“Some fellow did,” said Fairbairn, fiercely, “and I know who.”
“Who?”
“Silk.”
“What! are you sure?”
“I was as close to you at the time as I am now — I’m quite sure.”
“The coward! Did any one else see it?”
“No, I think not.”
The two walked on in silence to Welch’s house, and once more reached the study they had so abruptly quitted.
“Are you badly hurt?” asked Fairbairn.
“Not a bit; my shin is a little barked, that’s all.”
“What a bulldog you can be when you like, old man,” said Fairbairn, laughing. “I never saw any one go into battle so gamely. Why, the whole glory of the rescue belongs to you.”
“What bosh! You had to rescue me as well as Wyndham. But I’m thankful he’s safe.”
“You’re awfully sweet about that precious youngster,” said Fairbairn. “I hope he’ll be grateful to you, that’s all.”
Riddell said nothing, and shortly afterwards Fairbairn said he must go. As he was leaving Riddell called him back.
“I say, Fairbairn,” said he, in his half-nervous way, “you needn’t say anything about Silk, there’s a good fellow; it wouldn’t do any good.”
“He deserves a good thrashing,” said Fairbairn, wrathfully.
“Never mind; don’t say anything about it, please.”
And Fairbairn promised and went.
It was quite a novel sensation for the captain to find himself figuring in the eyes of Willoughby as a “bulldog.” He knew he was about the last person to deserve the proud title, and yet such are the freaks of fortune, the exaggerated stories of the rescue, differing as they did in nearly every other particular, agreed in this, that he had performed prodigies of valour in the engagement, and had, in fact, rescued Wyndham single-handed.
More than one fellow dropped in during the evening to inquire how he was, and to confirm his new reputation.
Pilbury and Cusack were among the first.
“Is it true your leg’s broken?” cried the latter, as he entered the study, in tones of unfeigned concern.
“No, of course not,” replied the captain, laughing. “What made you think so?”
“The fellows said so. Pil and I were too far behind to back you up, you know, or we would have, wouldn’t we, Pil?”
“Rather,” replied Pil.
“Why,” said the captain, catching sight of the bruised and ragged condition of these young men of war—“why, you’ve been knocked about a great deal more than I have.”
“Oh,” said Cusack, “that was in the run up from Shellport, you know. We did get it a little hot at first until we pulled together and came up in a body.”
“Never mind,” said Pilbury, “it was a jolly fine show-up for Pony. He’s sure to get in; the Radicals were nowhere.”
“And what are you going to say to the doctor in the morning?” asked Riddell.
“Eh? oh, I suppose we shall catch it. Never mind, there’ll be lots to keep us company. And we’ve given Pony a stunning leg-up.”
And so the two heroes, highly delighted with themselves, and still far too excited to feel ashamed of their mutinous conduct, departed to talk over the day’s doings with the rest of their set, and rejoice in the glorious “leg-up” they had given to the Whig candidate.
Other fellows looked in, and bit by bit Riddell picked up the whole history of that eventful afternoon.
It did not appear whether the wholesale breaking of bounds had been a preconcerted act or a spontaneous and infectious impulse on the part of the whole school. Whichever it was, directly dinner was over and the monitors had retired to their houses, a general stampede had been made for Shellport, and almost before many of the truants knew where they were they were in the thick of the election crowd.
At first each set vented its loyalty in its own peculiar way. Some stood in the streets and cheered everything yellow they could discover; others crowded round the polling places and groaned the Radicals; some went off to look for the candidates themselves, and when at last Sir George Pony appeared on the scene in his carriage his enthusiastic young supporters set up a cheer enough to frighten the good old gentleman out of his wits, and, but for the active interference of the police, would have insisted on taking out the horses and dragging the triumphal car themselves round the town.
For a considerable time these juvenile demonstrations were allowed to pass with good-humoured forbearance by the town; but when presently, emboldened by their immunity, the schoolboys proceeded not only to hoot but occasionally to molest the opposite side, the young Shellporters began to resent the invasion. A few scuffles ensued, and the temper of both parties rose. The schoolboys waxed more and more outrageous, and the town boys more and more indignant, so that just about the time when the poll was closing, and when call-over was being sounded up at the school, a free fight had begun in the streets of Shellport.
At the first alarm the school had rallied from all sides, and concentrated its forces on the enemy, who seemed determined to dispute every inch of the ground between the town and the school.
How that battle ended, and how finally the schoolboys got home, we have already seen.
Riddell did not feel it his duty under present circumstances to read his visitors a lecture on the wickedness of breaking bounds. He said it was a wonder they had all got up as safely as they had, and that no more damage had been done. As to the penalties, he advised them to turn up at call-over in the morning and hear all about that from the doctor.
Early next morning, just as Riddell was dressed, there was a knock at his door, and young Wyndham entered.
He looked dejected and uncomfortable, but otherwise appeared to have recovered from the effects of yesterday’s ill-usage.
“I say,” said he, going up to the captain and holding out his hand, “I’m awfully sorry I was such a cad to you yesterday.”
“Not a bit, old fellow,” said Riddell, seizing his hand, and glowing with pleasure at this unexpected visit. “Everybody was a bit riled, and no wonder.”
“But I’ve no excuse, I know, after all your brickishness to me, and now, after your helping me out as you did in the scrimmage yesterday, I’m awfully ashamed of being such a low cad.”
This was evidently no put-on apology for the occasion, and Wyndham, as he spoke, looked as penitent as his words.
“Oh, nonsense!” said Riddell, who could never stand being apologised to, and always felt more uncomfortable at such times than the apologiser. “But I say, were you much hurt?”
“No, not much. I got down among their feet somehow and couldn’t get up. But if you hadn’t turned up when you did I might have got it hot.”
“It was Fairbairn pulled us both out, I think,” said Riddell, “for I was down too.”
“Yes, I hear you got an awful hack.”
“Nothing much at all.”
“I say, Riddell,” said Wyndham, nervously, after a pause, “I mean to break with Silk; I wish I’d never taken up with him. I shouldn’t have gone down to the town at all yesterday if it hadn’t been for him.”
“I think you’d be ever so much better without him,” said Riddell.
“I know I would. Do you recollect lecturing me about sticking up for myself that night last month? I’ve been uncomfortable about chumming with him ever since, but somehow he seemed to have a pull on me.”
“What sort of pull?”
“Oh,” said the boy, becoming still more uncomfortable, and afraid of breaking his promise to say nothing about Beamish’s, “a good many things of one sort or another. I’ve gone wrong, I know.”
Wyndham would have given much to be free to make a full confession of all his “going wrong” to the sympathetic Riddell, but, heartily weary as he was of Silk and Gilks, he had promised them to keep their secrets, and young Wyndham, whatever his faults, was honest.
Riddell was quick enough to see that there was something of the
sort, and did not press to know more. It was too good news to hear from the boy’s own lips that he was determined to break loose from these bad friends, to need to know any more.
“I don’t know how it is,” said Wyndham, after another pause. “It seems so much easier for some fellows to keep square than for others. I’ve made up my mind I’d do right a dozen times this term, but it’s never come off.”
“It’s hard work, I know,” said Riddell, sympathisingly.
“Yet it seems easy enough to you. I say, I wish you’d look sharp after me for a week or so, Riddell, till I get a good start.”
Riddell laughed.
“A lot of good that would do you! The best person to look sharp after young Wyndham is young Wyndham himself.”
“Of course I know,” said the boy, “but I’ve sort of lost confidence in myself.”
“We can’t any of us stand by ourselves,” said the captain. “I know I can’t. But the help is easy to get, isn’t it?”
I need not repeat all the talk that took place that morning between the two boys. What they said was meant for no ears but their own. How one in his quiet manly way tried to help the younger boy, and how the other with all sorts of fears and hopes listened and took courage, was known only to the two friends themselves, and to One other from Whom no secrets — not even the secrets of a schoolboy — are hid.
The bell for call-over put an end to their talk, and with lighter hearts than most in Willoughby they walked across to the Great Hall and heard the doctor’s sentence on the truants of yesterday.
It was not very formidable. No half-holiday next Wednesday, and for the seniors a hundred lines of Greek to write out; for the Limpets a hundred lines of Latin, and for the juniors fifty lines of Latin. The doctor had evidently taken a lenient view of the case, regarding the escapade more as a case of temporary insanity than of determined disobedience. However, he relieved his mind by a good round lecture, to which the school listened most resignedly.
There was, however, one part of the punishment which fell heavily on a few of those present. Among the truants had been no less than five monitors — Game, Tipper, Ashley, Silk, and Tucker.
“It would be a farce,” said the doctor, severely, “after what has happened, to allow you to retain the posts of confidence you have held in the school. Your blame is all the greater in proportion as your influence was greater too. For the remainder of this term you cease to be monitors. It depends entirely on yourselves whether next term you are reinstated.”
Chapter Twenty Two
A Mysterious Letter
It was hardly to be expected that the political excitement of Willoughby would altogether disappear until the result of the election was made known. And for some reason or other a whole day had to elapse before the tidings found their way up to the school.
After what had happened no one had the hardihood to ask leave to go down into the town, and none of the butcher’s or baker’s boys that Parson and Telson intercepted in the grounds could give any information. The hopes of Willoughby centred on Brown, the town boy, whose arrival the next morning was awaited with as much excitement and impatience as if he had been a general returning home from a victorious campaign.
Fully aware of his importance, and feeling popularity to be too unusual a luxury to be lightly given up, he behaved himself at first with aggravating reserve.
“Who’s in!” shouted Parson from the school gate, the moment Brown appeared about a quarter of a mile down the road.
Brown, of course, could not hear.
The question was repeated with greater vehemence as he approached, until at last he had no excuse for not hearing.
“Do you hear, you old badger, who’s in?” yelled Parson and Telson.
“Look here, you kids,” said Brown, loftily, “who are you calling a badger? I’ll knock your cheeky heads together if you don’t look out.”
“Oh I say, who’s in! can’t you speak?” reiterated the youths, who at this moment possessed only one idea between them.
“Who is it? Who’s got in?” repeated some Limpets, who were as eager every bit to hear as the juniors.
“In where?” replied the aggravating Brown, shouldering his way in at the gate and intoxicated with his own importance. “What are you talking about?”
“Why, who’s been elected for Shellport? Is Pony in?” shouted the boys, impatiently.
“Pony!” rejoined Brown, half-contemptuously, “do you suppose they’d have an old stick like him!”
“What,” exclaimed Merrison. “Is Cheeseman in after all, then?”
“Eh?”
“Is Cheeseman in, can’t you hear?”
“I never said he was,” replied Brown, majestically.
This was rather too much, and a simultaneous rush was made for the pompous town boy, and the secret forcibly extracted in double quick time.
“Now,” cried one of the Limpets, giving his arm a premonitory screw, “out with it, or I’m sorry for you.”
“Here, let go my arm, you cad, I say; oh! you hurt! let go, I — oh! oh! Cheeseman’s in!”
The arm was flung away in disgust as a simultaneous groan greeted the announcement.
“How much by?” demanded the inquisitors, once more preparing to apply the screw.
But Brown had had quite enough of it, and answered glibly, “Eight hundred and twenty-five majority!”
This was a terrible blow, and in the general dismay which followed, Brown was temporarily overlooked.
“Eight hundred and twenty-five!” exclaimed Merrison. “Why, it’s an awful licking. Every one was sure Pony would be five hundred ahead.”
“It’s foul play and bribery, depend on it,” said another.
“Or they’ve counted wrong.”
“Or Brown is telling lies!”
Now, if Brown had been a wise boy he would have taken advantage of the excitement which immediately followed his announcement to retreat quietly and rapidly up to the school, and he reproached himself greatly that he had not. For the ill-temper of the assembly was only too ready to fix on some object upon which to vent itself, and this last suggestion, coupled with the suspicion that Brown’s father had been one of the backers of the Radical candidate, brought the town boy once more into most uncomfortable notoriety.
He was hunted almost for his life round the playground and up to the school. It was no use for him to protest that he was out-and-out yellow, that his father had been on Pony’s committee. He was far too valuable a scapegoat to be let off; and when at last he managed to bolt headlong into the school and seek shelter in the master’s cloak-room, it is safe to say that though he himself felt rather the worse for the adventure, Willoughby on the whole felt rather better.
In due time the news was confirmed, and the school settled rather viciously down to its ordinary work. It was almost a relief when first school was over, and all those who had impositions to write were ordered to keep their places and begin their tasks.
What venom of wrath and disappointment could they not put into those unlucky lines! If the paper had only been the skin of the Radical Cheeseman, and the pens needles, how they would have delighted in their penalty!
Scarcely had they begun work, however, when the school messenger came round unexpectedly to summon the whole school to assemble in the Great Hall. What could it be? Was it another lecture? or had the doctor repented of letting them off so easy? Or was there to be another change in the captaincy? or what?
The hall soon filled, and every one waited impatiently for the doctor. He arrived presently, with a letter in his hand and a somewhat important look on his face.
“The last time I spoke in this room,” said he, “I had to discharge the painful duty of punishing the whole school for a serious and inexcusable act of insubordination.”
“Why do they always call it a painful duty?” inquired the artless Telson of his ally; “I’m sure it doesn’t hurt them.”
“Silence! whoever is speaking!” said the doctor, s
ternly. “I hope what was said then will not be forgotten. An act of that kind could not possibly be allowed to pass without punishment, and any repetition of it would entail the severest measures. However, I say no more of that at present. I have called you together to read to you a letter I have just received from the newly-elected Member for Shellport, Mr Cheeseman.”
As the doctor pronounced this unpopular name, one hardy junior, quite mistaking the gravity of the occasion, began a low hiss.
Before the infection could spread the doctor suddenly laid down the letter, and with a voice of thunder demanded, “Who is that? Stand up, sir, in your place!”
The luckless form of the youthful Lawkins, pale and scared, rose from a back bench.
“Leave the room, sir!” said the doctor, wrathfully, “and write out your imposition double, and come to me after third school!”
Poor Lawkins retired, and the assembly, being warned by his awful example, heard the doctor out without further interruption.
“Mr Cheeseman writes as follows —
“‘Dear Dr Patrick, — I hope I need no apology for writing to you on a matter affecting the boys under your charge. A large number of these young politicians, as you are aware, took a somewhat active part in the recent election, in which it was not my good fortune to be their favourite candidate. I understand that their crusade into the town was not only without your permission, but in direct opposition to your wishes; and I conclude, that being so, the offenders have merited the punishment due for such escapades. The election, as you know, is now decided, and I am anxious that one of my first acts in my new capacity should be one of intercession with you to take as lenient a view as you can of this schoolboy freak; and if you should find it consistent with your duty to remit any penalty that may have been inflicted, I shall be as grateful to you as no doubt your boys will be.’
“‘I am, dear doctor,’
“‘Yours faithfully,’
“‘A. Cheeseman.’”
The doctor laid down the letter amidst ominous silence, which even the feeble cheers of Bosher, Brown, and a few others barely disturbed.
“In consideration of this generous letter,” he continued, “I have decided to remit the impositions I gave on Saturday, and also to withdraw the prohibition about the half-holiday. The matter of the monitors I cannot reconsider. I may suggest that, after what has happened, it would be a graceful act on the part of the boys to send Mr Cheeseman a letter of thanks, at any rate, if not of apology. You are now dismissed.”
The Willoughby Captains Page 24
