BULLYING.
"Gas out."--The new boy's turn--"To err is
human"--Resistance--Persecution--I'll run away.
"Well, there now," ejaculated Miss Parker, "I never! That boy's not a
bit brought down by his mother's death. He sticks to it, just as
indignant as ever."
But Harry was out of hearing, and was sitting on his bed, staring into
his box which he had just opened. Presently, there was a sound of
footsteps scurrying up-stairs and along the passages, and the door of
No. 7 dormitory burst open, and its sixteen boys rushed in one after
another, huddling together like a flock of sheep.
The first thing that met their eyes was Harry, who didn't quite know
whether they would speak to him or not. So he waited till one or two
greeted him with a shake of the hand, and a "how-de-do, Campbell?" two
or three more with a cold "hallo, Campbell!" and the rest with only a
stare.
Amongst the latter were Egerton and Warburton. In about five minutes a
step was heard on the landing-place below.
"Gas out," cried Egerton, "there's Lea coming."
"Lea" was a house-master.
No one moved to obey the order.
"Now, then," cried Warburton, "who's new boy?" Harry, where he knelt
at his bedside saying his prayers, knew he was meant; but he had not
jumped up from his knees to obey the order, when a slipper came hard at
him. He, however, first put out the gas, and was on his knees again,
finishing his prayers, when Mr Lea entered. All being quiet, and the
light out, he retired. As soon as his last step was heard below, one
or two voices exclaimed--
"I say, Jackson, go on with your story, where you left off last night."
"Oh, no," answered Jackson, the boy appealed to, "I ain't new boy now.
I've done my turn."
The majority of the boys did not quite like to tell Harry plainly it
was his turn to provide the usual nightly amusement of a story, for
they felt some sort of compunction towards him, because of his mother's
death, even though they had not spoken to him; but they did not
hesitate to talk pointedly about its being the new boy's turn; that
Jackson had done his turn; _he_ was the last new boy, and so on.
But as Harry took no notice of these remarks, Egerton solved the
difficulty by saying curtly,--
"Campbell, it's your turn to tell a story, so look sharp, and begin."
"I haven't got one to tell," answered Harry, as he sat, still
undressed, on his bed, unlacing his boots.
"Can't help that," said Egerton, "you must make up one. You're a good
hand at that, aren't you?" he sneered, brutally.
Those few words clenched the feeling of hatred that had been gradually
growing in Harry's breast towards Egerton. Then first sprang up within
him a great desire of revenge, which in after years increased with
Harry's growth--of revenge on one who had thus blasted his reputation,
it seemed for ever. It is true, he had but shortly risen from his
knees. But do not call his prayers hypocritical, because these angry,
revengeful thoughts had taken such root in him so soon. If we had not
these passions we should be divine. The only strange thing is, he was
so young; for "vengeance" is usually only the cry of those of mature
age. But a consideration of the circumstances in which he was placed,
and the advanced temperament of his mind, will make the wonder vanish.
Harry took no notice of Egerton's speech as far as an answer was
concerned. He went on unlacing his boots in silence; but he felt his
face burn white with anger.
"Now then, Campbell," cried Egerton, "none of your sulks; it won't do.
Are you going to tell a story or not?"
"No," answered Harry, bluntly and firmly.
"But it's your turn, Campbell," expostulated some of the others,
wanting the story, but yet not wanting a row.
"I'd have tried to, if Egerton hadn't said that," answered Harry to the
last speakers, whose tone seemed somewhat consolatory to him.
"Hadn't said what?" they asked.
"Why, said that I knew how to tell stories. You know what he meant,
and it's beastly bullying, it is," went on Harry, impetuously and
indignantly, "and he knows he's the liar, and not me," waxing bold from
the apparent sympathy the silence of the room seemed to augur. But in
that silence the anger of Egerton, and of a number of his special
friends, was gathering; and the words were scarcely out of Harry's
mouth, when a boot came through the darkness, hitting him on the
shoulder, and then another, and another.
Harry sat on his bed, boiling with rage. He did not feel in the mood
for fighting, and besides, in the dark it was impossible.
Then came another ominous silence; and suddenly a scuffle of feet
sounded near his bed, and before he knew where he was, his bed was
suddenly dragged out into the middle of the room, turned over, and
clothes, boots, sponges, wet towels, and pillows heaped upon him.
Harry was maddened: he longed to find some one to hit, but the darkness
prevented that. He heard suppressed voices laughing at him, but could
see not a sign of any one; the bedclothes entangled his movements; he
was wet with the sponges and bruised from the boots. What could he do?
Where could he find help? "Not at school, not at school," he said to
himself. "If I tell, I shan't be believed;" and then the idea came
across him--"I'll run away." The thought was no sooner in his head,
than his mind was firmly resolved. Yes, he would run away from this
horrid place; anywhere, anywhere, rather than stay here.