The Willoughby Captains

by Talbot Baines Reed

  “His what, sir!” exclaimed Miss Stringer, in a voice which nearly startled Telson off the sofa.

  “I mean, you know, the fellows—?”

  “And where do you live at home?” asked Miss Stringer, determined to steer clear of this awkward topic.

  “Oh, London,” said Telson; “do you know London?”

  “Yes — it is indeed a wonderful place,” said Miss Stringer, “and whereabouts does your father live?”

  “Oh, my governor’s in India,” began Telson.

  “Your who?” said Miss Stringer, with a feeble attempt at severity.

  “My dad, you know; and I live with my grandfather. Jolly old boy. He was at Willoughby when he was a boy. Did you know him then? I expect he’ll recollect you, you know.”

  “I do not think,” said Miss Stringer, with a very ruffled countenance, “that your grandfather and I ever met.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He recollects most of the old people down here, you know. I say, there’s Parson beckoning; he’s my chum, you know. I expect he wants me to help with some of the things.”

  And so saying off he went, leaving Miss Stringer, so to speak, fairly doubled up, and in a state of mind which may be more easily imagined than described.

  Every one observed how singularly silent and retiring Miss Stringer was all that evening. Some attributed it to the heat of the room, others feared she might not be well, others guessed she found the Browns’ entertainment very slow; but no one, least of all Telson himself, had a suspicion of the true reason.

  That young gentleman and his ally, after finding out that there was not much chance of their services being required to “look after the things”—the greengrocer being quite able to deal with the business single-handed — found themselves once more stranded in the drawing-room, and gradually getting edged back by the skirts, when an unlooked-for distinction rescued them from their perilous situation.

  The distinction was none other than a sign of recognition from the doctor and a friendly signal to approach.

  Like a pair of small well-trained circus ponies the two friends obeyed the summons and climbed over the intervening skirts.

  “Well, Telson and Parson,” said the doctor, shaking hands, “I’d no idea you were here — how are you?”

  “We got a captain’s permit. Quite well, thank you, sir.”

  “My dear, these are two of our boys, Telson and Parson.”

  Mrs Patrick regarded the two boys in her usual precise way, and said,—

  “Among so many boys under our roof, I find it impossible to remember every face. And which is Master Telson?”

  “This is Telson,” said Parson. “He’s in the schoolhouse, you know—”

  “I do not know,” said Mrs Patrick, severely.

  “Don’t you?” said Parson, with genuine astonishment. “He’s captain’s fag, you know.”

  “I must repeat I do not know,” reiterated Mrs Patrick.

  “Oh, well, he’s only been that a little time, since the sports, you know, when old Wyndham left. I say, ma’am, are you going to be at the race on Wednesday?”

  Mrs Patrick looked somewhat baffled as she replied,—

  “I think it very possible.”

  “It’ll be a jolly good race,” said Telson. “Old Parson is coxing Parrett’s, and it looks like a win for them. Only we aren’t so bad, and now Gilks is out of the boat and Riddell’s settled as cox we ought to make a race of it. Fairbairn’s quite as long a reach as Bloomfield, only he doesn’t kick his stretcher so hard — does he, Parson?”

  “Rather not,” said Parson. “That’s where we get the pull of you; besides, I’m a lighter weight than Riddell, though he’s boiled down a good bit since he went into training.”

  “Good deal depends on who gets the inside berth,” said Telson, delightfully oblivious of the bewildered Mrs Paddy’s presence. “It’s a jolly long swing round Willow Point for the outsiders — half a length at least.”

  “Yes; but it’s just as bad round the corner at the finish the other way.”

  “Ah! talking about the race, I see,” said the doctor, returning to the group at this point. “So, Telson, Riddell’s to steer your boat after all.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Telson; “it’s settled now.”

  “So that the schoolhouse boat is still the captain’s boat, eh? Ah! Parson, though, I suppose, wants the Parrett’s boat to win.”

  “Parson coxes for Parrett’s,” said Telson.

  “Parrett — I mean Mr Parrett — stopped my river-play a week, sir,” said Parson, by way of explaining the circumstance; “but I’ve had captain’s leave to row out since, so they kept me in the boat.”

  This sporting conversation went on for some time longer, Mrs Patrick not venturing again to join in. At last the doctor broke up the conference of his own accord, and our two heroes, once more adrift, went out for a lounge in the hall, as they explained, to cool themselves, but really to be at hand for a bolt into the supper-room whenever the happy moment should arrive.

  It did arrive after what seemed to be a week’s suspense and then the hardships and perils of the evening were fully compensated for. The two friends got into a snug corner, “far from the madding crowd,” where, to put it mildly, they spent a very busy half-hour. They managed it well. Neither boy helped himself — he wouldn’t be so greedy; but each helped the other. When Telson saw Parson’s plate getting empty of sandwiches, he most attentively fetched him a clean one with a trifle on it; and when Telson had finally got through his jellies (for he had more than one) it was Parson’s brotherly hand which assisted him to an ice!

  As they sat there they positively wished Brown’s “pa and ma” gave a party once a week!

  But all good things come to an end, and so did this grand party. Guests began to depart, and among the earliest were the doctor and his ladies. The doctor came up to the boys, and said, kindly, “We’re driving up; you two had better come with us, there’s plenty of room on the box. Now, my love — now, Miss Stringer.”

  Miss Stringer! Telson nearly fainted as he saw who it was who answered to the name.

  “Let’s walk up,” he said, entreatingly, to Parson.

  “I don’t mind, only Paddy—”

  “Now then, boys,” cried the doctor, “there’s room for one inside. Telson, will you come?”

  Telson bounded up on to the box without another word, and Parson beside him, and the fly drove off.

  “Oh, Parson, old man, I’m a gone coon!” exclaimed Telson, in tones of abject misery, as soon as they were clear of the Browns’ premises.

  “Why, what’s up?”

  “Miss Stringer!”

  “What about her? Isn’t she a cad, eh?”

  “Yes, and I told her so,” groaned Telson; “I didn’t know who she was, and I said—”

  “Hullo, I say, look there!” exclaimed Parson, suddenly catching his friend by the arm.

  They were passing the Aquarium, which at that moment was disgorging its visitors. Among those who emerged exactly as the doctor’s fly passed were three boys, whom Telson and Parson recognised in a moment.

  They were Silk and Gilks and another younger boy, who seemed to shrink from observation, and whose head was turned another way as the fly passed. The three, immediately on gaining the street, started to run towards Willoughby ahead of the fly.

  The two boys on the box pulled their caps over their eyes, and said not a word till the truants were clear. Then Telson said, “That was young Wyndham!”

  “I know. I wonder if Paddy saw them?”

  “Shouldn’t think so. And they didn’t see us. I say, will they get in before us?”

  “It’ll be a shave if they do. What a row there’ll be if they don’t!”

  It was a curious thing that almost immediately after this short dialogue Telson’s cap fell off into the road, and the fly had to be pulled up while he and Parson got down and looked for it. It was a dark night, and the cap took some time to find. When finally it was recov
ered, and progress was resumed, full five minutes had been lost over the search, by which time the truants had got a clear half-mile to the good, and were safe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Boat-Race

  The few days that intervened between the Saturday of Brown’s party and the Wednesday of the great race were days of restless suspense in Willoughby. Even Welch’s caught the contagion, and regretted at the last hour that they had withdrawn from the all-important contest. As to the other two Houses, there never had been a year when the excitement ran so high or the rivalry grew so keen. Somehow the entire politics of Willoughby appeared to be mixed up in the contest, and it seemed as if the result of this one struggle was to decide everything.

  The crews had worked hard up to the last, watched morning and evening by anxious spectators from the bank. The trials had been carefully noted and times compared, the variations in style had been eagerly criticised, the weights of the rowers had become public property, and in short every detail likely to influence the result was a subject of almost painful interest to the eager partisans on either side.

  And every hour seemed to promise a closer race. Not that Parrett’s had fallen off. On the contrary, they still remained what they had been all along, the smartest and strongest crew that Willoughby had ever put upon the river. But the schoolhouse boat had made wonderful strides. It was long since it had ceased to be the laughingstock of the hostile juniors, and it was some time since its appearance and work had begun to cause a shade of uneasiness in the minds of a few of the rival house. Fairbairn, far from Bloomfield’s match in physique or style, had yet displayed an amount of steady, determined work which had astonished most fellows, and inspired with confidence not only his partisans on the bank, but the three oarsmen at his back. By dint of patient, untiring practice he had worked his crew up to a pitch of training scarcely hoped for, and every day the schoolhouse boat had gained in style and speed.

  Had the race been a fortnight or three weeks later few boys would have cared to prophesy definitely as to the result. As it was, though Parrett’s was morally bound to win, it was clear the race would be a fierce one, and hardly fought every foot.

  Such was the general opinion in Willoughby that Tuesday evening after the last practice had come to an end, and when the boats were finally housed for the night only to reappear next day in racing trim.

  Young Wyndham, as he sat in Riddell’s study with his books before him, could as soon have done a stroke of work as fly over the schoolhouse elms. Indeed, it was such a farce for him even to make the attempt that he shut up his books and gave up the idea.

  “I say, Riddell,” he said, presently, addressing the captain, who, though excited too after his own fashion, was poring determinedly over his work.

  “Well?” asked he, looking up.

  “I say, do you think there’s any chance of our boat winning?”

  The boy asked the question so anxiously that one might have supposed his whole happiness in life depended on the answer.

  “It’s very hard to say,” said Riddell. “I think we have some chance, at any rate.”

  “You did the course in as good time as Parrett’s yesterday, didn’t you?” said Wyndham.

  “Yes, but we had a better tide,” said Riddell.

  Wyndham’s face clouded, for he knew it was true.

  “You must win, I say,” said he, almost fiercely.

  Riddell smiled.

  “I mean to oblige you if I can, for one,” said he.

  “If they win,” said Wyndham, “it’ll be—”

  But what it would be the youthful enthusiast lacked words to express.

  Riddell turned again to his writing.

  “Hadn’t you better finish your work?” said he.

  “Oh, I can’t!” exclaimed Wyndham. “Who could work just before the race?”

  So saying, he got up and gathered together his things.

  Riddell was sorry for this. He had hoped the boy would stay. Amid all his fresh duties the new captain had kept his eye on his old friend’s brother, and of late he had seen things which made him uneasy. Wyndham was on friendly terms again with his two undesirable patrons, and simultaneously his work in the library and his visits to Riddell’s own study had become less regular. It all meant something, Riddell knew; and he knew, too, that that something was not any good. He made one attempt to detain the boy.

  “You aren’t going?” he said kindly.

  “Yes. It’s really no use grinding, to-night, Riddell.”

  “Won’t you stop and keep me company, though?” asked the captain.

  “You’re working,” said the boy. “I’ll come to-morrow. Good-night.”

  And he went, leaving Riddell very uncomfortable. Why should he be so eager to go? Why should he always seem so restless now whenever he was in that study? Why should he always avoid any reference to—

  Ah! here he was back again. A gleam of hope shot through Riddell’s breast as he saw the door open and Wyndham re-enter. Perhaps, after all, the boy was going to stay and give him a chance. But no, Wyndham had come back for his knife, which Riddell had borrowed for sharpening a pencil. That was all he wanted; and having recovered it he departed quickly.

  Riddell spent the rest of that evening in low spirits. He had been baulked, and worse than that, he felt other hands were playing their game more successfully, and that amongst them all young Wyndham was going wrong.

  So the eve of the great boat-race was anything but a cheerful evening for the new captain.

  But with the morning even Riddell could hardly harbour any thoughts outside the event of the day. Morning school that Wednesday was a farce all over Willoughby. Even the doctor seemed absent-minded, while one or two of the junior masters gave up the attempt in despair.

  The race was fixed for three o’clock, when the tide would be running up at its fastest, and long before that hour every advantageous point of view on the banks was secured by eager spectators. These were by no means all Willoughby boys, for the school boat-race was always more or less of an event in Shellport itself, whose inhabitants flocked in large numbers to the scene of the contest.

  Carnages lined the banks on either side for a considerable distance, and as usual the doctor’s party assembled in great force on Willow Point. The towing-path was jealously kept clear for the schoolboys, who trooped down in force the moment after lunch, and took possession of their places along the course. Some crowded at the starting-point. These were chiefly the more athletic heroes of the school, whose flannels and running-shoes bespoke their intention of following the race on foot. Others, less actively inclined, massed at various critical points along the course, some at the finish, but more opposite Willow Point, which being just three-quarters of the way down, and almost within view of the goal, was generally considered the most advantageous point of view of the whole race.

  At this point, in a snug corner above the path, with a fine view of the sharp bend of the river, and of the reaches up and down stream which met there, sat Gilks and Silk. They knew probably as well as any one that the crisis of the race was pretty sure to be played out at Willow Corner, and not a few late comers looked up at their commanding perch with envy.

  “Where’s the young ’un?” said Silk.

  “Running with the race,” said Gilks. “I couldn’t dissuade him. He’s gone daft over the thing.”

  Silk laughed.

  “I’m afraid it’ll be a blow to him, then. Young fool. I say, he was at his father confessor’s last night. I wonder if he’ll let out about Saturday night?”

  “Not he. That is,” said Gilks, viciously, “I don’t think he will.”

  “Well, it might be warmish for him if he did.”

  “Very warmish,” said Gilks, with a scowl, which it was just as well for Wyndham’s comfort he did not see.

  There was a silence, during which Gilks whistled to himself, and Silk regarded his ally with a smile.

  “You are a nice boy!” he broke out presently. And th
e laugh which greeted this very unoriginal observation closed the conversation for a time.

  Meanwhile, down at the boat-house things were getting very lively.

  Telson, Philpot, Pilbury, Cusack, King, and other of our juvenile friends, who, with their usual modesty, proposed to run along with the race, and now formed part of the crowd which awaited the start, kept up a boisterous chorus of shouts, some of defiance, some of derision, some of applause, addressed alternately to foe and friend.

  The young Welchers especially, having no personal interest in the race, felt themselves delightfully free to make themselves objectionable to all parties, and took full advantage of the circumstance.

  They howled at everybody and everything. Whenever King and Bosher greeted the appearance of the Parrett’s boat with a friendly cheer they hooted; and no sooner did Telson sing out to welcome the crew of his house, but they caterwauled derisively in the same direction.

  “Jolly lot they know about rowing!” yelled Cusack.

  “Why don’t you give them some lessons?” retorted Telson, hotly.

  “Boo — hoo! Who got kicked out his boat! Young muller, couldn’t steer a tub.”

  “I’ll tub you, young Pilbury, see if I don’t, presently,” replied Telson.

  “Never mind them,” shouted King, “can’t even make up a boat; pack of funks, all of them!”

  “Hullo! who are you?” cried Philpot, rounding on these new assailants. “We’d have a boat, never fear, if there was any chance of fair play.”

  “Lot of fair play you’d want, to turn the boat round and round and catch crabs every other second!”

  “There are our fellows!” cried Wyndham, raising a loud cheer as Fairbairn, Coates, Porter, Crossfield, and Riddell appeared on the landing stage.

  “Hurrah! schoolhouse, hurrah!”

  “Ye-ow, look at them — there’s a lot!” hooted the Welchers.

  “There’s old Parson!” yelled Telson, Bosher, and King, as the youthful hero in question strutted magnificently down to the landing.

  “What cheer, stuck-up jackass?” howled the Welchers, with an insulting laugh; “why don’t you grin?”