out of his thirty boys succeeded in producing flawless fair copies. The
residue were ferociously bidden to an "extra" after dinner. Mr.
Dumaresq's "extras" were famous. He held at least one every day, not
infrequently for the whole form. He possessed the one priceless
attribute of the teacher: he never spared himself. Other masters would
set impositions or give a boy the lesson to write out: Dumaresq, denying
himself cricket or squash, would come into his form-room and wrestle
with perspiring defaulters all during a hot afternoon until the task was
well and truly done. Boys learned more from him in one term than from
any other master in a year; but their days were but labour and sorrow.
During the previous term a certain particularly backward member of his
form had incurred some damage--to wit, a fractured collar-bone--during
the course of a house-match. The pain was considerable, and when dragged
from the scrummage he was in a half-fainting condition. He revived as he
was being carried to the Sanatorium.
"What's up?" he inquired mistily.
"Broken neck, inflammation of the lungs, ringworm, and leprosy, old
son," announced one of his bearers promptly. "You are going to the
San."
"Good egg!" replied the injured warrior. "I shall get off Dummy's extra
after tea!"
Then with a contented sigh, he returned to a state of coma.
* * * * *
By way of contrast, Mr. Cayley.
As Mr. Cayley approached his form-room, which lay round a quiet corner,
he was made aware of the presence of his pupils by sounds of turmoil;
but being slightly deaf, took no particular note of the fact. Presently
he found himself engulfed in a wave of boys, each of whom insisted upon
shaking him by the hand. Some of them did so several times, but Mr.
Cayley, whom increasing years had rendered a trifle dim-sighted, did not
observe this. Cheerful greetings fell pleasantly but confusedly upon his
ears.
"How do you do, sir? Welcome back to another term of labour, sir! Very
well, no thank you! Stop shoving, there! Don't you see you are molesting
Mr. Methuselah Cayley, M.A.? Permit me to open the door for you, sir!
Now then, all together! Use your feet a bit more in the scrum!"
By this time the humorist of the party had possessed himself of the key
of the door; but having previously stopped up the keyhole with paper,
was experiencing some difficulty in inserting the key into the lock.
"Make haste, Woolley," said Mr. Cayley gently.
"I fear the porter has inserted some obstruction into the interstices of
the aperture, sir," explained Master Woolley, in a loud and respectful
voice. "He bungs up the hole in the holidays--to keep the bugs from
getting in," he concluded less audibly.
"What was that, Woolley?" asked Mr. Cayley, thinking he had not heard
aright.
Master Woolley entered with relish upon one of the standard pastimes of
the Upper Fourth.
"I said some good tugs would get us in, sir," he replied, raising his
voice, and pulling paper out of the lock with a buttonhook.
Mr. Cayley, who knew that his ears were as untrustworthy as his eyes,
but fondly imagined that his secret was his own, now entered his
form-room upon the crest of a boisterous wave composed of his pupils,
who, having deposited their preceptor upon his rostrum, settled down in
their places with much rattling of desks and banging of books.
Mr. Cayley next proceeded to call for silence, and when he thought he
had succeeded, said:
"As our new Latin subject books have not yet been distributed, I shall
set you a short passage of unprepared translation this morning."
"Would it not be advisable, sir," suggested the head boy--the Upper
Fourth addressed their master with a stilted and pedantic preciosity of
language which was an outrageous parody of his own courtly and
old-fashioned utterance--"to take down our names and ages, as is usually
your custom at the outset of your infernal havers?"
"Of what, Adams?"
"Of your termly labours, sir," said Adams, raising his voice
courteously.
Mr. Cayley acquiesced in this proposal, and the form, putting their feet
up on convenient ledges and producing refreshment from the secret
recesses of their persons, proceeded to crack nuts and jokes, while
their instructor laboured with studious politeness to extract from them
information as to their initials and length of days. It was not too easy
a task, for every boy in the room was conversing, and not necessarily
with his next-door neighbour. Once a Liddell and Scott lexicon (medium
size) hurtled through space and fell with a crash upon the floor.
Mr. Cayley looked up.
"Someone," he remarked with mild severity, "is throwing india-rubber."
Name-taking finished, he made another attempt to revert to the passage
of unprepared translation. But a small boy, with appealing eyes and a
wistful expression, rose from his seat and timidly deposited a large and
unclean object upon Mr. Cayley's desk.
"I excavated this during the holidays, sir," he explained; "and thinking
it would interest you, I made a point of preserving it for your
inspection."
Instant silence fell upon the form. Skilfully handled, this new
diversion was good for quite half an hour's waste of time.
"This is hardly the moment, Benton," replied Mr. Cayley, "for a
disquisition on geology, but I appreciate your kindness in thinking of
me. I will examine this specimen this afternoon, and classify it for
you."
But Master Benton had no intention of permitting this.
"Does it belong to the glacial period, sir?" he inquired shyly. "I
thought these marks might have been caused by ice-pressure."
There was a faint chuckle at the back of the room. It proceeded from the
gentleman whose knife Benton had borrowed ten minutes before in order to
furnish support for his glacial theory.
"It is impossible for me to say without my magnifying-glass," replied
Mr. Cayley, peering myopically at the stone. "But from a cursory
inspection I should imagine this particular specimen to be of an igneous
nature. Where did you get it?"
"In the neck!" volunteered a voice.
Master Benton, whose cervical vertebrae the stone had nearly severed in
the course of a friendly interchange of missiles with a playmate while
walking up to school, hastened to cover the interruption.
"Among the Champion Pills, sir," he announced gravely.
"The Grampian Hills?" said Mr. Cayley, greatly interested. He nodded his
head. "That may be so. Geologically speaking, some of these hills were
volcanoes yesterday."
"There was nothing about it in the _Daily Mail_ this morning," objected
a voice from the back benches.
"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Cayley, looking up.
"It sounds like a fairy tale, sir," amended the speaker.
"And so it is!" exclaimed Mr. Cayley, the geologist in him aroused at
last. "The whole history of Nature is a fairy tale. Cast your minds back
for a thousand centuries." ...
The form accepted this invitation to the extent of dismissing the
passage of unprepared translation from their thoughts for ever, and
settling down with a grateful sigh, began to search their pockets for
fresh provender. The seraph-like Benton slipped back into his seat. His
mission was accomplished. The rest of the hour was provided for.
Three times in the past five years Mr. Cayley's colleagues had offered
to present him with a testimonial. He could never understand why.
* * * * *
Mr. Bull was a young master, and an international football-player. Being
one of the few members of the staff at Eaglescliffe who did not possess
a first-class degree, he had been entrusted with the care of the most
difficult form in the school--the small boys, usually known as The
Nippers.
A small boy is as different from a middle-sized boy as chalk from
cheese. He possesses none of the latter's curious dignity and
self-consciousness. He has the instincts of the puppy, and appreciates
being treated as such. That is to say, he is physically incapable of
sitting still for more than fifteen minutes at a time; he is never happy
except in the company of a drove of other small boys; and he is
infinitely more amenable to _fortiter in re_ than to the _suaviter in
modo_ where the enforcement of discipline is concerned. Above all, he
would rather have his head smacked than be ignored.
Mr. Bull greeted his chattering flock with a hearty roar of salutation,
coupled with a brisk command to them to get into their places and be
quick about it. He was answered by a shrill and squeaky chorus, and
having thrown open the form-room door herded the whole swarm within,
assisting stragglers with a genial cuff or two; the which, coming from
so great a hero, were duly cherished by their recipients as marks of
special favour.
Having duly posted up the names and tender ages of his Nippers in his
mark-book, Mr. Bull announced:
"Now we must appoint the Cabinet Ministers for the term."
Instantly there came a piping chorus.
"Please, sir, can I be Scavenger?"
"Please, sir, can I be Obliterator?"
"Please, sir, can I be Window-opener?"
"Please, sir, can I be Inkslinger?"
"Please, sir, can I be Coalheaver?"
"Shut up!" roared Mr. Bull, and the babble was quelled instantly. "We
will draw lots as usual."
Lots were duly cast, and the names of the fortunate announced. Mr. Bull
was not a great scholar: some of the "highbrow" members of the Staff
professed to despise his humble attainments. But he understood the mind
of extreme youth. Tell a small boy to pick up waste-paper, or fill an
inkpot, or clean a blackboard, and he will perform these acts of
drudgery with natural reluctance and shirk them when he can. But appoint
him Lord High Scavenger, or Lord High Inkslinger, or Lord High
Obliterator, with sole right to perform these important duties and power
to eject usurpers, and he will value and guard his privileges with all
the earnestness and tenacity of a permanent official.
Having arranged his executive staff to his satisfaction, Mr. Bull
announced:--
"We'll do a little English literature this morning, and start fair on
ordinary work this afternoon. Sit absolutely still for ten minutes while
I read to you. Listen all the time, for I shall question you when I have
finished. After that you shall question me--one question each, and mind
it is a sensible one. After that, a breather; then you will write out in
your own words a summary of what I have read. Atten-_shun_!"
He read a hundred lines or so of _The Passing of Arthur_, while the
Nippers, restraining itching hands and feet, sat motionless. Then
followed question time, which was a lively affair; for questions mean
marks, and Nippers will sell their souls for marks. Suddenly Mr. Bull
shut the book with a snap.
"Out you get!" he said. "The usual run--round the Founder's Oak and
straight back. And no yelling, mind! Remember, there are others." He
took out his watch. "I give you one minute. Any boy taking longer will
receive five thousand lines and a public flogging. Off!"
There was a sudden unheaval, a scuttle of feet, and then solitude.
The last Nipper returned panting, with his lungs full of oxygen and the
fidgets shaken out of him, within fifty-seven seconds, and the work of
the hour proceeded.
* * * * *
Each master had his own methods of maintaining discipline. Mr. Wellings,
for instance, ruled entirely by the lash of his tongue. A schoolboy can
put up with stripes, and he rather relishes abuse; but sarcasm withers
him to the marrow. In this respect Mr. Wellings' reputation throughout
the school--he was senior mathematical master, and almost half the boys
passed through his hands--was that of a "chronic blister."
Newcomers to his sets, who had hitherto regarded the baiting of
subject-masters as a mild form of mental recuperation between two bouts
of the Classics, sometimes overlooked this fact. If they had a
reputation for lawlessness to keep up they sometimes endeavoured to make
themselves obnoxious. They had short shrift.
"Let me see," Wellings would drawl, "I am afraid I can't recall your
name for the moment. Have you a visiting card about you?"
Here the initiated would chuckle with anticipatory relish, and the
offender, a little taken aback, would either glare defiantly or efface
himself behind his book.
"I am addressing you, sir--you in the back bench, with the intelligent
countenance and the black-edged finger-nails," Wellings would continue
in silky tones. "I asked you a question just now. Have you a visiting
card about you?"
A thousand brilliant repartees would flash through the brain of the
obstreperous one. But somehow, in Wellings' mild and apologetic
presence, they all seemed either irrelevant or fatuous. He usually ended
by growling, "No."
"Then what is your name--or possibly title? Forgive me for not knowing."
"Corbett." It is extraordinary how ridiculous one's surname always
sounds when one is compelled to announce it in public.
"Thank you. Will you kindly stand up, Mr. Corbett, in order that we may
study you in greater detail?" (Mr. Wellings had an uncanny knack of
enlisting the rest of the form on his side when he dealt with an
offender of this type.) "I must apologise for not having heard of you
before. Indeed, it is surprising that one of your remarkable appearance
should hitherto have escaped my notice in my walks abroad. The world
knows nothing of its greatest men: how true that is! However, this is no
time for moralising. What I wanted to bring to your distinguished
notice is this--that you must not behave like a yahoo in my mathematical
set. During the past ten minutes you have kicked one of your neighbours
and cuffed another: you have partaken of a good deal of unwholesome and
(as it came out of your pocket) probably unclean refreshment; and you
have indulged in several childish and obscene gestures. These daredevil
exploits took place while I was writing on the blackboard; but I think
it only fair to mention to you that I have eyes in the back of my
head--a fact upon which any member of this set could have enlightened
you. But possibly they do not presume to address a person of your
eminence. I have no idea, of course, with what class of society you are
accustomed to mingle; but here--_here_--that sort of thing is simply not
done, really! I am so sorry! But the hour will soon be over, and then
you can go and have a nice game of shove-halfpenny, or whatever your
favourite sport is, in the gutter. But at present I must ask you to curb
your natural instincts. That is all, thank you very much. You may sit
down now. Observe from time to time the demeanour of your companions,
and endeavour to learn from them. They do not possess your natural
advantages in the way of brains and beauty, but their manners are
better. Let us now resume our studies."
Mr. Wellings used to wonder plaintively in the Common Room why his
colleagues found it necessary to set so many impositions.
* * * * *
Lastly, Mr. Klotz. Mr. Klotz may be described as a Teutonic survival--a
survival of the days when it was _de rigueur_ to have the French
language taught by a foreigner of some kind. Not necessarily by a
Frenchman--that would have been pandering too slavishly to Continental
idiosyncrasy--but at least by some one who could only speak broken
English. Mr. Klotz was a Prussian, so possessed all the necessary
qualifications.
His disciplinary methods were modelled upon those of the Prussian Army,
of which he had been a distinguished ornament--a fact of which he was
fond of reminding his pupils, and which had long been regarded by those
guileless infants as one of the most valuable weapons in their armoury
of time-wasting devices.
Mr. Klotz, not being a resident master, had no special classroom or key:
he merely visited each form-room in turn. He expected to find every boy
in his seat ready for work upon his arrival; and as he was accustomed
to enforce his decrees at the point of the bayonet--or its scholastic
equivalent--sharp scouts and reliable sentries were invariably posted to
herald his approach.
Behold him this particular morning marching into Remove A form-room,
which was situated at the top of a block of buildings on the south side
of the quadrangle, with the superb assurance and grace of a Prussian
subaltern entering a beer-hall.
Having reached his desk, Mr. Klotz addressed his pupils.
"He who rount the corner looked when op the stairs I game," he
announced, "efter lonch goms he!"
The form, some of them still breathless from their interrupted rag,
merely looked down their noses with an air of seraphic piety.
"Who was de boy who did dat?" pursued Mr. Klotz.
No reply.
"Efter lonch," trumpeted Mr. Klotz, "goms eferypoty!"
At once a boy rose in his place. His name was Tomlinson.
"It was me, sir," he said.
"Efter lonch," announced Mr. Klotz, slightly disappointed at being
robbed of a holocaust, "goms Tomleenson. I gif him irrecular verps."
Two other boys rose promptly to their feet. Their names were Pringle and
Grant. They had not actually given the alarm, but they had passed it on.
"It was me too, sir," said each.
"Efter lonch," amended Mr. Klotz, "goms Tomleenson, Brinkle, unt Grunt.
Now I take your names unt aitches."
This task accomplished, Mr. Klotz was upon the point of taking up
_Chardenal's First French Course_, when a small boy with a winning
manner (which he wisely reserved for his dealings with masters) said
politely:--
"Won't you tell us about the Battle of Sedan, sir, as this is the first
day of term?"
The bait was graciously accepted, and for the next hour Mr. Klotz ranged
over the historic battle-field. It appeared that he had been personally
responsible for the success of the Prussian arms, and had been warmly
thanked for his services by the Emperor, Moltke, and Bismarck.
"You liddle Engleesh boys," he concluded, "you think your Army is
great. In my gontry it would be noding--noding! Take it away! Vat
battles has it fought, to compare----"
The answer came red-hot from thirty British throats:
"Waterloo!" (There was no "sir" this time.)
"Vaterloo?" replied Mr. Klotz condescendingly. "Yes. But vere would your
Engleesh army haf been at Vaterloo without Blucher?" He puffed out his
chest. "Tell me dat, Brinkle!"
"Blucher, sir?" replied Master Pringle deferentially. "Who was he, sir?"
"You haf not heard of Blucher?" gasped Mr. Klotz in genuine horror.
The form, who seldom encountered Mr. Klotz without hearing of Blucher,
shook their heads with polite regret. Suddenly a hand shot up. It was
the hand of Master Tomlinson, who it will be remembered had already
burned his boats for the afternoon.
"Do you mean Blutcher, sir?" he inquired.
"Blutcher? Himmel! Nein!" roared Mr. Klotz. "I mean Blucher."
"I expect he was the same person, sir," said Tomlinson soothingly. "I
remember him now. He was the Russian who----"
"Prussian!" yelled the infuriated Mr. Klotz.
"I beg your pardon, sir--Prussian. I thought they were the same thing.
He was the Prussian general whom Lord Wellington was relying on to back
him up at Waterloo. But Blutcher--Blucher lost his way--quite by
accident, of course--and did not reach the field until the fight was
over."
"He stopped to capture a brewery, sir, didn't he?" queried Master
Pringle, coming to his intrepid colleague's assistance.
"It was bad luck his arriving late," added Tomlinson, firing his last
cartridge; "but he managed to kill quite a lot of wounded."
Mr. Klotz had only one retort for enterprises of this kind. He rose
stertorously to his feet, crossed the room, and grasping Master
Tomlinson by the ears, lifted him from his seat and set him to stand in
the middle of the floor. Then he returned for Pringle.
"You stay dere," he announced to the pair, "ontil the hour is op. Efter
lonch----"
But in his peregrinations over the battle-field of Sedan, Mr. Klotz had
taken no note of the flight of time. Even as he spoke, the clock struck.
"The hour is up now, sir!" yelled the delighted form.
[Illustration: THE FRENCH MASTER: (I) FICTION, (II) FACT]
And they dispersed with tumult, congratulating Pringle and Tomlinson
upon their pluck and themselves upon a most profitable morning.
* * * * *
But it is a far cry to Sedan nowadays. The race of Klotzes has perished,
and their place is occupied by muscular young Britons, who have no
reminiscences and whose pronunciation, both of English and German, is
easier to understand.
CHAPTER FOUR
BOYS
NUMBER I. THE GOVERNMENT
"There's your journey money, Jackson. Good-bye, and a pleasant holiday!"
"Thank you, sir. The same to you!" replies Jackson dutifully.
They shake hands, and the Housemaster adds:--
"By the way, I shall want you to join the prefects next term."
"Me, sir? Oh!"
"Yes. Endeavour to get accustomed to the idea during the holidays. It
will make a big difference in your life here. I am not referring merely
to sausages for tea. Try and think out all that it implies."
Then follows a brief homily. Jackson knows it by heart, for it never
varies, and he has heard it quoted frequently, usually for purposes of
derision.
"The prefect in a public school occupies the same position as the
non-commissioned officer in the Army. He is promoted from the ranks; he
enjoys privileges not available to his former associates; and he is made
responsible to those above him not merely for his own good behaviour
but for that of others. Just as it would be impossible to run an army
without non-commissioned officers, so it would be impossible, under
modern conditions, to run a public school without prefects."
Jackson shifts his feet uneasily, after the immemorial fashion of
schoolboys undergoing a "jaw."
"But I want to warn you of one or two things," continues the wise old
Housemaster.
Jackson looks up quickly. This part of the exhortation is new. At least,
he has never heard it quoted.
"You will have certain privileges: don't abuse them. You will have
certain responsibilities: don't shirk them. And above all, don't
endeavour to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. You will be
strongly tempted to do so. Your old associates will regard you with
suspicion--even distrust; and that will sting. In your anxiety to show
to them that your promotion has not impaired your capacity for
friendship, you may be inclined to stretch the Law in their favour from
time to time, or even ignore it altogether. On the other hand, you must
beware of over-officiousness towards those who are not your friends. A
little authority is a dangerous thing. So walk warily at first. That's
all. Good night, old man."
* * * * *
They shook hands again, and Jackson returned soberly to his study, which
he shared with his friend Blake. The two had entered the School the same
day: they had fought their way up side by side from its lowest walks to
a position of comparative eminence; and their friendship, though it
contained no David and Jonathan elements--very few schoolboy friendships
do--had survived the severe test of two years of study-companionship.
Jackson was the better scholar, Blake the better athlete of the two.
Now, one was taken and the other left.
Blake, cramming miscellaneous possessions into his grub-box in view of
the early departure on the morrow, looked up.
"Hallo!" he remarked. "You've been a long time getting your
journey-money. Did the old Man try to cut you down?"
"No.... He says I'm to be a prefect next term."
"Oh! Congratters!" said Blake awkwardly.
"Thanks. Has he made you one too?" asked Jackson.
"No."
"Oh. What rot!"
Presently Jackson's oldest friend, after an unhappy silence, rose and
went out. He had gone to join the proletariat round the Hall fire. The
worst of getting up in the world is that you have to leave so many old
comrades behind you. And worse still, the comrades frequently persist in
believing that you are glad to do so.
Such is the cloak of Authority, as it feels to a thoughtful and
sensitive boy who assumes it for the first time.
* * * * *
Of course there are others. Hulkins, for instance. In his eyes the
prefectorial system was created for his express convenience and
glorification. He opens his study door and bawls:
"Fa-a-a-ag!"