Chapter Thirty Two.
The “Dominican” comes round.
The Fifth were a good while coming round on the question of Greenfield senior. But the delay was more on account of pride than because they still considered their old class-fellow a knave. They had taken up such a grand position last term, and talked so magnificently about honour, and morality, and the credit of the school, that it was a sad come-down now to have to admit they had all been wrong, and still more that they had all been fools. And yet, after what had happened, they could no longer retain their suspicions of Oliver Greenfield.
A few of the better sort, like Pembury and Bullinger, had the courage, at whatever cost, to act up to their convictions, and declared at once that they had been wrong, and were ashamed of it.
The next step was to approach Oliver, and that was more difficult, for he was such a queer fellow there was no knowing where to have him. However, Pembury’s wit helped him over the difficulty as usual.
He was hobbling down the passage one morning when he suddenly encountered Oliver and Wraysford, arm-in-arm, approaching him. If at any time in his life Pembury did feel uncomfortable and awkward he felt it now. If he let Oliver go by this time without making it up somehow, the chance might never come again; but how to set about it, that was the difficulty, and every half-second brought the two nearer. Twenty different ideas flashed through his mind. He was not the sort of fellow to go to any one and eat humble-pie straight off. That was far too tame a proceeding. No, there was only one way he could think of, and he would chance that.
“Noll, old man,” said he, in the old familiar tones, “you’ve got a spare arm. May I take it?”
Oliver stopped short and looked at him for an instant in astonishment. Next moment, with a hearty “Rather!” he slipped his arm into that of the happy Pembury, and the three went on their way rejoicing, a sight and a moral for all Saint Dominic’s.
That was the whole of Anthony Pembury’s making up. As for Bullinger, he wrote his man a letter, worded in beautiful English, in the most elegant handwriting and punctuated to a nicety, setting forth his contrition, and his hope that Greenfield would henceforth reckon him among his friends—“Yours very sincerely, H. Bullinger.” This literary effort he carefully dispatched by a Guinea-pig to its destination, and awaited a reply with the utmost impatience. The reply was laconic, but highly satisfactory. It was a verbal one, given by Oliver himself in class that afternoon, who volunteered the information to the delighted Bullinger that it was a “jolly day.”
It was indeed a jolly day to that contrite youth. He never believed it would all be got over so easily. He had dreaded all sorts of scenes and lectures and humiliations, but here he was, by a single word, passed back straight into friendship, and no questions asked.
The sight of Oliver surrounded by these three friends, of whom it would have been hard to say which was the happiest, made a deep impression on the rest of the Fifth, and certainly did not tend to make them feel more comfortable as to what they ought to do in a similar direction.
“It’s all very well,” said Ricketts, when the question was being canvassed for the hundredth time among his immediate friends. “I dare say they are all right, but it makes it jolly uncomfortable for us.”
“They oughtn’t to have given in in this way without letting the rest of us know first,” said Braddy. “Just see what a corner it puts us in.”
“All I can say is,” said Tom Senior, “I’ll be better satisfied when I know who did collar that paper if Greenfield didn’t.”
“Oh, but,” said Simon, seeing a chance, “I can assure you I saw him when he took it. I was going—”
“Shut up, you great booby!” cried Ricketts; “who asked you anything about it?”
Simon modestly retired hereupon, and Braddy took up the talk.
“Yes, who did take the paper? that’s it. Greenfield must have done it. Why, he as good as admitted it last term.”
“Well, then, it’s very queer those fellows making up to him,” said Ricketts. “It’s no use our trying to send the fellow to Coventry when the others don’t back us up.”
“Wraysford always was daft about Greenfield,” said Tom Senior, “but I am astonished at Pembury and Bullinger.”
“All I can say is,” said Braddy, “Greenfield will have to ask me before I have anything to do with him.”
“And do you know,” said Ricketts, “I heard to-day he is down to play in the match against the County.”
“Is he?” exclaimed Braddy in excitement; “very well, then. I shall not play if he does. That’s all about that.”
Ricketts laughed.
“Awfully sorry, old man, but you’re not in the fifteen this time.”
Braddy’s face was a picture at this moment—he turned red and blue and white in his astonishment.
“What!” he exclaimed, as soon as he could find words. “I’m not in the team!”
“You’ll see the list on the notice board; you’d better go and look.”
Off went the wretched Braddy to be convinced of his fate.
“You’re in the team, Ricketts, I see,” said Tom Senior. “Shall you play if Greenfield does?”
“Don’t know,” said Ricketts. “A fellow doesn’t get a chance to play against the County every day. It’s precious awkward.”
“So it is; that’s just where we began, too,” said Tom, philosophically. And, as a matter of fact, whenever these young gentlemen of the Fifth started the subject of Greenfield senior among themselves, they always found themselves in the end at the identical place from which they had set out.
Nor were they the only boys at Saint Dominic’s in this dilemma. The Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles were equally taken aback by the new aspect of affairs. These young gentlemen had looked upon Oliver’s “row” with his class as a peculiar mercy designed specially for their benefit. They had hardly known such a happy time as that during which the row had lasted. Did they want a pretext for a battle? Greenfield senior was a glorious bone of contention. Did they want an object for an indignation meeting? What better object could they have than Greenfield senior? Did they want an excuse generally for laziness, disobedience, and tumult? Greenfield senior served for this too. Indeed, the name of the Fifth Form Martyr had passed into a household word among the lower school, either of glory or reproach, and round it the small fry rallied, as round an old flag of battle.
But now, both friend and foe were aghast. To the Guinea-pigs half the charm of their position had been that they were Greenfield senior’s sole champions in all Saint Dominic’s. While every one else avoided him, they stuck to him, week-days and Sundays. Now, however, they discovered, with something like consternation, that they no longer had the field to themselves.
The sight of Greenfield senior walking down the passage one day, arm-in-arm with Wraysford, and the next day with one arm in Wraysford’s and the other in Pembury’s, and the day after between Pembury and Bullinger, with Wraysford and Stephen in the rear, struck bewilderment and bitter jealousy to their hearts.
They had come out into the passage to cheer, but they went away silently and sadly, feeling that their very occupation was departed.
Bramble, always quick to see a chance, took advantage as usual of this panic.
“Hullo, I say, Guinea-pigs, you can shut up shop now, you know. We’re going to let off Greenfield senior this time, ain’t we, Padger? Jolly fellow, Greenfield senior.”
This was abominable! To have their hero and idol thus calmly taken out of their hands and appropriated by a set of sneaking Tadpoles was more than human patience could endure!
“Bah! A lot he’ll care for your letting him off!” exclaimed Paul, in dire contempt. “He wouldn’t touch you with a shovel.”
“Oh, yes, he would, though, wouldn’t he, Padger? And what do you think, Guinea-pigs? we’re going to get Greenfield senior to take the chair at one of our meetings!”
Bramble came out with the last triumphant announcement with a positive shout, which made the hearts of his adversaries turn cold. In vain they laughed the idea to scorn; in vain they argued that if for the last six months he had never said a word even to the Guinea-pigs, he would hardly now come and take up with the Tadpoles. Bramble and Padger insisted on their story.
“Now, you fellows,” concluded Bramble, at the end of another oration; “those who say three cheers for Greenfield senior hold up—”
The infuriated Paul here hurled the cap of a brother Guinea-pig, who was standing near him, full at the face of the speaker, who thereupon, altering the current of his observations, descended from his form and “went for” his opponent.
From that day a keener war raged round the head of Greenfield senior than ever. Not of attack and defence of his character, but of rivalry as to whom should be accounted his foremost champions.
It was at this critical period in the history of Saint Dominic’s that a new number of the Dominican came out. Pembury had been compelled to write it nearly all himself, for, in the present state of divided feeling in the Fifth, he found it harder than ever to get contributions.
Even those of his own way of thinking, Oliver, Wraysford, and Bullinger, begged to be let off, and, indeed, the two former ingeniously pleaded that, as they were now really Sixth Form fellows (though remaining in their old class till the Doctor came home), they had no right to have a hand in the Fifth Form magazine. And their conscientious scruples on this ground were so strong that no persuasions of Anthony’s could shake them. So the unlucky editor had finally, as on a previous occasion, to retire into private life for a season, and get the whole thing out himself, with only the aid of a few inches of “Sonits” from Simon.
But “what man has done man can do,” and this time the editor’s efforts were crowned with no less success than on the former occasion.
The Dominican certainly did not seem to have lost its novelty, to judge by the crowd which once more assembled outside the classic portals of the Fifth, to peruse the contents of the now familiar big oak frame.
“School News” was the first item of Tony’s bill of fare.
After announcing in appropriate terms the Doctor’s illness, and “universal hope of seeing him back in all his former vigour” (one or two boys whistled low as they read this, and thought the editor might at least have been content to “speak for himself”), Anthony went on to announce the various school events which had happened since the publication of the last number. Christmas prize-day of course came in for a good share of the description, and contained a touch-off for everybody.
“The Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles,” said the Dominican, “looked quite unearthly in their cleanliness. It was commonly reported that one or two of them had washed their faces twice in one week. But this is hardly credible. It is, however, a fact that Bramble was shut up in his study for half an hour with his grandmother and a basin of hot water, and that the conclusion come to from the yells and shrieks which proceeded from the torture-chamber that evening, and the appearance of the dear child next day, is that he undoubtedly underwent one scrubbing this term.”
Bramble’s face turned so purple at the reading of this that it was impossible to say whether or not any traces of the scouring still remained. He favoured Paul, who stood in front of him, with a furious kick, which that young gentleman, always punctual in his obligations, promptly repaid, and the two combatants somehow managed to miss a good deal of what immediately followed.
After describing the other incidents of prize-day, the Dominican went on as follows:
“But the event of the day was the presentation of the Nightingale Scholarship, which will be sufficiently fresh in our readers’ memories to need no comment here, save this one word—that the only Dominican who behaved himself like a gentleman during that remarkable scene was the winner of the scholarship himself!”
This was coming round with a vengeance! The Fifth had half expected it, and now they felt more uncomfortable than ever.
Nor did the succeeding paragraphs leave them much chance of recovery.
“The Waterston Exhibition, our readers will be glad to hear, has been won—and won brilliantly—by Oliver Greenfield, now of the Sixth. No fellow in Saint Dominic’s deserves the honour better.”
Then, as if his penitence were not yet complete, Pembury went on boldly farther on:
“Speaking of Greenfield senior, it is time some of us who have been doing him injustice for a whole term did what little we could to make amends now. So here goes. Take notice, all of you, that we, the undersigned, are heartily ashamed of our conduct to Greenfield senior, and desire all Saint Dominic’s to know it. Signed, A. Pembury, H. Wraysford, T. Bullinger.”
The effect of this manifesto was curious. Pembury himself had been unable to prophesy how it would be taken. The boys in front of the board, as they heard it read out, couldn’t tell exactly whether to laugh or be serious over the paragraph. Most, however, did the latter, and hurried on to the next sentence:
“The following are also ashamed of themselves, but don’t like to say so. The Dominican means to give them a leg up:—Tom Senior, G. Ricketts, R. Braddy, and the rest of the Fifth, except Simon, who never was or could be ashamed of himself while he lived to write such pathetic, soul-stirring lines as the following ‘Sonits:’”
(It was a great relief to one or two who stood by that Pembury had thus cunningly gone on from grave to gay, and left no pause after the very awkward paragraph about the Fifth.)
Sonit A.
To the Dominican.
I cannot write as I would like all in a noisy room
There’s such a noise of mortal boys who sometimes go and come
Oh I will to the woods away all in the lonely shade
Where I no more of being disturbed need not to be afraid.
Sonit B.
To Dr Senior.
Dear Doctor I am very grieved to hear that you are not well
Oh cruel fate and yet methinks one cannot always tell
Things are so catching nowadays I wonder if I ever
Shall like unto the Doctor be by catching a low fever.
Sonit C.
To O— G—.
Oh Greenfield melancholy wite hear me once before I go
’Tis sad to see the blossoms all in autumn time fall low
Canst thou recall that night in September when in the passage fair
I met you all so unexpectedly and you didn’t seem to care
Oh may my hair turn white and me become a soreing lark
Before the memory of that day shines out in life’s last spark.
(Wite, possibly wight.)
This was beautiful. Saint Dominic’s was beginning to appreciate poetry at last! Simon was positively delirious with triumph when, after the burst of laughter (he called it applause) which greeted the reading of this gem, some one cried out—
“Oh, I say! read that last one again, some one!” And then, amid redoubled hilarity, the whole effusion was encored.
The poet promptly sought out his enthusiastic admirer.
“Oh! I say,” said he, “would you like a copy of it?”
“Eh—oh, rather!” was the reply.
“Very good. You won’t mind if I put a few more verses in, will you? Pembury had to cut some out.”
“My dear fellow, I shan’t be happy unless I get at least twenty pages.”
So off went the delighted Simon to work at this self-imposed task, and caring little about the rest of the Dominican.
But some of that was worth reading, too. Tony’s leading article, for instance, was an important document. It was headed “Gone Up,” and began, “Alas! our occupation’s gone! No longer will the Dominican be able to bring its sledge-hammer down on high places and walk into the Sixth. For two of our men, O Fifth!—Greenfield and Wraysford—have joined the classic ranks of those who eat toffee in the top form, and play ‘odds and evens’ under the highest desks of Saint Dominic’s. We must be careful now, or we shall catch it. And yet we ought to congratulate the Sixth! At last they have got intelligence and high principle, and two good men behind a scrimmage among them; and more are coming! There’s some hope for the Sixth yet, and we would not grudge even our two best men for such a good object as regenerating the top form of Saint Dominic’s,” and so on—not very flattering to the Sixth, or very comfortable for its two newest members, who, however, had prudently retired from the scene long ago, as soon as the first references to Oliver had been read out.
Then came “Notes from Coventry, continued,” which were very brief. “Since our last, the population of Coventry has undergone a change. The former inhabitant has walked out with flying colours, and the place is empty. Who wants to go?”
Then came one or two odd paragraphs; one of them was:—
“By the way, the Dominican wants to know why Loman is no longer a monitor? Do his engagements with friends in Maltby prevent his giving the necessary time to this duty? or are the Sixth beginning to see that if they want order in the school they must have fellows who have at least a little influence to do it? They have done well in appointing Wraysford. But why is Loman resigned? Who can tell? It’s a riddle. A prize for the best answer in our next.”
The finishing stroke, however, was Pembury’s “Notes and Queries from Down Below,” supposed to be of special interest to the Fourth Junior. The first was as follows:—
“Lessons.—Padger the Tadpole writes to ask, ‘How do you do lessons?’ The answer is a simple one, Padger. If you are a member of the Fourth Junior, as we have a vague idea you are, the way of ‘doing’ lessons there is as follows: Sit at a desk full of old cherry-stones, orange-peel, and dusty sherbet, and put your elbows on it. Then with your pen scatter as much ink as you conveniently can over your own collar and face, and everybody else, without unduly exerting yourself. After that kick your right and left neighbours; then carefully rub your hands in the dust and pass them several times over your countenance, all the while making the most hideous and abominable howls and shrieks you can invent. And then your lessons are ‘done.’”
This paragraph so grievously incensed the honourable community at which it was directed, that for the first time for some months Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles made common cause to protest against the base insinuations it contained.
The “meeting” in the Fourth Junior that afternoon lasted, on and off, from half-past four to half-past eight. Among the speakers were Bramble, Paul, and Stephen; while Padger, Walker, and Rook did very good execution with their fists. About half-past seven the dust was so dense that it was impossible to see across the room; but those who knew reported that there was another row on about Greenfield senior, and that Paul and Padger were having their twenty-seventh round! Anyhow, the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles missed the rest of the Dominican, which, however, only contained one other paragraph of special interest:
“To-morrow week the football match of the season, School against County, will be played in the Saint Dominic’s meadow. We are glad to say the School team will be a crack one, including this time Greenfield senior, and excluding one or two of the ‘incompetents’ of last term. The following is the school fifteen:—Stansfield (football captain), Brown, Winter, Callonby, Duncan, Ricketts, T. Senior, Henderson, Carter, and Watkins, forwards; Wren (school captain) and Forrester (iv.), quarter-back; Greenfield and Bullinger, half-back; and Wraysford, back. With a team like this the school ought to give a good account of itself against our visitors.”
This announcement was interesting in more than one respect. Greenfield was in the team, Loman was not.
Chapter Thirty Three.
A startling Discovery.
It is now time to return to Loman, whom we left two chapters ago, with his usual luck, standing in Greenfield’s study with the 8 pounds in his hand which was finally to clear him of all his troubles, set him once for all on his feet again, and take such a weight off his mind as ought to leave him the lightest-hearted boy in all Saint Dominic’s.
He stood there for a minute or two after Oliver and Wraysford had left the room, too bewildered to collect his thoughts or realise one-half of his good fortune, for he had come to Oliver in his extremity as a desperate chance, fully expecting an angry rebuff—or, at best, a chilling snub. But to get through the interview like this, and find the money in his hand within three minutes of his entering the room—why, it quite took his breath away.
Oliver Greenfield was a queer, unaccountable fellow, and no mistake!
Yet, strange to say, when Loman did come to himself he did not burst out into a rapture of delight and gratitude. On the contrary, he suddenly felt himself growing to such a pitch of misery and low spirits as even in the worst of his troubles he had never experienced. He repented bitterly of ever bringing himself to come and ask such a favour of his worst enemy, and, stranger than all, he felt his dislike for Greenfield increased rather than swept away by this abrupt, startling piece of generosity. Strange the whims that seize us! Loman would almost have been happier in his old suspense about Cripps than to feel he owed such a debt to such a creditor.
However, the thought of Cripps, his other creditor, flashed suddenly through his mind at that moment, so, closing his hand over the money, he turned moodily and left the room.
At any rate, he would get clear of Cripps now he had the chance.
As soon as ever morning school was over he took his hat and traversed once more the familiar road between Saint Dominic’s and the Cockchafer. “Is Cripps at home?” he inquired of the potboy.
“Yas,” said the boy. “Who wants him?”
“I do, you young blockhead!”
“You do? Oh, all right! I’ll tell him, mister. Don’t you collar no mugs while I’m gone, mind!”
The very potboys despised and ridiculed him!
Loman waited patiently for a quarter of an hour, when the boy returned.
“Oh!” said he, “the governor can’t see you, he says. He’s a-smoking his pipe, he says, and he ain’t a-goin’ to put himself about, he says, for the likes of you. That’s what he says! Ti ridde tol rol ro!” and here the youth indulged in a spitefully cheerful carol as he resumed the polishing of the mugs.
“Look here!” said Loman, miserable and half frightened, “tell him I must see him; I’ve got some money for him, tell him.”
“No! have you?” said the boy. “Well, wait till I’ve done this here job—I’m dead on this here job, I am! You can keep, you can.”
This was too much even for the dispirited and cowed Loman. He caught the impudent boy a box on the ear, which resounded all over the Cockchafer, and sent him howling and yelling to his master.
Cripps appeared at last in a fury. What, he demanded, with half a dozen oaths, did Loman mean by coming there and assaulting him and his assistants? “What do you mean, you thieving jackanapes, you! Get out of my shop, do you hear? or I’ll get some one in who will help you out! I’ll teach you to come here and make yourself at home, you lying—”
“Now, Cripps,” began Loman.
“Hold your noise! do you hear?” said Cripps, savagely.
“I’m very sorry, Cripps,” said the wretched boy; “I didn’t mean to hurt him, but he—”
“Oh! you won’t go, won’t you? Very good! we’ll see if we can make you;” and Cripps departed from the bar, leaving his young “patron” in anything but a comfortable frame of mind.
For once in a way, however, Loman was roused, and would not go. The boy—miserable specimen as he was—had some courage in him, and when once goaded up to the proper pitch it came out. If he went, he argued to himself, Cripps would certainly come up to Saint Dominic’s after him. If he waited till the police or some of the roughs came and ejected him he could not be much worse off; and there was a chance that, by remaining, he might still be able to pacify his evil genius.
So he stayed. Another quarter of an hour passed; no one came to turn him out. A few customers came into the bar and were served by the sulky potboy, but there was no sign of Cripps.
“Go and tell your master I’m here still, and want to see him particularly,” said Loman, presently, to the boy.
The boy looked up and scowled and rubbed his ear, but somehow that timely blow of Loman’s had wrought wonders with his spirit, for he quietly went off and did as he was bid.
In a few minutes he came back and delivered the laconic message, “You’re got to wait.”
This was satisfactory as far as it went. Loman did wait, simmering inwardly all the time, and not wholly losing his desperation before once again Cripps appeared and beckoned him inside.
“Here’s the rest of the money,” said Loman, hurriedly. “You can give me back the bill now, Cripps.”
Cripps took up the money, counted it and pocketed it, and then turned on his victim with an impudent smile.
“Give me the bill,” repeated Loman, suddenly turning pale with the dreadful misgiving that after all he had not got rid of the blackguard.
“What do you want the bill for?” asked Cripps, laughing.
“Want it for? Why, Cripps—” and here Loman stopped short.
“Fire away,” said Cripps.
“I’ve paid you all I owe,” said Loman, trembling.
“What if you have?”
“Then give me back that bill!”
Cripps only laughed—a laugh which drove the boy frantic. The villain was going to play him false after all. He had got the money, every farthing of it, and now he was going to retain the bill which contained Loman’s promise to pay the whole amount! Poor Loman, he was no match in cunning for this rogue. Who would believe him that he had paid, when Cripps was still able to produce the promise signed with his own name to do so?
Bitterly did the boy repent the day when first, by a yielding to deceit, he had put himself in the power of such a villain!
He was too confounded and panic-struck to attempt either argument or persuasion. He felt himself ruined, and muttering, in a voice which trembled with misery, “I must tell father all about it,” he turned to go.
Oh, Loman! Why have you left such a resolve till now? Why, like that other prodigal, have you waited till everything else has failed, till your own resources and cunning have been exhausted to the last dregs, before you turn and say this!
The boy uttered the words involuntarily, not intending that they should be heard. Little he thought Cripps or any one would heed them. But Cripps did heed them. His quick ear caught the words, and they had a meaning for him; for he might be able to cheat and browbeat and swindle a boy, but when it came to dealing no longer with the boy, but with the boy’s father, Cripps was sharp enough to know that was a very different matter. He had relied on the boy’s fears of exposure and his dread of his father’s anger to carry his extortions to the utmost limit with confidence. But now he had gone a step too far. When, in his desperation, the boy naturally turned to the very being he had all along most carefully kept ignorant of his proceedings, it was time for Cripps to pull up.
He stopped Loman as he was going away, with a laugh, as he said, in his old tones, “Steady there, young gentleman, what a hurry you are in! A man can’t have a little bit of fun, just to see how you like it, but there you go, and give it all up, and go and get yourself into a regular perspiration! Tell the governor, indeed! You don’t suppose I’d let you get yourself into such a mess as all that, do you? No, no. You shall have the bill, my man, never fear.”
“Oh, thank you, Cripps, thank you!” cried Loman, in a sudden convulsion of gratitude and relief.
“’Pon my word, I might take offence, that I might, at your wanting the paper. As if I’d ever take advantage of a young gentleman like you! No, no; honesty’s the best policy for us poor folks as well as for you nobs. No one can say I defrauded any one.”
“Oh, no, of course not,” cried Loman, enthusiastically. “I should like to see any one who did!”
Mr Cripps, smiling sweetly and modestly, went to his cupboard, and after a good deal of fumbling and search, produced the little slip of blue paper he was looking for.
“Is that it?” cried the excited Loman.
“Looks like it,” said Cripps, unfolding it and reading out, with his back to the boy, “‘Three months after date I promise to pay George Cripps thirty-five pounds, value received. Signed, E. Loman.’ That’s about it, eh, young gentleman? Well, blessed if I ain’t a soft-hearted chap after the doing you’ve given me over this here business. Look here; here goes.”
And so saying, Mr Cripps first tore the paper up into little bits, and then threw the whole into the fire before the eyes of the delighted Loman.
“Thanks, Cripps, thanks,” said the boy. “I am so glad everything’s settled now, and I am so sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”
“Oh, well, as long as it’s been an obligement to you, I don’t so much care,” said the virtuous Cripps. “And now you’ve done with me I suppose you’ll cut me dead, eh, young gentleman? Just the way. You stick to us as long as you can get anything out of us, and then we’re nobodies.”
And here Mr Cripps looked very dejected.
“Oh, no,” said Loman, “I don’t mean to cut you, Cripps. I shall come down now and then—really I will—when I can manage it. Good-bye now.”
And he held out his hand.
Foolish and wicked as Loman was, there was still left in him some of that boyish generosity which makes one ready to forget injuries and quick to acknowledge a good turn. Loman forgot for a moment all the hideous past, with its suspense and humiliations and miseries, and remembered only that Cripps had torn up the bill and allowed him to clear off accounts once for all at the hated Cockchafer. Alas! he had forgotten, too, about telling all to his father!
“Good-day, young gentleman,” said Cripps, with a pensive face which made the boy quite sorry to see.
He shook hands cordially and gratefully, and departed lighter in heart than he had felt for some time.
But as he returned to Saint Dominic’s the thought of Oliver, and of his debt to him, returned, and turned again all his satisfaction into vexation. He wished he had the money that moment to fling back into the fellow’s face!
I don’t pretend to explain this whim of Loman’s. It may have been his conscience which prompted it. For a mean person nearly always detests an honest one, and the more open and generous the one is, the meaner the other feels in his own heart by contrast.
However, for some days Loman had not the painful reminder of his debt often before his eyes; for as long as the Doctor was absent Oliver remained in the Fifth.
At length, however, the head master returned, restored and well, and immediately the “removes” were put into force, and Oliver and Wraysford found themselves duly installed on the lowest bench of the Sixth—the only other occupant of which was Loman. The two friends, however, held very little intercourse with their new class-fellow, and Oliver never once referred to the eight pounds; and, like every one and everything else, Loman grew accustomed to the idea of being his rival’s debtor, and, as the days went on, ceased to be greatly troubled by the fact at all.
But an event happened one day, shortly after the Doctor’s return, which gave every one something else to think about besides loans and debtors.
It was the morning of the day fixed for the great football match against the County, and every one, even the Sixth and Fifth, chafed somewhat at the two hours appointed on such a day for so mundane an occupation as lessons.
Who could think of lessons when any minute the County men might turn up? Who could be bothered with dactyls and spondees when goal-posts and touch-lines were far more to the point? And who could be expected to fix his mind on hexameters and elegiacs when the height of human perfection lay in a straight drop-kick or a fast double past the enemy’s half-backs? However, the Doctor had made up his mind Latin verses should get their share of attention that morning, and the two head forms were compelled to submit as best they could.
Now, on this occasion, the Doctor was specially interested in the subject in hand, and waxed more than usually eloquent over the comparative beauties of Horace and Virgil and Ovid, and went into the minutest details about their metres. Over one line which contained what seemed to be a false quantity he really became excited.
“It is a most remarkable thing, and I am really pleased we have fallen on the passage,” said he, “that this identical mistake, if it is a mistake, occurs in a line of Juvenal; it is in the—dear me, I have forgotten how it begins! Has any one here a Juvenal?”
“I have one in my study, sir,” said Loman. (Juvenal had been one of the Latin subjects for the Nightingale.)
“Ah! Would you fetch it, Loman, please? I think I know precisely where the line occurs.”
Loman rose and went for the book, which he found upon his bookcase, enjoying a dignified and dusty repose on the top shelf. Carefully brushing off the dust, so as to give the volume a rather less unused look, he returned with it to the class-room, and handed it to the Doctor.
“Thank you, Loman. Now, it is in the Fourth—no, the Fifth Satire,” said he, turning over the pages. “Let me see—yes, not far from—ah!”
This last exclamation was uttered in a voice which made every boy in the room look suddenly up and fix his eyes on the Doctor. It was evidently something more than an exclamation of recognition on finding the desired passage. There was too much surprise and too much pain in the word for that.
Was the Doctor ill? He closed the book and sat back in his chair in a sort of bewilderment. Then suddenly, and with an evident effort, recovering himself, he let his eyes once more rest on the closed Juvenal.
“Loman,” he said, “will you come and find the passage for me? Turn to the Fifth Satire.”
Loman obeyed, much wondering, notwithstanding, why the Doctor should ask him, of all people, to come up and turn to the passage.
He advanced to the head master’s desk and took up the Juvenal.
“The Fifth Satire,” repeated the Doctor, keeping his eyes on the book.
Certainly the Doctor was very queer this morning. One would suppose his life depended on the discovery of that unlucky line, so keenly he watched Loman as he turned over the pages.
Was the book bewitched? Loman, as he held it, suddenly turned deadly white, and closed it quickly, as if between the leaves there lay a scorpion! Then again, seeing the Doctor’s eye fixed on him, he opened it, and, with faltering voice, began to read the line.
“That will do. Hand me the book, Loman.”
The Doctor’s voice, as he uttered these words, was strangely solemn.
Loman hurriedly took a paper from between the leaves and handed the book to the Doctor.
“Hand me that paper, Loman!”
Loman hesitated.
“Obey me, Loman!”
Loman looked once at the Doctor, and once at the Juvenal; then, with a groan, he flung the paper down on to the desk.
The Doctor took it up.
“This paper,” said he, slowly, and in an agitated voice—“this paper is the missing paper of questions for the Nightingale Scholarship last term. Loman, remain here, please. The other boys may go.”
Chapter Thirty Four.
The Match against the County.
The boys, astounded and bewildered by this unexpected revelation, slowly rose to obey the Doctor’s order, leaving Loman alone with the head master.
The boy was ashy pale as Dr Senior turned to him and said, solemnly—
“How do you account for this, Loman?”
Loman lowered his eyes and made no reply.
“Answer me please, Loman. Can you account for this?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see this paper before?”
“No.”
“Do you know how it came into your Juvenal?”
“No.”
“Did you know anything at all about the lost paper?”
“No.”
The Doctor looked long and searchingly at him as he said once more—
“Loman, are you sure you are telling me the truth? You know nothing whatever about the paper—never saw it before this moment?”
“No.”
“You knew the paper had been missed off my desk?”
“Yes.”
“Had you the least reason for believing any boy took it?”
Loman hesitated.
“I would rather not say,” he said at last.
“You must please answer me frankly, Loman. Had you any reason, I ask, for believing any boy took the paper?”
“Must I say?” asked Loman.
“Yes—you must.”
“Well, then, I did fancy some one had taken it.”
“Who?”
“Greenfield senior,” said Loman, flushing quickly as he said the name.
“And what made you suspect Greenfield senior?”
“All the boys suspected him.”
“That is not an answer, Loman. Why?”
“Because, for one thing,” said Loman, sullenly, “he was seen coming out of your study that evening.”
“And why else?”
“Because he came out so high in the exam.”
“And for these reasons you suspected Greenfield of taking the paper? Why did you not mention the matter to me?”
Loman did his best to look virtuous.
“I did not wish to get any one into trouble.”
“And you preferred to let an affair like this go on without taking any steps to have it cleared up? Did Greenfield deny the charge?”
“No.”
“Did he admit it?”
“Very nearly. He wouldn’t speak to any one for months.”
“And you really believe that Greenfield took the paper?”
Loman looked up at the Doctor for a moment and answered, “Yes.”
“Did you lend him your Juvenal at any time?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Do you suppose he put the paper in the book?”
“I couldn’t say; but I don’t see who else could.”
“That will do, Loman; you can go. Kindly leave the paper and the Juvenal with me.”
Loman turned to go, but the Doctor stopped him with one more question.
“You know, I suppose, that the questions which you actually had set for the Nightingale examination were quite different from those on the paper?”
“Yes,” said Loman. “I mean—that is,” he added, stammering, and taking up the paper in question. “I see by this paper they were quite different.”
“Yes; you can go now, Loman.”
There was something so solemn and hard in the head master’s voice as he dismissed the boy that Loman felt very uncomfortable as he slowly departed to his own study.
He, at any rate, was in no humour for enjoying the big football match which was just beginning.
And it must be confessed the event of the morning had had the effect of disconcerting a good many more than himself. Stansfield had quite hard work going round among his troops and rousing them once more to the proper pitch of enthusiasm.
“What—whatever does it matter,” he said, “if the fellow did take it? You didn’t take it, Winter, or you, Wren; and what on earth’s the use of getting down in the mouth, and perhaps losing the match, because of it? We’re always having our football spoiled by something or other,” he added with a groan. “I’ll tell you what it is, let’s only lick these fellows this afternoon, and then I’ll howl and groan and do anything you like, for a week.”
There was no resisting such a generous offer. The fellows made up their minds to forget everything else that afternoon but the County, and so to play that the County should have some difficulty in soon forgetting them.
“Fire away, you fellows, and peel!” cried Stansfield, as Oliver and Wraysford sauntered past.
They fired away. But while dressing they exchanged a few words on the forbidden subject.
“Did you ever expect it would be brought home to Loman like this, Noll?” asked Wray.
“No, I didn’t. And yet in a way—”
“Eh? What do you say?”
“Why, Wray, you remember me saying that evening, after I left the study, the only fellow I met in the passage besides Simon was Loman?”
“Yes; so you did.”
“He was going towards the Doctor’s study,” said Oliver.
“Hum! I remember now you said so.”
“And yet,” continued Oliver, plunging into his jersey—“and yet I can’t see how, if he did take the paper, he didn’t do better in the exam. He came out so very low.”
“Yes, that’s queer, unless he took a fit of repentance all of a sudden, and didn’t look at it.”
“Then it’s queer he didn’t destroy it, instead of sticking it in his Juvenal.”
“Well, I suppose the Doctor will clear it up, now he’s on the scent.”
“I suppose so,” said Oliver; “but, I say, old man,” he added, “of course there’s no need for us to say anything about it to anybody. The poor beggar doesn’t want our help to get him into trouble.”
“No, indeed. I’d be as glad, quite, if it were found to be another wrong scent, after all,” said Wraysford. “The fellow’s in a bad enough way as it is.”
“Are you nearly ready, you two?” thundered Stansfield at the door.
“Just ready!” they exclaimed; and in another minute they, too, had dismissed from their minds everything but Saint Dominic’s versus County, as they trotted off to join the rest of their comrades on the field of battle.
And, indeed, for the next two hours there was no opportunity, even, had they desired it, for any one to think of anything but this momentous struggle.
For three years running the County had beaten the schoolboys, each time worse than before, until at last the latter had got to be afraid the others would begin to think them foemen not worthy of their steel. This year they hardly dared hope a better fate than before, for the enemy were down in force. Yet the boys had determined to die hard, and at least give their adversaries all the trouble they could before their goal should fall; and of this they were all the more sanguine, because their team was the very best the school could muster, and not a man among them but knew his business, and could be depended on to do it too.
Bad luck! Of course, just when it’s not wanted there’s a breeze got up, blowing right down the field, and in the very teeth of the schoolboys, who have lost the toss, and have to play from the oak-tree end for the first half of the game!
“It’s always the way,” growls Ricketts. “They’ll simply eat us up while they’ve got the chance, you see!”
“No they won’t,” says Stansfield, bound to take a cheerful view of things. “We’re strong in backs. It’s not like last match, when Greenfield wasn’t playing, and Loman was there to make such a mess of it.”
“Well, it’s a comfort, that, anyhow.”
“Of course it is,” says the captain. “What you fellows have got to do is to keep the ball in close, and nurse it along all the while, or else run—but you’d better let the quarter-backs do that.”
This sage advice is not thrown away on the worthies who lead the van for Saint Dominic’s, and an opportunity for putting it into practice occurs the moment the game begins. For the School has to kick-off, and to kick-off against that wind is a hopeless business. Stansfield does not attempt anything like a big kick, but just drives the ball hard and low on to the legs of the County forwards, sending his own men close after it, so that a scrimmage is formed almost at the very spot where the ball grounds.
“Now, School, sit on it! Do you hear?” calls out the captain; and certainly it looks as if that unhappy ball were never destined to see the light again. The enemy’s forwards cannot get it out from among the feet of the School forwards, try all they will, until, by sheer weight, they simply force it through. And then, when it does go through, there is young Forrester of the Fourth ready for it, and next moment it is back in its old place in the middle of the “mush.” In due time, out it comes again—this time on Wren’s side—and once again, after a short run, there it is again, on almost the identical spot of earth where it has undergone its last two poundings.
“Played up, Dominies!” cries out Stansfield, cheerily. “Stick to it now!”
Stick to it they do, with the wind fresh on their faces, and the County fellows charging and plunging and shoving like fury upon them.
Ah! there goes the ball, out at the County end for a wonder. The spectators cheer loudly for the schoolboys. Little they know! It had much better have stayed there among their feet than roll out into the open. The County quarter-back has it in his hands in a twinkling, and in another twinkling he has lifted it with a drop-kick high into the air, all along the wind, which carries it, amid cheers and shouts, right up to the boundary of the School goal.
So much for cutting through the scrimmage!
Wraysford, the Dominican “back,” is ready for it when it drops, and, without touching-down, runs out with it. He is a cautious fellow, is Wraysford, and does not often try this game. But the ball has far outstripped the enemy’s forwards, and so he has a pretty open field. But not for long. In a few seconds the County is upon him, and he and the ball are no longer visible. Then follow a lot more scrimmages, with similar results. It is awfully slow for the spectators, but Stansfield rejoices over it, and the County men chafe.
“Can’t you let it out there? Play looser, and let it through,” says their captain.
Loose it is.
“That’s better!” says the County captain, as presently the ball comes out with a bound full into the quarter-back’s hands, who holds it, and, to the horror of the boys, makes his mark before he can be collared.
The scrimmage has been near up to the Dominican goal—within a kick—and now, as the schoolboys look round first at the goal and then at the County man with the ball, the distance looks painfully small. And even if it were greater, this wind would do the business.
The County man takes plenty of room back from his mark, up to which the School forwards stand ready for one desperate rush the moment the ball touches the ground. Alas, it is no go! They have a knowing hand and a quick foot to deal with. Before they can cover the few yards which divide them, the ball is dropped beautifully, and flies, straight as an arrow, over the cross-bar, amid the tremendous cheers of the County men and their friends.
“Never mind!” says Stansfield, as his men walk out once more to the fray, “they shan’t get another before half-time!”
Won’t they? Such is the perversity of that creature people call Luck, and such is the hatred it has for anything like a boast, that two minutes—only two minutes—after the words are out of the captain’s mouth another Dominican goal has fallen.
For Stansfield in kicking off gets his foot too much under the ball, which consequently rises against the wind and presents an easy catch to any one who comes out to take it. A County forward sees his chance. Rushing up, he catches the ball, and instantaneously, so it seems, drop-kicks it, a tremendous kick clean over the School goal, before even the players have all taken up their places after the last catastrophe.
This is dreadful! worse than ever! Never in their worst days had such a thing happened. For once in a way Stansfield’s hopefulness deserts him, and he feels the School is in for an out-and-out hiding.
The captain would like extremely to blow some one up, if he only knew whom. It is so aggravating sometimes to have no one to blow-up. Nothing relieves the feelings so, does it?
However, Stansfield has to bottle up his feelings, and, behold! once more he and his men are in battle array.
This time it’s steady all again, and the ball is kept well out of sight. It can’t even slip out behind now, as before; for the School quarter-backs are up to that dodge, and ready to pounce upon it before it can be lifted or sent flying. Indeed, the only chance the wretched ball has of seeing daylight is—
Hullo! half-time!
The announcement falls on joyful ears among the Dominicans. They have worked hard and patiently against heavy odds; and they feel they really deserve this respite.
Now, at last, if the wind wouldn’t change for them, they have changed over to the wind, which blows no longer in their faces, but gratefully on to their backs.
The kick-off is a positive luxury under such circumstances; Stansfield needn’t be afraid of skying the ball now, and he isn’t. It shoots up with a prodigious swoop and soars right away to touch-line, so that the County’s “back” is the first of their men to go into action. He brings the ball back deftly and prettily, slipping in and out among his own men, who get beside him as a sort of bodyguard, ready at any moment to carry on the ball. It is ludicrous to see Ricketts and Winter and Callonby flounder about after him. The fellow is like an eel. One moment you have him, the next he’s away; now you’re sure of him, now he’s out of all reach. Ah! Stansfield’s got him at last! No he hasn’t; but Winter has—No, Winter has lost him; and—just look—he’s past all the School forwards, no one can say how.
Young Forrester tackles him gamely—but young Forrester is no hand at eel-catching; in fact, the eel catches Forrester, and leaves him gracefully on his back. Past the quarter-backs! The man has a charmed life!
Ah! Greenfield has got him at last. Yes, Mr Eel, you may wriggle as hard as you like, but you’d hardly find your way out of that grip without leave!
Altogether this is a fine run, and makes the School see that even with the wind they are not going to have it all their own way. However, they warm up wonderfully after this.
Steady is still the word (what grand play we should get if it were always the word at football, you schoolboys! You may kick and run and scrimmage splendidly, but you are not steady—but this is digression). Steady is still the word, and every minute Saint Dominic’s pulls better together. The forwards work like one man, and, lighter weight though they are, command the scrimmages by reason of their good “packing.”
Wren and young Forrester, the quarter-backs, are “dead on” the ball the moment it peeps out from the scrimmage; and behind them at half-back Oliver and Bullinger are not missing a chance. If they did, Wraysford is behind them, a prince of “backs.”
Oh, for a chance to put this fine machinery into motion! Time is flying, and the umpire is already fidgeting with his watch. Oh, for one chance! And while we speak here it comes. A County man has just darted up along the touch-line half the length of the field. Wren goes out to meet him, and behind Wren—too close behind—advances Oliver. The County man thinks twice before delivering himself up into the clutches of one of these heroes, and ends his run with a kick, which, Oliver being not in his place, Wraysford runs forward to take. Now Wraysford has hardly had a run this afternoon. He means to have one now! And he does have one. He takes the ball flying, gives one hurried look round, and then makes right for the thick of the fray. Who backs him up? Greenfield for one, and all the rest of Saint Dominic’s for the other.
“Stick close!” he says to Oliver, as he flies past. Oliver wants no bidding. He follows his man like a shadow. In and out among the forwards, and round about past the quarter-backs; and when at last Wraysford is borne down by a combined force of half and three-quarter-backs, Greenfield is there to take the ball on.
“Look-out there!” cries the County captain, “mark that man.” The County does mark that man, and they have the painful task of marking him pass one half-back and floor another before he is arrested.
“I’m here!” cries Wraysford’s voice at that moment; and next instant the ball is again hurrying on towards the County goal in Wraysford’s arms, Greenfield once more being in close attendance.
And now the County backs come into action, and the first of them collars Wraysford. But it is Oliver who collars the ball, and amid the shouts, and howls, and cheers of players and spectators rushes it still onward. The second “back” is the County’s only remaining hope, nor surely will he fail. He rushes at Oliver. Oliver rushes at him. Wraysford, once more on his feet, rushes on them both.
“Look-out for the ball there!” is the panic cry of the County. Ay, look indeed! Oliver is down, but Wraysford has it, and walks with it merrily over the County’s goal-line, and deposits it on the ground in the exact centre of the posts.
“There never was such a rush-up, or such a pretty piece of double play,” say the knowing ones among the onlookers; and when a minute later the ball is brought out, and Stansfield kicks it beautifully over the goal, every one says that it is one of the best-earned goals that old meadow has ever seen kicked, and that Saint Dominic’s, though beaten, has nothing in that day’s performance to be ashamed of.