‘Perhaps there were.’
‘No, no. The inspector would have taken it as Exhibit A if there had been. Instead of which, he’s left it just where it was. Oh, well! School tomorrow! I ought to have gone back today, so there’s something gained, I suppose. Still, term doesn’t start until tomorrow. I say, you’ll write to me, won’t you?’
Chapter Fourteen
‘God Lyaeus, ever young,
Ever honoured, ever sung,
Stained with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer’s brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine,
Let a river run with wine:
God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear.’
JOHN FLETCHER, God Lyaeus
ROGER WAS NOT given to brooding during term-time, except in so far as he entertained occasional thoughts of vengeance upon certain childish miscreants; but he was disquieted more than he realized at first by the events of the Easter holiday and by his own apparently narrow escapes from injury and possible death.
He saw now, in the invitation to the Stone House at Wandles Parva, that Mrs Bradley had summed up the danger accurately and was determined to put him upon his guard. That he had, at the time, been insufficiently grateful for this kindly concern for his health and safety troubled him not at all, but what did trouble him was the continual, and, so far as he could see, insoluble mystery of all the abortive attacks which he had suffered. He still could not see that he possessed any knowledge which might prove dangerous to anyone else, and he racked his brain to find a clue to the puzzle. A minor mystery, but one not a bit less baffling, was the fact that the attacks upon him had been, comparatively speaking, so mild. It scarcely seemed as though his death could be the object of the encounters. He wondered whether someone was merely trying to frighten him; but, even so, he could not see any reason for this. He tried hard, when once school opened, to put the matter from his mind and devote himself to his little boys. Things were ordered otherwise, however. One fine day near the end of April had been set aside by the headmaster for a school journey. It happened that the Reverend Ashton Clinton had a passion for what he was wont to refer to as Old London—a passion which he desired his boys to share. Accordingly, he had arranged for Roger and another of the junior masters whose name was Parkinson to take some of the boys to Waterloo Station, and on to Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, Saint Paul’s Cathedral, and to anything of historic interest which fell between these major spectacles.
The expenses of the trip were to be defrayed by the headmaster himself out of School Fund, a convenient and remarkably large nest-egg which was the result of various money-making pursuits such as school fines for minor breaches of the peace together with the profits from concerts, jumble sales and such other parochial knaveries as the headmaster and his staff were accustomed to permit from time to time for the purpose of adding to the takings.
The London outings, known to the school as Dekkers, were extremely popular with the boys; not nearly as generally so with the masters. To Roger, so far, they had been anathema, but this time, as he was to go with Parkinson, who was only two years his senior, and not with one of the elderly gentlemen who generally took a junior master in tow, the thought of a day out of the classroom was welcome.
The boys were to be provided with sandwiches; so were the masters. This was the general rule.
‘But it will be hard,’ said Parkinson, with a slight smile, as he pouched his portion of food with his mackintosh and a guide book, ‘if we cannot give each other a breath of freedom during the hours of licensed victualling, Hoskyn, my man.’
Roger, who, on his previous Dekkers, two in number, had consumed stale sandwiches upon a bench outside the British Museum and had finished with a drink of water out of a small metal container at a public fountain, felt his heart warm still further to the expedition, and also to Parkinson, under whose auspices the outing, he felt, would prove to be blithe and bonny even beyond expectation.
Thirty boys were to be of the party, his own fifteen, whose average age was ten and a half, and fifteen out of the twenty apportioned to Mr Withers, the Sixth Form master. These boys were almost fourteen years old, and would normally proceed to their Public Schools at the beginning of the autumn term. The theory was that a thirteen-year-old should partner each ten-yearold and assist him to understand the beauty and grandeur of all that he would see in London.
To the Reverend Ashton Clinton a day in London was a full day. No time was to be wasted, and an elaborate and detailed Time Sheet was supplied to each boy on which to record what had been seen and noted, and, as the staff rather sensitively perceived, to act as a check on the masters, and to ensure that the boys had really been taken through the whole programme drawn up by the Head for their benefit.
Roger and Parkinson had ‘got together’ over the Time Sheets, and had had them filled in in their form rooms on the day preceding the journey. This labour of hoodwinking the headmaster had been possible owing to the fact that Mr Clinton had caught a cold and was not in school that day.
The idea itself had occurred to Roger, but not its logical application.
‘I say,’ he said to Parkinson, meeting him in the corridor at the end of morning break, ‘I’m stuck with my devils all day long today. I do call it just a bit thick!’
‘Same with all of us; no change of classes while the old man can’t take his subjects,’ said Parkinson. ‘Just have to lump it, that’s all. Let ’em read their library books. That’s what I always do. Anyway, you’re luckier than I am. I’ve got the Sixth dumped on me because my form have to visit Stokes’ Farm with Heathers. They’ve been promised it this last fortnight, and the old man won’t send me because I’m going out tomorrow. He doesn’t believe in too many treats at one time!’
‘Don’t fret. It’s a bit of luck for me that Heathers’ gammy leg won’t stand a day of it in London. Besides, I thought, if you agree, that we could get the Time Sheets done.’
‘Eh?’ Parkinson began to smile.
‘Well, I suppose we shall visit all the perishing places that are down, so the kids might just as well push a pencil over the spaces in class as waste time licking their leads in public. What do you say?’
‘I say you’re a genius, my man! Save time? You bet it will save time. We can miss out the Abbey and give the boys some notes on it instead. That ought to save us at least three-quarters of an hour. We can also miss out either the Tate or the National Gallery—I suggest the Tate. Then——’
‘We’d never get away with it,’ said Roger.
‘Of course we would!’
‘The kids have to write an essay, don’t forget.’
‘They won’t know what they’ve seen and what they haven’t. The only thing they really like is the Tower. They can spread themselves on that in the essay. We can remind ’em to mention the Abbey.’
‘He’ll probably set them some questions. Besides, the Sixth will have been before. They’ll all know what to expect.’
‘All right, all right. But get the Time Sheets filled in, anyway. It’s the scheme of a life-time, my man!’
‘I say,’ said Kirby to Healy-Lunn, ‘how about you and me going for a river trip on the Sunbelle instead of the Tower tomorrow?’
‘How can we, lunatic?’
‘Well, we’ve filled up our Time Sheets, haven’t we? There’s nothing else to worry about.’
‘We’d be missed at once.’
‘If we were it wouldn’t matter. It’s only Roger and Nosey.’
‘We’ll be shadowed by two of Form Three. Catswhiskers thinks we’re going to look after the lousy little swine.’
‘What a filthy idea! It won’t come off. It can’t! It’s enough to ruin the day! One of them’s my kid brother! We must repug—repudiate them.’
‘What them?’
‘Ignore their existence, fathead. Act a
s though they weren’t there. Hang it, we’re not their mothers.’
Healy-Lunn giggled.
‘Jolly funny if we were,’ he remarked. ‘All right, then. What’ll we do if we’re missed?’
‘Swear we got so interested in the White Tower or somewhere that we didn’t notice the rest had gone on. Be yourself, for goodness’ sake!’
‘Well, I’ve never been to the Tower. I had measles last year. Remember?’
‘You can have my last year’s notes. I’ve got my worm-casts in them.’
Waterloo Station, although not crowded, was in its usual state of stir, activity and noise. Roger and Parkinson, having managed to separate their charges from the train which had brought them in to London, led the way out from the platform and, outside the gates, counted heads and then paired up the innocent-looking lads in meek, polite couples ready for the march through the streets.
By the time the party was out of the station and fairly launched on its hair-raising journey towards Westminster Bridge, Kirby and Healy-Lunn had contrived to get the two masters into the van by the simple expedient of twice leading the line down side-turnings and once into the side-door of County Hall.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Healy-Lunn, aggrieved. ‘But I thought we had come to the Abbey.’
‘The Abbey, you oaf!’ shouted Parkinson. ‘You knew jolly well it wasn’t the Abbey! Didn’t you come to the Abbey last year with Mr Donaldson?’
‘No, sir, I had measles.’
‘Mr Donaldson didn’t explain it to us as well as you and Mr Hoskyn will, sir,’ put in Kirby. ‘I’ve almost forgotten the way myself, so I’m not surprised——’
‘Dry up! Perhaps we’d better lead the way, Hoskyn. Now you jolly well stick to our heels, do you understand, or I’ll let you know what for when we get back to school.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Master Kirby. ‘I’m really very sorry, sir.’
‘I suppose one of us ought to keep at the back to chivvy the line along,’ suggested Roger, who had had this method explained by the senior masters, and had discovered that, with himself in the van and the senior master as whipper-in, it had really answered rather well.
‘Oh, that be blowed! If the little horrors get lost, it’s up to them,’ replied Parkinson, firmly. ‘Come on. I hate this poisonous parading of kids through the streets as though we were a couple of blasted ushers!’
‘Well, aren’t we?’ said Roger, falling into step beside him. It was at this point that the line behind them executed a neat, precise manoeuvre which brought all the Sixth Form boys together, and their juniors thrust at the back. The column then continued to march breast-forward.
There was some loitering on Westminster Bridge to which the two young masters (who, far from holding their charges in the detestation which might have been expected from their way of referring to and addressing them, were really rather attached to the devil’s brood they were supposed to educate), turned a blind eye while boats, tugs, barges, a dredger, launches and skiffs were passed in review by the boys.
At last the pilgrimage over Westminster Bridge was accomplished, and the boys, having had the Houses of Parliament pointed out to them, were marshalled to cross the road at the end of the Embankment. At this point one Percifer, a child of ten, was moved to demand that he should be permitted to set foot on Captain Scott’s ship, which he understood was moored alongside the Embankment on the further side of Charing Cross Station.
Parkinson was inclined to favour the idea. By judiciously leaving out certain items of the headmaster’s programme they would leave themselves plenty of time. He nodded, said, ‘Round to your right, then,’ and prepared to fall in in front of the line once more. Immediately the words were out of his mouth, however, his herd stampeded. Joyously they commenced to tear along the broad pavement of the Embankment towards their goal, visible at the moment only to the eye of faith.
The masters had a straight choice: to tear after them, or to stroll in their wake. Roger’s instinct was to adopt the former policy, and smack all the heads within reach as soon as he could catch up with them. Parkinson, it appeared, had other views.
‘Well, that lets us out for ten minutes,’ he said contentedly. ‘The cuckoos can’t get on board, in any case, until we catch them up.’ He thereupon produced cigarettes, and the two young men stood still to light them and then strolled casually in the rear of the boys.
The sunshine was pleasant and rather warm. The ancient river was a never-failing source of interest. The plane trees, not yet sooty, were brilliantly green. There was in the air that sensation of sparkle and excitement which London has the secret of conveying to her admirers, especially in the spring. Roger, smoking his cigarette, walked along gaily and without care. Parkinson, beside him, holding his cigarette between two thick fingers, hummed the stave of a seventeenth-century drinking song and seemed equally happy and at ease.
There was by this time no sign of the boys, for the scurrying business people and the holiday loiterers along the Embankment, having been washed slightly out of their course by the onrushing tide of the children, had lapsed into position with the effect that they now screened the route.
Parkinson had been in error in supposing that the boys would have to await his arrival before they could get on board. He had judged their minds correctly in believing that no boy would part with threepence of his own money, but he had not realized that in Master Kirby there were the buds of Napoleonic power.
‘Our beaks have the money,’ Master Kirby had said to the Sea Scout on duty, after the boys had swarmed joyously over an ingenious little stone stile and had hastened along the landing-stage towards the ship. ‘They’re just behind us. Thirty boys and two masters.’ As there were thirty school caps to be counted, and other visitors to come aboard, the Sea Scout nodded and the schoolboys took possession of the ship.
Roger was relieved to find that everything had settled itself except for the mere matter of payment, but Parkinson, rather to his surprise, was somewhat perturbed.
‘I hope the little hell-hounds aren’t going to take matters too much into their own hands,’ he complained. ‘That’s the worst of bringing the Sixth out. Cocky little devils! Do them good when they leave us and become less than the dust for a bit at their public schools. Kirby is going to Rugby. Little blight!’
He spoke severely to Master Kirby when he met him. Kirby was contrite.
‘I’m awfully sorry, sir. We just thought it would save you trouble, that was all. I didn’t dream you wouldn’t like it, sir, really! Please be fair to me, sir!’
‘You jolly well stick to us in future.’
‘Very well, sir.’ He then stuck to them so faithfully that he almost precipitated Parkinson down a steep and narrow companion-way on to the deck beneath, and then got jammed with Roger, Healy-Lunn and a score of co-mates, in the chart-room until no one could move either into its narrow passage-way or out.
‘And for God’s sake get out from under my feet and stay out!’ snarled Roger, when this Black Hole of Calcutta had been emptied.
‘Very well, sir,’ said Master Kirby, with an injured expression. ‘But I thought Mr Parkinson said——’
‘To hell!’ said Roger, to the surprise and disapproval of two old ladies who were being shown over the vessel. By dint of the superhuman exertions of himself and Parkinson, who took it in turns to round up the boys and guard the queue of boys already rounded up, they contrived, at the end of nearly an hour, to collect their charges and get them off the ship.
Master Kirby, feeling that he had placed himself sufficiently in the public eye for the time, stood at the head of the queue and assisted the masters with his advice.
‘You ought to go through the galley and head them off there, sir,’ he said helpfully. ‘I don’t see how Mr Parkinson is ever to get all those little Form Three boys together. I think the ship is very interesting, sir. Did you see the bunks in that—in the saloon, sir? It reminded me of Treasure Island. We read it in the Fourth Form with Mr Simmond
s. I should think it is very seldom that one has the opportunity of examining a large sailing vessel, sir. I feel I know this ship inside out. Shall I go and help Mr Parkinson to collect up the little Form Three boys, sir?’
‘Oh, shut up!’ said Roger, feeling that there was a good deal to be said, after all, for going on school excursions with one of the senior masters.
The thirty boys were all accounted for at last, but so much time had been lost that it was decided to entrain the mob at the Temple District Station and go immediately to Mark Lane for the Tower.
‘If we have to leave out St. Pauls’, we do,’ said Parkinson. ‘We must describe it to them in the train coming home, or while they sit having their grub.’
The thought of the Tower was sufficient to effect an almost instantaneous change in the behaviour of the party. From appearing to act rather more like the herd of Gadarene swine than those unaccustomed to small boys would have believed possible, the cortège assumed (under the leadership of Kirby and Healy-Lunn) an almost funereal decorum, and entrained and detrained without incident.
Master Kirby and Master Healy-Lunn were missed very early in the tour of the Tower. It occurred to Parkinson that it might be a good idea to count heads upon leaving the White Tower. This was known to be the prize piece, as it were, of the excursion; and the boys were delighted with it, although not, perhaps, for the reasons their headmaster would have chosen.
‘Bet you,’ said one Burnett to his friend Sawleys, ‘I can get my head out through that embrasure, or whatever it’s called.’
‘What do you say we have a shot at climbing up the chimney?’ said one Pullin to his opposite number, Sellingford. ‘I bet you could get a jolly long way up if you tried.’
‘Bet I can climb higher than you can,’ Sellingford replied immediately.
‘Wonder what would happen,’ enquired one Kingsford of his partner Mapping, ‘if we shoved a fist into the middle of the Battle of Waterloo?’
‘Can’t think why they stick a thing like that in the middle of the Tower,’ complained Mapping, who had not yet learned to despise the steep ladder of learning. ‘What’s it got to do with the Normans?’
Here Comes a Chopper Page 19
