PLANS FOR AN OUTING
Round about the "tortoise" stove in the workshop at Ranleigh the tongues
of certain of the boys wagged with a vigour there was no denying and no
checking. Susanne held the post of honour, seated on an up-turned box in
front of the stove, his feet on the high, bent-iron fender which kept
the hot cinders from coming into contact with the piles of shavings
littering the floor. Clive lolled back, his shoulders against the corner
of the nearest bench, while Masters occupied a place on the same form.
"My! They don't smell half good," reflected Hugh, sniffing with decided
appreciation at the roasting apples placed on top of the stove. "There's
apples and apples."
"And orchards and orchards," chipped in Masters.
"And some of them are easier to get at than others, eh?" smiled Bert,
prodding a baking potato with the broken prongs of an old fork. "There
never was a place such as this is for a wet day. Of course, when one's
a senior it's easy enough to bag one of the Fives Courts and have a
game. But not being a senior, of course----"
"You have to descend to the workshop," laughed Susanne. "It's good
enough for me, anyway. I suppose if we all did as you'd have us, you'd
be at Fives, Hugh in the Gym, and Clive hammering iron in the forge. As
to Masters----"
"Ah!" grinned that unabashed youth, "I know what you're going to say. Of
course, I'd be sweating at impots for that cad Canning. Now, would you
believe it? after letting me off the one about a time and a place, the
very day after he set me another. That's Canning all over."
There was a grimace as he ended. Masters had found Mr. Canning a strange
mixture indeed, for whereas he had experienced his benevolence on the
night after the rescue of those who had been plunged into the water, the
master had been down upon him like a ton of bricks on the following day.
"Masters, you're not attending. What was the passage we were then
construing?"
Masters made a wild shot, one which went very wide of the mark too.
"And that's what we were doing, then?" asked Mr. Canning sweetly.
"Yes, sir--at least, that's the best I can remember."
"Indeed. Your memory is very defective. We were not even dealing with
the page in which that passage occurs. As I said, you were not
attending, and as you have thereby lost the benefit of the excellent
rendering given us by Martin Secundus, you had better write me out page
46, both in Latin and English."
"The beast!" Masters had muttered. "Always down on me! Wish I'd never
come to Ranleigh. Talk about freedom and fair treatment! A fellow's
down-trodden at this place. That Canning's a tyrant."
But he was whistling within a few minutes, at the end of the lesson, and
would have forgotten the "impot" but for a reminder addressed by one of
his fellows. That sent him post-haste to discover Martin Secundus.
"What did you want to give that Canning a rendering for?" he demanded
roughly, for Martin was of the small order. "See what you've let me in
for, too! I've got to write out page 46 in Latin and English."
"Sorry, but your own fault," was the retort, small comfort for Masters.
"Oh, my own fault, eh? Look here, Martin, you've landed me into this
impot and will have to help."
"Have?" smiled the other. "I like that!"
"Like it or not, you'll help," came the answer. "Or----"
"Or what?" demanded Martin, not in the least put out. He wasn't afraid
of Masters, not in the least, for they had had many a scuffle. He rather
liked the fellow, as a matter of fact. But "have"--that was a large
order.
"Or----" began the desperate Masters, and then relapsed into a smile.
"Oh, look here, Martin, you can do these things standing on your head. I
hate Latin. It gives me a headache. Come along to my tuck-box. I had a
hamper arrive last week, and we can talk about the impot while we're
feeding."
Wise Masters! More than one at Ranleigh had found their way to his
notice, if not to his friendship, by offering food. And here he was
using the same method of persuasion. However, the "old firm," as Clive,
Bert and Hugh, Masters and Susanne had designated themselves, were
engaged in discussion round the workshop stove, and we must not forget
them.
"As to Masters," declared Susanne, having been interrupted by that young
fellow, "as to our friend Masters, he'd probably be found asleep, or at
the tuck, or washing himself in ink."
The sally brought a howl from the others. Masters was not likely soon to
be allowed to forget that incident. The mere mention of it roused him
to a fury. He shot up as if he had been kicked and leaned across to
strike at Susanne. But Clive cocked a leg on to the top of the stove and
thereby intercepted him.
"Look here," he began, "do let's talk sense."
"Then you shut up altogether. That's the only way to make it possible,"
retorted the angered Masters, sitting down with a bang.
"And decide what we're going to do and how it's to be done," went on
Clive, without notice of the interruption.
"We've decided to go, then?" demanded Bert.
"Rather!" cried Hugh.
"I wouldn't miss the show for worlds," declared Clive.
"There'll be heaps of Frenchmen there," suggested Susanne, with a cool
shake of his head. "I'm nearly sure to know some of them. That'd mean a
feed, eh?"
The idea was wonderfully attractive. "Of course," suggested Masters,
with furrowed brow, "if you didn't know any of them it wouldn't make any
great difference. They'd be awfully glad to see you, and----"
"Me, yes," agreed Susanne. "But my friends--well, that's a tall order."
There were signs of dissension at once. "But you'd never be such a sneak
as to accept a feed and leave us in the lurch," blurted out Hugh. "If
we go, we all go together. If there's a feed----"
"We all feed together," grinned Masters.
"But we aren't there yet," Clive reminded them. "Now, do let's get to
business. There's to be a meeting of aeroplanists at Guildford. That's
settled."
They all nodded their agreement. Hugh interrupted further conversation
for the moment to lift the frizzling apples from the stove and hand one
to each of the gathering. "Can't talk without eating," he said. "Now
let's get on with it. There's an aeroplane meeting."
"The old firm's going, lock, stock and barrel," interjected Masters,
with decision.
"If it can be arranged."
"It can," Clive corrected Bert. "What's to prevent us?"
"The Head! Guildford's out of bounds, in any case. There'd be ructions
if a Ranleigh boy were found there."
"But one won't, that's just it," asserted Clive. What "it" was exactly
he failed to explain. However, he soon cleared up the resulting mystery.
"Who's going to be such an ass as to go in a school cap?" he asked
haughtily. "We'll sneak our bowlers out of store and no one'll be the
wiser."
"But how are we to get there?" asked Bert. "That's the question we
started with. Everyone knows there's to be such a show. Guildford's a
long step away, and the train's out of the question."
"Ah, but you've forgotten Higgins. There's Higgins," Clive reminded
them.
Yes, there was Higgins, one of those artful, ingratiating scoundrels
ever the dread of a Headmaster, ever the attraction of fellows at
school. For this man in question, like many another at other schools
than Ranleigh, stocked articles contraband at the school but much sought
after by boys. The master of a sweet-stuff shop, wherein was combined a
tobacconist business, he could be visited by those who had obtained a
pass to the village. Stores of cigarettes were obtained from him.
Susanne, whose bad habits had commenced with a somewhat liberal or free
education in France prior to coming to England, had no difficulty in
purchasing there what smokes he required; while one boy of Clive's
acquaintance had even bought a revolver, though for what purpose even he
could not say.
"There's Higgins, yes," reflected Clive.
"Who's all serene. He's offered to take us in a brake he can hire. We
can join him up at the back of the school and none be the wiser. Call
the trip ten miles there, and the same back. Well, we're on the spot in
a little more than an hour."
Masters turned a glowing countenance to his friends. But Clive showed
disapproval.
"An hour or more. What's the use of wasting all that time on the road?
Let's do the thing in style or not at all. Let's go by motor. Higgins
can manage that just as easily."
"At a price! He don't forget to open his mouth too."
"Well, what price?"
Clive dragged out all his available coins and counted them carefully.
"Three bob a head by trap. Five, if there's a motor," said Masters. "I
talked it over with him. Not a bad chap, Higgins. He knows how to keep
his mouth shut too, which is something."
The discussion waned for a while, for each one of the group was busy
with his finances. Then all eyes went to Susanne. He was the Croesus
of the party. Never a day but he had money in abundance, the reason
being perhaps that his father was a banker.
"Wish mine were," Masters had groaned on more than one occasion. "Then
I'd have a few coppers to spend now and again, instead of a beggarly
allowance. My Governor seems to think that a chap hasn't need of cash.
He rams thrift and economy down my throat till I'm almost afraid to buy
even a biscuit."
"Five bob a head," said Bert reflectively. "Is it worth it?"
"Is it worth it?" they shouted derisively at him.
"Ever seen an aeroplane?" asked Clive hotly. "Think of being able to say
we'd watched fellows flying. Besides, we might get up in one ourselves.
I mean to try."
"And there's the feed," Hugh reminded them.
"Feed? What feed?" demanded Masters eagerly. "Higgins don't include it
in his price. I tried to make him. Where's the feed?"
"Susanne's, duffer!"
"Mine?" asked the astounded Frenchman. "It's the first I've heard of
it."
"There's a oner. Never heard of it, when only a minute ago he was
telling us of his friends and how they'd ask us to lunch with 'em,"
shouted Masters. "Don't tell us you've forgotten, Susanne."
"Ask _me_ to lunch. I never said a word about you fellows. It was you
who suggested the thing. Oh, yes, I dare say there'll be a blow-out for
_me_," said Susanne complacently. "But for you, doubtful. You fellows
had better sneak some bread and cheese at supper the night before and
carry a store with you."
He grinned provocatively at them, and then calmly tackled a roasted
apple. "Yes," he reflected, "I've no doubt I shall meet one friend at
least. There's Levallois, a flyer. My word, he can fly! He comes from
Lyons, and'll be awfully glad to see me."
"Us," suggested Masters desperately.
"Me. What's he want to know you for? I shall go off to lunch with him as
a matter of course. It'll be sickening to leave you fellows, naturally,
and no one'll be more sorry than I, er--er--or you--but then, there it
is."
So saying he buried his teeth in the apple, taking not the smallest
notice of the glaring eyes of his comrades.
"Of all the selfish beggars!" began Masters, whose energy was always
pronounced when there was a question of food. "Susanne don't deserve to
come with us. It's sickening to hear him jaw about a feed all for
himself, and to listen to him advising us to take chunks of bread as
hard as bricks, and cheese that's only fit for use as cart grease. It's
simply sickening."
His disgust was great--so great, in fact, that he might have pressed the
question still further, thereby bringing about a termination of the
hitherto comparatively pleasant nature of the meeting. But the practical
Bert intervened.
"What's the use of grousing," he asked, "and gassing about a feed that's
never been offered? Why, Susanne's friend mayn't be there. He may find
no one to invite him."
"I shall. Certain," declared that individual, grinning. "If there's one
Frenchman there, he is my countryman. He pays toll. That's quite
regular. He'll be awfully glad to meet me."
"Oh, well, then you get an invite. What's it matter? Bread's good enough
for me so long as I see the fun. Let's settle the matter. Five bob's a
heap. That Higgins is a Shylock. He'll take every cent from me."
"Same here," asserted Hugh, pulling a face. "I shall be short for the
rest of the term."
Susanne produced a sovereign. "How much for the lot?" he asked.
"Twenty shillings, and five extra for you," cried Masters.
"Then take it as settled. I'll write home to the people and tell 'em
I've had heavy calls. A motor's a call, isn't it?" he asked naïvely,
seeing his friends smile. "I pay the motor. If there isn't a feed, then
we've something left to buy grub with. How's that? Pass another apple,
Clive. You hang over them as if the store belonged to you."
It got dusk before they had finished talking. The far ends of the
workshop were hidden in gloom before they rose from their places about
the stove. And then there came the sound of a scraping match. A flare
lit the gloom in the distance. A tall figure stretched upward to a
swinging lamp and lit the wick. It was Hole, the school's carpentry
instructor, unchanged after years of service, with an eagle eye for old
faces and a keen recollection of incidents gone and forgotten by the
majority. If only every school existing had such a workshop, and made
attendance there almost compulsory, instead of an extra to be paid for
by parents! For there, in the workshop provided by Ranleigh, boys
learned a thousand and one things. Handiness came quickly to them, and
better than all, perhaps, here was at hand a means to fill many an hour
which might otherwise have been idle.
Benches down the centre bore a host of tools, while the special property
of individuals was housed in lockers near the entrance. The stove was
placed half-way along the shop, and beyond, one entered a second shop
provided with turning lathes. See Clive there, with the faithful and
interested Hugh in attendance, both lads working the foot pedal with
might and main, while dust and shavings whirled about them. Or follow
them to the blacksmith's shop, an adjacent institution. There, dressed
in leather aprons, with sleeves tucked to the shoulder, they might be
seen many and many a time beating out some piece of spluttering metal on
the anvil. Or the metal-turning lathe held their attention, and they
slowly and laboriously pounded at the pedal while the hardened tool
took off shavings at a pace which was slow to the point of exasperation.
But there were days also in this shop when flames and sparks flew up the
chimney wildly, when either Hugh or Clive, or even Susanne on occasion,
turned the handle of the mechanical blower. Coke heaped high on the
hearth glowed redly, while the heat within the shop was stifling.
Perhaps these conditions existed for an hour; perhaps for longer, Clive
or the shop instructor ever and again lifting the lid of a crucible
buried in the glowing coke. And then, with a joyful shout, it was
announced that the brass was molten. Think, then, of the joy these young
mechanics experienced. The boxes placed so carefully over in the corner
had cost them many an hour's labour. Packed with sand, and divided at
the commencement, the two halves of the moulds fashioned from their own
patterns were now assembled, and the moment had arrived to pour the
molten brass into the narrow openings left for that purpose. And imagine
the impatience of these model-makers awaiting the setting of their
castings.
Those were the days which Clive enjoyed most. It was after a bout of
casting that his lessons were worse prepared than on other occasions,
while drills and "impots" showered upon him.
"Darrell, inattentive again," Old B. would exclaim sadly, as if the
matter were a personal grief to him. "Half an hour's drill to-morrow."
Or Harvey, the great Harvey, would rouse his curly, shapely head from
his desk in the middle of prep., strange sounds having disturbed him.
"If that isn't young Darrell again," he'd exclaim testily. "Come here,
Darrell."
Fearful of the consequences, but unlikely to be robbed of his love of
mechanics by any amount of punishment, Clive would leave his seat and
come to the front.
"Well?"
"I--er----"
"What's it this time?"
"Only a wheel. I was just filing it so as to be ready for after school."
The culprit would hand forth a file of gigantic size, and a casting of
his own making. Prep., Clive had found, was an excellent time for the
doing of such little jobs. But there was the difficulty of drowning
noise. Harvey had been annoyed on more than one occasion.
"Oh, only a wheel! Let's see, what was it last time?"
"Another wheel. You see, there are two, and----"
"There generally are two. Look here, Darrell, I'm sick of this nonsense.
You not only shirk your own work, and get into trouble with your form
master, but you disturb the other fellows and keep them from work. Come
along to the Scholars' room after supper. I shall give you a whacking."
And, as a matter of course, Masters would be grinning delightedly as
Clive went back to his seat, while Hugh or Bert or Susanne would pass
short notes of compassion to him. Sometimes they were shot over the
heads of the others in the form of darts, duly labelled with the name of
Darrell. Or they were passed from hand to hand, or better still, the
wily Susanne's invention, they were rolled into the shape of a fine
pencil, inserted in a pea-shooter, and sent hurtling at the head of the
one for whom the correspondence was intended. Let us record, too, that
Susanne became an expert with this instrument. Such was his dexterity,
and such his strength of lung, that with the aid of wet blotting-paper
rolled into balls, and essentially of red colour, he could actually
eject them at the high ceilings of the form rooms, where the moist
condition of the shot caused it to adhere, and--so good was the aim
after long practice--that with patience and a sufficiency of these moist
pellets Susanne could write his name on the ceiling. That term many a
form room ceiling bore in thin lines of red dots the letters Feofé, with
"Susanne" close alongside in brackets.
But there was the question of the aeroplane meeting to be settled.
"Masters will see Higgins and fix it," Clive explained to Hugh in a
hoarse whisper, when they were seated at prep. that evening. "It's lucky
that to-morrow's a saint's day. That'll give us heaps of time, for the
meeting don't begin till after midday."
Numerous were the notes which passed between Clive and Masters and Hugh
during that hour and a half's prep. The many items to be settled caused
the exchange of missives even when they had reached their dormitories,
and that fascinating, home-made telephone being as yet incomplete, and,
in fact, stubbornly refusing to work in spite of the scientific aid and
knowledge of Susanne, they had recourse yet again to the weird series of
wheels and strings passing over the partition. And, of course, as fate
would have it on this the most important of occasions, Sturton
discovered what was happening.
"What the dickens----" he suddenly demanded, swinging round in the chair
in which he was seated at the dormitory table. "Here, Darrell, up to
something more? I told you last week I wouldn't have any further
chucking of notes over the partition. Suppose it's to young Seymour
again? Bring that note here."
It was a desperate moment. Clive clambered out of bed and stepped
across to the prefect, the note in his hand.
"Here it is," he said grudgingly, eyeing Sturton askance, for that note
contained a résumé of the details of their escapade of the morrow.
Dished up in finished style, as it were, were full particulars of their
intended movements. Anyone glancing through the scrawly and badly
spelled lines could not fail but discover the depths of the conspiracy.
"Higgins is a brick," the words went. "Masters saw him to-night
after prep and just before chapel and Higgins said he was reddy and
didn't want twenty five bob but twenty and that's awfully decent of
him and the car's going to be wating over by the windmil at twelve.
Won't it be ripping, eh. There's heaps of room for the lot of us
and Higgins'll have smokes. Susanne says they're nesessary to him
and'll make him look like a blud, and Higgins knows a shop where we
can get a blow out for next to nothing. There a bob each to pay to
go into the plais where the aroplaynes fly, but Higgins can manage
to pass us in free as his frend's the gatekeeper. So all's serene
and to-morrow'll be ripping.
"THE FIRM."
That was the communication. Sturton handled it and turned it over
curiously. As a matter of fact, he was rather amused at these notes so
constantly passing. It not being so very long since he himself was a
youngster, he had a friendly recollection of his own eccentricities.
"What's this?" he asked sternly, causing the pyjamaed Clive to quake.
"One would think you young donkeys hadn't a chance for gassing during
the daytime. As it is, I know this sort of thing goes on the whole of
prep. time. Look here, Darrell, an hour's drill to-morrow."
An hour's drill. Why, that meant that Clive, with a number of other
forlorn individuals subjected to the same punishment for their various
crimes, would have to assemble in the quad after dinner, and there be
marched to and fro and round and round by a prefect as weary of the task
as they were. At least, that was the general rule. Sometimes the
commander of this squad was a martinet. Sometimes the master for the
week wreaked his vengeance on boys in general and these unhappy wights
in particular by taking the quad himself, or standing at the entrance to
the quad, his mere presence stimulating the prefect till the boys
undergoing punishment groaned at the numerous orders to "right wheel,"
"left wheel," "form line," "form fours." Form every sort of formation
that the drill-book allows for or the fertile mind of an ingenious
prefect can devise. And Canning was the master for the week, and
Rawlings the brute of a prefect who would be on duty on the morrow.
Clive groaned and shivered.
"But to-morrow's a saint's day, Sturton," he ventured in tones of
protest.
"All the better. You'll want something to do. Time hangs heavy with you
youngsters on saints' days. A drill'll keep you out of mischief."
"But----"
"What's in this precious note?" asked Sturton, holding it up to the
gaslight. "Secrets? Let's see 'em."
He handed the note to Clive and invited him to open the folded paper.
That young fellow went a sickly yellow colour. The drill could be got
over, he reflected. He could miss it. He'd have to do it every day
after, that was certain, and Sturton might invite Harvey to give him a
slogging. But the cause was worth this sacrifice. But to open the note
and show Sturton the contents meant wrecking the whole affair.
"It's private," he managed to say at length.
"Oh, private, and awfully important. Let's see."
In one second Sturton fell in Clive's eyes from the giddy pinnacle on
which he had been placed. "Never thought he could be such a cad. Opening
fellows' letters. Beastly dodge!" thought Clive, glowering on him.
"Here, open it and read," said Sturton severely.
"It's private."
"Can't help that. Read it."
"It's private, I tell you."
Clive was distinctly angry and stubborn.
"Oh!" Sturton looked him up and down, his brow furrowed. He had not the
smallest intention of opening the note himself, nor even of listening to
its contents. He was merely gauging Clive's character. "Then you won't?"
he asked coolly.
"No, I won't."
"You know what to expect, eh?"
"Yes. I don't care."
"Look here, Darrell, don't be a donkey. Fellows don't look at other
chaps' notes, or listen to secrets. You're right not to split. Get back
to bed. Promise not to send any more and I'll let you off the drill."
"Not after this one," said Clive. "It's important."
Sturton grinned. He could thoroughly sympathise, and he rather liked
Clive for his show of obstinacy.
"Pitch it over then," he said, "and let it be the last. I'll whack you
if you break your promise."
"But a chap can telephone, and we'll have to work like niggers to get
that thing going," said Clive, when he had whispered to Susanne.
"That won't be sending notes. I wouldn't break a promise to anyone,
least of all to Sturton. He's a decent fellow."
The morrow found the Old Firm jubilant and expectant. They slipped off
after Chapel, raced down to the common and espied a panting car over by
the windmill. All together they changed their school caps for bowlers
and donned their overcoats. Susanne and Masters, who always did these
things in superior style, had donned the tallest of tall collars, while
the former had blossomed forth with an eyeglass. And we are bound to
confess that Susanne thus decked out made quite a handsome and
impressive foreigner. Masters had the appearance of a third-rate actor,
for, as we have said, his collar was of the highest, while his fancy
waistcoat would have roused the envy of a Cockney. Patent leather boots,
spats, and a cane of huge proportions completed a turn-out which was
distinctly startling. However, who thought of that, for were they not
off on an expedition which promised huge excitement?
"I mean to get a lift in one of the machines," said Clive deliberately.
"While Susanne ain't forgot his promise," interjected Masters.
"Promise!" exclaimed the gallant Frenchman.
"A blow-out," Masters reminded him.
"For me--yes. Rather!" came the tantalising answer.
"All aboard!" cried the rascal who was to drive them. "Ready? Then off
we go!"
The engine roared. The clutch went in with a jerk. The car bounded off
for Guildford and the long-anticipated flying meeting which the Old Firm
had determined to patronise.