King of Ranleigh: A School Story

by F. S. Brereton

  CHAPTER III

  OFF TO RANLEIGH

  Going to school arouses a variety of emotions. In the case of Clive theywere decidedly confused and jumbled, happiness, however, at the prospectbefore him predominating. For residence for a high-spirited lad at home,tied to a somewhat doting mother's apron-strings, is somewhat dull, andhardly conducive to good results, while the absence of a father had notimproved matters. Indeed, it may be agreed without debate that theincident of that wonderful motor-car contrived by Clive and Hugh and theingenious trap they had set for Rawlings had not been entirelymischievous. For here was Clive about to be launched on the schoolboyworld, while Hugh and Bert, having listened to a long and verboselecture from their father, hitherto their tutor at home, had entered atrain and gone off likewise.

  "What'll this Ranleigh be like?" Clive asked himself again and again.From taking an interest in passing scenery, he soon began to lookforward to another stop with eagerness. For at each station there wereboys. Some big, some small; some jolly and whistling, others glum andthoughtful. Not that glumness was the order of the whole day. For at onestation Clive observed with some amusement one youngster under theescort of a fond father and mother. The lad had much ado to keep thetears back as the train departed, while his mother wept openly into ahandkerchief of diminutive proportions. Within a minute, however, therecame shouts of laughter from the next carriage into which this hopefulyoungster had stepped, and peering in at the next station, Clive foundthe lad as merry as a cricket. He was beginning to wish that he couldjoin them.

  "I say," he began, somewhat lamely, "going to Ranleigh?"

  A fat youth, with a greasy, pallid face, pushed his head out of thewindow and surveyed Clive as if he were an inferior beetle.

  "Who on earth are you?" he asked, with some acerbity. "Who invited youto speak? that's what I want to know. Jolly cheek, I call it!"

  Clive was taken aback rather considerably. This was not the sort oftreatment to which he was accustomed. His gorge rose at it.

  "Cheek yourself! Who are you, then?"

  It seemed for a moment as if the fat youth would have an apoplecticseizure. His pallid face became suffused a dull purplish red. His neckswelled in fat folds over his collar. If looks could have killed, Clivewould certainly have been slain on the spot. But the engine shriekedjust then, while someone within the carriage seized the tails of the fatyouth, who disappeared precipitately.

  "Come in, Trendall," he heard a voice shout. "One would think you were aking, never to be spoken to. But who is he? My word, I got a glimpse ofhis phiz, and he looked as if he'd hammer you with pleasure."

  Another mile on this almost endless journey and the train again pantedinto a station. Clive hung out of the window, and then became aware ofthe fact that two individuals were approaching his carriage, while fromthe one next door the youthful Trendall glared at him. Rawlings was oneof those approaching. He descended with majestic step from his owncompartment and hailed a porter.

  "Hi! Portar!" he called. "Carry these things along heear. Someone'swanted to keep ordar."

  Tall for his age, decidedly podgy, and with a cast of countenance whichwas not too attractive, Rawlings just lacked that brisk, cleanappearance belonging to young men who go to our public schools. Despiteexpensive and well-fitting clothes, an immaculate tie and hat, andsocks of most becoming pattern, the fellow did not look a gentleman. Hisair was pompous. His manner of addressing the porter ludicrous. Hestepped up to Clive's compartment, nodded grandly to Trendall, andpulled the door open.

  "He-e-ear, portar."

  The magnificent one proffered a tip without looking at it, and Clivenoticed that the man took it with alacrity.

  "All fer me, sir?" he grinned.

  "Of course! I'm not a pauper."

  Rawlings waved him away magnificently, flopped on to a seat, taking thefar corner, arranged his feet on the one opposite, and then began totake close scrutiny of our friend Clive. Meanwhile, another individualhad entered the compartment. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, shamblingyouth, of decidedly foreign appearance, with clothes which spoke of aFrench provincial city. He stooped a little, was slow and ungainly inhis movements, while his powerful shoulders were bent forward. But theface was striking and taking.

  "Pardon," he said politely, lifting his hat as he entered. "This is forRanleigh, is it not so?"

  Rawlings regarded him stonily. "The cheek!" he muttered. "Is one toanswer every bally foreigner? I'm not a portar!"

  He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and glared at the intruder.For the new-comer was an intruder. Rawlings had made his way to thiscompartment with a view to discussing certain matters with Clive, andletting that young gentleman thoroughly understand who was the master.But that last movement was his undoing for the moment. The fingers deepin one pocket struck upon certain loose cash, and withdrawing the same,Rawlings was at once stricken with a terrible discovery. He had hadcertain silver coins there before, and twopence in coppers. Those he hadintended to present to the porter. But they were still there, while twohalf-crowns were missing. In fact, in his lordliness he had presentedthe grinning fellow with five shillings! No wonder the man smirked andtouched his hat. That had pleased Rawlings at the time. Now, as thetrain swung out of the station, he dashed to the window.

  "Hi! Hi! Portar!" he bellowed. "Hi! You come back with thosehalf-crowns. It was a mistake."

  But the whistle drowned the sound of his voice, while the porter, halfhidden behind a barrow, waved a farewell to him. Rawlings threw himselfback in his seat with a growl of anger.

  "You're going to Ranleigh, aren't you?" he demanded fiercely of Clive.

  "Yes."

  "Then just you look out for squalls. What dormitory are you in?"

  "Don't know," came Clive's sullen answer. This Rawlings was considerablybigger, though little older, but still Clive was not going to bebullied. "How should I?" he demanded. "What's the place like?"

  "You'll find out in time. And don't you try any traps there, youngster.See?"

  Rawlings was determined to let there be no misunderstanding. Hestretched across the carriage and took Clive by the ear.

  "None of your caddish games at Ranleigh," he said, "or you'll getsomething worse than this, by a long way."

  Clive beat him off with a well-directed blow on the arm. In fact, withsuch heat and violence that Rawlings, still enraged at the loss he hadso stupidly made when tipping the porter, lost his temper, and it lookedas if he would at once take in hand the chastisement of the lad who wassuch a near neighbour. But the third individual suddenly distracted hisattention. Could Rawlings really believe his eyes! This new chap,whoever he might be, a froggy probably, had asked if the train went toRanleigh, and therefore, obviously, was bound for that destination, andmust be a new boy. He was actually stretching himself out across thecarriage, with one boot resting against Rawlings's immaculate trousers,while--worse than all--he had a cigarette in his mouth and was setting amatch to it. It wasn't the fact of smoking that horrified Rawlings. Hehad broken that rule himself, and been dreadfully ill, much to hischagrin. But Rawlings was getting up in the school. He was in the lowersixth, would probably be a prefect this term, and such an act was anoutrage to his dignity.

  "Well, I'm hanged!" he spluttered. "What on earth do you mean by that?Smoking! Here, stop it!"

  But the one addressed merely viewed him mildly. His brows went upquestioningly, while he stretched himself a little more at his ease,causing Rawlings to remove his immaculate trouser leg with swiftness.

  "Do you hear?" he cried threateningly. "What's your name?"

  "Richard Feofe."

  "Hang the Richard! Feofe, then. Look here! Stop that smoking."

  But Feofe still regarded Rawlings mildly, and taking a deep inspirationfilled the carriage with smoke.

  "You do not like it, then?" he asked. "Monsieur can then get intoanother carriage."

  Rawlings went crimson with rage, and then pallid, while Clive began toenjoy the joke immensely, for long ago he h
ad sized his near neighbourup, and knew him to be nothing more than a purse-proud bully. But forthe disparity in their two weights and heights he would have long sinceopenly defied the fellow. But it was better to see someone else do that.And here was a hulking, good-natured Frenchman doing it splendidly.

  "Where do you come from? Who's your father?" demanded Rawlings roughly,as if to gain time in which to decide how to act.

  Feofe was not to be hurried. He had never been to a school of any sortbefore, save the local one he attended in France. But he had met boysand youths in plenty. And always this quiet, shambling boy, with hisbroad shoulders and appearance of hidden power, had won respect withoutrecourse to violence. He took another puff at his cigarette, a habit, bythe way, rather more indulged in by boys in France, and regarded theresulting smoke with something approaching affection. His eyes twinkled.He shrugged his massive shoulders.

  "Monsieur is somewhat curious," he said, using excellent English. "I amfrom Lyons. My father, he is a banker. My mother, ah, she is his wife,you understand. Then there is a sister. Susanne, Monsieur, younger by ayear than I am. That is the sum of the family, but I will tell you all.There is a dog--yes, two--and a cat, and----"

  Rawlings was purple. Beads of perspiration were breaking out on hisforehead. Catching a sight of Clive's grinning face he ground his teethwith anger.

  "Hang your family!" he shouted at Feofe. "Who wants to hear aboutSusan?"

  Feofe shrugged his shoulders. "You were so very curious," he said. "ButI will proceed. We live at Lyons, but sometimes we go to Paris. There Ihave an aunt and two uncles, Monsieur. Ah! Yes, I must tell you all. Theaunt is Susanne also. A pretty name, Monsieur."

  Rawlings was on the point of exploding. His dignity had long since goneto the winds. If he dared he would have seized this Feofe by the neckand shaken him. But the young fellow's broad shoulders and smiling, easyassurance warned him that that might be dangerous. But he must asserthimself. He must show this Frenchman that he was a superior, and thatthat must be the light in which he must view him.

  "Look here," he said at length, smothering his anger, "no more of yourconfounded cheek. Susanne's good enough for you, so just remember.You're going to Ranleigh, and it's just as well to tell you that Ishall be a prefect. Know what that means?"

  Even now he hoped to impress Feofe with his magnificence. But the ladmerely raised his brows enquiringly, and shrugged his shoulders stilllower against the upholstery of the carriage.

  "A prefect. Someone in authority. Well?"

  "And to be obeyed. Just chuck that smoking."

  "But," began Susanne mildly--we call him Susanne at once, seeing thatthat name stuck to him forthwith--"but, by the way, what's your name?"

  Imagine the impertinence of such a request! A new boy actually havingthe temerity to coolly ask the name of one who had been three years atthe school. Rawlings gasped; he mopped his damp forehead.

  "Rawlings," he growled.

  "Then, Rawlings, you're a prefect, yes?"

  "Not yet," came the somewhat confused answer. "But I shall be this term.It'd be a confounded shame if they passed me over."

  "Quite so. A confounded shame. You would be a loss to the otherprefects."

  Susanne took another appreciative suck at the weed, while Rawlings wenthot and cold. Satire went to the depths of his being. This Feofe wascovering him with derision.

  "Look here," he began threateningly, "it's about time you understood whoyou are and what I am."

  "You're a prefect, yes?" answered Susanne, not the least distressed, hislittle eyes twinkling, "or will be, at Ranleigh. But you are not onehere, in any case. Is it not so? Therefore, Rawlings, get into anothercarriage if you don't like smoke, and do let us be pleasant."

  Never was a man more demoralised than Rawlings. He had made an entryinto the carriage with the set purpose of bullying Clive, and of lettingthat young gentleman see who was to be the master. The commencement ofthe movement had cost him five precious shillings. That was sore enough.And then, naturally enough, he had addressed himself to this newboy--and had been worsted. It goaded him to madness to see Clivegrinning still.

  "Well done, Susanne!" called out that worthy, delighted at the turnevents had taken. "Rawlings ain't a prefect yet, and in any case we'renot at Ranleigh. I say, I'm a new boy too. He lives quite close to me."

  He pointed a deprecating finger at Rawlings, and crossed to joinSusanne. That young man welcomed him with open arms. The twinkle in hiseye brightened, while he eyed Rawlings in a manner which made thatindividual squirm. In fact, never was the wind taken out of anyone'ssails more completely. Susanne had reduced him to silence. ThenceforthRawlings sat screwed into the corner, regarding the landscape with aface which showed the severest displeasure, while his lips muttered andtwisted angrily.

  "Wait till I get 'em to Ranleigh, that's all," he was promising himself."The first thing I do is to kick this Darrell fellow. Then Feofe shallhave a turn. I'll get my own back whatever happens."

  Clive was no smoker. He was sensible enough to know that it would beharmful to him just as it would be to any other fellow, and for thatreason refused the cigarette Susanne offered him. He wedged himself upclose to his new chum, and commenced a long and intimate conversation.Meanwhile, other boys entered the train. Some in the next compartment,from which howls of laughter sounded, some in their own. Fellows noddedcurtly to Rawlings. The fat Trendall came in at one station to have achat with him, and found his chum curiously glum and silent. He couldn'tunderstand him at all, nor fathom the movements of the two opposite. ForSusanne and Clive regarded Trendall with the smallest interest.According to all the canons of school life they should have lookedaskance at a fellow who had been at the school a couple of years or so.In Clive's eyes Trendall should have appeared enormous. And, no doubt,had Clive been alone in this adventure, he would have been far lessuppish. But Susanne was incorrigible. If he had never been to schoolbefore, he was at least not to be frightened by what was before him. ToClive, his easy, calm assurance was refreshing. To Trendall it wasinexplicable. Finding conversation lagging he took himself off at thenext station, his place being taken by two big fellows, who noddedcheerfully to the occupants of the compartment.

  "Hullo, Rawlings!" called one, a very tall, slim young man, on whoseupper lip there was a respectable growth of downy hair. "Not dead,then?"

  "No," answered that individual sourly.

  "New youngsters, eh?" was the second question as the tall fellow turnedto Clive and Susanne.

  "Yes," answered the former. Susanne took his hat off politely.

  "Help!" called Harvey, for that was the name of the youth speaking,grinning at this quaint exhibition. However, he returned the complimentby lifting his own. "We don't do that sort of thing in England," hesaid, quite kindly. "I shouldn't if I were you. Fellows would startrotting. I say, can you play footer and cricket?"

  Susanne's eyes sparkled. "I like them both tremendously. But play, ah,that is another question. In England fellows get a chance. In France youmay say that games are only beginning."

  "Book him for a trial next scratch footer," exclaimed Harvey, addressinghis comrade. "Look here, you two, I'm Harvey. This is Bagshaw, secretaryof our Games Committee, and of everything else that's useful. He's headbottlewasher to every institution at the school, and don't you forgetit. I say, how do you call yourselves?"

  How different was his manner from that of Rawlings. Feofe gave his atonce, while Clive was not backward. The latter took an instant likingfor Harvey. Of course, he must be a tremendous fellow at the school, topof all probably. Or was he a master? He looked almost old enough.Besides, he had a moustache, quite a decent affair. As to Bagshaw, hewas a delicate-looking fellow of eighteen, perhaps, with a kindly,wizened face. A calm, studious man. The scholar of the school, no doubt,but not a games player. Nor was Clive far out in his reckoning. ForHarvey was head scholar, a man head and shoulders above his comrades.Good at work, keen on books and such things, a decided master at debate,he was still a first-r
ate man at games, and perhaps shone still more asa leader. His clean-cut figure was the observed of all observers inSchool matches. His had been the fortune to listen to howls ofappreciation when he had carried off the hundred yards, the quarter mileand the long jump at the School sports, while one and all, his footballteam or his cricket eleven watched his every move and gesture, loyalobservers of all his wishes.

  As to Bagshaw, he was almost as popular. No one expected him to playgames. It was well known that he had a weak heart, and with that, ofcourse, no fellow could play. But his Ranleighan Gazette was amasterpiece. His poems were enthralling; while, strangely enough, thisdelicate-looking fellow, a scholar also, could hold the boys spellbound.When taking "prep." Bagshaw was not one to be trifled with. There was nononsense about this delicate, ascetic fellow. He was cool, calm andcommanding, and to those who had the sense, a real help in difficulties.

  "Ranleigh. All change!"

  The lamps at the station were lighted now. Clive tumbled out on to aplatform seething with boys of every age. Boys laden with footballs andbags. Boys clad in warm overcoats, and others nobly discarding the samefor the walk up to the school. Caps were lifted in recognition of one ofthe masters. Clive found himself doing likewise and wondering whetherall masters were the same. For this one, a fair giant, of ampleproportions, smiled down upon them all. He gripped Harvey's hand with avigour there was no denying, while still smiling round at the company.And then in twos and threes, and here and there in forlorn ones, foryour new boy is not quick to discover chums, the contingent of Ranleighboys took the road for the school. Through a portion of the village theywent, leaving the Village Jubilee Memorial behind them. Up towards thecommon, all railed in, where sports and cricket matches are held, uppast the butcher's shop, with its slaughter-house close handy, and soonward through the tree-clad lane, past the master's entrance, givingaccess to the Sanatorium also, past an even more important institution,the tuck-shop to wit, and so to the gates of the school. Above, a thirdway down the hill, myriad lights flashed from the building. Clive forgedhis way up the front drive with Susanne beside him, up the steep slopeto the front doors, never entered except in the case of a few, save onarriving or departing on the first or last days of the term. And so intothe wide space past the chapel entrance, between Middle and Second Formrooms. And there, swept continuously by a seething mass of boys, stood ashort, bald-headed master, nodding here and there, smiling all thetime, evidently delighted to welcome everyone.

  "Darrell!"

  Clive heard his name and stopped. The lynx-eyes of the bald-headedmaster had espied him.

  "Sir," he gulped. He felt almost frightened. There were so many boys,and there was such an uproar.

  "One South, Darrell," he heard. "How are you, boy? Glad you've come. Hopup the stairs there and you'll find One South dormitory. Your name's onone of the beds. Put your bag down on it, and then go to hall. You'llget tea there. Chapel'll be in ten minutes."

  How did he know that this was Darrell? Clive found himself wonderingthat. And what about Susanne?

  "Feofe," he heard, as he ascended. And then less distinctly, "OneSouth," with the same instructions.

  "I'm glad," he thought. "Susanne'll be with me. Wonder about thathowling cad Rawlings. What a downfall! He'll not meddle with Susannewhatever happens. But he'll have his pound of flesh from me if thechance comes. Wish Harvey was to be in One South also."

  He clambered up the steps and turned into a dormitory but dimlyilluminated. But it was big and clean and airy, and bore an appearanceof comfort, some thirty beds being covered with cosy-looking redcoverlets.

  Clive found his bed, deposited his bag, and then enquired his way tohall. Thick slices of bread and butter--known colloquially as"toke"--appeased a ravenous appetite. He had not even time to admire thehuge proportions of the Hall, the many long tables, the names of boyslong since departed who had won honours at the school, and the fewpictures and portraits. A clanging bell summoned him he knew not where.He found himself processing with a number of others. Through thatgallery they passed, with Middle and Second Forms on either side; thensharp to the left down a paved corridor, to a wide, arched entrance.They were in the chapel. Clive passed through the handsome raised seatsof the choir, down the central aisle, and drifted aimlessly to one side.

  "Here," someone whispered. "One South?"

  "Yes."

  "Then this'll do. Squat here."

  The fellow made room for him. Clive squatted and listened. The organ wasfilling the whole beautiful chapel with the sweetest sound. Boys hadceased entering. He raised his eyes to the entrance through which he hadcome, just to be seen above the choir. "Be sure your sin will find youout," he read above the doorway. The bell ceased ringing, the notes ofthe organ were hushed, a low "Amen" came from the vestry. And then thechoir processed to their seats. Harvey was amongst them, and Trendall,his fat cheeks shaking. There was a string of masters, of all agesalmost, all appearances and all sizes, looking somewhat out of theirelement. And last of all came the Head. Not so very tall, not big, notimposing, there was yet something about him which called for anotherlook. But the organ was pealing again, filling this magnificentbuilding, with its high arched roof, to the depths of every crevice.

  Clive cast his eyes aloft over the screen--in itself a thing ofsurpassing beauty--to the curtains about the organ loft, above whichshowed the foreheads and eyes of two of the school. And then the notesdied away in a sob, which somehow seemed to have a welcome in it. Thecongregation kneeled. Then the voice of the Head broke the silence withthe opening of the evening service, calm and dignified and musical. Hiseyes wandered round the assembled boys, not curiously, not withrecognition in them, but with a welcome for all.

  Ah! Clive shivered just a little. Of a sudden it had come to him that hewas one of them, that he was a Ranleighan, that the school honour washis honour, its prowess his, its victories his to boast of. And then thesinging of the choir thrilled him as he had never been thrilled before.He felt as do those old, loyal Ranleighans who visit their Old Schoolafter the lapse of years. The music, the lighting of the chapel, thevery scent of the stone and bricks awake old memories, sweet memoriesand thrill them. So with Clive. He sang lustily with the rest, and thensank to his seat to listen to the lesson. There was Harvey at thelectern. Harvey the hero of the school, looking magnificent in hissimple surplice. Harvey with head erect, his fair moustache curling,reading to them in a voice that showed no sign of trembling. How Clivewould have shrunk from such a task! He shivered again at the thought ofsuch a possibility.

  Then came a hymn, the last prayers, and the thunder of the organfollowing. The choir filed away as they had come, the school remainingmotionless till they heard the last "Amen" from the vestry. Then camemovement. The boys were beginning to file out of the chapel and Cliveprepared to follow. His eyes strayed this way and that, as he waited forhis turn. All of a sudden he received something in the nature of ashock, something which set his heart thumping. For opposite him, waitingalso to take their place in the procession of slippered boys, were twowith familiar faces. Clive could have shouted their names. He almost didin his excitement and delight. For within a short dozen yards of him, asyet unconscious of his presence, were Hugh and Bert, his fellowconspirators, sent from their home as a direct result of that booby trapprepared for the unpopular Rawlings.