as a
flash he was at Finch’s door, trying the handle. It was locked; so he
pounded vigorously. “Open up!” he called, “and the sooner the better.
Open up, you fellows—do you hear?” There was a scuffle within; then
silence. Some one crossed the room rapidly, and opened the door. It
was a Third Form boy by the name of Clausen—a surly bad-complexioned
lad. His face showed white now through the ugly blotches. Tony and Kit
stepped quickly within, and closed and locked the door behind them.
Finch was sitting on the edge of the bed, whimpering. His coat and
shirt were lying on the floor. Across his back were the welts of
several long lashes. Another boy—Dunstan, a Fourth Former, in bad odor
with the prefects, one of Thornton’s satellites—was by the window, as
if he were on the point of jumping out. Fortunately the room was on the
second storey of the building. No one else was in sight. Kit grabbed
Dunstan and flung him on the bed; but Tony, strangely cool, his eyes
glittering, restrained him.
“Wait, Wilson,” he said. “Take the key out of the door. Now, you
Dunstan, where is Thornton?”
The boy did not answer. “Where’s Thornton?” repeated Tony, grasping
Dunstan by the neck and wringing it. “He’s here, I know; or he was
here. He couldn’t get out. Here, Kit, tie this animal while I look in
the closets,” and he slung a bit of cord to his companion. They made
short work of the Fourth Former, who indeed made scarcely any show of
resistance; and then, having slung him helpless on the bed, they began
to search for Thornton. As Kit opened the closet in Finch’s bedroom,
Ducky darted out, and made for the hall door. But Tony was too quick
for him. He grasped him from behind, pinioned his arms behind his back,
and dug his knees into Thornton’s hips. The fat boy went to the floor
like a log, and in a second Tony was kneeling over him with sharp knees
digging into the soft flesh about his armpits. Kit gathered the boy’s
sprawling feet together and tied them with a big muffler that he took
from Finch’s bureau.
Finch himself, during the struggle, had stopped crying, and was now
putting on his shirt and coat. He had just begun to realize that this
was a rescue, not a fresh attack upon himself.
“Now, Finch,” said Tony, opening the door into the hall, “cut across
to my room, and stay there until we come. Kit, take that little beast
Clausen, and kick him down stairs. We won’t bother any further with
him.” Kit executed this order with dispatch and thoroughness, and
Clausen thanked his stars that he had got off so easily. Having got rid
of Finch and Clausen, they relocked the door. “Now, you big fat bully,”
said Deering, “you are going to get it. Get up and pull off your coat
and shirt.”
As Thornton struggled to his feet—the operation was a clumsy one, as
his ankles were lashed close together,—he began volubly: “You big
bullies!” But he did not go far. “Here,” said Kit, “wash his mouth
out, Tony.” And Tony washed it out with plenty of Castile soap and
very little water. “Now strip!” said Tony. The bully slowly took off
his coat, and then his shirt. “It’s not a pretty sight, is it, Kit?”
laughed Tony. “Nevertheless it will hurt as much as Finch’s back. Bend
over.”
“Please, please, let me off. ’Pon honor, I’ll never do it again—I
swear—I swear—please don’t lick me; please, _please_ don’t
lick—ouch!” He suddenly collapsed with a squeal of anguish, as Tony
brought the leathern strap across his shoulders with an unmerciful
swish. “You wouldn’t let Finch off when he blubbered, would you? Well,
we won’t let you off. Ready? Coming.”
“Ouch! ouch!!—oh, I swear—please—oh, you bullies, you—ouch! owhhh!”
Then Kit stuffed a towel in his soap-suddy mouth and stilled the noise.
When he had been well punished, they flung him on the bed, and let him
howl there while they administered a like thrashing to Dunstan. He
bore it a little more manfully, and consequently got off more easily.
Suddenly they were all startled by a sharp knock on the door. “Gumshoe!
by the great horn spoon!” exclaimed Kit. “Yes,” he called, “who is it?”
“Open, open this door instantly,” came in the well-known tones of Mr.
Ebenezer Roylston. “Open instantly, or I shall send for the servants to
break it in.”
“All right, sir,” called Kit, adding _sotto voce_, “It would be a jolly
good stunt if we let him do it. Get on your coats,” he hissed at the
two Fourth Formers. Instinct prompted them to quickness; but not quick
enough to satisfy Mr. Roylston, for the order was repeated, and the
handle of the door rattled impatiently.
Kit unlocked the door at last, and Mr. Roylston entered. “What is the
meaning of this unseemly commotion? What are you doing with locked
doors when you are supposed to be out? What is the meaning of this
strap? Why are these two Fourth Formers here crying? There has been
bullying?”
Kit laughed. “That’s about it,” he said. An angry flush suffused
Mr. Roylston’s countenance, as he exaggerated Kit’s laugh into
impertinence. “You are going too far, Wilson. I shall report you to the
Head for bullying and gross impertinence. You also, Deering——”
“You might as well take the trouble to find out what you are going to
report us for,” said Kit.
“Shut up, Kit,” said Tony. “If you——”
“Silence, Deering,” interrupted Mr. Roylston. “I am perfectly capable
of rebuking a boy for insolence without your assistance. You, Thornton
and Dunstan, come with me. You, Deering and Wilson, go to your rooms,
and wait there until you are sent for.”
He waited until they had crossed the hall and gone into Tony’s room;
then he took Thornton and Dunstan into Mr. Morris’s study at the
end of the hall and was closeted with them for half an hour. Later
the boys saw him leave Standerland House, cross the quadrangle and
disappear within the Old School. Then they sent Finch back to his room,
reconnoitred, but found that Dunstan and Thornton had disappeared.
An hour later there came a tap on their door. Kit opened it, and
admitted Mr. Roylston. The master took his place with his back toward
the window, and made them stand in the light before him. He cleared his
throat once or twice, as though he were at a loss quite how to begin.
“I have made an investigation,” he said at last, “and have carefully
thought over this afternoon’s affair.” He waited as if for a reply,
but as the boys made none, he continued in a moment, a little more
sharply and confidently. “I find that you are both guilty of the most
wanton cruelty to boys younger and smaller than yourselves; though, I
understand—they were singularly frank and direct with me—that you are
not without what you will probably pretend is justification. Thornton
admits that he had been horsing Finch——”
“Horsing Finch!” began Kit.
“Silence, Wilson; if there is any occasion for either of you to
speak, pray, let Deering speak for you. I have endured about as much
of your impertinence to-day as I can well stand. You undertook to
punish younger boys, and did so cruelly. In my opinion your conduct is
indefensible. However, I shall take into consideration your mistaken
motives in the matter, and not report you to the Head, as I was at
first convinced it was my duty to do. Doctor Forester is wont to deal
severely with bullying. Instead, I shall gate you for a month, and
require you to do a thousand lines of Virgil apiece for me within the
next fortnight.”
“Mr. Roylston,” Tony spoke up quickly, to prevent Kit from uttering
the ill-chosen words that he felt were on his lips. “You are probably
much misinformed as to the facts, and if you will permit me to say so,
with entire respect, you have not asked us a question. As for me, I
would very much prefer that you referred the matter to the Head as you
suggested.”
For once in his life Mr. Roylston was at loss for what to say. He
looked at Tony as though he could not believe the evidence of his
senses. He started to speak several times, and each time changed his
mind. Finally, he said, “I think that I am competent to settle this
matter without troubling Doctor Forester. I warn you that refusal to
do my impositions will result in the usual penalties. Deliberate and
prolonged disobedience will subject you to suspension or expulsion.”
“Very well, sir,” said Tony.
Mr. Roylston turned thereupon, and with what dignity he could muster,
walked out.
“By Jove, Tony old boy, you got him. Bless you for keeping me from
blurting out. I’d have spoiled it all.”
“Yes, kiddo, you certainly would. As a matter of fact, you have not
been specially impertinent, considering the provocation; and what’s
jolly well certain is that Gumshoe doesn’t want the matter to get to
the Head. He knows who’s to blame, but he has it in for us. Painful
person, isn’t he? Virgil’ll rot before I do his thousand lines or pay
any attention to his gating. I wish he would take us to the Head. Well,
I reckon Thornton will let Finch alone now. Let’s find Jimmie, and go
and wash the blood off in the tank.”
So saying, they locked arms, and went singing “Up above the
school-topp’d hill” down the corridor. They met Mr. Morris at the outer
door of Standerland House. “Well, you seem to be particularly frisky
this afternoon,” said he, “what’s up?”
“Absolutely nothing,” laughed Kit; “we’re just two good pure innocent
happy schoolboys. Come on, magister; come for a dip with us in the
tank.”
“Well, wait a second, while I stow sweater and stick, and I’ll be with
you.”