SPRAWSON’S MASTERPIECE
Sprawson was among those who congratulated the author of the “wild
panegyric,” though his praise was tempered with corporal punishment for
the use of the word “eulogic” in the same opening stanza. Sprawson
declared it was not a word at all, but the base coinage of the
poetaster’s brain, and when Chips showed him the epithet in a dictionary
he got another cuff for defending the indefensible. A man of unsuspected
parts was Sprawson; but there was no venom in his hearty violence. It
was Sprawson who told Jan he had heard he was a bit of a bowler, and
promised him a game on the Upper before the term was out and a licking
if he got less than five wickets. Sprawson himself was no cricketer, but
as Athletic Champion he had been made captain of the second game on the
Upper Ground.
He was a youth who took few things as seriously as his own events in the
sports. He loved to pose as a prematurely hard liver, and perhaps he was
one; the famous flask had been known to smell of spirits. He came into
sharp contact at times with Heriot, who, however, had early diagnosed
him as a rather theatrical villain, and treated him accordingly as a
clown. Even Sprawson, even in the summer term, with Satan continually on
his idle hands, got no change out of Mr. Heriot; but with a man like the
unfortunate Spook he was a terrible handful. The Spook took the Upper
Fifth, in which Sprawson had lain comfortably fallow for several terms:
relays of moderate workers, who had found and left him there, compared
notes upon his insolent audacity in what was known indeed as “Sprawson’s
form.” How he would daily affix the page of Horace or of Sophocles by
drawing-pin to the boys’ side of the Spook’s tall desk, and read off his
“rep” under the master’s nose; how methodically he devoured the
_Sportsman_ behind a zariba of dictionaries, every morning of his life
in second school, and how the cover of his Bible was profaned as the
cloak of fiction not to be found in the school library; these were but a
few of the practices and exploits of Sprawson that were common talk not
only in the school but among the younger masters. And yet when the
Heriots lost an aged father in July, and hurried across England to the
funeral, who but the gallant Spook should volunteer to look after the
house in their absence!
The staff were divided as to whether it was an act of heroic hardihood
or of supreme insensibility on the volunteer’s part; they were perhaps
most surprised at Heriot, who knew the Spook as well as they did, but
had been in no mood to resist his dashing importunity. It was not the
house that they distrusted as a whole. Heriot was a great house-master,
though on principle disinclined to pick and choose as sedulously as some
of them; he conceived it his whole duty to make the best of the material
that came his way unsought; but he had not made much of Sprawson, and it
was with Sprawson that the solicitous staff were reckoning on their
colleague’s account.
It did not say much for their knowledge of boys, as the Spook himself
told them in common-room next day. Apparently the house was behaving
like a nonconformist chapel. Cave _major_ was indeed stated to have
tried his haughty and condescending airs on the great proconsul, but
without success according to proconsular report.
“I introduced a pestiferous insect into the young fellow’s auricle,”
boasted the Spook; “our good Heriot will find his stature reduced by a
peg or two, if I mistake not. As for the rest of the house, I can only
say I have been treated as a gentleman by gentlemen—_quorum pars
maxima_ my friend Sprawson. His is a much misjudged character. I begin
to fear that I myself have done him less than justice in form. I have
been harsh with him—too harsh—poor Sprawson! And now he heaps coals of
fire on my head; it has touched me deeply—deeply touched me—I assure
you. He has quite constituted himself my champion in the house; amusing,
isn’t it? As if I needed one. But I haven’t the heart to say him nay. A
new boy, with a misguided sense of postprandial humour, brings me an
order to sign for a ton of candles; only a ton, to go on with, I
suppose. I just say, 'Make it out for a truck!’ But what does Sprawson?
I send the young gentleman about his business; back he comes, sobbing
his little heart out in apologies for which I never stipulated. I had
reckoned without my Sprawson! Sprawson, I fear, had spared neither rod
nor child; the little man was in a pitiable state until I promised to
tell Sprawson I had forgiven him. Sprawson, a thorn in my form, who must
be sat upon, but the white rose of chivalry in his house!”
That was not the only instance. There had been some tittering at
prayers. Sprawson had picked up the offenders like kittens, and gently
hurled them into outer darkness; and now the house could not have been
better behaved if it had accompanied poor Heriot on his sad errand. It
was all quite true. Sprawson was ruling the house with a rod of iron.
The order for the ton of candles was the instigation of some minor
humorist, who caught it hotter than the tearful apologist. The giggling
at prayers was a real annoyance to Sprawson. He meant the house to
behave itself in Heriot’s absence; he was going to keep order, whatever
Loder did. This to Loder’s face, after prayers, with half the house
listening, and Charles Cave, standing by with his air of supercilious
detachment, but without raising voice or finger in defence of his
brother præpostor.
The house went to bed like mice. Joyce in his partition used
blood-curdling language about Sprawson, and Crabtree’s criticism was not
the less damaging for being fit for publication in the _Times_. They
were alike, however, in employing a subdued tone, while Bingley and Jan
exchanged lasting impressions in a whisper. Chips was still in another
dormitory, where he was not encouraged to air his highly-coloured views;
but the conversion of Sprawson in the hour of need was to him more like
a page out of Bret Harte than any incident within his brief experience.
The house had seldom been sooner asleep. In the little dormitory
Crabtree was the first to return no answer to Joyce, who told the other
two to shut up as well, and was himself soon indulging in virtuous
snores. There was no more talking in the neighbouring dormitory either,
and none in the one downstairs so far as Jan could hear before he also
sank into the heavy sleep of active youth.
It took a tremendous shaking to wake him up. It was not morning; it was
the middle of the night. Yet there were mutterings and splutterings in
the other partitions, and an unceremonious hand had Jan by the shoulder.
“Get up, will you? It’s a case of burglars! All the chaps are getting up
to go for them; but you can hide between the sheets if you like it
better.”
And Crabtree retreated to his corner as Jan swung his feet to the
ground. He was still quite dazed; he asked whether anybody had told
Heriot.
“Heriot’s away, you fool!” Joyce reminded him in a stage whisper.
“That’s why they’ve come,” explained Bingley, in suppressed excitement.
“They’ve seen his governor’s death in the papers. I’ll bet you it’s a
London gang.”
Bingley was more than ever the precocious expert in matters criminal. He
had seen a man condemned in the Easter holidays. But this was the night
of Bingley’s life.
Sounds of breakage came from Joyce’s 'tish. “I’m not going down
unarmed,” said he. “Who wants a rung of my towel rail?” Crabtree and
Bingley were supplied in the darkness. “None left for you, Rutter; take
a boot to heave at their heads.”
“I’ll take my jug,” said Jan, emptying it into his basin; “it’ll do more
damage.”
“Come on, you chaps!” urged Crabtree. “He’ll have got the Spook by this
time.”
Instinctively Jan guessed that the pronoun stood for old Mother
Sprawson, and he was right. It was that born leader of boys and men who
had alarmed the dormitories before going through into the private part
to summon the Spook from his slumbers; but where the thieves were now,
what damage they had done, or who had discovered their presence in the
house, Jan had no idea as he accompanied the others down the leaden
stairs. Here there was more light, or at any rate less darkness, for a
fine moon streamed through skylight and staircase window, and spectre
forms were drifting downward through its pallid rays. It was still the
day of the obsolete nightshirt, and that ghostly garment was at its best
or worst upon a moonlight night. Some boys had tucked theirs into their
trousers; a few had totally eclipsed themselves in jackets or
dressing-gowns as well; but the majority came as they had risen from
their beds, white and whispering, tittering a little, but not too
convincingly at first, and for the most part as ignorant of what had
happened as Jan himself.
At the foot of the stairs, on the moonlit threshold of the open door
into the quad, two portentous figures dammed the descending stream of
unpresentable attire: one was the Spook, his master’s gown (and little
else that could be seen) covering his meagre anatomy, but in his hand a
Kaffir battle-axe which usually hung over Heriot’s stairs. His companion
was the redoubtable Sprawson, a pioneer in striped pyjamahs, armed for
his part with a carving-knife of prodigious length which was daily used
in hall.
“My good boys!” expostulated the Spook. “My good boys! I wish you’d go
back to your beds and leave the intruder to me!”
“We couldn’t do that, sir,” said one or two. “We’ll stand by you, sir,
never fear!”
“My brave lads! I wish you wouldn’t, I do really. He’ll have short
shrift from me, I promise you. Short shrift——”
“Silence!” hissed Sprawson, as a titter spread on the stairs. “I’ll
murder the fellow who laughs again!” and his carving-knife filled with
moonlight from haft to point. “It’s no laughing matter. They’ve been at
Mr. Heriot’s silver; the dining-room’s ransacked. I heard them come
through this way; that made me look out. One at least is hiding in the
studies.”
“I’ll hide him!” said the Spook, readily.
“Silence!” commanded Sprawson, with another flourish of his dreadful
blade. “If you will make jokes, sir, we shall never have a chance; are
we to take the whole house with us, or are we not?”
“I don’t like leaving them behind, Sprawson, to the tender mercies of
any miscreants whose ambush we may have overlooked. Are the whole house
there?” inquired the Spook.
“Yes, sir! Yes, sir!” from a dozen tongues, and another terrifying
“Silence!” from Sprawson.
“Shall I call over, sir?” suggested Loder, emerging from obscurity to
raise a laugh from the rank and file. Sprawson was too quick for him
with crushing snub; he was surprised at the captain of the house: what
next? So the laugh that came was at Loder’s expense, but it again was
promptly quelled by the inimitable Sprawson.
“If we waste any more time here, sir, they’ll have the bars off the back
study-windows and get clean away. I believe all the house are here. I
should let them come, sir, if I were you; there’s safety in numbers,
after all.”
“Then I lead the way,” said the Spook, diving under the raised
carving-knife. “No, Sprawson, not even to you, my gallant fellow; second
to none, if you’ll permit me, Sprawson, on this occasion. Follow me, my
lads, follow me!”
And follow him they did on bare tip-toe, over the cold flags of the
alley alongside the hall, and so out into the untrammelled moonlight of
the quad. Sure enough, the nearer door to the studies was seen to be
ajar. But as the Spook approached it boldly, Sprawson plucked him by the
gown.
“The fives-courts, sir! I thought I saw something moving behind the
back-wall!”
All eyes flew to the fives-courts at the opposite end of the quad; the
back-wall, their unorthodox peculiarity as Eton courts, would have
sheltered a band of robbers until the last moment, when their pursuers
peeping over might be shot down comfortably at arm’s length. No better
bulwark against carving-knives and battle-axes, no finer mask for a
whole battery of small-arms; and yet the valiant Spook was for advancing
single-footed, under that treacherous moon, upon this impregnable
position. Sprawson would not hear of it; together, said Sprawson, or not
at all, even if he got expelled for lifting his hand against a master.
The master shook it melodramatically instead, and with a somewhat
painful gait the pair started off across the stretch of moonlit gravel.
Jan was the next to follow, with his jug; but all the small dormitory,
being more or less armed, were to the fore in an advance which became
all but universal before the leaders reached the rampart. Cave _major_
alone had the wit to stay behind, a majestic rearguard with his hands in
his dressing-gown pockets, and something suspiciously like a cigarette
between his lips.
The courts were discovered empty at a glance; yet Sprawson seized Jan’s
jug, and dashed it to fragments against the buttress in the outer court
while the Spook was busy peering into the inner.
“I thought I saw something move behind the pepper-box,” explained
Sprawson. “Very sorry, sir! I’ll buy a new one. I’m ashamed of showing
such bad nerve.”
“Bad nerve! You’re a hero, Sprawson. I’ll pay for it myself,” the Spook
was saying, kindly enough, when a piercing “Yoicks!” rang out from the
deserted end of the quad.
Charles Cave was holding his cigarette behind his back, and waving
airily to the study windows with the other hand.
“It’s all right, sir; you needn’t hurry; only I thought you might like
to know there was a light up there this minute!”
The stampede back across the gravel was in signal contrast to the
stealthy and circumspect advance; and many a late laggard found himself
swept off his feet in the van; but Sprawson outstripped all with a rush
that spilt the small fry right and left, and he was first up the study
stairs. But the Spook panted after him, and once more insisted on taking
the actual lead.
The procession which he headed down the long study passage was no longer
the somewhat faltering force which had deployed in the moonlit quad; it
was as though confidence had come with protracted immunity, and high
spirits had come of confidence; in any case, Sprawson had to lay about
him more than once to stop a giggle or a merry scuffle in the dark. He
appealed to Loder to keep better order (Cave _major_ was finishing his
cigarette quietly in the quad), and Loder promptly smacked the
unoffending head of Chips. Merriment, moreover, was unpreventable under
the Spook’s leadership in the study passage; for into each of the little
dark dens would he peer after pounding on the door with the blunt end of
the Kaffir battle-axe, and his cry was always, “Come out, fellow!” or
“You’d better come out, my man!” or “It’s fourteen years for this, you
know; only fourteen years’ hard labour!” and once—“You think I can see
you, but I can’t!”—a signal instance of absence of mind in the presence
of danger.
There were other diversions to which the Spook did not contribute, as
when Sprawson screamed “Got him!” from the depths of some study, and
emerged dragging young Petrie after him by the hair of his innocent
head; but the dramatic effect of this interlude was immediately
discounted by a clumsy imitation on the part of Shockley, of whom
wonderfully little had been seen or heard during the earlier
proceedings. Sprawson made short work of him now.
“You fool, do you want to spoil the whole thing?” whispered Sprawson,
fiercely, in Jan’s hearing; and those few words spoilt the whole thing
for Jan. He retired into his own study, and sat down in the dark, wiping
his forehead on his sleeve, and chuckling and shaking his head by turns,
as amusement mingled in his mind with a certain vexatious
disappointment.
Meanwhile a climax was deducible in or about the big studies up the two
or three steps at the inner end of the passage. General clamour drowned
the individual voice; but the devil’s own tattoo with the battle-axe
proclaimed a door fastened on the inside according to the best burgling
traditions as expounded by Bingley in dormitory. Jan was not going to
see the fun; he was not out of bed for fun; but he could not resist a
grin when the belaboured door gave way audibly, and the crash was
succeeded by a louder outcry than ever from the bloodthirsty pack. It
was a chorus of disgust and discomfiture, shouted down eventually by
Sprawson, and at length followed by some muffled remarks from the Spook
and subdued cheers from his audience. Then master and boys trooped back
along the passage, and all but Chips Carpenter passed Jan’s open door
without looking in.
“Tiger! is that you?”
“It’s me, Chips. I’d had enough.”
“But you missed the best of all! The thief or thieves had got out
through Sprawson’s study—locked the door—fixed a rope to his table
leg, and heaved it back through the open window after they’d got down
into the street!”
“Does anybody know what they took away with them?”
“Nothing, it’s hoped, because Sprawson disturbed them at their work.”
“Oh, he did, did he? And it was Sprawson’s study they got out by?”
“Yes. That was a bit of a coincidence, wasn’t it?”
“Just a bit! But I think all the more of Sprawson.”
“So does all the house,” said Chips, eagerly. “The old Spook’s let the
lot of us off first school to-morrow, or rather to-day, and he and
Sprawson are looking for the key of the beer-barrel to serve out some
all round! So I advise you to look sharp.”
But Jan elected to enlighten his friend about something on the way; and
the now lighted hall presented an animated scene when at length they
passed the windows. Flushed faces emerging from the various degrees of
dishabille were congregated by force of habit about the fireplace.
Sprawson and Cave _major_ (“bracketed supreme,” as Chips afterwards
remarked) were the salient and central pair; Loder and others, such as
Shockley, were plying them with questions, only to receive subtle smiles
and pregnant shakes of the head; on the outer skirts were the nobodies,
and the less than nobodies, whispering together in excited knots, or
pressing forward for a crumb of first-hand information.
“And I never saw it!” muttered Chips outside the door. “But old Bob
Heriot will, the very moment he hears. And what on earth do you think
he’ll do?”
“Score off the whole house,” Jan suggested, “to make sure of one or
two!”
“And make a laughing-stock of the wretched Spook into the bargain? No
fear! Bob’s not another Haigh. He’ll do something cleverer than that, or
he won’t do anything at all.”