Chapter Twenty Five.
Loman in Luck.
While we have been talking of Oliver and Wraysford, and of the manner in which the results of the Nightingale examination affected them and the class to which they belonged, the reader will hardly have forgotten that there was another whose interest in that result was fully as serious and fully as painful.
Loman had been counting on gaining the scholarship to a dead certainty. From the moment when it occurred to him he would be able to free himself of his money difficulties with Cripps by winning it, he had dismissed, or seemed to dismiss, all further anxiety from his mind. He never doubted that he in the Sixth could easily beat the two boys in the Fifth; and though, as we have seen, he now and then felt a sneaking misgiving on the subject, it never seriously disturbed his confidence.
Now, however, he was utterly floored. He did not need to wait for the announcement of the results to be certain he had not won, for he had known his fate the moment his eyes glanced down the questions on the paper on the morning of examination.
At his last interview with Cripps that memorable Saturday afternoon, he had promised confidently to call at the Cockchafer next Thursday with the news of the result, as a further guarantee for the payment of the thirty pounds, never doubting what that result would be. How was he to face this interview now?
He could never tell Cripps straight out that he had been beaten in the examination; that would be the same thing as telling him to go at once to the Doctor or his father with the document which the boy had signed, and expose the whole affair. And it would be no use making a poor mouth to the landlord of the Cockchafer and begging to be forgiven the debt; Loman knew enough by this time to feel convinced of the folly of that. What was to be done?
“I shall have to humbug the fellow some way,” said Loman to himself, as he sat in his study the afternoon after the announcement of the result. And then followed an oath.
Loman had been going from bad to worse the last month. Ever since he had begun, during the holidays, regularly to frequent the Cockchafer, and to discover that it was his interest to make himself agreeable to the man he disliked and feared, the boy’s vicious instincts had developed strangely. Company which before would have offended him, he now found—especially when it flattered him—congenial, and words and acts from which in former days he would have shrunk now came naturally.
“I shall have to humbug the fellow somehow,” said he; “I only wish I knew how;” and then Loman set himself deliberately to invent a lie for Mr Cripps.
A charming afternoon’s occupation this for a boy of seventeen!
He sat and pondered for an hour or more, sometimes fancying he had hit upon the object of his search, and sometimes finding himself quite off the tack. Had Cripps only known what care and diligence was being bestowed on him that afternoon he would assuredly have been highly nattered.
At length he seemed to come to a satisfactory decision, and, naturally exhausted by such severe mental exertion, Loman quitted his study and sought in the playground the fresh air and diversion he so much needed. One of the first boys he met there was Simon. “Hullo, Loman!” said that amiable genius, “would you have believed it?”
“Believed what?” said Loman.
“Oh! you know, I thought you knew, about the Nightingale, you know. I say, how jolly low you came out!”
“Look here! you’d better hold your row!” said Loman, surlily, “unless you want a hiding.”
“Oh; it’s not that, you know. What I meant was about Greenfield senior. Isn’t that a go?”
“What about him? Why can’t you talk like an ordinary person, and not like a howling jackass?”
“Why, you know,” said Simon, off whom all such pretty side compliments as these were wont to roll like water off a duck’s back—“why, you know, about that paper?”
“What paper?” said Loman, impatiently. “The one that was stolen out of the Doctor’s study, you know. Isn’t that a go? But we’re going to hush it up. Honour bright!”
Loman’s face at that moment was anything but encouraging. Somehow, this roundabout way of the poet’s seemed particularly aggravating to him, for he turned quite pale with rage, and, seizing the unhappy bard by the throat, said, with an oath, “What do you mean, you miserable beast? What about the paper?”
“Oh!” said Simon, not at all put about by this rough handling—“why, don’t you know? we know who took it, we do; but we’re all going to—”
But at this point Simon’s speech was interrupted, for the very good reason that Loman’s grip on his throat became so very tight that the wretched poet nearly turned black in the face.
With another oath the Sixth Form boy exclaimed, “Who took it?”
“Why—don’t you know?—oh!—oh, I say, mind my throat!—haven’t you heard?—why, Greenfield senior, you know!”
Loman let go his man suddenly and stared at him.
“Greenfield senior?” he exclaimed in amazement.
“Yes; would you have thought it? None of us would—we’re all going to hush it up, you know, honour bright we are.”
“Who told you he took it?”
“Why, you know, I saw him;” and here Simon giggled jubilantly, to mark what astonishment his disclosure was causing.
“You saw him take it?” asked Loman, astounded.
“Yes; that is, I saw him coming out of the Doctor’s study with it.”
“You did?”
“Yes; that is, of course he must have had it; and he says so himself.”
“What, Greenfield says he took the paper?” exclaimed Loman, in utter astonishment.
“Yes; that is, he doesn’t say he didn’t; and all the fellows are going to cut him dead, but we mean to hush it up if we can.”
“Hush yourself up, that’s what you’d better do,” said Loman, turning his back unceremoniously on his informant, and proceeding, full of this strange news, on his solitary walk. What was in his mind as he went along I cannot tell you. I fancy it was hardly sorrow at the thought that a schoolfellow could stoop to a mean, dishonest action, nor, I think, was it indignation on Wraysford’s or his own account.
Indeed, the few boys who passed Loman that afternoon were struck with the cheerfulness of his appearance. Considering he had been miserably beaten in the scholarship examination, this show of satisfaction was all the more remarkable.
“The fellow seems quite proud of himself,” said Callonby to Wren as they passed him.
“He’s the only fellow who is, if that’s so,” said Wren.
Loman stopped and spoke to them as they came up.
“Hullo! you fellows,” said he, in as free and easy a manner as one fellow can assume to others who he knows dislike him, “I wanted to see you. Which way are you going?—back to the school?”
“Wren and I are going a stroll together,” said Callonby, coldly; “good-bye.”
“Half a minute,” said Loman. “I suppose you heard the results of the Nightingale read out.”
“Considering I was sitting on the same form with you when they were, I suppose I did,” said Wren.
“That’s all right,” said Loman, evidently determined not to notice the snubbing bestowed on him. “Mine wasn’t a very loud score, was it? Seventy! I was surprised it was as much!”
The two Sixth boys looked at him inquiringly.
“The fact is, I never tried to answer,” said Loman, “and for a very good reason. I suppose you know.”
“No—what?” asked they.
“Haven’t you heard? I thought it was all over the school. You heard about the Doctor missing a paper?”
“Yes; what about it? Was it found, or lost, or what?”
“No one owned to having taken it, that’s certain.”
“I should hope not. Not the sort of thing any fellow here would do.”
“That’s just what I should have thought,” said Loman. “But the fact is, some one did take it—you can guess who—and you don’t suppose I was going to be fool enough to take any trouble over my answers when I knew one of the other fellows had had the paper in his pocket a day and a half before the exam.” And here Loman laughed.
“Do you mean to say Greenfield stole it?” exclaimed both the friends at once, in utter astonishment.
“I mean to say you’re not far wrong. But you’d better ask some of the Fifth. It’s all come out, I hear, there.”
“And you knew of it before the exam?”
“I guessed it; or you may be sure I’d have taken a little more trouble over my answers. It wasn’t much use as it was.”
Loman had the satisfaction of seeing the two Sixth boys depart in amazement, and the still greater satisfaction of seeing them a little later in confidential conference with Simon, from whom he guessed pretty correctly they would be sure to get a full “all-round” narrative of the whole affair.
“I’m all right with the Sixth, anyhow,” muttered he to himself. “I only wish I was as right with that blackguard Cripps.”
“That blackguard Cripps” had, next afternoon, the peculiar pleasure of welcoming his young friend and patron under the hospitable roof of the Cockchafer. As usual, he was as surprised as he was delighted at the honour done him, and could not imagine for the life of him to what he was indebted for so charming a condescension. In other words, he left Loman to open the business as best he could.
“I promised to come and tell you about the exam, didn’t I?”
“Eh? Oh, yes, to be sure. That was last Saturday. Upon my word, I’d quite forgotten.”
Of course Loman knew this was false; but he had to look pleasant and answer, “Well, you see, my memory was better than yours.”
“Right you are, young captain. And what about this here fifty-pound dicky-bird you’ve been after?”
“The Nightingale?” said Loman. “Oh, it’s all right, of course; but the fact is, I forgot when I promised you the money now, that of course they—”
“Oh, come now, none of your gammon,” said Mr Cripps, angrily; “a promise is a promise, and I expect young swells as makes them to keep them, mind that.”
“Oh, of course I’ll keep them, Cripps. What I was saying was that they don’t pay you the money till the beginning of each year.”
Loman omitted to mention, as he had omitted to mention all along, that young gentlemen who win scholarships do not, as a rule, have the money they win put into their hands to do as they like with. But this was a trifling slip of the memory, of course!
“I don’t care when they pay you your money! All I know is I must have mine now, my young dandy. Next week the time’s up.”
“But, Cripps, how can I pay you unless I’ve got the money?”
“No, no; I’ve had enough of that, young gentleman. This time I’m a-going to have my way, or the governor shall know all about it,—you see!”
“Oh, don’t say that!” said Loman. “Wait a little longer and it will be all right, it really will.”
“Not a bit of it. That’s what you said three months ago,” replied Cripps.
“I won’t ask you again,” pleaded the boy; “just this time, Cripps.”
“Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, that you ought,” exclaimed the virtuous landlord of the Cockchafer, “a keeping a honest man out of his money!”
“Oh, but I’m certain to have it then—that is, next to certain.”
“Oh! then what you’re telling me about this here Nightingale of yours is a lie, is it?” said the ’cute Mr Cripps. “You ain’t got it at all, ain’t you?”
Loman could have bitten his tongue off for making such a blunder.
“A lie? No; that is—Why, Cripps, the fact is—” he stammered, becoming suddenly very red.
“Well, drive on,” said Cripps, enjoying the boy’s confusion, and proud of his own sharpness.
“The fact is—I was going to tell you, Cripps, I was really; there’s been something wrong about this exam. One of the fellows stole one of the papers, and so got the scholarship unfairly.”
“And I can make a pretty good guess,” said Mr Cripps, with a grin, “which of the fellows that gentleman was.”
“No, it wasn’t me, Cripps, really,” said Loman, pale and quite humble in the presence of his creditor; “it was one of the others—Greenfield in the Fifth; the fellow, you know, who struck you on Saturday.”
“What, him?” exclaimed Cripps, astonished for once in a way. “That bloke? Why, he looked a honest sort of chap, he did, though I do owe him one.”
“Oh,” said Loman, following up this temporary advantage, “he’s a regular swindler, is Greenfield. He stole the paper, you know, and so won the scholarship, of course. I was certain of it, if it hadn’t been for that. I mean to have a row made about it, and there’s certain to be another exam, so that I’m sure of the money if you’ll only wait.”
“And how long do you want me to wait, I’d like to know?” said Cripps.
“Oh, till after Christmas, please, at any rate. It’ll be all right then, I’ll answer for that.”
“You’ll answer for a lot of things, it strikes me, young gentleman,” said Cripps, “before you’ve done.”
There were signs of relenting in this speech which the boy was quick to take advantage of.
“Do wait till then!” he said, beseechingly.
Cripps pretended to meditate.
“I don’t see how I can. I’m a poor man, got my rent to pay and all that. Look here, young gentleman, I must have 10 pounds down, if I’m to wait.”
“Ten pounds! I haven’t as much in the world!” exclaimed Loman. “I can give you five pounds, though,” he added. “I’ve just got a note from home to-day.”
“Five’s no use,” said Cripps, contemptuously, “wouldn’t pay not the interest. You’ll have to make it a tenner, young gentleman.”
“Don’t say that, Cripps, I’d gladly do it if I could; I’d pay you every farthing, and so I will if you only wait.”
“That’s just the way with you young swells. You get your own ways, and leave other people to get theirs best way they can. Where’s your five-pound?”
Loman promptly produced this, and Cripps as promptly pocketed it, adding, “Well, I suppose I’ll have to give in. How long do you say—two months?”
“Three,” said Loman. “Oh, thanks, Cripps, I really will pay up then.”
“You’d better, because, mind you, if you don’t, I shall walk straight to the governor. Don’t make any mistake about that.”
“Oh, yes, so you may,” said the wretched Loman, willing to promise anything in his eagerness.
Finally it was settled. Cripps was to wait three months longer; and Loman, although knowing perfectly well that there was absolutely less chance then of having the money than there had been now, felt a weight temporarily taken off his mind, and was all gratitude.
Of course, he stayed a while as usual and tasted Mr Cripps’s beer, and of course he met again not a few of his new friends—sharpers, most of them, of Cripps’s own stamp, or green young gentlemen of the town, like Loman himself. From one of the latter Loman had the extraordinary “good luck” that afternoon to win three pounds over a wager, a sum which he at once handed over to Cripps in the most virtuous way, in further liquidation of his debt.
Indeed, as he left the place, and wandered slowly back to Saint Dominic’s, he felt quite encouraged.
“There’s eight pounds of it paid right off,” said he to himself; “and before Christmas something is sure to turn up. Besides, I’m sure to get some more money from home between now and then. Oh, it’ll be all right!”
So saying he tried to dismiss the matter from his mind and think of pleasanter subjects, such, for instance, as Oliver’s crime, and his own clever use of it to delude the Sixth.
Things altogether were looking up with Loman. Cheating, lying, and gambling looked as if they would pay after all!
Chapter Twenty Six.
At Coventry.
Were you ever at Coventry, reader? I don’t mean the quaint old Warwickshire city, but that other place where from morning till night you are shunned and avoided by everybody? Where friends with whom you were once on the most intimate terms now pass you without a word, or look another way as you go by? Where, whichever way you go, you find yourself alone? Where every one you speak to is deaf, every one you appear before is blind, every one you go near has business somewhere else? Where you will be left undisturbed in your study for a week, to fag for yourself, study by yourself, disport yourself with yourself? Where in the playground you will be as solitary as if you were in the desert, in school you will be a class by yourself, and even in church on Sundays you will feel hopelessly out in the cold among your fellow-worshippers?
If you have ever been to such a place, you can imagine Oliver Greenfield’s experiences during this Christmas term at Saint Dominic’s.
When the gentlemen of the Fifth Form had once made up their minds to anything, they generally carried it through with great heartiness, and certainly they never succeeded better in any undertaking than in this of “leaving Oliver to himself.”
The only drawback to their success was that the proceeding appeared to have little or no effect on the very person on whose behalf it was undertaken. Not that Oliver could be quite insensible of the honours paid him. He could not—they were too marked for that. And without doubt they were as unpleasant as they were unmistakable. But, for any sign of unhappiness he displayed, the whole affair might have been a matter of supreme indifference to him. Indeed, it looked quite as much as if Greenfield had sent the Fifth to Coventry as the Fifth Greenfield. If they determined none of them to speak to him, he was equally determined none of them should have the chance; and if it was part of their scheme to leave him as much as possible to himself, they had little trouble in doing it, for he, except when inevitable, never came near them.
Of course this was dreadfully irritating to the Fifth! The moral revenge they had promised themselves on the disgracer of their class never seemed to come off. The wind was taken out of their sails at every turn. The object of their aversion was certainly not reduced to humility or penitence by their conduct; on the contrary, one or two of them felt decidedly inclined to be ashamed of themselves and feel foolish when they met their victim.
Oliver always had been a queer fellow, and he now came out in a queerer light than ever.
Having once seen how the wind lay, and what he had to expect from the Fifth, he altered the course of his life to suit the new circumstances with the greatest coolness. Instead of going up the river in a pair-oar or a four, he now went up in a sculling boat or a canoe, and seemed to enjoy himself quite as much. Instead of doing his work with Wraysford evening after evening, he now did it undisturbed by himself, and, to judge by his progress in class, more successfully than ever. Instead of practising with the fifteens at football, he went in for a regular course of practice in the gymnasium, and devoted himself with remarkable success to the horizontal bar and the high jump. Instead of casting in his lot in class with a jovial though somewhat distracting set, he now kept his mind free for his studies, and earned the frequent commendation of the Doctor and Mr Jellicott.
Now, reader, I ask you, if you had been one of the Fifth of Saint Dominic’s would not all this have been very riling? Here was a fellow convicted of a shameful piece of deceit, caught, one might say, in the very act, and by his own conduct as good as admitting it. Here was a fellow, I say, whom every sensible boy ought to avoid, not only showing himself utterly indifferent to the aversion of his class-fellows, but positively thriving and triumphing before their very faces! Was it any wonder if they felt very sore, and increasingly sore on the subject of Oliver Greenfield?
One boy, of course, stuck to the exile through thick and thin. If Oliver had murdered all Saint Dominic’s with slow poison, Stephen would have stuck to him to the end, and he stuck to him now. He, at least, never once admitted that his brother was guilty. When slowly he first discovered what were the suspicions of the Fifth, and what was the common talk of the school about Oliver, the small boy’s indignation was past description. He rushed to his brother.
“Do you hear the lies the fellows are telling about you, Noll?”
“Yes,” said Oliver.
“Why don’t you stop it, and tell them?”
“What’s the use? I’ve told them once. If they don’t choose to believe it, they needn’t.”
Any other boy would, of course, have taken this as clear evidence of the elder brother’s guilt; but it only strengthened the small boy’s indignation.
“I’ll let them know, if you won’t!” and forthwith he went and proceeded to make himself a perfect nuisance in the school. He began with Wraysford.
“I say, Wray,” he demanded, “do you hear all the lies the fellows are telling about Noll?”
“Don’t make a row now,” said Wraysford, shortly. “I’m busy.” But Stephen had no notion of being put down.
“The fellows say he stole an exam paper, the blackguards! I’d like to punch all their heads, and I will too!”
“Clear out of my study, now,” said Wraysford, sharply.
Stephen stared at him a moment. Then his face grew pale as he grasped the meaning of it all.
“I say, Wray, surely you don’t believe it?” he cried.
“Go away now,” was Wraysford’s only answer.
But this did not suit Stephen, his blood was up, and he meant to have it out.
“Surely you don’t believe it?” he repeated, disregarding the impatience of the other; “you aren’t a blackguard, like the rest?”
“Do you hear what I tell you?” said Wraysford.
“No, and I don’t mean to!” retorted the irate Stephen. “If you were anything of a friend you’d stand up for Oliver. You’re a beast, Wraysford, that’s what you are!” continued he, in a passion. “You’re a blackguard! you’re a liar! I could kill you!”
And the poor boy, wild with rage and misery, actually flung himself blindly upon his brother’s old friend—the saviour of his own life.
Wraysford was not angry. There was more of pity in his face than anger as he took the small boy by the arm and led him to the door. Stephen no longer resisted. After giving vent to the first flood of his anger, misery got the upper hand of him, and he longed to go anywhere to hide it. He could have endured to know that Oliver was suspected by a good many of the fellows, but to find Wraysford among them was a cruel blow.
But in due time his indignation again came to the fore, and he ventured on another crusade. This time it was to Pembury. He knew before he went he had little enough to expect from the sharp-tongued editor of the Dominican, so he went hoping little.
To his surprise, however, Pembury was kinder than usual. He told him plainly that he did suspect Oliver, and explained why, and advised Stephen, if he were wise, to say as little about Oliver as possible at present. The young champion was quite cowed by this unexpected reception. He did his best to fly in a rage and be defiant, but it was no use, and he retired woefully discomfited from the interview.
Others to whom he applied, when once again his anger got the better of his wretchedness, met him with taunts, others with contempt, others with positive unkindness; and after a week Stephen gave it up and retired in dudgeon to the territory of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles, determined that there at least he would, at the edge of the knuckle, if needs be, compel a faction to declare for his brother.
In this undertaking, I need hardly say, he was eminently successful. There were those among the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles who were ready to declare for anybody or anything as long as there was a chance of a row on the head of it. Already the question of Greenfield senior had been occupying their magnificent minds. When the story first fell suddenly into their midst, it was so surprising that, like the frogs and the log in the fable, they were inclined to be a little shy of it. But, gradually becoming accustomed to it, and looking carefully into it from all sides, it seemed somehow to contain the promise of a jolly row, and their hearts warmed to it proportionally. No one quite liked to start the thing at first, for fear doubtless of not doing it full justice, but it only wanted a spark to kindle the whole lower school on the question of Greenfield senior. Stephen it was who supplied the spark.
He entered the Fourth Junior room one day, after one of the unsuccessful crusades of which we have spoken, utterly cast down and out of humour. He flung his cap on to the peg, and himself on to his seat, in an unusually agitated manner, and then, to the astonishment of everybody, broke out into tears!
This was a rare and glorious opportunity, of course, for Bramble.
“Beastly young blub-baby!” exclaimed that doughty hero, “you’re always blubbing! I never knew such a fellow to blub, did you, Padger?”
Padger said it was worse than the baby at home, and the two thereupon started a mocking caterwaul on their own account, in which not a few of their nearest and dearest friends joined.
This performance had the effect of restoring Stephen’s composure. Hastily dashing away his tears, he flew with unwonted wrath at his enemy. Bramble, however, managed to get behind Padger and the rest, and thus fortified shouted out, “Yah, boo, howling young sucking pig! go home to your mammy, or your great big cheat of a blackguard thief of a caddish big brother! Do you hear? Who stole the exam paper? Eh, Padger? Yah, boo, pack of sneaking Guinea-pigs!”
This last objurgation, which was quite unnecessary to the beauty or force of the speech, gave rise to a huge tumult.
The Guinea-pigs present took it up as a direct challenge to themselves, and it decided them instantly to declare in favour of Stephen and his big brother. Paul led the attack.
“Shut up, you young cad, will you?” said he; “you know well enough you stole the paper.”
Of course no one, not even Paul himself, attached any meaning to such an absurd accusation, but it came conveniently to hand.
This declaration of war was promptly taken up on all sides, and for a short period the Fourth Junior had a rather dusty appearance. When at length a little order was restored, a lively discussion on the crime of Greenfield senior ensued. The Tadpoles to a man believed in it, and gave it as their candid opinion that the fellow ought to be hung. “Yes, and expelled too!” added a few of the more truculent.
The Guinea-pigs, on the other hand, whatever they thought, protested vehemently that Greenfield senior was the most virtuous, heroic, saintly, and jolly fellow in all Saint Dominic’s, and denounced the Tadpoles and all the rest of the school as the most brutal ruffians in Christendom.
“They ought all to be expelled, every one of them,” said one; “all except Greenfield senior, and I hope they will be.”
“All I know is,” said Paul, “I’ll let them have a bit of my mind, some of them.”
“So will I,” said another.
“You haven’t got any to give ’em a bit of,” squealed Bramble, “so now!”
“All right, I’ll give ’em a bit of you then,” retorted Paul.
“You wouldn’t get any of them to touch him with a pair of tongs,” added another.
This was too much for Bramble, and another brief period of dust ensued. Then, comparative quiet once more prevailing, Paul said, “I tell you what, I mean to stick to Greenfield senior.”
“So do I,” said another youth, with his face all over ink. “I mean to fag for him.”
“So do I!” shouted another.
“So do I!” shouted another.
And a general chorus of assent hailed the idea.
“We’ll all fag for him, I vote, eh, Stee?” said Paul, “the whole lot of us! My eye, that’ll be prime! Won’t the others just about look black and blue!”
It was a magnificent idea! And no sooner conceived than executed.
There was a great rush of Guinea-pigs to Oliver’s study. He was not there. So much the better. They would give him a delightful surprise!
So they proceeded straightway to empty his cupboards and drawers, to polish up his cups, to unfold his clothes and fold them again, to take down his books and put them up again, to upset his ink and mop it up with one of his handkerchiefs, to make his tea and spill it on the floor, to dirty his collars with their inky hands, to clean his boots with his hat-brush, and many other thoughtful and friendly acts calculated to make the heart of their hero glad.
In the midst of their orgies, Wraysford and Pembury passed the door, and stopped to look in, wondering what on earth the tumult was about. But they were greeted with such a storm of yells and hisses that they passed on, a little uneasy in their minds as to whether or no hydrophobia had broken out in Saint Dominic’s.
After them a detachment of Tadpoles, headed by Bramble appeared on the scene, for the purpose of mocking. But, whatever their purpose may have been, it was abandoned for more active opposition when Paul presently emptied a tumblerful of lukewarm tea in the face of Master Bramble.
A notable battle was fought on the threshold of Greenfield senior’s study, in which many were wounded on both sides, and in the midst of which Oliver arrived on the scene, kicking right and left, and causing a general rout.
How their hero appreciated the attentions his admirers had paid him during his absence the Guinea-pigs did not remain or return to ascertain. They took for granted he was grateful, and bashfully kept out of the way of his thanks for a whole day.
After that their enthusiasm returned, but this time it found a new vent. They decided that, although they would all fag for him to the end of his days, they would not for a season, at any rate, solicit jobs from him, but rather encourage him by their sympathy and applause at a more respectful distance.
So they took to cheering him in the playground, and following him down the passages. And this not being enough, they further relieved themselves by hooting (at a respectful distance also) the chiefs of the senior school, whose opinions on the question of Greenfield senior were known not to agree with their own.
If Oliver was not grateful for all this moral support in his trouble, he must have been a villain indeed of the deepest dye. He never said in so many words he was grateful; but then the Guinea-pigs remembered that feelings are often too deep and too many for words, and so took for granted the thanks which their consciences told them they deserved.
Meanwhile a fresh number of the Dominican was in progress, and rapidly nearing the hour of publication.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
The “Dominican” on the Situation.
The examination at the beginning of the term had seriously interfered with the prospects of the Dominican. Pembury knew well enough it was no good trying to get anything out of the diligent section of his class-fellows at such a time; and he knew equally well that a number contributed entirely by the idlers of the Fifth would neither be creditable to the paper nor appreciated by any one outside.
So like a prudent man he held back patiently till the examinations were over, and then pounced down on his men with redoubled importunity.
“Look here,” said he one day to Ricketts, “when are you going to let me have that paper of yours?”
“What paper do you mean?” demanded Ricketts.
“Why for the Dominican, of course; you don’t suppose I want one of your cast-off exam papers, do you?”
“Oh, I can’t do anything for the Dominican this time,” said Ricketts.
“Yes, you can, and yes, you will,” coolly replied Anthony.
“Who says I will?” demanded Ricketts, inclined to be angry.
“It sounds as if I do,” replied the editor. “Why of course you’ll do something for it, Rick?”
“I’d be glad enough, but really I’m not in the humour,” said Ricketts.
“Why ever not?” demanded Tony.
“Why, the fact is,” said Ricketts, “I fancy the Fifth is not exactly looking up at present, and we’ve nothing particular to be proud of. If you take my advice you’ll keep the Dominican quiet for a bit.”
“My dear fellow, that’s the very thing we mustn’t do. Don’t you see, you old duffer you, that if we shut up shop and retire into private life, everybody will be thinking we daren’t hold up our heads? I mean to hold up my head, for one,” added Tony, proudly, “if there were a thousand Greenfields in the class; and I mean to make you hold up yours too, old man. It’ll be time enough to do the hang-dog business when we all turn knaves; but till we do, we’ve as good a right to be known at Saint Dominic’s as anybody else. So none of your humbug, Rick. We’ll get out an extra good Dominican, and let the fellows see we’re alive and kicking.”
This speech had the required effect. It not only won over Ricketts, but most of the other leading spirits of the Fifth, who had been similarly holding back.
Tony was not the fellow to let an advantage go by. Having once got his men into a becoming frame of mind, he kept them well in hand and worked them up into something like the old enthusiasm on the subject of the Dominican.
Every one was determined the present number should be an out-and-out good one, and laboured and racked his brains accordingly.
But somehow or other the fellows had never found it so hard, first to get inspirations, and then to put them down on paper, as they did at present. Every one thought he had something very fine and very clever to say if he could only find expression for it. The amount of brain-cudgelling that went on over this Dominican was simply awful. Wraysford gave it up in disgust. Ricketts, Bullinger, Tom Senior, and others stumbled through their tasks, and could only turn out lame productions at the best. Even Pembury’s lucubrations lacked a good deal of their wonted dash and spirit. The cloud which was hanging over the Fifth seemed to have overshadowed its genius for a while.
Still Pembury kept his men at it and gave them no peace till their productions, such as they were, were safe in his hands. One boy only was equal to the emergency; that I need hardly say was Simon. He was indeed more eloquent than ever. He offered Pembury a poem of forty verses, entitled, “An Elegy on the Wick of a Candle that had just been blown out,” to begin with, and volunteered to supplement this contribution with one or two smaller pieces, such as, “My Little Lark,” or “An Adventure outside the Dormitory Door,” or “Mind Mewsings.”
Pembury prudently accepted all, and said he would insert what he thought fit, an assurance which delighted Simon, who immediately sat down and wrote some more “pieces,” in case at the last moment there might be room for them too. But, in spite even of these valuable contributions, the Dominican fell flat. There were a few good things in it here and there, but it was far below its ordinary form; and not a few of the writers repented sorely that ever they had put pen to paper to help produce it.
The chief amusement of the paper was contained in a “New Code of Regulations for the Better Management of Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles,” from the editor’s pen. It began thus:
“A society has lately been started at Saint Dominic’s for the preservation and management of Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles. The following are some of the rules to be observed:—
“Any one owning a Guinea-pig or Tadpole is to be responsible for washing it with soap and hot water at least twice a day.
“Any one owning a Guinea-pig or Tadpole is to supply the rest of the school with cotton wool and scent.
“No Guinea-pig or Tadpole is on any account to use hair oil or grease which has not been sanctioned by a joint committee of the Fifth, Sixth, and masters.
“During the approaching winter, every one possessing a Guinea-pig or Tadpole shall be at liberty, providing it is regularly washed, to use it as a warming-pan for his own bed.”
The small tribe of furious juniors who as usual had crowded round the paper on the morning of publication to get “first read,” broke forth at this point into a howl of exasperation.
“They won’t! I’ll see they won’t use me as a warming-pan, won’t you, Padger? The brutes! I’ll bite their horrid cold feet if they stick them against me, that’s what I’ll do.”
“I’ll keep a pin to stick into them,” said another.
“I’ll get some leeches and put on their legs,” shouted another.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Stephen, changing the subject, “it’s cool cheek of them calling us ‘it,’ as if we were things.”
“So they have,” exclaimed Paul; “oh, I say, that’s too much; I’ll let them know I’m not a thing.”
“Yes, you are a thing, isn’t he, Padger? A regular it,” exclaimed the vindictive Bramble. “Yah, boo, old ‘its,’ both of you.”
“Hold hard,” said some one, just as the usual hostilities were about to commence. “Listen to this.” And he read the next “regulation”:—
“Immediate steps are to be taken to pickle a Tadpole as a specimen for the school museum. The following is a recipe for this. Take the ugliest, dirtiest, noisiest, and most ignorant specimen that can be found. Lift it carefully with a pair of tongs into a bath full of vinegar. Close the lid and let it remain there to soak for a week. At the end of that time lift it out and scrape it well all over with a sharp substance, to get off the first coating of grime. Soak again for another week and scrape again, and so on till the ninth or tenth coating is removed. After that the creature will appear thinner than when it began. Hang it up to dry in a clean place, and be sure no other Guinea-pigs or Tadpoles come near it. Then put it in a clean gown, and quickly, before it can get at the ink, put it in a large glass bottle and fasten down the stopper. Label it, ‘Specimen of a curious reptile formerly found at Saint Dominic’s. Now happily extinct.’”
“There you are,” said Paul, when, after much blundering and sticking at words, this remarkable paragraph had been read through. “There you are, Bramble, my boy; what do you think of that?” Bramble had no difficulty in intimating what he thought of it in pretty strong language, and for some little time the further reading of the Dominican was suspended.
When, however, the row was over, the group had been joined by several of the elder boys, who appeared to appreciate Simon’s poem, “An Adventure outside the Dormitory Door.” It was called an “epick,” and began thus. The reader must be contented with quite a short extract:—
“Outside the Dormitory door
I walked me slow upon the floor
And just outside the Doctor’s study
A youth I met all in a hurry;
His name perhaps I had better not tell
But like a snail retire into my shell.”
This last simile had evidently particularly delighted the poet. So much so, that he brought it in at the close of every succeeding verse. The “epick” went on, of course, to unravel the threads of the “adventure,” and to intimate pretty plainly who “the youth” referred to was. To any one not interested in the poet or his epic the production was a dull one, and the moral at the end was not quite clear even to the most intellectual.
“Now I must say farewell; yet stay, methinks
How many many youths do sit on brinks.
Oh joy to feel the soft breeze sigh
And in the shady grove to wipe the eye,
It makes me feel a man I know full well,
But like a snail I’ll now retire within my shell.”
These were the only articles in the Dominican that afforded any amusement. The remainder of the paper, made up of the usual articles sneering at the Sixth and crowing over the school generally, were very tame. The result of the Nightingale Scholarship was announced as follows:—
“The examination for the Nightingale Scholarship was held on the 1st October. The scholarship was lost by Loman of the Sixth by 70 marks to 97. A good performance on the whole.”
This manner of announcing the unfortunate result was ingenious, and did Tony credit. For, whether his object was to annoy the Sixth or to shield the Fifth, he succeeded amply in both. There were some, however, in the Fifth who were by no means content that Greenfield should be let off so easily in the Dominican, and these read with interest the following “Notes from Coventry,” contributed by Bullinger. Anthony had accepted and inserted them against his better judgment.
“If the fellow is at Coventry, why not let him stay there?” he said to Bullinger. “The best thing we can possibly do is to let him alone.”
“I don’t see it,” said Bullinger. “Everybody will think we are trying to shield him if we keep so quiet. Anyhow, here’s my paper. You can put it in or not, which you like. I’m not going to write anything else.”
Pembury took the paper and put it in. The reader may like to hear a few of the “Notes from Coventry.”
“The quaint old city of Coventry has lately been visited by a ‘gentleman’ from Saint Dominic’s, who appears so charmed with all he has seen and heard that it is expected he will remain there for some considerable time.
“The object of his visit is of a private nature, possibly for the purpose of scientific research, for which absolute quiet is necessary. His experiments are chiefly directed to the making or taking of examination papers, and on his return we may look for valuable discoveries. Meanwhile he sees very little company. The society in which he most delights is that of certain Guinea-pigs, between whom and himself a special bond of sympathy appears to exist. It is a touching sight to see him taking his daily walks in company with these singular animals; who, be it said, seem to be the only creatures able to appreciate his character. Curiously enough, since he left us, Saint Dominic’s has not collapsed; indeed, it is a singular fact that now he is away it is no longer considered necessary for every fellow to lock his study-door when he goes out, and keep the key.” And so on.
Miserable stuff indeed, as Stephen thought, but quite stinging enough to wound him over and over again as he saw the sneers and heard the laughs with which the reading of the extract was greeted. Everybody evidently was against his brother, and, with a deep disgust and fury at his heart, he left them to laugh by themselves and returned to Oliver’s study.
He found his brother in what were now his usual cheerful spirits. For after the first week or so of his being sent to Coventry, Oliver, in his own study at least, kept up a cheerful appearance.
“Hullo, Stee,” said he as the young brother entered. “You’re just in time. Here’s a letter from mother.”
“Is there? How jolly! Read it out, Noll.”
So Oliver read it out. It was an ordinary, kind, motherly epistle, such as thousands of schoolboys get every week of the school year. All about home, and what is going on, how the dogs are, where sister Mary has been to, how the boiler burst last week, which apple-tree bore most, and so on; every scrap of news that could be scraped up from the four winds of heaven was in that letter.
And to the two brothers, far away, and lonely even among their schoolfellows, it came like a breath of fresh air that morning.
“I have been so proud,” went on Mrs Greenfield towards the end of the letter, “ever since I heard of dear Oliver’s success in winning the scholarship. Not so much for the value of it, though that is pretty considerable, but because I am so sure he deserves it.”
“Hear, hear!” put in Stephen.
“Poor Mr Wraysford! I hope he is not very much disappointed. How nice it would have been if there had been two scholarships, and each could have had one! I suppose the Fifth is making quite a hero of Oliver. I know one foolish old woman who would like to be with her boys this moment to share their triumph.”
Oliver laughed bitterly.
“That would be a treat for her!”
Stephen, very red in the face, was too furious for words, so Oliver went on:
“And if, instead of triumph, they should ever be in trouble or sorrow, still more would I love to be with them, to share it. But most of all do I trust and pray they may both make a constant friend of the Saviour, who wants us all to cast our burdens on Him, and follow the example He has left us in all things.”
There was a silence for some moments after this home message fell on the brothers’ ears. The hearts of both were full—too full for words—but I think, had the widow-mother far away been able to divine the secret thoughts of her boys, hope would have mingled with all her pity and all her solicitude on their account.
But the old trouble, for the present at any rate, was destined to swamp all other emotions.
Oliver continued reading: “Christmas will not be so very long now in coming. We must have a real snug, old-fashioned time of it here. Uncle Henry has promised to come, and your cousins. It would be nice if you could persuade Mr Wraysford to come here then. I am so anxious to see him again. Tell him from me I reckon on him to be one of our party if he can possibly manage it.”
“Baa!” exclaimed Stephen. “The beast! I’ll let her know what sort of blackguard the fellow is!”
“Easy all, young ’un,” said Oliver.
“I shan’t easy all, Noll!” exclaimed the boy; “he is a blackguard, you know he is, and I hate him.”
“I think he’s a fool just now,” said Oliver, “but—well, he fished you out of the Thames, Stee; you oughtn’t to call him a blackguard.”
“I wish he’d left me in the Thames,” said Stephen, nearly breaking down. “I’ve been miserable enough this term for half a dozen.”
Oliver looked hard and long at his young brother. It never seemed to have occurred to him before how deeply the boy took the trouble of his elder brother to heart.
Now if Oliver had really been innocent, the natural thing would have been—wouldn’t it?—for him to be quite cut up at this exhibition of feeling, and fall on his brother’s neck and protest once more that he never did or would or could do such a thing as that he was suspected of. But instead of this, the hardened villain turned quite cross when he saw his brother at the point of tears, and exclaimed, hurriedly, “Don’t make a young fool of yourself, Stee, whatever you do. It won’t do a bit of good.”
“But, Noll, old man,” pleaded the boy, “why ever don’t you—”
“Because I don’t choose, and it would be no use if I did,” retorted the other.
“But the fellows all suspect you!”
“I can’t help that, if they do. Come now, Stee, we’ve had enough of this. It’ll all come right some day, you see, and meanwhile what do you say to a turn in the gymnasium?”
“Well, but,” persisted Stephen, not half satisfied, “you surely aren’t going to give mother’s message to Wraysford? I don’t want him home at Christmas.”
“No one asked you if you did, you young duffer. But I don’t think, all the same, I shall give it just yet.”
They were walking down the big passage arm-in-arm in the direction of the gymnasium, and as Oliver spoke these last words the subject of their conversation appeared advancing towards them.
Who could have believed that those three friends who only a month or two ago were quoted all over Saint Dominic’s as inseparables could ever meet and pass one another as these three met and passed one another now?
Wraysford coloured as he caught sight of his old ally, and looked another way. Oliver, more composed, kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, and appeared to be completely unconscious of the presence of any one but Stephen, who hung on to his arm, snorting and fuming and inwardly raging like a young tiger held in by the chain from his prey.
An odd meeting indeed, and a miserable one; yet to none of the three so miserable as to the injured Wraysford, who ever since the day of the Nightingale examination had not known a happy hour at Saint Dominic’s.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Mr Cripps at Saint Dominic’s.
Oliver Greenfield’s banishment from civilised society, however much it may have gratified the virtuous young gentlemen of the Fifth, was regarded by a small section of fellows in the Sixth with unmitigated disgust. These fellows were the leading spirits of the Saint Dominic Football Club, which was just about to open proceedings for the season. To them the loss of the best half-back in the school was a desperate calamity.
They raged and raved over the matter with all the fury of disappointed enthusiasts. They didn’t care a bit, it almost seemed, whether the fellow was a cheat or not. All they knew was, he was the quickest half-back and the safest drop-kick the school had, and here was the match with Landfield coming on, and, lo and behold! their man was in Coventry, forsooth, and not to be had out for love or money. Thus baulked, the Sixth Form athletes could afford to wax very virtuous and philanthropic on the subject of Coventry generally.
“The Doctor ought to put a stop to it,” said Stansfield, who this year occupied the proud position of captain of the fifteen.
“Why, we’ve not got a single man worth twopence behind the scrimmage!”
This was gratifying for Loman, one of the council of war, who usually played quarter or half-back in the matches.
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t get him to play if he is at Coventry,” said Callonby; “we didn’t send him there.”
“All very well,” said the captain; “if we got him we should lose Ricketts, and Bullinger, and Tom Senior, and Braddy, which would come to about the same thing.”
“And I shouldn’t play either,” said Loman, “if Greenfield played.”
Stansfield shrugged his shoulders and looked vicious.
“All child’s play!” said he. “They think it’s very grand and a fine spectacle and all that. But they ought to have more consideration for the credit of the school.”
“It’s not much to the credit of the school,” said Loman, “to have a fellow like him in the fifteen.”
“It’s less credit to have a pack of louts who tumble head over heels every time they try to pick up a ball, and funk a charge twice out of every thrice!” retorted Stansfield, who was one of the peppery order. “Greenfield’s worth any half-dozen of you, I tell you.”
“Better get him to play Landfield by himself,” growled Loman, who generally got the worst of it in discussions like this.
“It’s a plaguey nuisance, that’s what it is,” said Stansfield; “we are sure to get licked. Who’s to play half-back instead of him, I’d like to know?”
“Forrester, in the Fourth, plays a very good half-back,” said Callonby; “he’s tremendously quick on his feet.”
“Yes, but he can’t kick. I’ve a good mind to put Wraysford in the place. And yet he’s such a rattling steady ‘back’ I don’t like to move him.”
“Wraysford told me yesterday,” said Wren, “he wasn’t going to play.”
“What!” exclaimed Stansfield, starting up as if he had been shot. “Wraysford not going to play!”
“So he said,” replied Wren.
“Oh, this is a drop too much! Why ever not?”
“I don’t know. He’s been awfully down in the mouth lately; whether it is about the Nightingale, or—”
The captain gave a howl of rage.
“I wish that miserable brute of a Nightingale had been scragged, that I do! Everything’s stopped for the Nightingale! Who cares a button about the thing, I’d like to know? Wraysford can get dozens more of them after the football season’s over. Why, the Doctor gave out another scholarship to be gone in for directly after Christmas, only to-day. Can’t he go in for that?”
“So he will, I expect,” said Wren; “but I don’t fancy he’ll play, all the same, on Saturday.”
Stansfield groaned. “There go my two best men,” he said; “we may as well shut up shop and go in for croquet.”
A powerful deputation waited on Wraysford that same evening to try to prevail upon him to play in the fifteen. They had hard work to do it. He said he was out of form, and didn’t feel in the humour, and was certain they could get on well enough without him.
“Oh, no, we can’t,” said Stansfield. “I say, Wraysford,” he added, bluntly, “I expect it’s this Nightingale affair’s at the bottom of all this nonsense. Can’t you possibly patch it up, at any rate till after Saturday? I’d give my head to get you and Greenfield in the team.”
“Do play, Wraysford,” put in Callonby. “Don’t let the school be beaten just because you’ve got a row on with another fellow.”
“It’s not that at all,” said Wraysford, feeling and looking very uncomfortable. “It’s nothing to do with that. It’s just that I’m not in the humour. I’d really rather not.”
“Oh, look here,” cried Stansfield; “that won’t wash. Come to oblige me, there’s a good fellow.”
In the end Wraysford gave in, and the captain went off half consoled to complete his preparations, and inveigh in his odd moments against all Nightingales and Coventrys, and examinations, and all such enemies and stumbling-blocks to the glorious old English sport of football.
Loman looked forward to the coming match with quite good spirits. Indeed, it was a long time since he had felt or appeared so light-hearted.
That very day he had received a most unexpected present in the shape of a five-pound note from an aunt, which sum he had promptly and virtuously put into an envelope and sent down to Mr Cripps in further liquidation of his “little bill.” Was ever such luck? And next week the usual remittance from home would be due; there would be another three or four pounds paid off. Loman felt quite touched at the thought of his own honesty and solvency. If only everybody in the world paid their debts as he did, what a happy state of things it would be for the country!
So, as I said, Loman looked forward to the football match in quite good spirits, just as a man who has been working hard and anxiously for eleven long months looks forward to his well-earned summer holiday. Things were looking up with him, and no mistake.
And then, just like his luck, the Doctor had that same day made the announcement, already referred to, of another scholarship to be competed for directly after Christmas. It was for Sixth form boys under seventeen, and he meant to go in for it! True, this scholarship was only for twenty pounds for a single year, but that was something. As far as he could see, Wraysford, who would get his move up at Christmas, would be the only man in against him, if he did go in, and he fancied he could beat Wraysford. For in the Nightingale exam he had not really tried his best, but this time he would and astonish everybody. Greenfield would scarcely go in for this exam, even if he got his move up; it was safe to conclude his recent exploit would suffice him in the way of exams, for some time to come.
And then, what could be more opportune than its coming off just after Christmas, at the precise time when Cripps would be looking for a final settlement of his account, or whatever little of it remained still to pay! Oh, dear! oh, dear! What a thing it is to be straight and honest! Everything prospers with a man when he goes in for being honest! Why, Loman was positively being bathed in luck at the present time!
The Saturday came at last. Stansfield had drilled his men as well as he could during the interval, and devoutly hoped that he had got a respectable team to cope with the Landfield fellows. If he could only have been sure of his half-back he would have been quite happy; and never a practice passed without his growling louder than ever at the disgraceful custom of sending useful behind-scrimmage men to Coventry. At the last moment he decided to give the responsible post to Loman, rather than move forward Wraysford from his position at “back”; and Loman’s usual place at quarter-back was filled up by young Forrester of the Fourth, greatly to that young gentleman’s trepidation and to the exultation of the Fourth Senior as a body, who felt terrifically puffed up to have one of their men actually in the first fifteen.
Some of my readers may perhaps know from actual experience what are the numerous and serious anxieties which always beset the captain of the football fifteen. If the fellow is worth his salt he knows to a nicety where he is strong and where he is weak; he knows, if the wind blows one way, which is the best quarter-back to put on the left and which on the right. He knows which of his “bulldogs” he can safely put into the middle of the scrimmage, and which are most useful in the second tier. He knows when to call “Kick!” to a man and when to call “Run!” and no man knows better when to throw the ball far out from touch, or when to nurse it along close to the line. It is all very well for outsiders to talk of football everlastingly as a game. My dear, good people, football is a science if ever there was a science; the more you know of it the more you will find that out.
This piece of lecturing is thrown in here for the purpose of observing that Stansfield was a model football captain. However worried and worrying and crabby he was in his ordinary clothes, in his football togs and on the field of battle he was the coolest, quickest, readiest, and cunningest general you could desire. He said no more than he could help, and never scolded his men while play was going on, and, best of all, worked like a horse himself in the thick of the fight, and looked to every one else to do the same.
Yet on this Saturday all the captain’s prowess and generalship could not win the match for Saint Dominic’s against Landfield.
The match began evenly, and for the first half of the time the game was one long succession of scrimmages in the middle of the ground, from which the ball hardly ever escaped, and when it did, escaped only to be driven back next moment into the “mush.”
“It’ll do at this rate!” thinks Stansfield to himself. “As long as they keep it among the forwards we shan’t hurt.”
Alas! one might almost have declared some tell-tale evil spirit had heard the boast and carried it to the ear of the enemy, for next moment half-time was called, the sides changed over, and with them the Landfielders completely reversed their tactics.
The game was no longer locked up in a scrimmage in the middle of the ground. It became looser all along the line; the ball began to slip through the struggling feet into the hands of those behind, who sent it shooting over the heads of the forwards into more open ground. The quarter-backs and half-backs on either side ran and got round the scrimmages; and when at last they were collared, took to ending up with an expiring drop-kick, which sent the ball far in the direction of the coveted goals.
Nothing could have happened worse for Saint Dominic’s, for the strain fell upon them just at their weakest point. Stansfield groaned as he saw chance after chance missed behind his scrimmages. Young Forrester played pluckily and hard at quarter-back, and shirked nothing; but he could not kick, and his short runs were consequently of little use. Callonby, of course, did good work, but Loman, the half-back, was woefully unsteady.
“What a jackass I was to put the fellow there!” said Stansfield to himself.
And yet Loman, as a rule, was a good player, with plenty of dash and not a little courage. It was odd that to-day he should be showing such specially bad form.
There goes the ball again, clean over the forwards’ heads, straight for him! He is going to catch it and run! No; he is not! He is going to take a flying kick! No, he is not; he is going to make his mark! No, he is not; he is going to dribble it through! Now if there is one thing fatal to football it is indecision. If you wobble about, so to speak, between half a dozen opinions, you may just as well sit down on the ground where you are and let the ball go to Jericho. Loman gets flurried completely, and ends by giving the ball a miserable side-kick into touch—to the extreme horror of everybody and the unmitigated disgust of the peppery Stansfield.
Yet had the captain and his men known the cause of all this—had they been aware that that flash, half-tipsy cad of a fellow who, with half a dozen of his “pals,” was watching the match with a critical air, there at the ropes was the landlord of the Cockchafer himself, the holder of Loman’s “little bill” for 30 pounds, they would perhaps have understood and forgiven their comrade’s clumsiness. But they did not.
Whatever had brought Cripps there? A thousand possibilities flashed through Loman’s mind as he caught sight of his unwelcome acquaintance in the middle of the match. Was he come to make a row about his money before all the school? or had anything fresh turned up, or what? And why on earth did he bring those other cads with him, all of whom Loman recognised as pot-house celebrities of his own acquaintance? No wonder if the boy lost his head and became flurried!
He felt miserable every time the ball flew over to Cripps’s side of the ground. There was a possibility the landlord of the Cockchafer had only come up out of curiosity, and, if so, might not have recognised his young friend among the players. But this delusion was soon dispelled.
The ball went again into touch—this time close to the spot occupied by the unwelcome group, and was about to be thrown out.
Stansfield signalled to Loman. “Go up nearer the line: close up.”
Loman obeyed, and as he did so there fell on his ears, in familiar tones, the noisy greeting, “What cheer, Nightingale? What cheer, my hearty? Stick to your man; eh, let him have it, Mr Loman! Two to one in half-sovereigns on Mr Loman.”
A laugh greeted this encouraging appeal, in the midst of which Loman, knowing full well every one had heard every word, became completely disconcerted, and let the ball go through his fingers as if it had been quicksilver.
This was too much for Stansfield’s patience.
“Go up forward, for goodness’ sake,” he exclaimed, “if you must play the fool! I’ll go half-back myself.”
Loman obeyed like a lamb, only too glad to lose himself in the scrimmages and escape observation.
The match went on—worse and worse for Saint Dominic’s. Despite Stansfield’s gallant efforts at half-back (where he had never played before), despite Wraysford’s steady play in goal, the ball worked up nearer and nearer the Dominican lines.
The Landfield men were quick enough to see the weak point of their enemies, and make use of the discovery. They played fast and loose, giving the ball not a moment’s peace, and above all avoiding scrimmages. The Saint Dominic’s forwards were thus made practically useless, and the brunt of the encounter fell on the four or five players behind, and they were not equal to it.
The calamity comes at last. One of the Landfield men gets hold of the ball, and runs down hard along the touch-line. Forrester is the quarter-back that side, and gallant as the Fourth Form boy is, his big opponent runs over him as a mastiff runs over a terrier.
Stansfield, anticipating this, is ready himself at half-back, and it will go hard with him indeed if he does not collar his man. Alas! just as the Landfielder comes to close quarters, and the Saint Dominic’s captain grips him round the waist, the ball flies neatly back into the hands of another of the enemy, who, amid the shouts of his own men and the crowd, makes off with it like fury, with a clear field before him, and only Wraysford between him and the Dominican goal.
“Look-out behind there!”
No need of such a caution to a “back” like Wraysford. He is looking out, and has been looking out ever since the match began.
But if he had the eyes of an Argus, and the legs of an Atlas, he could not prevent that goal. For the Landfield man has no notion of coming to close quarters; he is their crack drop-kick, and would be an ass indeed if he did not employ his talent with such a chance as this. He only runs a short way. Then he slackens pace. Wraysford rushes forward in front, the pursuing host rush on behind, but every one sees how it will be. The fellow takes a deliberate drop-kick at the goal, and up flies the ball as true as a rocket, clean over the posts, as certain a goal as Saint Dominic’s ever lost! It was no use crying over spilt milk, and for the rest of the game Stansfield relaxed no efforts to stay the tide of defeat. And he succeeded too, for though the ball remained dangerously near the school goal, and once or twice slipped behind, the enemy were unable to make any addition to their score before “Time” was called.
When the match was over, Loman tried his best to slip away unobserved by his respectable town acquaintances; but they were far too polite to allow him.
“Well,” cried Mr Cripps, coolly joining the boy as he walked with the other players back to the school—“well, you do do it, you do. Bless me! I call that proper sport, I do. What do you put on the game, bobs or sovereigns, eh? Never mind, I and my pals we wanted a dander, so we thought we’d look you up, eh? You know Tommy Granger here? I heard him saying as we came along he wondered what you’d stand to drink after it all.”
All Loman could do was to stand still as soon as this talk began, and trust his schoolfellows would walk on, and so miss all Mr Cripps’s disgusting familiarities.
“I say,” whispered he, in an agitated voice, “for goodness’ sake go away, Cripps! I shall get into an awful row if you don’t.”
“Oh, all serene, my young bantam,” replied Cripps, aloud, and still in the hearing of not a few of the boys. “I’ll go if you want it so particular as all that. I can tear myself away. Only mind you come and give us a look up soon, young gentleman, for I and my pals ain’t seen you for a good while now, and was afraid something was up. Ta! ta! Good-day, young gentlemen all. By-bye, my young Nightingales.”
Loman’s feelings can be more easily imagined than expressed when Cripps, saying these words, held out his hand familiarly to be shaken. The boy did shake it, as one would shake hands with a wolf, and then, utterly ashamed and disgraced, he made his way among his wondering schoolfellows up to the school.
Was this his luck, after all? A monitor known to be the companion and familiar friend of the disreputable cad at the Cockchafer! The boy who, if not liked, had yet passed among most of his schoolfellows as a steady, well-conducted fellow, now suddenly shown up before the whole school like this!
Loman went his way to his study, feeling that the mask was pretty nearly off his face at last, and that Saint Dominic’s knew him almost as he really was. Yet did they know all?
As Loman passed Greenfield’s study he stopped and peeped in at the door. The owner was sitting in his armchair, with his feet upon the mantelpiece, laughing over a volume of Pickwick till the tears came. And yet the crime Oliver was suspected of was theft and lying? Was it not strange—must it not have struck Loman as strange, in all his misery, that any one under such a cloud as Greenfield could think of laughing, while he, under a cloud surely no greater, felt the most miserable boy alive!