The Willoughby Captains

by Talbot Baines Reed

  “Of course, it’s a regularly arranged thing,” said Wibberly, whose face was enveloped in a handkerchief and whose lips were unusually thick. “They’ve vowed all along to keep their boat at the head of the river, and they’ve managed it.”

  “Yes,” said another. “They knew what they had to expect if Bloomfield got there. I can see it all.”

  “But you don’t mean to say,” said Strutter, “the Premier,” “that you think any one of those fellows would do such a thing as cut our rope?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wibberly. “I don’t see why they shouldn’t. I don’t fancy they’d stick at a trifle, the cads!”

  “If Gilks had been in the boat,” said another, “I could have believed it of him, but he was as anxious for us to win as we were ourselves.”

  “No wonder; he and his friend Silk have been betting right and left on us, I hear.”

  “Well, I suppose there’s bound to be a new race,” said Strutter.

  “I don’t know,” replied Wibberly. “I’d be just as well pleased if Bloomfield refused. The vile cheats!”

  Bloomfield, be it said to his credit, was no party to these reckless accusations. Mortified as he was beyond description, and disappointed by the collapse of his ambition, he yet scouted the idea of any one of his five rivals being guilty of so dirty a trick as the cutting of his boat’s rudder-line. At the same time he was as convinced as any one that foul play had been at the bottom of the accident, and the perpetrator of the mean act was undoubtedly a schoolhouse boy. What mortified him most was that he did not feel as positive by any means as others that his boat, without the accident, would have won the race. He had been astonished and even disheartened by the performance of the rival crew, who had stuck to him in a manner he had not looked for, and which had boded seriously for the final result.

  It was this reflection, more even than the thought of the broken line, which troubled him that evening. Could it be possible that his luck was deserting him?

  His companions were troubled by no such suggestion. Indignation was the uppermost feeling in their breasts. Whoever had done the deed, it was a vile action, and till the culprit was brought to justice the whole schoolhouse was responsible in their eyes.

  “I wonder a single one of them can hold up his head,” exclaimed Game.

  “I hope to goodness Bloomfield won’t demand a fresh race. I won’t row if he does,” said Ashley.

  “And the worst of it is they’ll try to make out now they would have won in any case. I heard one of them say so myself this very afternoon.”

  “Let them say what they like,” said Ashley. “Nobody will believe them.”

  Perhaps these hot-headed heroes, had they been able to overhear a conversation that was going on at that very time in the captain’s study, would have discovered that at any rate it was not the immediate intention of the schoolhouse to insist that the victory was theirs.

  Riddell had recovered somewhat from his rough handling that afternoon, but he looked pale and dejected as, along with his friend Fairbairn, he sat and discussed for the twentieth time the event of the day.

  “It’s quite evident we must offer them a fresh race,” said he.

  “Yes, I think so,” said Fairbairn. “It’s hard lines, for I expect it won’t be easy to get our men up to the mark again after they are once run down.”

  “We can’t help that,” said Riddell. “It’s the least we can do.”

  “Of course. But I don’t see, Riddell, old man, that we are bound to hang down our heads over this business. Whoever did it did as mean a trick to us as ever he did to them. I’d like to have him a minute or two, even if he was my own brother.”

  “Well,” said Riddell, “to my mind it seems like a disgrace to the whole house, and the least we can do is to offer to row again.”

  “Oh, rather; that’s settled. I say,” added Fairbairn, “I’d give anything to get at the bottom of it. I saw the boats locked up last night, and I was there when they were taken out this morning. I can’t imagine how it was done.”

  “It seemed a clean cut, didn’t it?”

  “Yes; about three-quarters of the way through. Whoever did it must have been up to his business, for he only touched the right cord on which all the strain comes at the corner.”

  “It must have been done between five o’clock yesterday and this morning,” said Riddell. “If the cut had been there yesterday the line would have given at the corner to a certainty.”

  “Oh, yes; it must have been done in the night.”

  “Doesn’t the boatman know anything about it?”

  “No; I asked him. He says no one opened the door after the boats had gone in except himself and the boat-boy.”

  “It’s horribly mysterious,” said Riddell. “But, I say, hadn’t we better offer the new race at once?”

  “All serene.”

  “Had we better write?” asked Riddell.

  “No; why? What’s the use of looking ashamed?” said Fairbairn; “let’s go to them. Bloomfield’s sure to be in his study.”

  The two boys went accordingly, and found the Parrett’s captain in his study along with Game and Ashley. It was rarely indeed that the schoolhouse seniors penetrated uninvited into the headquarters of their rivals. But on this occasion they had a right cause at heart and honest consciences to back them.

  But it was evident at a glance they had fallen on unfriendly society. Game, quite apart from his state of mind with regard to the accident, had not forgotten his repulse at the hands of the new captain a week or two ago, nor had Bloomfield quite got over the indirect snub he had received on the same occasion.

  Riddell himself had almost forgotten the circumstance, and attributed the unencouraging aspect of the rival seniors entirely to the day’s misadventure.

  “Excuse us coming over,” said he, feeling that a beginning must be made to the interview, “but we wanted to tell you how sorry our fellows are about the race.”

  “Have you found out who did it?” asked Bloomfield.

  “No,” said Riddell, “and we can’t even guess.”

  “But what we came for specially,” broke in Fairbairn at this point, “was to say we are quite ready to row you again any day you like.”

  There was a touch of defiance in the tone of the schoolhouse stroke which was particularly irritating to the Parrett’s boys.

  “Of course, we would row you—” began Bloomfield.

  “But we don’t mean to,” broke in Game, “till this ugly business is cleared up.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Fairbairn.

  “You know what we mean,” said Game, warmly. “As soon as you find out who cut our line we’ll go out on the river again.”

  “Yes; we don’t mean to row you till that’s done,” said Ashley.

  “How on earth are we to find out who cut your line any more than you?” said Fairbairn, losing his temper.

  “There’s no doubt he must be a schoolhouse fellow,” said Bloomfield, who but for his friends would have been disposed to accept the challenge.

  “I’m afraid he is,” said Riddell.

  “Well, I won’t row again till we know who he is,” repeated Ashley.

  “Do you suppose we know who he is?” demanded Fairbairn.

  “You’re the proper people to find out, that’s all I know,” said Ashley.

  “Then you mean to say you won’t row again?” asked Fairbairn.

  “No, if it comes to that,” said Bloomfield.

  “Why,” said Game, “the same thing might happen again.”

  “If you’d looked to your lines before you started,” said Fairbairn, hotly, “it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “We shall certainly make a point of looking at them again when next we row you,” said Ashley, with a sneer.

  Fairbairn seemed inclined to retort, but a look from Riddell deterred him.

  “Then you won’t row again?” he repeated once more.

  “No.”

  “Then we cla
im to-day’s race,” said Fairbairn.

  “You can claim what you like,” said Game.

  “And our boat remains at the head of the river.”

  “It doesn’t matter to us where it remains,” replied Ashley. “You may think what you like and we’ll think what we like.”

  It was evidently useless to attempt further parley, and the two schoolhouse boys accordingly retired, bitterly disappointed to be thwarted of their only chance of righting themselves and their house in the eyes of Willoughby.

  It soon got to be known there was to be no second race, and, as usual, all sorts of stories accompanied the rumour. The enemies of the schoolhouse said openly that they had refused Bloomfield’s demand for a new race, and intended to stick to their ill-gotten laurels in spite of everybody. On the other side it was as freely asserted that Parrett’s had funked it; and some went even so far to hint that the snapping of the rope happened fortunately for the boat, and saved it under cover of an accident from the disgrace of a defeat. The few who knew the real story considered Bloomfield was quite right in refusing another race till the culprit of the first should be brought to justice.

  But the two fellows on whom the announcement fell most severely were Gilks and Silk. For if the race of that day was to stand, the schoolhouse boat had definitely won the race, and consequently they were both losers to a considerable extent.

  They had counted almost certainly on a second race, but now that this had been decided against, their wrath and dismay knew no bounds. They spent the evening in vituperations and angry discussion, and ended it in what was very little short of a downright quarrel. Indeed, if young Wyndham had not opportunely arrived on the scene shortly before bedtime and created a diversion, the quarrel might have come to blows.

  Wyndham burst into the room suddenly.

  “Has either of you seen my knife?” he enquired; “I’ve lost it.”

  “Have you?” inquired Silk.

  “Yes; I fancy I left it here last night. I say, have you heard Parrett’s won’t accept a new race?”

  “I wonder why?” asked Silk.

  “Because they say they won’t have out their boat again till the fellow’s found who cut the lines.”

  “Well, I don’t blame them — do you, Gilks?” said Silk. “I suppose there’s no idea who he is?”

  “Not a bit,” said Wyndham; “I wish to goodness there was. Some fool, I expect, who’s been betting against Parrett’s.”

  “I could show you a fool who’s been betting on Parrett’s,” said Silk, “and who’s decidedly up a tree now! I say, young ’un, I suppose you couldn’t lend me a sov. till the end of the term?”

  “I’ve only got half-a-sov. in the world,” said Wyndham.

  “Well, I’ll try and make that do, thanks,” said Silk.

  Wyndham pulled out his purse rather ruefully and handed him the coin.

  “Mind you let me have it back, please,” he said, “as I’m saving up for a racket. And I say,” added he, leaving, “if you do come across my knife, let’s have it, will you?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bosher, his Diary

  Probably no two boys in all Willoughby were more excited over the result of the famous boat-race than Parson and his dear friend Telson. And it is hardly necessary to state that this agitation arose from totally conflicting reasons.

  Parson’s indignation found solace in the most sweeping and vehement invectives his vocabulary could afford against the unknown author of the dastardly outrage upon his rudder-line. By an easy effort of imagination he included the whole schoolhouse, root and branch, in his anathemas, and by a very trifling additional effort he discovered that the objects of his censure were guilty, every one of them, not only of this particular crime, but of every crime in the Newgate Calendar, from picking pockets to murder. He fully agreed with the decision of his chiefs to have nothing more to do with such a graceless crew till the injury was atoned for; and meanwhile he felt himself at perfect liberty — nay, it was his painful duty — to insult, abuse, and maltreat, as occasion offered, every one unlucky enough to wear the schoolhouse ribbon on his cap.

  This being the case, it may be imagined his friend Telson (who, by the way, had barely recovered from the shock of Brown’s party) found himself in a very delicate position. For in the whole of his code of honour two points were paramount with him. One was loyalty to the schoolhouse, the other was loyalty to Parson. How these two duties could be carried out now, at one and the same time, was a source of much anxiety to the perplexed Augustus.

  He too was as indignant about the whole affair as his friend. But his wrath was aimed first of all against those who dared to insinuate that any schoolhouse boy could have been guilty of the evil deed, and next against the Parretts’ authorities for refusing Riddell’s and Fairbairn’s offer of a new race.

  He and his friend had a long and painful discussion of the whole question an evening or two later in the study of the latter.

  “It’s all very well,” said he, “to say it’s a schoolhouse chap has done it—”

  “I tell you a schoolhouse chap must have done it,” said Parson. “Who else would do such a dirty trick?”

  “I’ll fight you, old man, if you go on like that,” observed the schoolhouse fag.

  “Oh, beg pardon,” said Parson, apologetically. “I mean who else could have done it, you know?”

  “A Welcher might,” suggested Telson.

  “What would be the good to him? They hadn’t a boat. Besides, they all go against Riddell, don’t they?”

  “Well, I mean to say,” said Telson, falling back on to the next grievance, “your fellows ought to row us again. We’d have rowed you again like a shot if our line had smashed. We don’t funk you.”

  “And do you think we funk you? A pack of — I mean,” added Parson, pulling up in time, “do you think we funk you?”

  “Why don’t you row us again, then?”

  “Because there’s no honour in the thing while your fellows go in for beastly low dodges like that,” replied Parson.

  “I tell you,” said Telson, finding it very difficult to keep in with his friend, “we did not do it. I say we didn’t do it; there!”

  “What’s the use of your saying that when you know no one but a schoolhouse fellow could have done it?” demanded his friend.

  “I tell you we didn’t do it,” repeated Telson, “and you’ve got to prove we did before you say we did,” added he, with triumphant emphasis.

  “You’ve got to prove you didn’t,” replied Parson, not to be beaten in this line of argument.

  “How can I prove we didn’t when — when we didn’t do it?” cried Telson, making up in noise for what he lacked in logic.

  “I knew you couldn’t prove it!” said Parson, triumphant in his turn. “I knew it was one of your blackguard—”

  “All right, old man, I shall fight you,” said Telson.

  “I didn’t mean, old man, really,” said Parson. “What I mean to say is—”

  “I don’t care what you say,” said Telson. “What I say is, we did not do it!”

  “All very well,” replied Parson, “but I’m certain you did.”

  “How are you certain, I’d like to know?”

  “Because, I tell you,” said Parson, slowly and incisively, “it couldn’t have been done by any one else.”

  “How do you know it couldn’t?” asked Telson warmly.

  “There you are! If you didn’t do it you’d be able to prove it, but you can’t, you see.”

  And so this edifying argument went on, or rather round, very much after the style of a dog trying to catch his tail, and at its close Parson and Telson stood as far from solving the mystery as ever.

  This slight difference of opinion, however, could hardly fail to result in a little mutual irritation, and for the first time in their friendship the two boys felt as if they did not love one another exactly like brethren. It was therefore no small relief when further argument was abruptly cut
short by the entrance of King, looking particularly cheerful and important.

  “Hullo, you two!” exclaimed he. “Guessed I’d find you here. Such a lark!”

  “What is it?” asked the two friends, delighted with any diversion.

  “Why,” exclaimed the delighted King, “you know Bosher?”

  “What about him? What’s he done?”

  “Guess.”

  “It’s not he that cut the rudder-line, is it?” asked Telson.

  “No, of course not. But, just fancy, he keeps a diary!”

  “What!” exclaimed the other two, laughing, “old Bosher keep a diary! How do you know that?”

  King looked very mysterious, and then said, laughing, “I say, what would you give for a squint at it?”

  “Have you got it, then?”

  “Rather,” said King, producing a small notebook from his pocket. “I found it in the Big just now.”

  The notion of Bosher keeping a diary had been amusing enough, but the chance of looking at such a production was irresistible.

  The boys did make one languid protest, more, however, to relieve their consciences than to dissuade one another from the meanness of looking into another boy’s diary.

  “Rather low, perhaps,” said Telson, “to look at a fellow’s notes.”

  “I don’t know,” said King. “If a fellow keeps a diary he must expect it to be looked at if he leaves it about. I know I should.”

  “Well, yes, so should I too,” said Parson. “Besides, you know, of course we wouldn’t tell any one else.”

  “Rather not,” said Telson. “But you know, Parson,” he added, seriously, “it’s just possible he might have something about the rudder-line in it, and it would be a great thing to clear that up, wouldn’t it?”

  “So it would,” said Parson, seating himself at the table.

  Telson and King did the same, and Bosher’s diary was forthwith opened.

  To all appearance Bosher was the most unlikely boy in all Willoughby to keep a diary. He was not usually credited with overmuch intelligence, and certainly not with much sentiment, and the few remarks he did occasionally offer on things in general were never very weighty. He was a good-tempered, noisy, able-bodied fag, who was at any one’s service, and who in all his exploits did about as much work for as little glory as any boy in the school.