The Willoughby Captains

by Talbot Baines Reed

  This remark was suggested by Parson grandly waving his handkerchief and smiling to his admiring friends.

  But it is time to quit these friends and make our way to the boats themselves, which now lie waiting for their crews to embark.

  This is always a tedious process for onlookers. The shifting of stretchers, the getting-out of oars, the arrangement of rudder strings, and the delicate trimming of the boat, may be interesting enough to the crews themselves, but only feed the impatience of onlookers.

  And as usual hitches are bound to occur. Coates has got the oar belonging to Crossfield. And when this mistake has been remedied, Bloomfield in the other boat suddenly discovers that his stretcher is a little weak, and insists on waiting till a new one is brought.

  Finally everything is ready, and the two boats slowly swing out into mid-stream. The schoolhouse boat has won the toss, for it takes up the inside berth, amid the triumphant cheers of its partisans.

  “Hurrah! you’re inside,” they cry.

  “Mind you put them into the bank,” is the derisive echo of the enemy.

  “Now, Fairbairn; now, you fellows,” cries Wyndham’s voice.

  “Now, boss Riddell — mind your eye. Pull your left when you want to go right,” shout the facetious Welchers.

  Riddell had long got past the stage of being flurried by shouts from the bank. He feels nervous undoubtedly, but he does not look it, as he quietly tries his rudder-lines and settles himself on his seat.

  Fairbairn is as cool as ever. To look at him he might be just starting for a quiet saunter up-stream. And the crew behind him are equally composed, as they lie on their oars waiting for the start.

  But the Parrett’s crew, as they come smartly up and take their outside berth, receive an ovation far beyond that of their rivals. They are undoubtedly the popular crew, as well as the favourites.

  Every man in the boat has done something for Willoughby in times past, and as the boys see their heroes ready now for a fresh triumph, they forget all about their little tyrannies indoors, and cheer them like mad.

  “Bravo Parrett’s. Bravo, Bloomfield! Hurrah, captain! You’re to win.”

  Even the Welchers for the moment join in the popular clamour.

  “Go it, you cripples!” cries Cusack, encouragingly; “no milksop captains. Two to one on Bloomfield!”

  All this time the boats are lying in position. Mr Parrett on the little steam-launch behind surveys them critically, and satisfies himself that all is square. Then he advances to the prow of his boat and shouts the usual question.

  The next moment he gives the word, and the two boats dart forward like arrows from a bow, and the race has begun.

  Gilks and Silk up above Willow Corner heard the shout which greeted the start, and turned anxiously towards the direction from which it came.

  “They’re off now!” said Silk, trying to appear more unconcerned than he really was.

  “Yes; no mistake about it!” said Gilks, whose anxiety was certainly not less than that of his friend.

  “How long before we see them?”

  “Three minutes; they ought to get into the School Reach by then.”

  Neither spoke for a minute. Then Silk said, “What a row the fellows are making!”

  “Yes,” said Gilks; “there’s a bigger crowd than I ever saw down this year.”

  Another silence. And then presently in the far distance, at the end of the School Reach, they could see first the smoke of Mr Parrett’s launch, then a black moving crowd on the bank, and finally two white specks on the water.

  “There they are!” said Gilks.

  “Can you tell which is which?” asked Silk.

  “No, not yet.”

  An anxious minute followed. The doctor and his party on the point opposite left their tent and came down to the water’s edge; spectators who had been getting tired of waiting now freshened up and made final and desperate attempts to improve their position, while those who meant to fall in with the runners buttoned their jackets and turned up their trouser ends.

  “Schoolhouse inside!” exclaimed Gilks, suddenly, as the sun momentarily caught the blue oars of the inside boat.

  This was all that could be ascertained for the moment. From where they sat the blue and the red flags seemed to be coming towards them exactly abreast.

  The crowd advanced with a roar, above which it was impossible to hear the name of the leading crew. But presently, as the two boats approached the corner, a slight turn inwards enabled them to answer the question for themselves.

  “We lead!” exclaimed Silk.

  Silk was a Welcher and Gilks a schoolhouse boy, but “we” meant Parrett’s.

  Yes, the red flag was ahead, though only a little.

  “How long before they’re at the point?”

  “Half a minute. I say, how splendidly the schoolhouse are steering, though!”

  Silk laughed. “More than Parrett’s are! Young Parson’s taking them round rather sharp, isn’t he?”

  “No; he always turns in like that; it’s better than the long sweep. Now look out!”

  During this brief dialogue the two boats had come on towards the corner. As far as Gilks and Silk could see at present Parrett’s led by about half a length, which advantage, however, it stood to lose owing to its outside position at the corner. Parson, however, knew what he was about even better than Riddell, who had kept a magnificent course down the reach, but who now seemed afraid to take full advantage of the sharp corner. The Parrett’s coxswain, on the other hand, with his half-length to the good, began turning his boat’s head early, even at the risk of running dangerously close on his rival’s water, and so saved as much as possible of the lost ground.

  It was an anxious moment, for as the boats came round that corner so the race usually depended. The crowd on the banks well knew the crisis, and shouted out their warnings and encouragements to the rival coxswains with redoubled eagerness.

  “Now then, Riddell! round you go! Pull your right!”

  “Steered indeed, Parrett’s! Bravo, Parson!”

  The corner was half-turned, the boats lay nearly level, each coxswain pulling hard with his right line, when suddenly there was a shock in the Parrett’s boat, followed by a loud shout from Parson, and next moment the boat was shooting helplessly straight towards the bank, from which it was only saved by a prompt order to “Backwater all!” from Bloomfield.

  What could it be? The shouts on the bank died away into sudden stillness, and fellows forgot even to keep up with the schoolhouse boat, which, followed by the steam-launch, rowed steadily on towards the winning-post.

  What was it? The answer soon became known, when Parson, standing in his boat, waved the broken end of a rudder-line above his head. At the critical point of the race this had failed, and in consequence all the efforts of the rowers were useless, and — and the schoolhouse boat was Head of the River!

  The rage, excitement, and disappointment at such an unlooked-for termination to the great struggle was beyond description, as the reader may imagine. A general rush was made for the unlucky boat, and shouts and recriminations and taunts and condolences bore witness to the mixed feelings of the spectators.

  Some demanded a fresh race there and then, some suggested foul play, others urged the boat to row on and make the best race they could of it, others boldly claimed the victory for Parrett’s, since they led at the moment of the accident.

  Amidst all this tumult the unlucky boat slowly backed into mid-stream, and turned towards home, Parson steering no longer by rudder but by word of mouth. As it did so, a distant report announced that the schoolhouse boat had reached the winning-post; whereat the Parrett partisans set up a loud defiant shout, which they maintained during the entire homeward progress of their ill-starred boat.

  Among the few who remained on the scene of the accident were Gilks and Silk, both pale and agitated.

  The latter, as has been said, was painfully interested in the result of the race. To him the defeat of Parr
ett’s meant more than the mere disappointment of a hope or the humiliation by a rival. It meant the loss of a good deal more money than he possessed, and the miscarriage of a good deal which he had expected with absolute confidence to win. No wonder then that his face was white and his voice trembling as he rounded on his friend.

  “You fool!” exclaimed he, with an oath.

  It was rather hard surely on Gilks, who may have encouraged his friend to rely on the victory of the Parrett’s boat, but who certainly was as much astounded and mortified by the accident as he was.

  “There must be another race,” said he, hurriedly. “They can’t take this as decisive, I tell you. They must have another.”

  “You wouldn’t have said so if the right boat had won,” said Silk, with a sneer.

  “I can’t make it out,” said Gilks, looking very miserable.

  “Fools never can,” snarled Silk, turning on his heel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Foul Play

  Willoughby reassembled after the eventful boat-race in a state of fever. The great event which was to settle everything had settled nothing, and the suspense and excitement which was to have been set at rest remained still as unsatisfied as ever, and intensified by a feeling of rage and disappointment.

  As boys dropped in in groups from the course, and clustered round the school gate, one might have supposed by their troubled faces that instead of a rudder-line having broken both crews had been capsized and drowned.

  The Parrett’s partisans particularly were loud in their clamour for a new race, and many of them freely insinuated foul play as the cause of the accident.

  The schoolhouse, on the other hand, indignantly repelled the charge, and dared their opponents defiantly to meet them again. And amidst all this wrangling and bickering, the Welchers dispensed their taunts and invectives with even-handed impartiality, and filled in just what was wanted to make the scene one of utter confusion and Babel.

  “I tell you we’d have beaten them hollow,” shouted Wibberly to the company in general.

  “No you wouldn’t!” retorted Wyndham; “we were ahead and our men were as fresh as yours, every bit!”

  “Ya — boo — cheats! Told you there’d be no fair play with such a pack,” shouted the Welchers.

  “Look here, who are you calling a cheat?” said Wyndham, very red in the face, edging up to the speaker.

  “You, if you like,” shouted Pilbury and Cusack.

  “I’ll knock your heads together when I catch you,” said Wyndham, with lofty disgust, not intending to put himself out for two juniors.

  A loud laugh greeted the threat.

  Meanwhile, fellows were running up every moment. Some who had been waiting for the boats at the winning-post had only just heard the news, and came in red-hot with excitement to learn particulars.

  “It’s all a vile dodge,” howled Wibberly, “to get their boat to the head of the river.”

  “I’ll bet anything the precious captain’s at the bottom of it,” shouted another. “He’d stick at nothing, I know.”

  “Yes, and you’ll see, now they’ll funk another race!”

  “Who’ll funk another race?” roared the hot-headed Wyndham. “I’ll row you myself, you asses, the lot of you.”

  Another derisive laugh followed at the speaker’s expense.

  “It’s not our fault if your line broke,” cried a schoolhouse boy. “It’s your lookout. You should have seen it was right before you started.”

  “Yes. You wouldn’t have been so anxious for a new race if it was our line had broken,” said Wyndham.

  “Yes, we would. We’re not afraid of you!”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, we aren’t. You’re a set of cheats. Couldn’t win by fair means, so you’ve tried foul.”

  “I’ll fight any one who says so,” retorted Wyndham.

  How long the wrangle might have gone on, and to what riot it might have led, cannot be told. It was at its hottest, and a general fight seemed imminent, when a diversion was caused by the sudden appearance of Parson running at full speed up the path from the river.

  There was something unusual in the looks and manner of the Parretts’ coxswain, which even his misadventure that afternoon was not sufficient to account for. He bore tidings of some sort, it was evident, and by common consent the clamour of the crowd was suspended as he approached.

  Among the first to hail him at shouting distance was Telson.

  “What’s up, old man?” he cried.

  Parson rushed on a dozen yards or so before he answered. Then he yelled, in a voice half-choked with excitement, “The line was cut! It’s foul play!”

  The howl which arose from the agitated crowd at this amazing piece of news — amazing even to those who had most freely raised the cry of foul play — was one the like of which Willoughby never heard before or since. Mingled rage, scorn, incredulity, derision, all found vent in that one shout — and then suddenly died into silence as Parson began again.

  “They’ve looked at the place where it broke,” he gasped. “It’s a clean cut half-way through. I knew it was foul play!”

  Once again the shout drowned his voice.

  “Who did it?” shrieked a voice, before Parson could resume.

  Parson glared round wrathfully for the speaker.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “Sorry for him if I did!”

  This valiant invective from the honest little fag failed even to appear ludicrous in the midst of the general excitement. Further words were now interrupted by the appearance of the Parretts’ crew coming slowly up the walk.

  This was the signal for a general cheer and rush in their direction, in the midst of which the defeated heroes with difficulty struggled up to the school. Wrath and indignation were on all their faces. In reply to the hundred inquiries showered upon them they said nothing, but forced their way through the press sullenly, heedless of the cheers of their sympathisers or the silence of their opponents.

  The crowd slowly fell back to let them pass, and watched them disappear into the school. Then they turned again towards the path from the river, and waited with grim purpose.

  The news announced by Parson and confirmed by the black looks of the injured crew had fallen like a thunderbolt, and for the moment Willoughby was stunned. The boys could not — would not — believe that one of their number could be guilty of such an act. And yet, how could they disbelieve it?

  In a few minutes there was a cry of “Here they are!” and at the same moment the schoolhouse crew appeared on the walk. They, victors though they were, looked troubled and dispirited as they approached, talking eagerly among themselves, and unconcerned apparently about the crowd which in ominous silence awaited them.

  They certainly did not look like guilty persons, and it is most probable not even the wildest libeller in Willoughby would have cared positively to charge any one of them with the dishonourable deed.

  But for all that, they had won in consequence of that deed, and that was quite sufficient to set three-fourths of the crowd against them.

  As they came up a loud groan and cries of “Cheats! Foul play!” suddenly arose. Startled by the unexpected demonstration, the five heroes looked up with flushed faces.

  “Cheats! Cowards!” reiterated the hostile section, beginning at the same time to surge towards them.

  Foremost among these was Tucker of Welch’s house and Wibberly of Parrett’s, who, as the crowd behind pressed forward, were carried with their abusive taunts on their lips into the midst of the schoolhouse group. The latter, as may be imagined, were in anything but the humour for an assault of this sort, and their leaders instantly resented it in a very practical manner.

  “Where are you coming to?” demanded Fairbairn, flinging Wibberly from him into the arms of his followers.

  Before Wibberly could recover his balance the crowd had closed in by a sudden impulse, and with a loud shout had set upon the crew.

  “Have them over, Parrett’s!
” shouted a voice, as Wibberly staggered back a second time before Fairbairn’s stalwart arm, while at the same moment Tucker received a similar rebuff from Crossfield.

  The summons was promptly answered, and a dash was made on the five schoolhouse boys with a view to carrying out the threat literally, when Wyndham’s voice shouted, “Rescue here! schoolhouse, come on!”

  Instantly the whole crowd seemed to resolve itself by magic into two parties, and a short but desperate battle ensued.

  The fire had been waiting for weeks for a match, and now the flare-up had come. Nobody knew whom he hit out at or by whom he was attacked that forenoon. The pent-up irritation of half a term found vent in that famous battle in which the schoolhouse boys fought their way inch by inch up to the door of their house.

  Luckily for them, the most formidable of their rivals were not upon the field of action, and in due time the compact phalanx of seniors, aided by Wyndham and his band of recruits, forced their way through superior numbers, and finally burst triumphantly through and gained their stronghold.

  But the victory was hardly bought, for the slaughter had been great.

  Coates had a black eye, and Porter’s jacket was torn from his back. Riddell had twice been knocked down and trodden on, while Wyndham, Telson, and others of the rescuing party were barely recognisable through dust and bruises. On the other side the loss had been even greater. Tucker and Wibberly, the only two monitors engaged, were completely doubled up, while the number of maimed and disabled Limpets and juniors was nearly beyond counting.

  So ended the great battle at the school gate, and it ended only just in time, for as the schoolhouse boys finally gained their quarters, and the enemy picked itself up and turned surlily schoolwards, the doctor and his party arrived on the scene and gave a finishing touch to the rout.

  That evening was a sore one for Willoughby. Sore not only in respect of bruised bodies and swollen faces, but still more in the sense of disappointment, suspicion, and foul play.

  Among the most violent of the Parrett’s the whole mystery of the thing was perfectly clear. These philosophers could see it all from beginning to end, and were astonished any one else should be so dull as not to see it too.