afternoon, except under brute force, and yet he felt it would be
ungrateful after all his kindness to leave the Count in the company of
such cheerless objects as the Dowbiggins. The remembrance of all the
sporting prizes he had won at the Count's hands, and the sight of the
Count cheering at the sports, came over his ingenuous heart and moved
him to the most unselfish act of his life. "Jock Howieson," said Speug,
with considerable dignity, "ye may go to Woody Island if ye like, but it
'ill be the dirtiest trick ye ever played, and I'll black both yir een
for ye on Monday. Have we ever had a match, cricket or football, the
last four years, and the Count hesna been there? Who got up the sports
and gave the prizes? Tell me that, Jock? Who stands ginger-beer at Lucky
MacWhae's, answer me that, Jock, ye meeserable wretch?" and then
clinching every argument on "Who paid for the broken glass? I'm doon
richt ashamed o' ye, Jock Howieson."
"Will ye go yourself, Speug?" demanded Jock, writhing under this torrent
of reproach. "I think I see ye writin' an essay on the history o' the
Romans, or sic like trash. Ye 'ill hunt us into Bulldog's class-room,
and then go off yirsel to shoot rabbits; but ye 'ill no' play ony tricks
on me, Peter McGuffie."
"I will go," said Speug, manfully, "though I'll no' promise to write."
"Say as sure's death," said Jock, knowing Speug's wiles.
"Sure as death," said Speug, and then the school knew, not only that he
would go, though he had to sit six hours instead of one, but also that
every self-respecting boy in the Seminary must also put in an appearance
at the Count's reception.
"Best thing you ever did, Speug," said Nestie on the way home, "since
you p--pulled me out of the Tay, and I should say that you have a good
chance of the prize. What the Count wants is ori--gin--ginality, and I
never heard a chap with so much original talk as you've got, Speug. Just
you put some of it down, like what you give to the P--pennies, and
you'll come out first, and it'll be the first prize you ever won."
"If there was a prize for impidence, and the entries were open to all
Scotland," said Speug, "ye would pass the post first and trottin'."
"HOW I SPENT MY SATURDAY,"
was what the school saw on the board when the Count removed the white
cloth, and then he gave a brief exposition of his desires.
"Have the goodness, if you please, to write, not what you ought, but
what you want. Were you at the cricket match, you will tell me of the
capture of the wickets; or you were in the country, I will hear of the
woods and the beautiful pheasants" (this delicate allusion to Mr.
Byles's poaching experiences was much appreciated); "or you were among
the books, then you will describe what you love in them; or you were
looking at a horse, I expect to hear about that horse"; and the whole
school understood that this was a direct invitation to Speug, to give an
exact picture of an Irish mare that his father had just bought. "The
subject, ah!" said the Count, "that does not matter; it is the manner,
the style, the _esprit_, that is what I shall value. I wish you all the
good success, and I will go a walk in the meadow till you have
finished."
"Do yir best, laddies," said Bulldog, "for the credit of the school and
to please the Count. If I see ony laddie playing tricks I'll do my part
to teach him sobriety, and if I see one copying from another, out he
goes. Ye have one hour from this meenut, make the most o't," and the
tournament was open.
Bulldog, apparently reading his morning paper, and only giving a casual
glance to see that no one took advantage of the strange circumstances,
was really watching his flock very closely, and checking his judgment of
each one by this new test. Dull, conscientious lads like the Dowbiggins
began at once, in order that they might not lose a moment of time, but
might put as much written stuff upon the paper as possible; yet now and
again they stopped and looked round helplessly because they had no books
and no tutor to assist them, and they realised for the first time how
little they had in their own heads.
"Ha! ha!" said Bulldog to himself, "I kent ye were naithing but a
painted show, and it 'ill do ye good to find that out for yirselves."
Jock Howieson and his kind regarded the whole matter as a new form of
entertainment, and as he could not have put into anything approaching
connected words the experiences of his last Saturday, he employed the
time in cutting up his unwritten paper into squares of an inch, and
making them into pellets with which he prevented the Dowbiggin mind from
being too much absorbed in study. He did this once too often, and
Bulldog went down to call upon him with a cane and with plain, simple
words.
"His head is an inch thick," said Bulldog, as he went back to his desk,
"but there's the making of a man in Jock, though he 'ill never be able
to write a decent letter to save his life. He would suit the Scots Greys
down to the ground."
Speug had given a solemn promise to Nestie, under the customary form of
oath, that he would write something, and whatever he wrote he would hand
in, though it was only twenty words, and Speug never went back from his
oath. When Howieson caught the Dowbiggin ear with a pellet there is no
doubt that a joyful light came into Speug's eyes, and he struggled with
strong temptation, and when old friends made facetious signs to him he
hesitated more than once, but in the end assumed an air of dignified
amazement, explaining, as it were, that his whole mind was devoted to
literary composition, and that he did not know what they meant by this
impertinent intrusion upon a student's privacy. Cosh certainly jumped
once in his seat as if he had been stung by a wasp, and it is certainly
true that at that moment there was a piece of elastic on the thumb and
first finger of Speug's left hand, but his right hand was devoted to
literature. The language which Cosh allowed himself to use in the heat
of the moment was so unvarnished that it came under Bulldog's attention,
who told him that if he wanted to say anything like that again he must
say it in Latin, and that he ought to take notice of the excellent
conduct of Peter McGuffie, who, Bulldog declared, was not at all
unlikely to win the prize. And as the master returned to his seat his
back was seen to shake, and the wink with which Speug favoured the
class, in a brief rest from labour, was a reward for an hour's drudgery.
Bulldog knew everybody up and down, out and in--what a poor creature
Cosh was, and what good stuff could be found in Speug; and he also knew
everything that was done--why Cosh had said what he said, and why Speug
at that moment was lost in study. Bulldog was not disappointed when
Nestie's face lighted up at the title of the essay, and he knew why his
favourite little lad did not write anything for fifteen minutes, but
looked steadily out at the window and across the North Meadow, and he
returned to his paper with a sense of keen satisfaction when Nestie at
last settled down to work and wrote without ceasing, except when now and
again he hesitated as for a word, or tried a sentence upon his ear to
know how it sounded. For the desire of Bulldog's heart was that Nestie
should win, and if--though that, of course, was too absurd--Speug by the
help of the favouring gods should come in second, Bulldog would feel
that he had not lived in vain.
"Ye have three meenuts to dot your i's and stroke your t's," said
Bulldog, "and the Count will tell ye how ye're to sign yir names," and
then the Count, who had come in from his walk, much refreshed, advanced
again to the desk.
"It would be one great joy to have your autographs," said the Count,
"and I would place them in a book and say, 'My friends'; but honour
forbids. As I shall have the too great responsibility of judging, it is
necessary that I be--ah! I have forgotten the word--yes! show the fair
play. No, I must not know the names; for if I read the name of my friend
the ever active, the ever brave, the ever interesting Speug" (at this
indecent allusion Speug grew purple and gave the bench in front of him
to understand by well-known signs that if they looked at him again he
might give them something to look for outside), "I would say that Speug
is a sportsman but he is not a _littérateur_, and I might not do my
comrade the full justice. And if I read the name of the composed, the
studious, the profound young gentlemen who are before me" (and it was
fortunate the Dowbiggins had their backs to the school), "I would know
that it must be the best before I read it, and that would not be the
fair play.
"No! you will write on your admirable essay a motto--what you
please--and your name you will put in an envelope, so," and the Count
wrote his own name in the most dashing manner, and in an awful silence,
on a piece of paper, and closed the envelope with a graceful flourish:
"and outside you will put your motto, so it will be all the fair play,
and in the Town Hall next Saturday I shall have the felicity to declare
the result. _Voila!_ Has my plan your distinguished approbation?" and
the Count made a respectful appeal to Bulldog. "Nothing could be fairer,
you say? Then it is agreed, and I allow myself to wish you adieu for
this day."
When the school assembled for conference among the Russian guns, their
minds were divided between two subjects. The first was what Speug had
written, on which that strenuous student would give no information,
resenting the inquiry both as an insult to his abilities and an
illustration of vain curiosity on the part of the school. Nestie,
however, volunteered the trustworthy information that Speug had spent
his whole time explaining the good which he had got from being kept in
one Saturday forenoon and doing mathematical problems under the eye of
Bulldog. And Nestie added that he thought it mean of Peter to "suck up"
to the master in this disgraceful fashion just for the sake of getting a
prize. Peter confided to Nestie afterwards that he had really done his
best to describe a close race for the Kilmarnock Cup, but that he didn't
think there were six words properly spelt from beginning to end, and
that if he escaped without a thrashing he would treat Nestie to half a
dozen bottles of ginger-beer.
Regarding the winner--for that was the other subject--there was a
unanimous and sad judgment; that Dunc Robertson might have a chance, but
that Thomas John, the head of the Dowbiggins, would carry off the prize,
as he had carried off all the other prizes; and that, if so, they would
let him know how they all loved him at the Town Hall, and that it would
be wise for him to go home with the Count's prize and all the other
prizes in a cab, with the windows up.
The prize-giving in the Town Hall was one of the great events in the
Muirtown year, and to it the memory of a Seminary lad goes back with
keen interest. All the forenoon the Provost and the bailies had been
sitting in the class-room of the Seminary, holding Latin books in their
hands, which they opened anywhere, and wagging their heads in solemn
approval over the translation by Thomas John and other chosen worthies,
while the parents wandered from place to place and identified their
sons, who refused to take any notice of them unless nobody was looking.
What mothers endured cannot be put into words, when they saw their
darling boys (whom they had seen dressed that morning in their Sunday
clothes, and sent away in perfect array, with directions that they were
not to break their collars nor soil their jackets, nor disarrange their
hair the whole day, or they need not come home in the evening) turn up
in a class-room before the respectables of Muirtown as if their heads
had not known a brush for six months, with Speug's autograph upon their
white collar, a button gone from their waistcoat, and an ounce of flour
in a prominent place on their once speckless jacket.
"Yes," said one matron to another, with the calmness of despair, "that
is my Jimmy, I canna deny it; but ye may well ask, for he's more like a
street waufie than onything else. On a day like this, and when I see
what a sight he's made of himself in two hours I could almost wish he
had been born a girl."
"Losh keep us, Mistress Chalmers, ye maunna speak like that, for it's no
chancy, he micht be taken away sudden, and ye would have regrets; forbye
your laddie's naithing to my Archie, for the last time I saw him, as I'm
a livin' woman, there wasna more than two inches of his necktie left,
and he was fishing his new Balmoral bonnet out of the water-barrel in
the playground. Ye needna expect peace if the Almichty give ye laddies,
but I wouldna change them for lassies--na, na, I'll no' go that length."
And the two matrons sustained themselves with the thought that if their
boys were only a mere wreck of what they had been in the morning, other
people's boys were no better, and some of them were worse, for one of
them had inflicted such damages on his trousers that, although he was
able to face the public, he had to retire as from the royal presence;
nor was it at all unlike the motherly mind to conceive a malignant
dislike to the few boys who were spick and span, and to have a certain
secret pride even in their boys' disorder, which at any rate showed that
they were far removed from the low estate of lassies.
The great function of the day came off at two o'clock, and before the
hour the hall was packed with fathers, mothers, sisters, elder brothers,
uncles, aunts, cousins and distant relatives of the boys, while the boys
themselves, beyond all control and more dishevelled than ever, were
scattered throughout the crowd. Some were sitting with their parents and
enduring a rapid toilet at the hands of their mothers; others were
gathered in clumps and arranging a reception for the more unpopular
prize-winners; others were prowling up and down the passages, exchanging
sweetmeats and responding (very coldly) to the greeting of relatives in
the seats, for the black terror that hung over every Seminary lad was
that he would be kissed publicly by a maiden aunt. Mr. Peter McGuffie
senior came in with the general attention of the audience, and seated
himself in a prominent place with Speug beside him. Not that Mr.
McGuffie took any special interest in prize-givings, and certainly not
because Speug had ever appeared in the character of a prize-winner. Mr.
McGuffie's patronage was due to his respect for the Count and his high
appreciation of what he considered the Count's sporting offer, and Mr.
McGuffie was so anxious to sustain the interest of the proceedings that
he was willing, although he admitted that he had no tip, to have a bet
with anyone in his vicinity on the winning horse. He also astonished his
son by offering to lay a sovereign on Nestie coming in first and half
a length ahead, which was not so much based upon any knowledge of
Nestie's literary qualifications as on the strange friendship between
Nestie and his promising son. As the respectable Free Kirk elder who sat
next Mr. McGuffie did not respond to this friendly offer, Mr. McGuffie
put a straw in his mouth and timed the arrival of the Provost.
[Illustration: "BEFORE THE HOUR THE HALL WAS PACKED."]
When that great dignitary, attended by the bailies and masters, together
with the notables of Muirtown, appeared on the platform, the boys
availed themselves of the license of the day, shouting, cheering,
yelling, whistling and bombarding all and sundry with pellets of paper
shot with extraordinary dexterity from little elastic catapults, till at
last Bulldog, who in the helplessness of the Rector always conducted the
proceedings, rose and demanded silence for the Provost, who explained at
wide intervals that he was glad to see his young friends (howls from the
boys) and also their respected parents (fresh howls, but not from the
parents); that he was sure the fathers and mothers were proud of their
boys to-day (climax of howls); that he had once been a boy himself
(unanimous shout of "No" from the boys); that he had even fought in a
snowball fight (loud expressions of horror); that he was glad the
Seminary was flourishing (terrific outburst, during which the Provost's
speech came to an end, and Bulldog rose to keep order).
One by one the prize-winners were called up from the side of their fond
parents, and if they were liked and had won their prizes with the
goodwill of their fellows, each one received an honest cheer which was
heartier and braver than any other cheer of the day, and loud above it
sounded the voice of Speug, who, though he had never received a prize in
his life, and never would, rejoiced when a decent fellow like Dunc
Robertson, the wicket-keeper of the eleven and the half-back of the
fifteen, showed that he had a head as well as hands. When a prig got too
many prizes there was an eloquent silence in the hall, till at last a
loud, accurate and suggestive "Ma-a-a-a!" from Speug relieved the
feelings of the delighted school, and the unpopular prize-winner left
the platform amid the chorus of the farmyard--cows, sheep, horses, dogs,
cats and a triumphant ass all uniting to do him honour. It was their
day, and Bulldog gave them their rights, provided they did not continue
too long, and every boy believed that Bulldog had the same judgment as
themselves.
To-day, however, the whole gathering was hungering and thirsting for the
declaration of the Count's prize, because there never had been such a
competition in Muirtown before, and the Count was one of our characters.
When he came forward, wonderfully dressed, with a rose in his buttonhole
and waving a scented handkerchief, and bowed to everybody in turn, from
the Provost to Mr. McGuffie, his reception was monumental and was
crowned by the stentorian approbation of Speug's father. Having thanked
the company for their reception, with his hand upon his heart, and
having assured the charming mothers of his young friends of his (the
Count's) most respectful devotion, and declared himself the slave of
their sisters, and having expressed his profound reverence for the
magistrates (at which several bailies tried to look as if they were only
men, but failed), the Count approached the great moment of the day.
The papers, he explained upon his honour, were all remarkable, and it
had been impossible for him to sleep, because he could not tear himself
away from the charming reflections of his young friends. (As the boys
recognised this to be only a just compliment to their thoughtful
disposition and literary genius, Bulldog had at last to arise and quell
the storm.) There was one paper, however, which the Count compared to
Mont Blanc, because it rose above all the others. It was "ravishing,"
the Count asserted, "superb"; it was, he added, the work of "genius."
The river, the woods, the flowers, the hills, the beautiful young women,
it was all one poem. And as the whole hall waited, refusing to breathe,
the Count enjoyed a great moment. "The writer of this distinguished
poem--for it is not prose, it is poetry--I will read his motto." Then
the Count read, "Faint Heart never Won Fair Lady," and turning to the
Provost, "I do myself the honour of asking your Excellency to open this
envelope and to read the name to this distinguished audience." Before
the Provost could get the piece of paper out of the envelope, Speug, who
was in the secret of the motto, jumped up on his seat and, turning with
his face to the audience, shouted at the pitch of his voice through the
stillness of the hall, "Nestie Molyneux." And above the great shout that
went up from the throat of the Seminary could be heard, full and clear,
the view-hallo of Mr. McGuffie senior, who had guessed the winner
without ever seeing the paper.
MOOSSY
IX
If the eyes of an old boy do not light up at the mention of "Moossy,"
then it is no use his pleading the years which have passed and the great
affairs which have filled his life; you know at once that he is an
impostor and has never had the privilege of passing through Muirtown
Seminary. Upon the genuine boy--fifty years old now, but green at
heart--the word is a very talisman, for at the sound of it the worries
of life and the years that have gone are forgotten, and the eyes light
up and the face relaxes, and the middle-aged man lies back in his chair
for the full enjoyment of the past. It was a rough life in the Seminary,
with plain food and strenuous games; with well-worn and well-torn
clothes; where little trouble was taken to give interest to your work,
and little praise awarded when you did it well; where you were bullied
by the stronger fellows without redress, and thrashed for very little
reason; where there were also many coarsenesses which were sickening at
the time to any lad with a sense of decency, and which he is glad, if he
can, to forget; but, at least, there was one oasis in the wilderness
where there was nothing but enjoyment for the boys, and that was the
"Department of Modern Languages," over which Moossy was supposed to
preside.
Things have changed since Moossy's day, and now there is a graduate of
the University of Paris and a fearful martinet to teach young Muirtown
French, and a Heidelberg man with several degrees and four swordcuts on
his face to explain to Muirtown the mysteries of the German sentence.
Indignant boys, who have heard appetising tales of the days which are
gone, are compelled to "swat" at Continental tongues as if they were
serious languages like Latin and Greek, and are actually kept in if they
have not done a French verb. They are required to write an account of
their holidays in German, and are directed to enlarge their vocabulary
by speaking in foreign tongues among themselves. Things have come to
such a pass it is said--but I do not believe one word of this--that the
modern Speug, before he pulls off the modern Dowbiggin's bonnet and
flings it into the lade, which still runs as it used to do, will be
careful to say "_Erlauben Sie mir_," and that the modern Dowbiggin,
before rescuing his bonnet, will turn and inquire with mild surprise,
"_Was wollen Sie, mein Freund?_" and precocious lads will delight their
parents at the breakfast-table by asking for their daily bread in the
language and accent of Paris, because for the moment they have forgotten
English. It is my own firm conviction, and nothing can shake it, that
Muirtown lads are just as incapable of explaining their necessary wants
in any speech except their own as they were in the days of our fathers,
and that if a Seminary boy were landed in Calais to-day, he would get
his food at the buffet by making signs with his fingers, as his father
had done before him and as becomes a young barbarian. He would also take
care, as his fathers did, that he would not be cheated in his change nor
be put upon by any "Frenchy." Foreign graduates may do their best with
Seminary lads--and their kind elsewhere--but they will not find it easy
to shape their unruly tongues; for the Briton is fully persuaded in the
background of his mind that he belongs to an imperial race and is born
to be a ruler, that every man will sooner or later have to speak his
language, and that it is undignified to condescend to French. The Briton
is pleased to know that foreign nations have some means of communication
between themselves--as, indeed, the lower animals have, if you go into
the matter; but since the Almighty has put an English (or Scots) tongue
in his mouth, it would be flying in the face of Providence not to use
it. It is, however, an excellent thing to have the graduates, and the
trim class-room, and the tables of the foreign verbs upon the wall, and
the conversation classes--Speug at a conversation class!--and all the
rest of it; but, oh! the days of long ago--and Moossy!