OFF TO RANLEIGH
Going to school arouses a variety of emotions. In the case of Clive they
were decidedly confused and jumbled, happiness, however, at the prospect
before him predominating. For residence for a high-spirited lad at home,
tied to a somewhat doting mother's apron-strings, is somewhat dull, and
hardly conducive to good results, while the absence of a father had not
improved matters. Indeed, it may be agreed without debate that the
incident of that wonderful motor-car contrived by Clive and Hugh and the
ingenious trap they had set for Rawlings had not been entirely
mischievous. For here was Clive about to be launched on the schoolboy
world, while Hugh and Bert, having listened to a long and verbose
lecture from their father, hitherto their tutor at home, had entered a
train and gone off likewise.
"What'll this Ranleigh be like?" Clive asked himself again and again.
From taking an interest in passing scenery, he soon began to look
forward to another stop with eagerness. For at each station there were
boys. Some big, some small; some jolly and whistling, others glum and
thoughtful. Not that glumness was the order of the whole day. For at one
station Clive observed with some amusement one youngster under the
escort of a fond father and mother. The lad had much ado to keep the
tears back as the train departed, while his mother wept openly into a
handkerchief of diminutive proportions. Within a minute, however, there
came shouts of laughter from the next carriage into which this hopeful
youngster had stepped, and peering in at the next station, Clive found
the lad as merry as a cricket. He was beginning to wish that he could
join them.
"I say," he began, somewhat lamely, "going to Ranleigh?"
A fat youth, with a greasy, pallid face, pushed his head out of the
window and surveyed Clive as if he were an inferior beetle.
"Who on earth are you?" he asked, with some acerbity. "Who invited you
to speak? that's what I want to know. Jolly cheek, I call it!"
Clive was taken aback rather considerably. This was not the sort of
treatment to which he was accustomed. His gorge rose at it.
"Cheek yourself! Who are you, then?"
It seemed for a moment as if the fat youth would have an apoplectic
seizure. His pallid face became suffused a dull purplish red. His neck
swelled in fat folds over his collar. If looks could have killed, Clive
would certainly have been slain on the spot. But the engine shrieked
just then, while someone within the carriage seized the tails of the fat
youth, who disappeared precipitately.
"Come in, Trendall," he heard a voice shout. "One would think you were a
king, never to be spoken to. But who is he? My word, I got a glimpse of
his phiz, and he looked as if he'd hammer you with pleasure."
Another mile on this almost endless journey and the train again panted
into a station. Clive hung out of the window, and then became aware of
the fact that two individuals were approaching his carriage, while from
the one next door the youthful Trendall glared at him. Rawlings was one
of those approaching. He descended with majestic step from his own
compartment and hailed a porter.
"Hi! Portar!" he called. "Carry these things along heear. Someone's
wanted to keep ordar."
Tall for his age, decidedly podgy, and with a cast of countenance which
was not too attractive, Rawlings just lacked that brisk, clean
appearance belonging to young men who go to our public schools. Despite
expensive and well-fitting clothes, an immaculate tie and hat, and
socks of most becoming pattern, the fellow did not look a gentleman. His
air was pompous. His manner of addressing the porter ludicrous. He
stepped up to Clive's compartment, nodded grandly to Trendall, and
pulled the door open.
"He-e-ear, portar."
The magnificent one proffered a tip without looking at it, and Clive
noticed that the man took it with alacrity.
"All fer me, sir?" he grinned.
"Of course! I'm not a pauper."
Rawlings waved him away magnificently, flopped on to a seat, taking the
far corner, arranged his feet on the one opposite, and then began to
take close scrutiny of our friend Clive. Meanwhile, another individual
had entered the compartment. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, shambling
youth, of decidedly foreign appearance, with clothes which spoke of a
French provincial city. He stooped a little, was slow and ungainly in
his movements, while his powerful shoulders were bent forward. But the
face was striking and taking.
"Pardon," he said politely, lifting his hat as he entered. "This is for
Ranleigh, is it not so?"
Rawlings regarded him stonily. "The cheek!" he muttered. "Is one to
answer every bally foreigner? I'm not a portar!"
He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and glared at the intruder.
For the new-comer was an intruder. Rawlings had made his way to this
compartment with a view to discussing certain matters with Clive, and
letting that young gentleman thoroughly understand who was the master.
But that last movement was his undoing for the moment. The fingers deep
in one pocket struck upon certain loose cash, and withdrawing the same,
Rawlings was at once stricken with a terrible discovery. He had had
certain silver coins there before, and twopence in coppers. Those he had
intended to present to the porter. But they were still there, while two
half-crowns were missing. In fact, in his lordliness he had presented
the grinning fellow with five shillings! No wonder the man smirked and
touched his hat. That had pleased Rawlings at the time. Now, as the
train swung out of the station, he dashed to the window.
"Hi! Hi! Portar!" he bellowed. "Hi! You come back with those
half-crowns. It was a mistake."
But the whistle drowned the sound of his voice, while the porter, half
hidden behind a barrow, waved a farewell to him. Rawlings threw himself
back in his seat with a growl of anger.
"You're going to Ranleigh, aren't you?" he demanded fiercely of Clive.
"Yes."
"Then just you look out for squalls. What dormitory are you in?"
"Don't know," came Clive's sullen answer. This Rawlings was considerably
bigger, though little older, but still Clive was not going to be
bullied. "How should I?" he demanded. "What's the place like?"
"You'll find out in time. And don't you try any traps there, youngster.
See?"
Rawlings was determined to let there be no misunderstanding. He
stretched across the carriage and took Clive by the ear.
"None of your caddish games at Ranleigh," he said, "or you'll get
something worse than this, by a long way."
Clive beat him off with a well-directed blow on the arm. In fact, with
such heat and violence that Rawlings, still enraged at the loss he had
so stupidly made when tipping the porter, lost his temper, and it looked
as if he would at once take in hand the chastisement of the lad who was
such a near neighbour. But the third individual suddenly distracted his
attention. Could Rawlings really believe his eyes! This new chap,
whoever he might be, a froggy probably, had asked if the train went to
Ranleigh, and therefore, obviously, was bound for that destination, and
must be a new boy. He was actually stretching himself out across the
carriage, with one boot resting against Rawlings's immaculate trousers,
while--worse than all--he had a cigarette in his mouth and was setting a
match to it. It wasn't the fact of smoking that horrified Rawlings. He
had broken that rule himself, and been dreadfully ill, much to his
chagrin. But Rawlings was getting up in the school. He was in the lower
sixth, would probably be a prefect this term, and such an act was an
outrage to his dignity.
"Well, I'm hanged!" he spluttered. "What on earth do you mean by that?
Smoking! Here, stop it!"
But the one addressed merely viewed him mildly. His brows went up
questioningly, while he stretched himself a little more at his ease,
causing Rawlings to remove his immaculate trouser leg with swiftness.
"Do you hear?" he cried threateningly. "What's your name?"
"Richard Feofé."
"Hang the Richard! Feofé, then. Look here! Stop that smoking."
But Feofé still regarded Rawlings mildly, and taking a deep inspiration
filled the carriage with smoke.
"You do not like it, then?" he asked. "Monsieur can then get into
another carriage."
Rawlings went crimson with rage, and then pallid, while Clive began to
enjoy the joke immensely, for long ago he had sized his near neighbour
up, and knew him to be nothing more than a purse-proud bully. But for
the disparity in their two weights and heights he would have long since
openly defied the fellow. But it was better to see someone else do that.
And here was a hulking, good-natured Frenchman doing it splendidly.
"Where do you come from? Who's your father?" demanded Rawlings roughly,
as if to gain time in which to decide how to act.
Feofé was not to be hurried. He had never been to a school of any sort
before, save the local one he attended in France. But he had met boys
and youths in plenty. And always this quiet, shambling boy, with his
broad shoulders and appearance of hidden power, had won respect without
recourse to violence. He took another puff at his cigarette, a habit, by
the way, rather more indulged in by boys in France, and regarded the
resulting smoke with something approaching affection. His eyes twinkled.
He shrugged his massive shoulders.
"Monsieur is somewhat curious," he said, using excellent English. "I am
from Lyons. My father, he is a banker. My mother, ah, she is his wife,
you understand. Then there is a sister. Susanne, Monsieur, younger by a
year than I am. That is the sum of the family, but I will tell you all.
There is a dog--yes, two--and a cat, and----"
Rawlings was purple. Beads of perspiration were breaking out on his
forehead. Catching a sight of Clive's grinning face he ground his teeth
with anger.
"Hang your family!" he shouted at Feofé. "Who wants to hear about
Susan?"
Feofé shrugged his shoulders. "You were so very curious," he said. "But
I will proceed. We live at Lyons, but sometimes we go to Paris. There I
have an aunt and two uncles, Monsieur. Ah! Yes, I must tell you all. The
aunt is Susanne also. A pretty name, Monsieur."
Rawlings was on the point of exploding. His dignity had long since gone
to the winds. If he dared he would have seized this Feofé by the neck
and shaken him. But the young fellow's broad shoulders and smiling, easy
assurance warned him that that might be dangerous. But he must assert
himself. He must show this Frenchman that he was a superior, and that
that must be the light in which he must view him.
"Look here," he said at length, smothering his anger, "no more of your
confounded cheek. Susanne's good enough for you, so just remember.
You're going to Ranleigh, and it's just as well to tell you that I
shall be a prefect. Know what that means?"
Even now he hoped to impress Feofé with his magnificence. But the lad
merely raised his brows enquiringly, and shrugged his shoulders still
lower against the upholstery of the carriage.
"A prefect. Someone in authority. Well?"
"And to be obeyed. Just chuck that smoking."
"But," began Susanne mildly--we call him Susanne at once, seeing that
that name stuck to him forthwith--"but, by the way, what's your name?"
Imagine the impertinence of such a request! A new boy actually having
the temerity to coolly ask the name of one who had been three years at
the school. Rawlings gasped; he mopped his damp forehead.
"Rawlings," he growled.
"Then, Rawlings, you're a prefect, yes?"
"Not yet," came the somewhat confused answer. "But I shall be this term.
It'd be a confounded shame if they passed me over."
"Quite so. A confounded shame. You would be a loss to the other
prefects."
Susanne took another appreciative suck at the weed, while Rawlings went
hot and cold. Satire went to the depths of his being. This Feofé was
covering him with derision.
"Look here," he began threateningly, "it's about time you understood who
you are and what I am."
"You're a prefect, yes?" answered Susanne, not the least distressed, his
little eyes twinkling, "or will be, at Ranleigh. But you are not one
here, in any case. Is it not so? Therefore, Rawlings, get into another
carriage if you don't like smoke, and do let us be pleasant."
Never was a man more demoralised than Rawlings. He had made an entry
into the carriage with the set purpose of bullying Clive, and of letting
that young gentleman see who was to be the master. The commencement of
the movement had cost him five precious shillings. That was sore enough.
And then, naturally enough, he had addressed himself to this new
boy--and had been worsted. It goaded him to madness to see Clive
grinning still.
"Well done, Susanne!" called out that worthy, delighted at the turn
events had taken. "Rawlings ain't a prefect yet, and in any case we're
not at Ranleigh. I say, I'm a new boy too. He lives quite close to me."
He pointed a deprecating finger at Rawlings, and crossed to join
Susanne. That young man welcomed him with open arms. The twinkle in his
eye brightened, while he eyed Rawlings in a manner which made that
individual squirm. In fact, never was the wind taken out of anyone's
sails more completely. Susanne had reduced him to silence. Thenceforth
Rawlings sat screwed into the corner, regarding the landscape with a
face which showed the severest displeasure, while his lips muttered and
twisted angrily.
"Wait till I get 'em to Ranleigh, that's all," he was promising himself.
"The first thing I do is to kick this Darrell fellow. Then Feofé shall
have a turn. I'll get my own back whatever happens."
Clive was no smoker. He was sensible enough to know that it would be
harmful to him just as it would be to any other fellow, and for that
reason refused the cigarette Susanne offered him. He wedged himself up
close to his new chum, and commenced a long and intimate conversation.
Meanwhile, other boys entered the train. Some in the next compartment,
from which howls of laughter sounded, some in their own. Fellows nodded
curtly to Rawlings. The fat Trendall came in at one station to have a
chat with him, and found his chum curiously glum and silent. He couldn't
understand him at all, nor fathom the movements of the two opposite. For
Susanne and Clive regarded Trendall with the smallest interest.
According to all the canons of school life they should have looked
askance at a fellow who had been at the school a couple of years or so.
In Clive's eyes Trendall should have appeared enormous. And, no doubt,
had Clive been alone in this adventure, he would have been far less
uppish. But Susanne was incorrigible. If he had never been to school
before, he was at least not to be frightened by what was before him. To
Clive, his easy, calm assurance was refreshing. To Trendall it was
inexplicable. Finding conversation lagging he took himself off at the
next station, his place being taken by two big fellows, who nodded
cheerfully to the occupants of the compartment.
"Hullo, Rawlings!" called one, a very tall, slim young man, on whose
upper lip there was a respectable growth of downy hair. "Not dead,
then?"
"No," answered that individual sourly.
"New youngsters, eh?" was the second question as the tall fellow turned
to Clive and Susanne.
"Yes," answered the former. Susanne took his hat off politely.
"Help!" called Harvey, for that was the name of the youth speaking,
grinning at this quaint exhibition. However, he returned the compliment
by lifting his own. "We don't do that sort of thing in England," he
said, quite kindly. "I shouldn't if I were you. Fellows would start
rotting. I say, can you play footer and cricket?"
Susanne's eyes sparkled. "I like them both tremendously. But play, ah,
that is another question. In England fellows get a chance. In France you
may say that games are only beginning."
"Book him for a trial next scratch footer," exclaimed Harvey, addressing
his comrade. "Look here, you two, I'm Harvey. This is Bagshaw, secretary
of our Games Committee, and of everything else that's useful. He's head
bottlewasher to every institution at the school, and don't you forget
it. I say, how do you call yourselves?"
How different was his manner from that of Rawlings. Feofé gave his at
once, while Clive was not backward. The latter took an instant liking
for Harvey. Of course, he must be a tremendous fellow at the school, top
of all probably. Or was he a master? He looked almost old enough.
Besides, he had a moustache, quite a decent affair. As to Bagshaw, he
was a delicate-looking fellow of eighteen, perhaps, with a kindly,
wizened face. A calm, studious man. The scholar of the school, no doubt,
but not a games player. Nor was Clive far out in his reckoning. For
Harvey was head scholar, a man head and shoulders above his comrades.
Good at work, keen on books and such things, a decided master at debate,
he was still a first-rate man at games, and perhaps shone still more as
a leader. His clean-cut figure was the observed of all observers in
School matches. His had been the fortune to listen to howls of
appreciation when he had carried off the hundred yards, the quarter mile
and the long jump at the School sports, while one and all, his football
team or his cricket eleven watched his every move and gesture, loyal
observers of all his wishes.
As to Bagshaw, he was almost as popular. No one expected him to play
games. It was well known that he had a weak heart, and with that, of
course, no fellow could play. But his Ranleighan Gazette was a
masterpiece. His poems were enthralling; while, strangely enough, this
delicate-looking fellow, a scholar also, could hold the boys spellbound.
When taking "prep." Bagshaw was not one to be trifled with. There was no
nonsense about this delicate, ascetic fellow. He was cool, calm and
commanding, and to those who had the sense, a real help in difficulties.
"Ranleigh. All change!"
The lamps at the station were lighted now. Clive tumbled out on to a
platform seething with boys of every age. Boys laden with footballs and
bags. Boys clad in warm overcoats, and others nobly discarding the same
for the walk up to the school. Caps were lifted in recognition of one of
the masters. Clive found himself doing likewise and wondering whether
all masters were the same. For this one, a fair giant, of ample
proportions, smiled down upon them all. He gripped Harvey's hand with a
vigour there was no denying, while still smiling round at the company.
And then in twos and threes, and here and there in forlorn ones, for
your new boy is not quick to discover chums, the contingent of Ranleigh
boys took the road for the school. Through a portion of the village they
went, leaving the Village Jubilee Memorial behind them. Up towards the
common, all railed in, where sports and cricket matches are held, up
past the butcher's shop, with its slaughter-house close handy, and so
onward through the tree-clad lane, past the master's entrance, giving
access to the Sanatorium also, past an even more important institution,
the tuck-shop to wit, and so to the gates of the school. Above, a third
way down the hill, myriad lights flashed from the building. Clive forged
his way up the front drive with Susanne beside him, up the steep slope
to the front doors, never entered except in the case of a few, save on
arriving or departing on the first or last days of the term. And so into
the wide space past the chapel entrance, between Middle and Second Form
rooms. And there, swept continuously by a seething mass of boys, stood a
short, bald-headed master, nodding here and there, smiling all the
time, evidently delighted to welcome everyone.
"Darrell!"
Clive heard his name and stopped. The lynx-eyes of the bald-headed
master had espied him.
"Sir," he gulped. He felt almost frightened. There were so many boys,
and there was such an uproar.
"One South, Darrell," he heard. "How are you, boy? Glad you've come. Hop
up the stairs there and you'll find One South dormitory. Your name's on
one of the beds. Put your bag down on it, and then go to hall. You'll
get tea there. Chapel'll be in ten minutes."
How did he know that this was Darrell? Clive found himself wondering
that. And what about Susanne?
"Feofé," he heard, as he ascended. And then less distinctly, "One
South," with the same instructions.
"I'm glad," he thought. "Susanne'll be with me. Wonder about that
howling cad Rawlings. What a downfall! He'll not meddle with Susanne
whatever happens. But he'll have his pound of flesh from me if the
chance comes. Wish Harvey was to be in One South also."
He clambered up the steps and turned into a dormitory but dimly
illuminated. But it was big and clean and airy, and bore an appearance
of comfort, some thirty beds being covered with cosy-looking red
coverlets.
Clive found his bed, deposited his bag, and then enquired his way to
hall. Thick slices of bread and butter--known colloquially as
"toke"--appeased a ravenous appetite. He had not even time to admire the
huge proportions of the Hall, the many long tables, the names of boys
long since departed who had won honours at the school, and the few
pictures and portraits. A clanging bell summoned him he knew not where.
He found himself processing with a number of others. Through that
gallery they passed, with Middle and Second Forms on either side; then
sharp to the left down a paved corridor, to a wide, arched entrance.
They were in the chapel. Clive passed through the handsome raised seats
of the choir, down the central aisle, and drifted aimlessly to one side.
"Here," someone whispered. "One South?"
"Yes."
"Then this'll do. Squat here."
The fellow made room for him. Clive squatted and listened. The organ was
filling the whole beautiful chapel with the sweetest sound. Boys had
ceased entering. He raised his eyes to the entrance through which he had
come, just to be seen above the choir. "Be sure your sin will find you
out," he read above the doorway. The bell ceased ringing, the notes of
the organ were hushed, a low "Amen" came from the vestry. And then the
choir processed to their seats. Harvey was amongst them, and Trendall,
his fat cheeks shaking. There was a string of masters, of all ages
almost, all appearances and all sizes, looking somewhat out of their
element. And last of all came the Head. Not so very tall, not big, not
imposing, there was yet something about him which called for another
look. But the organ was pealing again, filling this magnificent
building, with its high arched roof, to the depths of every crevice.
Clive cast his eyes aloft over the screen--in itself a thing of
surpassing beauty--to the curtains about the organ loft, above which
showed the foreheads and eyes of two of the school. And then the notes
died away in a sob, which somehow seemed to have a welcome in it. The
congregation kneeled. Then the voice of the Head broke the silence with
the opening of the evening service, calm and dignified and musical. His
eyes wandered round the assembled boys, not curiously, not with
recognition in them, but with a welcome for all.
Ah! Clive shivered just a little. Of a sudden it had come to him that he
was one of them, that he was a Ranleighan, that the school honour was
his honour, its prowess his, its victories his to boast of. And then the
singing of the choir thrilled him as he had never been thrilled before.
He felt as do those old, loyal Ranleighans who visit their Old School
after the lapse of years. The music, the lighting of the chapel, the
very scent of the stone and bricks awake old memories, sweet memories
and thrill them. So with Clive. He sang lustily with the rest, and then
sank to his seat to listen to the lesson. There was Harvey at the
lectern. Harvey the hero of the school, looking magnificent in his
simple surplice. Harvey with head erect, his fair moustache curling,
reading to them in a voice that showed no sign of trembling. How Clive
would have shrunk from such a task! He shivered again at the thought of
such a possibility.
Then came a hymn, the last prayers, and the thunder of the organ
following. The choir filed away as they had come, the school remaining
motionless till they heard the last "Amen" from the vestry. Then came
movement. The boys were beginning to file out of the chapel and Clive
prepared to follow. His eyes strayed this way and that, as he waited for
his turn. All of a sudden he received something in the nature of a
shock, something which set his heart thumping. For opposite him, waiting
also to take their place in the procession of slippered boys, were two
with familiar faces. Clive could have shouted their names. He almost did
in his excitement and delight. For within a short dozen yards of him, as
yet unconscious of his presence, were Hugh and Bert, his fellow
conspirators, sent from their home as a direct result of that booby trap
prepared for the unpopular Rawlings.