AN ULTIMATUM
"What'll you do?" asked Trendall, breathing heavily as he leaned over
Rawlings' shoulder in Lower Sixth Form room and perused the ultimatum
which Clive and his chums had sent. "Lick 'em all straight off, eh? But,
of course, you'd have to catch 'em singly. That Feofé cad is as strong
as a horse, and though he can't fight as an Englishman can, he'd kick
like a horse."
It seemed likely enough that the lordly Rawlings had considered that
side of the question, or perhaps was even then considering it. For he
turned a furrowed brow to his comrade.
"I'm going to lie low," he said. "One thing's certain, the first chance
I get I turn the Darrells away from our place. Of course, you know,
Trendall, that we own the whole show that Darrell's father had. He made
a mess of things, and my father came in and bought. That's why he hates
me so much. As to this letter, pooh! I'll get even with 'em all before
I've done. Feofé doesn't frighten me, not a bit."
Certainly not. Yet Susanne had pulled the great Rawlings' nose, and that
brilliant and magnificent bully had not retaliated. But he would, some
day, when the moment was propitious. For the time being he left the
little quartette alone, and Clive and his fellows were therefore at
liberty to forget the feud; which they did promptly. In the meanwhile,
Ranleigh had many things of interest to show them.
"Look here, Darrell kid," observed Masters one day, presuming on his two
months' seniority of Clive, and on the fact that he had been two terms
at the school, "I don't mind taking you along to show you the sights.
Been to the tuck?"
"What's that? Oh, tuck-shop, I suppose?"
"Of course, booby! You don't suppose it's a sort of place where they do
the washing! Well, suppose we go there and introduce you? Eh?"
Clive agreed readily enough. He was beginning to find that life at
Ranleigh opened up a wider prospect for him. At home he and Hugh and
Bert had been the best of chums, and no one had been admitted into their
close friendship. But here the matter was different, and better. For the
difference in forms separated the chums often enough. True, Bert and
Hugh were in the same class-room as Clive, for it accommodated the two
Middle and the two Third Forms. But at Ranleigh every hour saw a change
in the class-rooms occupied by the various forms. Sometimes Clive was in
Middle class-room, a little later he'd be in the Lower Fifth, and yet
again in the "Stinks" room, a department that began soon to fascinate
him, and which proved to be the one particular attraction to Susanne.
Circumstances, therefore, separated the chums often enough, for Bert and
Hugh were in Four South Dormitory. Not that that prevented communication
when in their respective dormitories, for the inventive Clive soon had a
species of life-line manufactured, and this, when Sturton's attention
was occupied elsewhere, could be tossed over the partition right on to
Hugh's bed. Notes could thus be dragged backwards and forwards, and
continuous communication kept up.
"But it can be improved, of course," said Clive, to which Hugh readily
assented. "We'll make a telephone, nail the wires up the walls of the
partition so that no one can see 'em, and then we can talk just as much
as we want."
It never occurred to either of them that they might get all their
chattering over in the daytime. But that is just the little point which
people sometimes fail to comprehend. It was the novelty of clandestine
conversation which attracted, and set these two inventors to work to
construct a telephone from plans and descriptions given in a book they
had managed to borrow.
In One South itself, Clive had Susanne always beside him, and very soon
a firm friendship grew up between them. While on his other side lay
Masters, the slug, as Sturton called him, a decent fellow, nevertheless,
and now anxious to act as guide and faithful friend to our hero.
They passed along those endless corridors to the back doors, through
which law compels the boys to emerge, and sauntered down between the
Fives Courts. On the left lay the Gym, where Hugh had already been
practising. Then beside the Tennis Courts, and away across the field
which fronts the school. And who could wish for a better place? What
father or mother or fond uncle or guardian could hope to find a
healthier, better spot than Ranleigh? The world has heard of the school.
It has made its mark in many a walk of life, so that there is no great
need to describe it minutely or to mention its precise position. Suffice
to say that it is situated in Surrey, that it projects three parts of
the way up a sloping hill, which is bathed by the sun on every side.
There is not a musty spot about it, not a corner nor a crevice in which
injurious germs may hide. See it, then, a red-brick pile, clad with
creeper, with its clock tower and its chimneys and pinnacles. Cast your
eyes upon the surrounding country, and admit, as admit you must, that
never was there a more ideal position. For the village is a mile away.
The school stands beautifully isolated. Fresh breezes sweep direct from
pine tree and heather across its roofs and into its windows. Add to
these charms playing fields which vie with those of schools of greater
antiquity, and you have a description of Ranleigh.
But we are forced to admit that Clive gave not a thought to it. He
scudded across the field with Masters, dashed through the front gates
and away down the road till they came to the tuck. It is a fascinating
little shop, and here again we must admit that its contents appealed
more strongly to Clive than did the surroundings.
"Never been in before, eh?" asked Masters slyly, well knowing the fact
that Clive had not.
"Never; wish I had. Rippin', ain't it?"
"Not half bad," admitted Masters casually. "A chap can stuff himself
full here for next to nothing. By the way----"
"Eh?" asked Clive, who was regarding a pile of apple tarts with close
attention. "How much, please?" he asked the attendant.
"A penny each, sir."
"Cheap!" murmured Clive. "Oh, what where you saying, Masters?"
He was carefully inspecting the contents of his purse by then, and not
looking particularly at Masters. It was not precisely what that young
gentleman wanted. He coughed loudly. "Oh, never mind," he said lamely.
"I--I didn't say anything."
It was such an obvious fib that Clive stared at him.
"Oh, did I?" then remarked Masters. "Oh, yes, I remember. But it doesn't
matter."
He thrust his hands into his pockets, turned to the door, and beckoned
to Clive. "Come on," he said, somewhat sadly. "Let's clear. I'll take
you in some other time."
That was just the very thing that Clive could not agree to. He had been
thick-headed before. But now he was beginning to grasp the situation. It
was awfully nice of Masters, too, he thought, though, to be sure, he
didn't see the smile on the face of the attendant.
"What's up?" he demanded. "You're never going to leave the tuck without
eating something?"
"Must," came the answer.
"Why?"
"Oh, never mind." Masters shrugged his shoulders, and went from the
cottage, Clive following. "Fact is," he admitted, once they were
outside, "I've forgotten to bring money with me. It's a beastly
nuisance."
"But it don't matter," cried Clive. "I'll lend you some."
"And then, of course," Masters hurriedly interjected, "it's a sort of
custom here, you know, for new kids to--oh, never mind, let's clear."
"To what?" demanded Clive, beginning to fathom the mystery.
"Well, if you must know, it's a sort of custom at Ranleigh for new kids
to stand treat the first time they enter the tuck. But it don't matter,
as I said. Let's clear. I never borrow money."
The generous-minded Clive could see only one way out of the difficulty.
Indeed, he was eager to show his hospitality. And so five minutes later
found the two youngsters securely seated in the little room beyond the
tuck, their feet over a gas fire, their teeth busily engaged with apple
tarts, while steaming cups of cocoa stood beside them. By then, Masters'
modesty had entirely departed. It had been a wrench, of course, to allow
a new kid to treat him! But in for a penny in for a pound wasn't a bad
motto.
"Tried those big chaps?" he asked, pointing to a box of squares of
chocolate. "Ripping! They're only a penny, and there's different colours
all the way through. Tony--met Tony yet? He's a fellow with red hair in
Two South--well, Tony swears that there's regular pictures worked up in
those squares, and that if you bite carefully you can see 'em. I don't
believe it myself, but it's a joke trying."
Clive did know Tony. He was the red-headed fellow who had shouted at him
and been so very pugnacious on the first night of the term when Clive
had entered the wrong dormitory. As to the squares, well, it would be
rather a joke to test this theory of Tony's.
"We'll test 'em, then," he said. "How many, eh?"
"Well, of course," said Masters guardedly, "a fellow could do it with
one, I suppose. But he'd have to be clever. Two'd give a chap a better
chance, while----"
"Sixpenn'o'th of those square things, please," demanded Clive, who was
warming to Masters, and who happened to have received a useful present
from a distant uncle that very morning. "You try first, Masters."
"And those brandy balls are just the things for prep.," remarked
Masters, some little time later, as if it were an afterthought and he
had not meant Clive to hear. "They're hot with peppermint, and you can
smell 'em all over the class-room. It makes the chaps look round and
long for some themselves, while the prefect who's in charge of the room
gets raging. Come on, Darrell."
It was perhaps a fortunate thing that Clive's stock of sixpennies was
becoming small, or he would have listened further to the blandishments
of the crafty Masters. As it was, he purchased a liberal quantity of
brandy balls, divided them with his friend, and then went off to other
fields.
"Sundy tuck's there," Masters informed him as they skirted the common,
where cricket matches are played. "Of course, the Head knows that there
is one, and would give his ears to catch chaps there. My word, they
would get a licking! But he can't succeed, and for a very good reason.
You see, a chap can slip in without being seen, and if the Head or any
other inquisitive master happens to come along and suspect, why, you can
bolt from the back door, up the garden and over the wall at the end.
I've done it. So have other chaps."
Before three weeks of his first term had passed Clive had a nodding
acquaintance with all the surroundings of the school, and with most of
the fellows. Moreover, he had witnessed the first great footer match of
the season, and his youthful chest had swelled with pride because of the
prowess of Harvey and other men. In fact, he was slowly and steadily
imbibing that spirit of _esprit de corps_ which helps a school along. He
was beginning to understand that self-effacement is a good thing at
times, and that the good of the school as a whole is what should be
considered. Else, why did Harvey work so hard to train the team while
still doing his best in school time? Why also did Sturton work so
loyally to support him, and still rise at cock-crow every morning so as
to prepare his own tasks?
But early frosts somewhat upset the plans of the Captain, and saw
letters innumerable despatched to some three hundred homes, demanding
that skates should be sent immediately.
"Another day's frost and we'll be able to go anywhere. They say the
canal's good," said Hugh, who had been making diligent enquiries. "But
my mark is the lake at Ditton."
"Private, isn't it?" asked Masters, who had joined the little band of
friends, and who, in fact, was often with them.
"Yes. But what's it matter? The Delarths are away from home. They'd
never want to keep good ice all to themselves. We'll take french leave."
"Or write and ask. Why not?" ventured Bert mildly.
"Why not?" repeated Susanne, with sparkling eyes. "It will make the fun
better. Besides, it is rude, is it not, to trespass on private
property?"
They scoffed at him promptly, and the very mention of rudeness put
aside the intention to write.
"It'll be part of the lark to go without being invited," said Hugh. "I
know the place already, for I've been skirmishing round to discover
likely spots for nesting. In the spring I'll be there. And if this frost
continues, I mean to try what it's like on the ice. So there, Susanne."
Two days later, after an intervening thaw of some five hours' duration,
whereat the hopes and the faces of every member of the school, save the
Captain and the footer team, fell dismally, the ice was reported to be
bearing on neighbouring ponds, and particularly on that one down by the
common in front of the butcher's shop. It had frozen very hard
overnight, and the ground was as hard as a stone. After dinner,
therefore, Bert and Hugh and Clive set out, Susanne being in their
company also, with Masters following behind as soon as he could get
away, an "impot" of some length having detained him. Indeed, the
self-same Masters had made a valiant attempt to complete the task during
dinner-hour in Hall. A pen of Clive's own invention had been brought
into request. Thereon were fixed no fewer than three nibs, all of which
would write at the same moment.
"You see, it's not one of those clumsy things one's heard of," said the
lordly inventor when he produced this wonderful time-saving implement.
"Anyone can tie three nibs on to one holder and try to write with 'em
all. But the blots he makes, my word! One nib rests nicely, but has too
much ink. A second is too short to reach the paper, while the third
sticks the point through and tears a hole. This pen gets over all three
difficulties. So long as you dip her carefully, she'll write, for all
the nibs are carried on spring holders. It's a champion. I'm going to
bring out a self-filling six-line automatic writer before I've ended.
I'll sell 'em by the ton to chaps at school."
No doubt he might if he were fortunate, and if all "impots" were of the
same character as that given to Masters. That worthy having incurred the
displeasure of his form master had been very politely and in dulcet
tones requested to deliver five hundred repetitions of the following
statement. "There's a time and a place for everything."
"And all because he scented peppermint," declared Masters hotly, when he
reported the matter to his cronies. "That chap Canning's a bounder. He's
always finding fault somewhere."
"But," ventured Bert cynically, "perhaps he doesn't like peppermint."
"Doesn't like peppermint! Rot!" cried Masters. "Who doesn't?"
"Well, you do," grinned Susanne.
"And so does any decent fellow. But that's where it is. Canning isn't a
decent fellow. He's always grousing. Masters, you're talking. Masters,
you don't answer. Masters, you're a fool. Masters----"
"You're a glutton," grinned Hugh, enjoying the indignation of that
individual, and receiving a buffet for his pains. "Well, he cobbed you
sucking brandy balls, given you by Clive."
"And told me that they were beastly, that I was making a beast of myself
to suck 'em in class time, and that there was a time and a place for
everything. Then gave me an impot."
"Which has to be done."
"That's it, and there's skating this afternoon. I'm going."
It followed that Clive's inventive genius was called in to help, and
that day at dinner, Masters, having gobbled up his meal, spent the rest
of his time crouching over a book resting on his knee, on which was
stretched the paper on which he was operating. And all would have been
well, for he was making amazing progress with that patent pen, but for
the fact that a sudden and unforeseen difficulty had arisen. The penny
bottle of ink he had requisitioned had the most idiotically narrow neck.
"Asses!" he growled, showing the difficulty to Clive, who sat next him.
"What makes 'em turn out bottles like that? How's a chap to get to
work?"
Clive had many brilliant ideas constantly occurring to him.
"Shove it into a spoon," he urged. "A tablespoon. Empty the bottle in,
and then you can dip easy. It'll prevent you dipping too deep. Get on
with it."
Masters realised the brilliance of the suggestion, and at once put it
into practice. He took the biggest spoon to be had, buttressed it around
with bread-crumbs, and then emptied his ink from the bottle. That was
famous.
"One gets along like a house on fire," he told Clive triumphantly. "And
the writing's ripping. Old Canning'll remark on it. George! Darrell, you
might sell him one of your pens. Look! There's fifty of the beastly
lines written. Here we go again. 'There's a time and a place for
everything.' So there is, my boy. Hall's the place for writing rotten
impots, specially when there's skating."
Hall, no doubt, was an excellent place. But accidents will happen, and
here with the most surprising result. For Masters, after much diligence,
had actually managed to complete three hundred lines when his sleeve got
anchored in the handle of the spoon filled with ink. It jerked over,
and in one brief instant the writer of the "impot" had the contents of
the spoon in his lap, while some of the inky mess flowed over the table,
making an excellent black map on the cloth.
"What a mess!" he groaned, when he had vainly mopped at his trousers
with his handkerchief. "I'm sopping wet, and as black as a hat. And look
at that beastly tablecloth. Here, Darrell, suggest something."
The best that Clive could do was to propose a covering of bread-crumbs
and salt, with which the huge stain was promptly covered. But all to no
purpose. The eagle eye of the Captain of the School going the round of
the tables in Hall after "knock up," when there was compulsory silence,
discovered the map which Masters had painted so unwittingly.
"Whose is that?" he demanded.
"Masters'."
"Ah! Writing at table. An hour's drill to-morrow, Masters. And that
mess'll cost half a crown. Perhaps more. Why, your seat is smothered
also. You're wet to the skin. Report to the matron afterwards, and get a
change. I'll talk to you this evening."
There was Masters in trouble with a vengeance. His "impot" had to be
commenced again, for ink had flown liberally over it. His trousers were
ruined, and doubtless his under garments. There was half a crown at
least to pay, and a visit to Harvey into the bargain.
"When there'll be a whacking," grinned Bert, always the cynic. "That'll
be merely as a precaution. He'll lay it on hot so as to warm you and
drive off the chill you'll be sure to have contracted."
Masters was not in sufficiently good frame of mind to trust himself to
answer. But skate he meant to. So at the moment when Clive and his
friends left the building, he was seeking new raiment in his dormitory,
having already obtained fresh underclothing from the matron. Then, by
dint of running, he caught up the little band who were bent on trespass,
just before they reached the ring fence that surrounded the property of
the Delarths.
"Just look round and make sure there's no one about," cautioned Clive,
glancing over his shoulder. "Now, Hugh, you've been here before. You
lead the way."
"Then over the fence. Into that copse at once, and then bang straight
ahead. The only fellows we have to look out for are the keepers. Of
course, they'll hate our going through their covers. But then,
something's got to give way when there's skating. Over we go. Last man
take a look round when he's joined us."
It took them perhaps half an hour to creep through the wood into which
Hugh led them. Sometimes they imagined they heard voices, and when that
was the case they cast themselves flat on the frozen ground and listened
with bated breath. But there was nothing else to alarm them, and pushing
on they arrived at length--after much exertion, for the cover was thick
and brambles had a peculiar fascination for their persons--at the edge
of the lake on which they proposed to skate.
"Well, I'm jiggered!" declared Hugh, his face flushing, his steaming
breath a cloud all round him. "There's someone on the place already."
"Someone? A dozen people," Bert corrected him.
"And--I wouldn't like to swear to it, but I do believe that that's old
Canning," said Masters, glowering on an individual who suddenly came
into view from the misty distance and swept across the smooth sheet of
ice towards them. "Just like him to set a fellow an impot so as to
prevent his skating, and then, when that chap had taken no end of pains
to get finished and----"
"Including half drowning himself with ink," grinned Bert, as a gentle
reminder.
"And getting a half-crown fine marked up against him," laughed Clive,
giggling at his friend's misadventure.
"And," proceeded Masters severely, ignoring the interruption, "and was
working like a nigger, it's just like this cad Canning to turn up at the
very spot and spoil fun entirely."
That was where the sight of this master affected the whole party. His
imposition was merely a matter between himself and Masters. Of course,
they were all awfully sorry for Masters, though his getting soaked with
ink was a jolly old joke, whatever he thought of it--but Canning was a
cad, all the same.
"What's he want to come along here trespassing on our property?"
demanded Hugh hotly.
"But--it isn't ours, is it?" asked Bert dryly, whereat Susanne
threatened him with violence.
"Of course it's not," the slouching Frenchman answered. "Not actually,
you know. But we thought of the place first. We've the most right to it.
What's Canning want hanging round the ice we've selected?"
"Cheek! Beastly impudence!" declared Clive grandly, while Masters still
glowered on the unconscious master. For it was Mr. Canning without a
doubt, a kill-joy on this occasion. For, having gained the lake after
such great trouble, Clive and his friends dared not venture upon the ice
they coveted.
"There's that cad Rawlings," suddenly whispered Bert, for Mr. Canning
was close to them, and had sat down to smoke a cigarette.
"And the greasy Trendall. He's always sure to be somewhere within
distance," growled Masters.
"And if that isn't Harvey, with Sturton near him, I'm not worth
listening to," observed Clive, as if he were speaking of a certainty.
"Yes, there's Harvey, hand in hand with Miss Withers."
"But--I don't understand," said Bert, smiling grimly when some few
minutes had passed. "There are hundreds of our fellows. They're arriving
every minute. Surely----"
Slowly it began to dawn upon the little band that perhaps all their
secrecy and all their effort had been wasted.
"Supposing leave was given for the school to skate here," suggested
Hugh, aghast at the thought.
"There's Smith Primus. Let's ask him," cried Clive, catching sight of a
fellow of his acquaintance.
"But there's Canning still there," said Masters, with something
approaching a groan. "Supposing leave's been given for the school to
skate here----"
"And supposing--which seems a moral certainty--that we've made
out-and-out fools of ourselves," interjected Bert satirically.
"Oh, shut up, do!" growled Masters, while Hugh caught his brother by the
collar. "Supposing that's the case----"
"What?" demanded the incorrigible Bert. "That we've made asses of
ourselves? That's dead certain."
Masters looked as if he would gladly slay him. But he was determined to
continue. Moments were flying as they discussed matters, and if they
were to skate at all they must clear up this mystery.
"Supposing that's so. Well, in any case, these woods are out of bounds
and we're trespassing. Unless we can slip out on to the ice without that
cad Canning seeing us, why----"
"Skating's out of the question," groaned Clive. "Look here, you fellows.
I'll slip on my skates, wait for Canning to turn his head, and then go
swinging past him. If I signal you on, you'll know skating's allowed,
and can slip on to the ice one by one as I've done. Eh?"
They agreed to the proposition. Clive, moreover, was successful, and in
a little while was diligently waving them on. And then his chums
followed, all contriving to escape the eye of the smoking Canning,
except Masters.
"Oh, Masters, that you?" he demanded, swinging his head as that young
hopeful happened to emerge from the wood and approach the ice. "Been
trespassing, eh? Been into the wood?"
There could be no denial. Masters could merely glance at Mr. Canning as
if he wished the most dreadful thing to happen to him.
"Yes, sir," he said curtly.
"Then you've forgotten our little conversation, and the lines you've no
doubt waiting at the school to give to me. Let me see. Yes. 'There's a
time and a place for everything.' Those were the words. Well, they're
true of this occasion. This isn't the time for trespassing when Mr.
Delarth has so kindly given the school permission to skate on his lake.
He particularly wished that there should be no disturbance of the
covers. Masters, you must have sadly forgotten the lesson I attempted to
teach you. Let me have those words written an additional five hundred
times by to-morrow afternoon."
"There's a beast!" said the unfortunate delinquent, when he rejoined his
friends. "I'd fifty times rather be sent to the Head with a note and
take a whacking. This impot business is breaking my spirit."
But you wouldn't have thought so had you seen him ten minutes later. He
was hurtling over the surface of the lake at lightning speed, with a
string of boys on either side of him. It was an hour later when there
came a shout from a far corner. Clive, dashing in that direction, saw
that the white surface of the ice was broken and flooded. There were
dark heads floating above the water. One was that of a girl. Susanne's
face was amongst them. Trendall's, too, fat and oily.
"Help!" shouted Clive, and at once set about a rescue.