Stalky & Co.
by
Rudyard Kipling
Part 3 out of 5
"It was Mr. Prout turned us out," said Stalky, with significance.
"Well, I was that man. I didn't mean it; but some words of mine, I'm
afraid, gave Mr. Prout the impression--"
Number Five laughed aloud.
"You see it's just the same thing with you, Padre," said McTurk. "He
is quick to get an impression, ain't he? But you mustn't think we
don't love him, 'cause we do. There isn't an ounce of vice about
him."
A double knock fell on the door.
"The Head to see Number Five study in his study at once," said the
voice of Foxy, the school sergeant.
"Whew!" said the Reverend John. "It seems to me that there is a great
deal of trouble coming for some people."
"My word! Mr. Prout's gone and told the Head," said Stalky. "He's a
moral double-ender. Not fair, luggin' the Head into a house-row."
"I should recommend a copy-book on a--h'm--safe and certain part,"
said the Reverend John disinterestedly.
"Huh! He licks across the shoulders, an' it would slam like a beastly
barn-door," said Beetle. "Good-night, Padre. We're in for it."
Once more they stood in the presence of the Head--Belial, Mammon, and
Lucifer. But they had to deal with a man more subtle than them all.
Mr. Prout had talked to him, heavily and sadly, for half an hour; and
the Head had seen all that was hidden from the house-master.
"You've been bothering Mr. Prout," he said pensively. "House-masters
aren't here to be bothered by boys more than is necessary. I don't
like being bothered by these things. You are bothering _me_. That is
a very serious offense. You see it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, now, I purpose to bother you, on personal and private grounds,
because you have broken into my time. You are much too big to lick,
so I suppose I shall have to mark my displeasure in some other way.
Say, a thousand lines apiece, a week's gating, and a few things of
that kind. Much too big to lick, aren't you?"
"Oh, no, sir," said Stalky cheerfully; for a week's gating in the
summer term is serious.
"Ve-ry good. Then we will do what we can. I wish you wouldn't bother
me."
It was a fair, sustained, equable stroke, with a little draw to it,
hut what they felt most was his unfairness in stopping to talk
between executions. Thus: "Among the--lower classes this would lay me
open to a charge of--assault. You should be more grateful for
your--privileges than you are. There is a limit--one finds it by
experience, Beetle--beyond which it is never safe to pursue private
vendettas, because--don't move--sooner or later one comes--into
collision with the--higher authority, who has studied the animal.
_Et_ego_--McTurk, please--_in_Arcadia_vixi_. There's a certain
flagrant injustice about this that ought to appeal to--your
temperament. And that's all! You will tell your house-master that you
have been formally caned by me."
"My word!" said McTurk, wriggling his shoulder-blades all down the
corridor. "That was business! The Prooshan Bates has an infernal
straight eye."
"Wasn't it wily of me to ask for the lickin'," said Stalky, "instead
of those impots?"
"Rot! We were in for it from the first. I knew the look of his old
eye," said Beetle. "I was within an inch of blubbing."
"Well, I didn't exactly smile," Stalky confessed.
"Let's go down to the lavatory and have a look at the damage. One of
us can hold the glass and t'others can squint."
They proceeded on these lines for some ten minutes. The wales were
very red and very level. There was not a penny to choose between any
of them for thoroughness, efficiency, and a certain clarity of
outline that stamps the work of the artist.
"What are you doing down there?" Mr. Prout was at the head of the
lavatory stairs, attracted by the noise of splashing.
"We've only been caned by the Head, sir, and we're washing off the
blood. The Head said we were to tell you. We were coming to report
ourselves in a minute, sir. (_Sotto_voce_.) That's a score for
Heffy!"
"Well, he deserves to score something, poor devil," said McTurk,
putting on his shirt. "We've sweated a stone and a half off him since
we began."
"But look here, why aren't we wrathy with the Head? He said it was a
flagrant injustice. So it is!" said Beetle.
"Dear man," said McTurk, and vouchsafed no further answer.
It was Stalky who laughed till he had to hold on by the edge of a
basin.
"You _are_ a funny ass! What's that for?" said Beetle.
"I'm--I'm thinking of the flagrant injustice of it!"
THE MORAL REFORMERS.
There was no disguising the defeat. The victory was to Prout, but they
grudged it not. If he had broken the rules of the game by calling in
the Head, they had had a good run for their money.
The Reverend John sought the earliest opportunity of talking things
over. Members of a bachelor Common-room, of a school where masters'
studies are designedly dotted among studies and form-rooms, can, if
they choose, see a great deal of their charges. Number Five had spent
some cautious years in testing the Reverend John. He was emphatically
a gentleman. He knocked at a study door before entering; he comported
himself as a visitor and not a strayed lictor; he never prosed, and
he never carried over into official life the confidences of idle
hours. Prout was ever an unmitigated nuisance; King came solely as an
avenger of blood; even little Hartopp, talking natural history,
seldom forgot his office; but the Reverend John was a guest desired
and beloved by Number Five.
Behold him, then, in their only arm-chair, a bent briar between his
teeth, chin down in three folds on his clerical collar, and blowing
like an amiable whale, while Number Five discoursed of life as it
appeared to them, and specially of that last interview with the
Head--in the matter of usury.
"One licking once a week would do you an immense amount of good," he
said, twinkling and shaking all over; "and, as you say, you were
entirely in the right."
"Ra-ather, Padre! We could have proved it if he'd let us talk," said
Stalky; "but he didn't. The Head's a downy bird."
"He understands you perfectly. Ho! ho! Well, you worked hard enough
for it."
"But he's awfully fair. He doesn't lick a chap in the morning an'
preach at him in the afternoon," said Beetle.
"He can't; he ain't in Orders, thank goodness," said McTurk. Number
Five held the very strongest views on clerical head-masters, and were
ever ready to meet their pastor in argument.
"Almost all other schools have clerical Heads," said the Reverend John
gently.
"It isn't fair on the chaps," Stalky replied. "Makes 'em sulky. Of
course it's different with you, sir. You belong to the school--same
as we do. I mean ordinary clergymen."
"Well, I am a most ordinary clergyman; and Mr. Hartopp's in Orders,
too."
"Ye--es, but he took 'em after he came to the Coll. We saw him go up
for his exam. That's all right," said Beetle. "But just think if the
Head went and got ordained!"
"What would happen, Beetle?"
"Oh, the Coll. 'ud go to pieces in a year, sir. There's no doubt o'
that."
"How d'you know?" The Reverend John was smiling.
"We've been here nearly six years now. There are precious few things
about the Coll. we don't know," Stalky replied. "Why, even you came
the term after I did, sir. I remember your asking our names in form
your first lesson. Mr. King, Mr. Prout, and the Head, of course, are
the only masters senior to us--in that way."
"Yes, we've changed a good deal--in Common-room."
"Huh!" said Beetle with a grunt. "They came here, an' they went away
to get married. Jolly good riddance, too!"
"Doesn't our Beetle hold with matrimony?"
"No, Padre; don't make fun of me. I've met chaps in the holidays
who've got married house-masters. It's perfectly awful! They have
babies and teething and measles and all that sort of thing right bung
_in_ the school; and the masters' wives give
tea-parties--tea-parties, Padre!--and ask the chaps to breakfast."
"That don't matter so much," said Stalky. "But the house-masters let
their houses alone, and they leave everything to the prefects. Why,
in one school, a chap told me, there were big baize doors and a
passage about a mile long between the house and the master's house.
They could do just what they pleased."
"Satan rebuking sin with a vengeance."
"Oh, larks are right enough; but you know what we mean, Padre. After a
bit it gets worse an' worse. Then there's a big bust-up and a row
that gets into the papers, and a lot of chaps are expelled, you
know."
"Always the wrong un's; don't forget that. Have a cup of cocoa,
Padre?" said McTurk with the kettle.
"No, thanks; I'm smoking. Always the wrong 'uns? Pro-ceed, my
Stalky."
"And then"--Stalky warmed to the work--"everybody says, 'Who'd ha'
thought it? Shock-in' boys! Wicked little kids!' It all comes of
havin' married house-masters, _I_ think."
"A Daniel come to judgment."
"But it does," McTurk interrupted. "I've met chaps in the holidays,
an' they've told me the same thing. It looks awfully pretty for one's
people to see--a nice separate house with a nice lady in charge, an'
all that. But it isn't. It takes the house-masters off their work,
and it gives the prefects a heap too much power, an'--an'--it rots up
everything. You see, it isn't as if we were just an ordinary school.
We take crammers' rejections as well as good little boys like Stalky.
We've got to do that to make our name, of course, and we get 'em into
Sandhurst somehow or other, don't we?"
"True, O Turk. Like a book thou talkest, Turkey."
"And so we want rather different masters, don't you think so, to other
places? We aren't like the rest of the schools."
"It leads to all sorts of bullyin', too, a chap told me," said
Beetle.
"Well, you _do_ need most of a single man's time, I must say." The
Reverend John considered his hosts critically. "But do you never feel
that the world--the Common-room--is too much with you sometimes?"
"Not exactly--in summer, anyhow." Stalky's eye roved contentedly to
the window. "Our bounds are pretty big, too, and they leave us to
ourselves a good deal."
"For example, here am I sitting in your study, very much in your way,
eh?"
"Indeed you aren't, Padre. Sit down. Don't go, sir. You know we're
glad whenever you come."
There was no doubting the sincerity of the voices. The Reverend John
flushed a little with pleasure and refilled his briar.
"And we generally know where the Common-room are," said Beetle
triumphantly. "Didn't you come through our lower dormitories last
night after ten, sir?"
"I went to smoke a pipe with your house-master. No, I didn't give him
any impressions. I took a short cut through your dormitories."
"I sniffed a whiff of 'baccy, this mornin'. Yours is stronger than Mr.
Prout's. _I_ knew," said Beetle, wagging his head.
"Good heavens!" said the Reverend John absently. It was some years
before Beetle perceived that this was rather a tribute to innocence
than observation. The long, light, blindless dormitories, devoid of
inner doors, were crossed at all hours of the night by masters
visiting one another; for bachelors sit up later than married folk.
Beetle had never dreamed that there might be a purpose in this steady
policing.
"Talking about bullying," the Reverend John resumed, "you all caught
it pretty hot when you were fags, didn't you?"
"Well, we must have been rather awful little beasts," said Beetle,
looking serenely over the gulf between eleven and sixteen. "My Hat,
what bullies they were then--Fairburn, 'Gobby' Maunsell, and all
that gang!"
"'Member when 'Gobby' called us the Three Blind Mice, and we had to
get up on the lockers and sing while he buzzed inkpots at us?" said
Stalky. "They _were_ bullies if you like!"
"But there isn't any of it now," said McTurk soothingly.
"That's where you make a mistake. We're all inclined to say that
everything is all right as long we aren't ourselves hurt. I sometimes
wonder if it is extinct--bullying."
"Fags bully each other horrid; but the upper forms are supposed to be
swottin' for exams. They've got something else to think about," said
Beetle.
"Why? What do you think?" Stalky was watching the chaplain's face.
"I have my doubts." Then, explosively, "On my word, for three
moderately intelligent boys you aren't very observant. I suppose you
were too busy making things warm for your house-master to see what
lay under your noses when you were in the form-rooms last week?"
"What, sir? I--I swear we didn't see anything," said Beetle.
"Then I'd advise you to look. When a little chap is whimpering in a
corner and wears his clothes like rags, and never does any work, and
is notoriously the dirtiest little 'corridor-caution' in the Coll.,
something's wrong somewhere."
"That's Clewer," said McTurk under his breath.
"Yes, Clewer. He comes to me for his French. It's his first term, and
he's almost as complete a wreck as you were, Beetle. He's not
naturally clever, but he has been hammered till he's nearly an
idiot."
"Oh, no. They sham silly to get off more tickings,'' said Beetle. "_I_
know that."
"I've never actually seen him knocked about," said the Reverend John.
"The genuine article don't do that in public," said Beetle. "Fairburn
never touched me when any one was looking on."
"You needn't swagger about it, Beetle," said McTurk. "We all caught it
in our time."
"But I got it worse than any one," said Beetle. "If you want an
authority on bullyin', Padre, come to me.
Corkscrews--brush-drill--keys--head-knucklin'-- arm-twistin'--rockin'
-Ag Ags--and all the rest of it."
"Yes. I do want you as an authority, or rather I want your authority
to stop it--all of you."
"What about Abana and Pharpar, Padre--Harrison and Craye? They are Mr.
Prout's pets," said McTurk a little bitterly. "We aren't even
sub-prefects."
"I've considered that, but on the other hand, since most bullying is
mere thoughtlessness--"
"Not one little bit of it, Padre," said McTurk. "Bullies like
bullyin'. They mean it. They think it up in lesson and practise it in
the quarters."
"Never mind. If the thing goes up to the prefects it may make another
house-row. You've had one already. Don't laugh. Listen to me. I ask
you--my own Tenth Legion--to take the thing up quietly. I want little
Clewer made to look fairly clean and decent--"
"Blowed if _I_ wash him!" whispered Stalky.
"Decent and self-respecting. As for the other boy, whoever he is, you
can use your influence"--a purely secular light flickered in the
chaplain's eye--"in any way you please to--to dissuade him. That's
all. I'll leave it to you. Good-night, _mes_enfants_."
"Well, what are we goin' to do?" Number Five stared at each other.
"Young Clewer would give his eyes for a place to be quiet in. _I_ know
that," said Beetle. "If we made him a study-fag, eh?"
"No!" said McTurk firmly. "He's a dirty little brute, and he'd mess up
everything. Besides, we ain't goin' to have any beastly Erickin'.
D'you want to walk about with your arm round his neck?"
"He'd clean out the jam-pots, anyhow; an' the burnt-porridge
saucepan--it's filthy now."
"Not good enough," said Stalky, bringing up both heels with a crash on
the table. "If we find the merry jester who's been bullyin' him an'
make him happy, that'll be all right. Why didn't we spot him when we
were in the form-rooms, though?"
"Maybe a lot of fags have made a dead set at Clewer. They do that
sometimes."
"Then we'll have to kick the whole of the lower school in our
house--on spec. Come on," said McTurk.
"Keep your hair on! We mustn't make a fuss about the biznai. Whoever
it is he's kept quiet or we'd have seen him," said Stalky. "We'll
walk round and sniff about till we're sure."
They drew the house form-rooms, accounting for every junior and senior
against whom they had suspicions; investigated, at Beetle's
suggestion, the lavatories and box-rooms, but without result.
Everybody seemed to be present save Clewer.
"Rum!" said Stalky, pausing outside a study door. "Golly!"
A thin piping mixed with tears came muffled through the panels.
"'As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping--'"
"Louder, you young devil, or I'll buzz a book at you!"
"'With a pitcher of milk--'
Oh, Campbell, _please_ don't!
'To the fair of--"
A book crashed on something soft, and squeals arose.
"Well, I never thought it was a study-chap, anyhow. That accounts for
our not spotting him," said Beetle. "Sefton and Campbell are rather
hefty chaps to tackle. Besides, one can't go into their study like a
form-room."
"What swine!" McTurk listened. "Where's the fun of it? I suppose
Clewer's faggin' for them."
"They aren't prefects. That's one good job," said Stalky, with his
war-grin. "Sefton and Campbell! Um! Campbell and Sefton! Ah! One of
'em's a crammer's pup."
The two were precocious hairy youths between seventeen and eighteen,
sent to the school in despair by parents who hoped that six months'
steady cram might, perhaps, jockey them into Sandhurst. Nominally
they were in Mr. Prout's house; actually they were under the Head's
eye; and since he was very careful never to promote strange new boys
to prefectships, they considered they had a grievance against the
school. Sefton had spent three months with a London crammer, and the
tale of his adventures there lost nothing in the telling. Campbell,
who had a fine taste in clothes and a fluent vocabulary, followed his
lead in looking down loftily on the rest of the world. This was only
their second term, and the school, used to what it profanely called
"crammers' pups," had treated them with rather galling reserve. But
their whiskers--Sefton owned a real razor--and their mustaches were
beyond question impressive.
"Shall we go in an' dissuade 'em?" McTurk asked. "I've never had much
to do with 'em, but I'll bet my hat Campbell's a funk."
"No--o! That's _oratio_directa_," said Stalky, shaking his head. "I
like _oratio_obliqua_. 'Sides, where'd our moral influence be then?
Think o' that!"
"Rot! What are you goin' to do?" Beetle turned into Lower Number Nine
form-room, next door to the study.
"Me?" The lights of war flickered over Stalky's face. "Oh, I want to
jape with 'em. Shut up a bit!"
He drove his hands into his pockets and stared out of window at the
sea, whistling between his teeth. Then a foot tapped the floor; one
shoulder lifted; he wheeled, and began the short quick
double-shuffle--the war-dance of Stalky in meditation. Thrice he
crossed the empty form-room, with compressed lips and expanded
nostrils, swaying to the quick-step. Then he halted before the dumb
Beetle and softly knuckled his bead, Beetle bowing to the strokes.
McTurk nursed one knee and rocked to and fro. They could hear Clewer
howling as though his heart would break.
"Beetle is the sacrifice," Stalky said at last, "I'm sorry for you,
Beetle. 'Member Galton's 'Art of Travel' [one of the forms had been
studying that pleasant work] an' the kid whose bleatin' excited the
tiger?"
"Oh, curse!" said Beetle uneasily. It was not his first season as a
sacrifice. "Can't you get on without me?"
"'Fraid not, Beetle, dear. You've got to be bullied by Turkey an' me.
The more you howl, o' course, the better it'll be. Turkey, go an'
covet a stump and a box-rope from somewhere. We'll tie him up for a
kill--_a'_la_ Galton. 'Member when 'Molly' Fairburn made us
cock-fight with our shoes off, an' tied up our knees?"
"But that hurt like sin."
"Course it did. What a clever chap you are, Beetle! Turkey'll knock
you all over the place. 'Member we've had a big row all round, an'
I've trapped you into doin' this. Lend us your wipe." Beetle was
trussed for cock-fighting; but, in addition to the transverse stump
between elbow and knee, His knees were bound with a box-rope. In this
posture, at a push from Stalky he rolled over sideways, covering
himself with dust.
"Ruffle his hair, Turkey. Now you get down, too. 'The bleatin' of the
kid excites the tiger.' You two are in such a sweatin' wax with me
that you only curse. 'Member that. I'll tickle you up with a stump.
You'll have to blub, Beetle."
"Right O! I'll work up to it in half a shake," said Beetle.
"Now begin--and remember the bleatin' o' the kid."
"Shut up, you brutes! Let me up! You've nearly cut my knees off. Oh,
you _are_ beastly cads! _Do_ shut up. 'Tisn't a joke!" Beetle's
protest was, in tone, a work of art.
"Give it to him, Turkey! Kick him! Roll him over! Kill him! Don't
funk, Beetle, you brute. Kick him again, Turkey."
"He's not blubbin' really. Roll up, Beetle, or I'll kick you into the
fender," roared McTurk. They made a hideous noise among them, and the
bait allured their quarry.
"Hullo! What's the giddy jest?" Sefton and Campbell entered to find
Beetle on his side, his head against the fender, weeping copiously,
while McTurk prodded him in the back with his toes.
"It's only Beetle," Stalky explained. "He's shammin' hurt. I can't get
Turkey to go for him properly." Sefton promptly kicked both boys, and
his face lighted. "All right, I'll attend to 'em. Get up an'
cock-fight, you two. Give me the stump. I'll tickle 'em. Here's a
giddy jest! Come on, Campbell. Let's cook 'em."
Then McTurk turned on Stalky and called him very evil names.
"You said you were goin' to cock-fight too, Stalky. Come on!"
"More ass you for believin' me, then!" shrieked Stalky.
"Have you chaps had a row?" said Campbell. "Row?" said Stalky. "Huh!
I'm only educatin' them. D'you know anythin' about cock-fighting,
Seffy?"
"Do I know? Why, at Maclagan's, where I was crammin' in town, we used
to cock-fight in his drawing-room, and little Maclagan daren't say
anything. But we were just the same as men there, of course. Do I
know? _I_'ll show you."
"Can't I get up?" moaned Beetle, as Stalky sat on his shoulder.
"Don't jaw, you fat piffler. You're going to fight Seffy."
"He'll slay me!"
"Oh, lug 'em into our study," said Campbell. "It's nice an' quiet in
there. I'll cock-fight Turkey. This is an improvement on young
Clewer."
"Right O! I move it's shoes-off for them an' shoes-on for us," said
Sefton joyously, and the two were flung down on the study floor.
Stalky rolled them behind an arm-chair. "Now I'll tie you two up an'
direct the bull-fight. Golly, what wrists you have, Seffy. They're
too thick for a wipe; got a box-rope?" said he.
"Lots in the corner," Sefton replied. "Hurry up! Stop blubbin', you
brute, Beetle. We're goin' to have a giddy campaign. Losers have to
sing for the winners--sing odes in honor of the conqueror. You call
yourself a beastly poet, don't you, Beetle? I'll poet you."
He wriggled into position by Campbell's side. Swiftly and
scientifically the stumps were thrust through the natural crooks, and
the wrists tied with well-stretched box-ropes to an accompaniment of
insults from McTurk, bound, betrayed, and voluble behind the chair.
Stalky set away Campbell and Sefton, and strode over to his allies,
locking the door on the way.
"And that's all right," said he in a changed voice.
"What the devil--?" Sefton began. Beetle's false tears had ceased;
McTurk, smiling, was on his feet. Together they bound the knees and
ankles of the enemy even more straitly.
Stalky took the arm-chair and contemplated the scene with his blandest
smile. A man trussed for cook-fighting is, perhaps, the most helpless
thing in the world.
"'The bleatin' of the kid excites the tiger.' Oh, you frabjous asses!"
He lay back and laughed till he could no more. The victims took in
the situation but slowly. "We'll give you the finest lickin' you
ever had in your young lives when we get up!" thundered Sefton from
the floor. "You'll laugh the other side of your mouth before you've
done. What the deuce d'you mean by this?"
"You'll see in two shakes," said McTurk. "Don't swear like that. What
we want to know is, why you two hulkin' swine have been bullyin'
Clewer?"
"It's none of your business."
"What did you bully Clewer for?" The question was repeated with
maddening iteration by each in turn. They knew their work.
"Because we jolly well chose!" was the answer at last. "Let's get up."
Even then they could not realize the game.
"Well, now we're goin' to bully you because we jolly well choose.
We're goin' to be just as fair to you as you were to Clewer. He
couldn't do anything against you. You can't do anything to us. Odd,
ain't it?"
"Can't we? You wait an' see."
"Ah," said Beetle reflectively, "that shows you've never been properly
jested with. A public lickin' ain't in it with a gentle jape. Bet a
bob you'll weep an' promise anything."
"Look here, young Beetle, we'll half kill you when we get up. I'll
promise you that, at any rate."
"You're going to be half killed first, though. Did you give Clewer
Head-knuckles?"
"Did you give Clewer Head-knuckles?" McTurk echoed. At the twentieth
repetition--no boy can stand the torture of one unvarying query,
which is the essence of bullying--came confession.
"We did, confound you!"
"Then you'll be knuckled;" and knuckled they were, according to
ancient experience. Head-knuckling is no trifle; "Molly" Fairburn of
the old days could not have done better.
"Did you give Clewer Brush-drill?" This time the question was answered
sooner, and Brush-drill was dealt out for the space of five minutes
by Stalky's watch. They could not even writhe in their bonds. No
brush is employed in Brush-drill.
"Did you give Clewer the Key?"
"No; we didn't. I swear we didn't!" from Campbell, rolling in agony.
"Then we'll give it to you, so you can see what it would be like if
you had."
The torture of the Key--which has no key at all--hurts excessively.
They endured several minutes of it, and their language necessitated
the gag.
"Did you give Clewer Corkscrews?"
"Yes. Oh, curse your silly souls! Let us alone, you cads."
They were corkscrewed, and the torture of the Corkscrew--this has
nothing to do with corkscrews--is keener than the torture of the
Key.
The method and silence of the attacks was breaking their nerves.
Between each new torture came the pitiless, dazing rain of questions,
and when they did not answer to the point, Isabella-colored
handkerchiefs were thrust into their mouths.
"Now are those all the things you did to Clewer? Take out the gag,
Turkey, and let 'em answer."
"Yes, I swear that was all. Oh, you're killing us, Stalky!" cried
Campbell.
"Pre-cisely what Clewer said to you. I heard him. Now we're goin' to
show you what real bullyin' is. 'What I don't like about you, Sefton,
is, you come to the Coll. with your stick-up collars an'
patent-leather boots, an' you think you can teach us something about
bullying. Do you think you can teach us anything about bullying?
Take out the gag and let him answer."
"No!"--ferociously.
"He says no. Rock him to sleep. Campbell can watch."
It needs three beys and two boxing-gloves to rock a boy to sleep.
Again the operation has nothing to do with its name. Sefton was
"rocked" till his eyes set in his head and he gasped and crowed for
breath, sick and dizzy.
"My Aunt!" said Campbell, appalled, from his corner, and turned
white.
"Put him away," said Stalky. "Bring on Campbell. Now this _is_
bullyin'. Oh, I forgot! I say, Campbell, what did you bully Clewer
for? Take out his gag and let him answer."
"I--I don't know. Oh, let me off! I swear I'll make it _pax_. Don't
'rock' me!"
"'The bleatin' of the kid excites the tiger.' He says he don't know.
Set him up, Beetle. Give me the glove an' put in the gag."
In silence Campbell was "rocked" sixty-four times.
"I believe I'm goin' to die!" he gasped. "He says he is goin' to die.
Put him away. Now, Sefton! Oh, I forgot! Sefton, what did you bully
Clewer for?"
The answer is unprintable; but it brought not the faintest flush to
Stalky's downy cheek.
"Make him an Ag Ag, Turkey!"
And an Ag Ag was he made, forthwith. The hard-bought experience of
nearly eighteen years was at his disposal, but he did not seem to
appreciate it.
"He says we are sweeps. Put him away! Now, Campbell! Oh, I forgot! I
say, Campbell, what did you bully Clewer for?"
Then came the tears--scalding tears; appeals for mercy and abject
promises of peace. Let them cease the tortures and Campbell would
never lift hand against them. The questions began again--to an
accompaniment of small persuasions.
"You seem hurt, Campbell. Are you hurt?"
"Yes. Awfully!"
"He says he is hurt. Are you broke?"
"Yes, yes! I swear I am. Oh, stop!"
"He says he is broke. Are you humble?"
"Yes!"
"He says he is humble. Are you devilish humble?"
"Yes!"
"He says he is devilish humble. Will you bully Clewer any more?"
"No. No--ooh!"
"He says he won't bully Clewer. Or any one else?"
"No. I swear I won't."
"Or any one else. What about that lickin' you and Sefton were goin' to
give us?"
"I won't! I won't! I swear I won't!"
"He says he won't lick us. Do you esteem yourself to know anything
about bullyin'?"
"No, I don't!"
"He says he doesn't know anything about bullyin'. Haven't we taught
you a lot?"
"Yes--yes!"
"He says we've taught him a lot. Aren't you grateful?"
"Yes!"
"He says he is grateful. Put him away. Oh, I forgot! I say, Campbell,
what did you bully Clewer for?"
He wept anew; his nerves being raw. "Because I was a bully. I suppose
that's what you want me to say?"
"He says he is a bully. Right he is. Put him in the corner. No more
japes for Campbell. Now, Sefton!"
"You devils! You young devils!" This and much more as Sefton was
punted across the carpet by skilful knees.
"'The bleatin' of the kid excites the tiger.' We're goin' to make you
beautiful. Where does he keep his shaving things? [Campbell told.]
Beetle, get some water. Turkey, make the lather. We're goin' to
shave you, Seffy, so you'd better lie jolly still, or you'll get cut.
I've never shaved any one before."
"Don't! Oh, don't! Please don't!"
"Gettin' polite, eh? I'm only goin' to take off one ducky little
whisker--"
"I'll--I'll make it _pax_, if you don't. I swear I'll let you off your
lickin' when I get up!"
"_And_ half that mustache we're so proud of. He says he'll let us off
our lickin'. Isn't he kind?"
McTurk laughed into the nickel-plated shaving-cup, and settled
Sefton's head between Stalky's vise-like knees.
"Hold on a shake," said Beetle, "you can't shave long hairs. You've
got to cut all that mustache short first, an' then scrape him."
"Well, I'm not goin' to hunt about for scissors. Won't a match do?
Chuck us the match-box. He _is_ a hog, you know; we might as well
singe him. Lie still!" He lit a vesta, but checked his hand. "I only
want to take off half, though."
"That's all right." Beetle waved the brush. "I'll lather up to the
middle--see? and you can burn off the rest."
The thin-haired first mustache of youth fluffed off in flame to the
lather-line in the centre of the lip, and Stalky rubbed away the
burnt stumpage with his thumb. It was not a very gentle shave, but it
abundantly accomplished its purpose.
"Now the whisker on the other side. Turn him over!" Between match and
razor this, too, was removed. "Give him his shaving-glass. Take the
gag out. I want to hear what he'll say."
But there were no words. Sefton gazed at the lop-sided wreck in horror
and despair. Two fat tears rolled down his cheek.
"Oh, I forgot! I say, Sefton, what did you bully Clewer for?"
"Leave me alone! Oh, you infernal bullies, leave me alone! Haven't I
had enough?"
"He says we must leave him alone," said McTurk.
"He says we are bullies, an' we haven't even begun yet," said Beetle.
"You're ungrateful, Seffy. Golly! You do look an atrocity and a
half!"
"He says he has had enough," said Stalky. "He errs!"
"Well, to work, to work!" chanted McTurk, waving a stump. "Come on, my
giddy Narcissus. Don't fall in love with your own reflection!"
"Oh, let him off," said Campbell from his corner; "he's blubbing,
too."
Sefton cried like a twelve-year-old with pain, shame, wounded vanity,
and utter helplessness.
"You'll make it _pax_, Sefton, won't you? You can't stand up to those
young devils--"
"Don't be rude, Campbell, de-ah," said McTurk, "or you'll catch it
again!"
"You _are_ devils, you know," said Campbell.
"What? for a little bullyin'--same as you've been givin' Clewer! How
long have you been jestin' with him?" said Stalky. "All this term?"
"We didn't always knock him about, though!"
"You did when you could catch him," said Beetle, cross-legged on the
floor, dropping a stump from time to time across Sefton's instep.
"Don't I know it!"
"I--perhaps we did."
"And you went out of your way to catch him? Don't I know it! Because
he was an awful little beast, eh? Don't I know it! Now, you see,
_you_'re awful beasts, and you're gettin' what he got--for bein' a
beast. Just because we choose."
"We never really bullied him--like you've done us."
"Yah!" said Beetle. "They never really bully--'Molly' Fairburn
didn't. Only knock 'em about a little bit. That's what they say. Only
kick their souls out of 'em, and they go and blub in the box-rooms.
Shove their heads into the ulsters an' blub. Write home three times
a day--yes, you brute, I've done that--askin' to be taken away.
You've never been bullied properly, Campbell I'm sorry you made
_pax_."
"I'm not!" said Campbell, who was a humorist in a way. "Look out,
you're slaying Sefton!"
In his excitement Beetle had used the stump unreflectingly, and Sefton
was now shouting for mercy.
"An' you!" he cried, wheeling where he sat. "You've never been
bullied, either. Where were you before you came here?"
"I--I had a tutor."
"Yah! You would. You never blubbed in your life. But you're blubbin'
now, by gum. Aren't you blubbin'?"
"Can't you see, you blind beast?" Sefton fell over sideways,
tear-tracks furrowing the dried lather. Crack came the cricket-stump
on the curved latter-end of him.
"Blind, am I," said Beetle, "and a beast? Shut up, Stalky. I'm goin'
to jape a bit with our friend, _a'_la_ 'Molly' Fairburn. _I_ think I
can see. Can't I see, Sefton?"
"The point is well taken," said McTurk, watching the strap at work.
"You'd better say that he sees, Seffy."
"You do--you can! I swear you do!" yelled Sefton, for strong arguments
were coercing him.
"Aren't my eyes lovely?" The stump rose and fell steadily throughout
this catechism.
"Yes."
"A gentle hazel, aren't they?"
"Yes--oh, yes!"
"What a liar you are! They're sky-blue. Ain't they sky-blue?"
"Yes--oh, yes!"
"You don't know your mind from one minute to another. You must
learn--you must learn."
"What a bait you're in!" said Stalky. "Keep your hair on, Beetle."
"I've had it done to me," said Beetle. "Now--about my being a beast."
"_Pax_--oh, _pax_!" cried Sefton; "make it _pax_. I'll give up! Let me
off! I'm broke! I can't stand it!"
"Ugh! Just when we were gettin' our hand in!" grunted McTurk.
"They didn't let Clewer off, I'll swear."
"Confess--apologize--quick!" said Stalky.
From the floor Sefton made unconditional surrender, more abjectly even
than Campbell He would never touch any one again. He would go softly
all the days of his life.
"We've got to take it, I suppose?" said Stalky. "All right, Sefton.
You're broke? Very good. Shut up, Beetle! But before we let you up,
you an' Campbell will kindly oblige us with 'Kitty of
Coleraine'--_a'_la_ Clewer."
"That's not fair," said Campbell; "we've surrendered."
"'Course you have. Now you're goin' to do what we tell you--same as
Clewer would. If you hadn't surrendered you'd ha' been really
bullied. Havin' surrendered--do you follow, Seffy?--you sing odes in
honor of the conquerors. Hurry up!"
They dropped into chairs luxuriously. Campbell and Sefton looked at
each other, and, neither taking comfort from that view, struck up
"Kitty of Coleraine."
"Vile bad," said Stalky, as the miserable wailing ended. "If you
hadn't surrendered it would have been our painful duty to buzz books
at you for singin' out o' tune. Now then."
He freed them from their bonds, but for several minutes they could not
rise. Campbell was first on his feet, smiling uneasily. Sefton
staggered to the table, buried his head in his arms, and shook with
sobs. There was no shadow of fight in either--only amazement,
distress, and shame.
"Ca--can't he shave clean before tea, please?" said Campbell. "It's
ten minutes to bell."
Stalky shook his head. He meant to escort the half-shaved one to the
meal.
McTurk yawned in his chair and Beetle mopped his face. They were all
dripping with excitement and exertion.
"If I knew anything about it, I swear I'd give you a moral lecture,"
said Stalky severely.
"Don't jaw; they've surrendered," said McTurk. "This moral suasion
biznai takes it out of a chap."
"Don't you see how gentle we've been? We might have called Clewer in
to look at you," said Stalky. "'The bleatin' of the tiger excites the
kid.' But we didn't. We've only got to tell a few chaps in Coll.
about this and you'd be hooted all over the shop. Your life wouldn't
be worth havin'. But we aren't goin' to do that, either. We're
strictly moral suasers, Campbell; so, unless you or Seffy split about
this, no one will."
"I swear you're a brick," said Campbell. "I suppose I was rather a
brute to Clewer."
"It looked like it," said Stalky. "But I don't think Seffy need come
into hall with cock-eye whiskers. Horrid bad for the fags if they saw
him. He can shave. Ain't you grateful, Sefton?"
The head did not lift. Sefton was deeply asleep.
"That's rummy," said McTurk, as a snore mixed with a sob. "'Cheek, _I_
think; or else he's shammin'."
"No, 'tisn't," said Beetle. "'When 'Molly' Fairburn had attended to me
for an hour or so I used to go bung off to sleep on a form sometimes.
Poor devil! But he called me a beastly poet, though."
"Well, come on." Stalky lowered his voice. "Good-by, Campbell.
'Member, if you don't talk, nobody will."
There should have been a war-dance, but that all three were so utterly
tired that they almost went to sleep above the tea-cups in their
study, and slept till prep.
"A most extraordinary letter. Are all parents incurably mad? What do
you make of it?" said the Head, handing a closely written eight pages
to the Reverend John.
"'The only son of his mother, and she a widow.' That is the least
reasonable sort." The chaplain read with pursed lips. "If half those
charges are true he should be in the sick-house; whereas he is
disgustingly well. Certainly he has shaved. I noticed that."
"Under compulsion, as his mother points out. How delicious! How
salutary!"
"You haven't to answer her. It isn't often I don't know what has
happened in the school; but this is beyond me."
"If you asked me I should say seek not to propitiate. When one is
forced to take crammers' pups--"
"He was perfectly well at extra-tuition--with me--this morning," said
the Head, absently. "Unusually well behaved, too."
"--they either educate the school, or the school, as in this case,
educates them. I prefer our own methods," the chaplain concluded.
"You think it was that?" A lift of the Head's eyebrow.
"I'm sure of it! And nothing excuses his trying to give the College a
bad name."
"That's the line I mean to take with him," the Head answered.
The Augurs winked.
A few days later the Reverend John called on Number Five. "Why haven't
we seen you before, Padre?" said they.
"I've been watching times and seasons and events and men--and boys,"
he replied. "I am pleased with my Tenth Legion. I make them my
compliments. Clewer was throwing ink-balls in form this morning,
instead of doing his work. He is now doing fifty lines
for--unheard-of audacity."
"You can't blame us, sir," said Beetle. "You told us to remove
the--er--pressure. That's the worst of a fag."
"I've known boys five years his senior throw ink-balls, Beetle. To
such an one have I given two hundred lines--not so long ago. And now
I come to think of it, were those lines ever shown up?"
"Were they, Turkey?' said Beetle unblushingly.
"Don't you think Clewer looks a little cleaner, Padre?" Stalky
interrupted.
"We're no end of moral reformers," said McTurk.
"It was all Stalky, but it was a lark," said Beetle.
"I have noticed the moral reform in several quarters. Didn't I tell
you you had more influence than any boys in the Coll. if you cared to
use it?"
"It's a trifle exhaustin' to use frequent--our kind of moral suasion.
Besides, you see, it only makes Clewer cheeky."
"I wasn't thinking of Clewer; I was thinking of--the other people,
Stalky."
"Oh, we didn't bother much about the other people," said McTurk. "Did
we?"
"But _I_ did--from the beginning."
"Then you knew, sir?"
A downward puff of smoke. "Boys educate each other, they say, more
than we can or dare. If I had used one half of the moral suasion you
may or may not have employed--"
"With the best motives in the world. Don't forget our pious motives,
Padre," said McTurk.
"I suppose I should be now languishing in Bideford jail, shouldn't I?
Well, to quote the Head, in a little business which we have agreed to
forget, that strikes me as flagrant injustice ... What are you
laughing at, you young sinners? Isn't it true? I will not stay to be
shouted at. What I looked into this den of iniquity for was to find
out if any one cared to come down for a bathe off the Ridge. But I see
you won't."
"Won't we, though! Half a shake, Padre Sahib, till we get our towels,
and _nous_sommes_avec_vous_!"
A LITTLE PREP.
Easter term was but a month old when Stettson major, a dayboy,
contracted diphtheria, and the Head was very angry. He decreed a new
and narrower set of bounds--the infection had been traced to an
out-lying farmhouse--urged the prefects severely to lick all
trespassers, and promised extra attentions from his own hand. There
were no words bad enough for Stettson major, quarantined at his
mother's house, who had lowered the school-average of health. This
he said in the gymnasium after prayers. Then he wrote some two
hundred letters to as many anxious parents and guardians, and bade
the school carry on. The trouble did not spread, but, one night, a
dog-cart drove to the Head's door, and in the morning the Head had
gone, leaving all things in charge of Mr. King, senior house-master.
The Head often ran up to town, where the school devoutly believed he
bribed officials for early proofs of the Army Examination papers; but
this absence was unusually prolonged.
"Downy old bird!" said Stalky to the allies one wet afternoon in
the study. "He must have gone on a bend and been locked up under a
false name."
"What for?" Beetle entered joyously into the libel.
"Forty shillin's or a month for hackin' the chucker-out of the Pavvy
on the shins. Bates always has a spree when he goes to town. Wish he
was back, though. I'm about sick o' King's 'whips an' scorpions' an'
lectures on public-school spirit--yah!--and scholarship!"
"'Crass an' materialized brutality of the middle-classes--readin'
solely for marks. Not a scholar in the whole school,'" McTurk
quoted, pensively boring holes in the mantel-piece with a hot poker.
"That's rather a sickly way of spending an afternoon. Stinks too.
Let's come out an' smoke. Here's a treat." Stalky held up a long
Indian cheroot. "'Bagged it from my pater last holidays. I'm a bit
shy of it though; it's heftier than a pipe. We'll smoke it
palaver-fashion. Hand it round, eh? Let's lie up behind the old harrow
on the Monkey-farm Road."
"Out of bounds. Bounds beastly strict these days, too. Besides, we
shall cat." Beetle sniffed the cheroot critically. "It's a regular
Pomposo Stinkadore."
"You can; I shan't. What d'you say, Turkey?"
"Oh, may's well, I s'pose."
"Chuck on your cap, then. It's two to one. Beetle, out you come!"
They saw a group of boys by the notice-board in the corridor; little
Foxy, the school sergeant, among them.
"More bounds, I expect," said Stalky. "Hullo, Foxibus, who are you in
mournin' for?" There was a broad band of crape round Foxy's arm.
"He was in my old regiment," said Foxy, jerking his head towards the
notices, where a newspaper cutting was thumb-tacked between callover
lists.
"By gum!" quoth Stalky, uncovering as he read. "It's old
Duncan--Fat-Sow Duncan--killed on duty at something or other Kotal.
'_Rallyin'_his_men_with_ _conspicuous_gallantry._' He would, of
course. '_The_body_was_recovered_.' That's all right. They cut 'em up
sometimes, don't they, Foxy?"
"Horrid," said the sergeant briefly.
"Poor old Fat-Sow! I was a fag when he left. How many does that make
to us, Foxy?"
"Mr. Duncan, he is the ninth. He come here when he was no bigger than
little Grey tertius. My old regiment, too. Yiss, nine to us, Mr.
Corkran, up to date."
The boys went out into the wet, walking swiftly.
"Wonder how it feels--to be shot and all that," said Stalky, as they
splashed down a lane. "Where did it happen, Beetle?"
"Oh, out in India somewhere. We're always rowin' there. But look here,
Stalky, what _is_ the good o' sittin' under a hedge an' cattin'? It's
be-eastly cold. It's be-eastly wet, and we'll be collared as sure as
a gun."
"Shut up! Did you ever know your Uncle Stalky get you into a mess
yet?" Like many other leaders, Stalky did not dwell on past defeats.
They pushed through a dripping hedge, landed among water-logged clods,
and sat down on a rust-coated harrow. The cheroot burned with
sputterings of saltpetre. They smoked it gingerly, each passing to
the other between dosed forefinger and thumb.
"Good job we hadn't one apiece, ain't it?" said Stalky, shivering
through set teeth. To prove his words he immediately laid all before
them, and they followed his example...
"I told you," moaned Beetle, sweating clammy drops. "Oh, Stalky, you
are a fool!"
"_Je_cat_, _tu_cat_, _il_cat_. _Nous cattons_!" McTurk handed up his
contribution and lay hopelessly on the cold iron.
"Something's wrong with the beastly thing. I say, Beetle, have you
been droppin' ink on it?"
But Beetle was in no case to answer. Limp and empty, they sprawled
across the harrow, the rust marking their ulsters in red squares and
the abandoned cheroot-end reeking under their very cold noses.
Then--they had heard nothing--the Head himself stood before them--the
Head who should have been in town bribing examiners--the Head
fantastically attired in old tweeds and a deer-stalker!
"Ah," he said, fingering his mustache. "Very good. I might have
guessed who it was. You will go back to the College and give my
compliments to Mr. King and ask him to give you an extra-special
licking. You will then do me five hundred lines. I shall be back
to-morrow. Five hundred lines by five o'clock to-morrow. You are also
gated for a week. This is not exactly the time for breaking bounds.
Extra-special, please."
He disappeared over the hedge as lightly as he had come. There was a
murmur of women's voices in the deep lane.
"Oh, you Prooshan brute!" said McTurk as the voices died away.
"Stalky, it's all your silly fault."
"Kill him! Kill him!" gasped Beetle.
"I ca-an't. I'm going to cat again... I don't mind that, but King'll
gloat over us horrid. Extra-special, ooh!"
Stalky made no answer--not even a soft one. They went to College and
received that for which they had been sent. King enjoyed himself most
thoroughly, for by virtue of their seniority the boys were exempt
from his hand, save under special order. Luckily, he was no expert
in the gentle art.
"'Strange, how desire doth outrun performance,'" said Beetle
irreverently, quoting from some Shakespeare play that they were
cramming that term. They regained their study and settled down to the
imposition.
"You're quite right, Beetle." Stalky spoke in silky and propitiating
tones. "Now, if the Head had sent us up to a prefect, we'd have got
something to remember!"
"Look here," McTurk began with cold venom, "we aren't goin' to row you
about this business, because it's too bad for a row; but we want you
to understand you're jolly well excommunicated, Stalky. You're a
plain ass."
"How was I to know that the Head 'ud collar us? What was he doin' in
those ghastly clothes, too?"
"Don't try to raise a side-issue," Beetle grunted severely.
"Well, it was all Stettson major's fault. If he hadn't gone an' got
diphtheria 'twouldn't have happened. But don't you think it rather
rummy--the Head droppin' on us that way?"
"Shut up! You're dead!" said Beetle. "We've chopped your spurs off
your beastly heels. We've cocked your shield upside down and---and I
don't think you ought to be allowed to brew for a month."
"Oh, stop jawin' at me. I want--"
"Stop? Why--why, we're gated for a week." McTurk almost howled as the
agony of the situation over-came him. "A lickin' from King, five
hundred lines, _and_ a gatin'. D'you expect us to kiss you, Stalky,
you beast?"
"Drop rottin' for a minute. I want to find out about the Head bein'
where he was."
"Well, you have. You found him quite well and fit. Found him makin'
love to Stettson major's mother. That was her in the lane--I heard
her. And so we were ordered a lickin' before a day-boy's mother. Bony
old widow, too," said McTurk. "Anything else you'd like to find out?"
"I don't care. I swear I'll get even with him some day," Stalky
growled.
"Looks like it," said McTurk. "Extra-special, week's gatin' and five
hundred... and now you're goin' to row about it! Help scrag him,
Beetle!" Stalky had thrown his Virgil at them.
The Head returned next day without explanation, to find the lines
waiting for him and the school a little relaxed under Mr. King's
viceroyalty. Mr. King had been talking at and round and over the
boys' heads, in a lofty and promiscuous style, of public-school
spirit and the traditions of ancient seats; for he always improved an
occasion. Beyond waking in two hundred and fifty young hearts a lively
hatred of all other foundations, he accomplished little--so little,
indeed, that when, two days after the Head's return, he chanced to
come across Stalky & Co., gated but ever resourceful, playing marbles
in the corridor, he said that he was not surprised--not in the least
surprised. This was what he had expected from persons of their
_morale_.
"But there isn't any rule against marbles, sir. Very interestin'
game," said Beetle, his knees white with chalk and dust. Then he
received two hundred lines for insolence, besides an order to go to
the nearest prefect for judgment and slaughter.
This is what happened behind the closed doors of Flint's study, and
Flint was then Head of the Games:--
"Oh, I say, Flint. King has sent me to you for playin' marbles in the
corridor an' shoutin' 'alley tor' an' 'knuckle down.'"
"What does he suppose I have to do with that?" was the answer.
"Dunno. Well?" Beetle grinned wickedly. "What am I to tell him? He's
rather wrathy about it."
"If the Head chooses to put a notice in the corridor forbiddin'
marbles, I can do something; but I can't move on a house-master's
report. He knows that as well as I do."
The sense of this oracle Beetle conveyed, all unsweetened, to King,
who hastened to interview Flint.
Now Flint had been seven and a half years at the College, counting six
months with a London crammer, from whose roof he had returned,
homesick, to the Head for the final Army polish. There were four or
five other seniors who bad gone through much the same mill, not to
mention boys, rejected by other establishments on account of a
certain overwhelmingness, whom the Head had wrought into very fair
shape. It was not a Sixth to be handled without gloves, as King
found.
"Am I to understand it is your intention to allow board-school games
under your study windows, Flint? If so, I can only say--" He said
much, and Flint listened politely.
"Well, sir, if the Head sees fit to call a prefects' meeting we are
bound to take the matter up. But the tradition of the school is that
the prefects can't move in any matter affecting the whole school
without the Head's direct order."
Much more was then delivered, both sides a little losing their
temper.
After tea, at an informal gathering of prefects in his study, Flint
related the adventure.
"He's been playin' for this for a week, and now he's got it. You know
as well as I do that if he hadn't been gassing at us the way he has,
that young devil Beetle wouldn't have dreamed of marbles."
"We know that," said Perowne, "but that isn't the question. On Flint's
showin' King has called the prefects names enough to justify a
first-class row. Crammers' rejections, ill-regulated hobble-de-hoys,
wasn't it? Now it's impossible for prefects--"
"Rot," said Flint. "King's the best classical cram we've got; and
'tisn't fair to bother the Head with a row. He's up to his eyes with
extra-tu. and Army work as it is. Besides, as I told King, we
_aren't_ a public school. We're a limited liability company payin'
four per cent. My father's a shareholder, too."
"What's that got to do with it?" said Venner, a red-headed boy of
nineteen.
"Well, seems to me that we should be interferin' with ourselves. We've
got to get into the Army or--get out, haven't we? King's hired by the
Council to teach us. All the rest's gumdiddle. Can't you see?"
It might have been because he felt the air was a little thunderous
that the Head took his after-dinner cheroot to Flint's study; but he
so often began an evening in a prefect's room that nobody suspected
when he drifted in pensively, after the knocks that etiquette
demanded.
"Prefects' meeting?" A cock of one wise eye-brow.
"Not exactly, sir; we're just talking things over. Won't you take the
easy chair?"
"Thanks. Luxurious infants, you are." He dropped into Flint's big
half-couch and puffed for a while in silence. "Well, since you're all
here, I may confess that I'm the mute with the bowstring."
The young faces grew serious. The phrase meant that certain of their
number would be withdrawn from all further games for extra-tuition.
It might also mean future success at Sandhurst; but it was present
ruin for the First Fifteen.
"Yes, I've come for my pound of flesh. I ought to have had you out
before the Exeter match; but it's our sacred duty to beat Exeter."
"Isn't the Old Boys' match sacred, too, sir?" said Perowne. The Old
Boys' match was the event of the Easter term.
"We'll hope they aren't in training. Now for the list. First I want
Flint. It's the Euclid that does it. You must work deductions with
me. Perowne, extra mechanical drawing. Dawson goes to Mr. King for
extra Latin, and Venner to me for German. Have I damaged the First
Fifteen much?" He smiled sweetly.
"Ruined it, I'm afraid, sir," said Flint. "Can't you let us off till
the end of the term?"
"Impossible. It will be a tight squeeze for Sandhurst this year."
"And all to be cut up by those vile Afghans, too," said Dawson.
"Wouldn't think there'd be so much competition, would you?"
"Oh, that reminds me. Crandall is coming down with the Old Boys--I've
asked twenty of them, but we shan't get more than a weak team. I
don't know whether he'll be much use, though. He was rather knocked
about, recovering poor old Duncan's body."
"Crandall major--the Gunner?" Perowne asked.
"No, the minor--'Toffee' Crandall--in a native infantry regiment. He
was almost before your time, Perowne."
"The papers didn't say anything about him. We read about Fat-Sow, of
course. What's Crandall done. sir?"
"I've brought over an Indian paper that his mother sent me. It was
rather a--hefty, I think you say--piece of work. Shall I read it?"
The Head knew how to read. When he had finished the quarter-column of
close type everybody thanked him politely.
"Good for the old Coll.!" said Perowne. "Pity he wasn't in time to
save Fat-Sow, though. That's nine to us, isn't it, in the last three
years?"
"Yes... And I took old Duncan off all games for extra-tu. five years
ago this term," said the Head. "By the way, who do you hand over the
Games to, Flint?"
"Haven't thought yet. Who'd you recommend, sir?"
"No, thank you. I've heard it casually hinted behind my back that the
Prooshan Bates is a downy bird, but he isn't going to make himself
responsible for a new Head of the Games. Settle it among yourselves.
Good-night."
"And that's the man," said Flint, when the door shut, "that you want
to bother with a dame's school row."
"I was only pullin' your fat leg," Perowne returned, hastily. "You're
so easy to draw, Flint."
"Well, never mind that. The Head's knocked the First Fifteen to bits,
and we've got to pick up the pieces, or the Old Boys will have a
walk-over. Let's promote all the Second Fifteen and make Big Side
play up. There's heaps of talent somewhere that we can polish up
between now and the match."
The case was represented so urgently to the school that even Stalky
and McTurk, who affected to despise football, played one Big-Side
game seriously. They were forthwith promoted ere their ardor had time
to cool, and the dignity of their Caps demanded that they should keep
some show of virtue. The match-team was worked at least four days out
of seven, and the school saw hope ahead.
With the last week of the term the Old Boys begat to arrive, and their
welcome was nicely proportioned to their worth. Gentlemen cadets from
Sandhurst and Woolwich, who had only left a year ago, but who carried
enormous side, were greeted with a cheerful "Hullo! What's the Shop
like?" from those who had shared their studies. Militia subalterns
had more consideration, but it was understood they were not precisely
of the true metal. Recreants who, failing for the Army, had gone into
business or banks were received for old sake's sake, but in no way
made too much of. But when the real subalterns, officers and
gentlemen full-blown--who had been to the ends of the earth and back
again and so carried no side--came on the scene strolling about with
the Head, the school divided right and left in admiring silence. And
when one laid hands on Flint, even upon the Head of the Games crying,
"Good Heavens! What do you mean by growing in this way? You were a
beastly little fag when I left," visible haloes encircled Flint. They
would walk to and fro in the corridor with the little red
school-sergeant, telling news of old regiments; they would burst into
form-rooms sniffing the well-remembered smells of ink and whitewash;
they would find nephews and cousins in the lower forms and present
them with enormous wealth; or they would invade the gymnasium and
make Foxy show off the new stock on the bars.
Chiefly, though, they talked with the Head, who was father-confessor
and agent-general to them all; for what they shouted in their
unthinking youth, they proved in their thoughtless manhood--to wit,
that the Prooshan Bates was "a downy bird." Young blood who had
stumbled into an entanglement with a pastry-cook's daughter at
Plymouth; experience who had come into a small legacy but mistrusted
lawyers; ambition halting at cross-roads, anxious to take the one that
would lead him farthest; extravagance pursued by the money-lender;
arrogance in the thick of a regimental row--each carried his trouble
to the Head; and Chiron showed him, in language quite unfit for
little boys, a quiet and safe way round, out, or under. So they
overflowed his house, smoked his cigars, and drank his health as they
had drunk it all the earth over when two or three of the old school
had foregathered.
"Don't stop smoking for a minute," said the Head. "The more you're out
of training the better for us. I've demoralized the First Fifteen
with extra-tu."
"Ah, but we're a scratch lot. Have you told 'em we shall need a
substitute even if Crandall can play?" said a Lieutenant of Engineers
with a D.S.O. to his credit.
"He wrote me he'd play, so he can't have been much hurt. He's coming
down to-morrow morning."
"Crandall minor that was, and brought off poor Duncan's body?" The
Head nodded. "Where are you going to put him? We've turned you out
of house and home already, Head Sahib." This was a Squadron Commander
of Bengal Lancers, home on leave.
"I'm afraid he'll have to go up to his old dormitory. You know old
boys can claim that privilege. Yes, I think little Crandall minor
must bed down there once more."
"Bates Sahib "--a Gunner flung a heavy arm round the Head's
neck--"you've got something up your sleeve. Confess! I know that
twinkle."
"Can't you see, you cuckoo?" a Submarine Miner interrupted. "Crandall
goes up to the dormitory as an object-lesson, for moral effect and so
forth. Isn't that true, Head Sahib?"
"It is. You know too much, Purvis. I licked you for that in '79."
"You did, sir, and it's my private belief you chalked the cane."
"N-no. But I've a very straight eye. Perhaps that misled you."
That opened the flood-gates of fresh memories, and they all told tales
out of school.
When Crandall minor that was--Lieutenant R. Crandall of an ordinary
Indian regiment--arrived from Exeter on the morning of the match, he
was cheered along the whole front of the College, for the prefects
had repeated the sense of that which the Head had read them in
Flint's study. When Prout's house understood that he would claim his
Old Boy's right to a bed for one night, Beetle ran into King's house
next door and executed a public "gloat" up and down the enemy's big
form-room, departing in a haze of ink-pots.
"What d'you take any notice of those rotters for?" said Stalky,
playing substitute for the Old Boys, magnificent in black jersey,
white knickers, and black stockings. "I talked to _him_ up in the
dormitory when he was changin'. Pulled his sweater down for him. He's
cut about all over the arms--horrid purply ones. He's goin' to tell
us about it to-night. I asked him to when I was lacin' his boots."
"Well, you _have_ got cheek," said Beetle, enviously.
"Slipped out before I thought. But he wasn't a bit angry. He's no end
of a chap. I swear, I'm goin' to play up like beans. Tell Turkey!"
The technique of that match belongs to a bygone age. Scrimmages were
tight and enduring; hacking was direct and to the purpose; and around
the scrimmage stood the school, crying, "Put down your heads and
shove!" Toward the end everybody lost all sense of decency, and
mothers of day-boys too close to the touch-line heard language not
included in the bills. No one was actually carried off the field, but
both sides felt happier when time was called, and Beetle helped
Stalky and McTurk into their overcoats. The two had met in the
many-legged heart of things, and, as Stalky said, had "done each
other proud." As they swaggered woodenly behind the teams--
substitutes do not rank as equals of hairy men--they passed a
pony-carriage near the wall, and a husky voice cried, "Well played.
Oh, played indeed!" It was Stettson major, white-checked and
hollow-eyed, who had fought his way to the ground under escort of an
impatient coachman.
"Hullo, Stettson," said Stalky, checking. "Is it safe to come near you
yet?"
"Oh, yes. I'm all right. They wouldn't let me out before, but I had to
come to the match. Your mouth looks pretty plummy."
"Turkey trod on it accidental-done-a-purpose. Well, I'm glad you're
better, because we owe you something. You and your membranes got us
into a sweet mess, young man."
"I heard of that," said the boy, giggling. "The Head told me."
"Dooce he did! When?"
"Oh, come on up to Coll. My shin'll stiffen if we stay jawin' here."
"Shut up, Turkey. I want to find out about this. Well?"
"He was stayin' at our house all the time I was ill."
"What for? Neglectin' the Coll. that way? 'Thought he was in town."
"I was off my head, you know, and they said I kept on callin' for
him."
"Cheek! You're only a day-boy."
"He came just the same, and he about saved my life. I was all bunged
up one night--just goin' to croak, the doctor said--and they stuck a
tube or somethin' in my throat, and the Head sucked out the stuff."
"Ugh! 'Shot if _I_ would!"
"He ought to have got diphtheria himself, the doctor said. So he
stayed on at our house instead of going back. I'd ha' croaked in
another twenty minutes, the doctor says."
Here the coachman, being under orders, whipped up and nearly ran over
the three.
"My Hat!" said Beetle. "That's pretty average heroic."
"Pretty average!" McTurk's knee in the small of his back cannoned him
into Stalky, who punted him back. "You ought to be hung!"
"And the Head ought to get the V.C.," said Stalky. "Why, he might have
been dead _and_ buried by now. But he wasn't. But he didn't. Ho! ho!
He just nipped through the hedge like a lusty old blackbird.
Extra-special, five hundred lines, an' gated for a week--all
sereno!"
"I've read o' somethin' like that in a book," said Beetle. "Gummy,
what a chap! Just think of it!"
"I'm thinking," said McTurk; and he delivered a wild Irish yell that
made the team turn round.
"Shut your fat mouth," said Stalky, dancing with impatience. "Leave it
to your Uncle Stalky, and he'll have the Head on toast. If you say a
word, Beetle, till I give you leave, I swear I'll slay you.
_Habeo_Capitem_crinibus_minimis._ I've got him by the short hairs!
Now look as if nothing had happened."
There was no need of guile. The school was too busy cheering the drawn
match. It hung round the lavatories regardless of muddy boots while
the team washed. It cheered Crandall minor whenever it caught sight
of him, and it cheered more wildly than ever after prayers, because
the Old Boys in evening dress, openly twirling their mustaches,
attended, and instead of standing with the masters, ranged themselves
along the wall immediately before the prefects; and the Head called
them over, too--majors, minors, and tertiuses, after their old names.
"Yes, it's all very fine," he said to his guests after dinner, "but
the boys are getting a little out of hand. There will be trouble and
sorrow later, I'm afraid. You'd better turn in early, Crandall. The
dormitory will be sitting up for you. I don't know to what dizzy
heights you may climb in your profession, but I do know you'll never
get such absolute adoration as you're getting now."
"Confound the adoration. I want to finish my cigar, sir."
"It's all pure gold. Go where glory waits, Crandall--minor."
The setting of that apotheosis was a ten-bed attic dormitory,
communicating through doorless openings with three others. The gas
flickered over the raw pine washstands. There was an incessant
whistling of drafts, and outside the naked windows the sea beat on
the Pebbleridge.
"Same old bed--same old mattress, I believe," said Crandall, yawning.
"Same old everything. Oh, but I'm lame! I'd no notion you chaps could
play like this." He caressed a battered shin. "You've given us all
something to remember you by."
It needed a few minutes to put them at their ease; and, in some way
they could not understand, they were more easy when Crandall turned
round and said his prayers--a ceremony he had neglected for some
years.
"Oh, I _am_ sorry. I've forgotten to put out the gas."
"Please don't bother," said the prefect of the dormitory. "Worthington
does that."
A nightgowned twelve-year-old, who had been waiting to show off,
leaped from his bed to the bracket and back again, by way of a
washstand.
"How d'you manage when he's asleep?" said Crandall, chuckling.
"Shove a cold cleek down his neck."
"It was a wet sponge when I was junior in the dormitory... Hullo!
What's happening?"
The darkness had filled with whispers, the sound of trailing rugs,
bare feet on bare boards, protests, giggles, and threats such as:
"Be quiet, you ass!... Squattez-vous on the floor, then!... I swear
you aren't going to sit on _my_ bed!... Mind the tooth-glass," etc.
Sta--Corkran said," the prefect began, his tone showing his sense of
Stalky's insolence, "that perhaps you'd tell us about that business
with Duncan's body."
"Yes--yes--yes," ran the keen whispers. "Tell us"
"There's nothing to tell. What on earth are you chaps hoppin' about in
the cold for?"
"Never mind us," said the voices. "Tell about Fat-Sow."
So Crandall turned on his pillow and spoke to the generation he could
not see.
"Well, about three months ago he was commanding a treasure-guard--a
cart full of rupees to pay troops with--five thousand rupees in
silver. He was comin' to a place called Fort Pearson, near Kalabagh."
"I was born there," squeaked a small fag. "It was called after my
uncle."
"Shut up--you and your uncle! Never mind him, Crandall."
"Well, ne'er mind. The Afridis found out that this treasure was on the
move, and they ambushed the whole show a couple of miles before he
got to the fort, and cut up the escort. Duncan was wounded, and the
escort hooked it. There weren't more than twenty Sepoys all told, and
there were any amount of Afridis. As things turned out, I was in
charge at Fort Pearson. Fact was, I'd heard the firing and was just
going to see about it, when Duncan's men came up. So we all turned
back together. They told me something about an officer, but I
couldn't get the hang of things till I saw a chap under the wheels of
the cart out in the open, propped up on one arm, blazing away with a
revolver. You see, the escort had abandoned the cart, and the
Afridis--they're an awfully suspicious gang --thought the retreat was
a trap--sort of draw, you know--and the cart was the bait. So they
had left poor old Duncan alone. 'Minute they spotted how few we were,
it was a race across the flat who should reach old Duncan first. We
ran, and they ran, and we won, and after a little hackin' about they
pulled off. I never knew it was one of us till I was right on top of
him. There are heaps of Duncans in the service, and of course the name
didn't remind me. He wasn't changed at all hardly. He'd been shot
through the lungs, poor old man, and he was pretty thirsty. I gave
him a drink and sat down beside him, and--funny thing, too--he said,
'Hullo, Toffee!' and I said, 'Hullo, Fat-Sow! hope you aren't hurt,'
or something of the kind. But he died in a minute or two--never
lifted his head off my knees... I say, you chaps out there will get
your death of cold. Better go to bed."
"All right. In a minute. But your cuts--your cuts. How did you get
wounded?"
"That was when we were taking the body back to the Fort. They came on
again, and there was a bit of a scrimmage."
"Did you kill any one?"
"Yes. Shouldn't wonder. Good-night."
"Good-night. Thank you, Crandall. Thanks awf'ly, Crandall.
Good-night."
The unseen crowds withdrew. His own dormitory rustled into bed and lay
silent for a while.
"I say, Crandall"--Stalky's voice was tuned to a wholly foreign
reverence.
"Well, what?"
"Suppose a chap found another chap croaking with diphtheria--all
bunged up with it--and they stuck a tube in his throat and the chap
sucked the stuff out, what would you say?"
"Um," said Crandall, reflectively. "I've only heard of one case, and
that was a doctor. He did it for a woman."
"Oh, this wasn't a woman. It was just a boy."
"Makes it all the finer, then. It's about the bravest thing a man can
do. Why?"
"Oh, I heard of a chap doin' it. That's all."
"Then he's a brave man."
"Would _you_ funk it?"
"Ra-ather. Anybody would. Fancy dying of diphtheria in cold blood."
"Well--ah! Er! Look here!" The sentence ended in a grunt, for Stalky
had leaped out of bed and with McTurk was sitting on the head of
Beetle, who would have sprung the mine there and then.
Next day, which was the last of the term and given up to a few wholly
unimportant examinations, began with wrath and war. Mr. King had
discovered that nearly all his house--it lay, as you know, next door
but one to Prout's in the long range of buildings--had unlocked the
doors between the dormitories and had gone in to listen to a story
told by Crandall. He went to the Head, clamorous, injured, appealing;
for he never approved of allowing so-called young men of tile world
to contaminate the morals of boyhood. Very good, said the Head, he
would attend to it.
"Well, I'm awf'ly sorry," said Crandall guiltily. "I don't think I
told 'em anything they oughtn't to hear. Don't let them get into
trouble on my account."
"Tck!" the Head answered, with the ghost of a wink. "It isn't the boys
that make trouble; it's the masters. However, Prout and King don't
approve of dormitory gatherings on this scale, and one must back up
the house-masters. Moreover, it's hopeless to punish two houses only,
so late in the term. We must be fair and include everybody. Let's
see. They have a holiday task for the Easters, which, of course, none
of them will ever look at. We will give the whole school, except
prefects and study-boys, regular prep. to-night; and the Common-room
will have to supply a master to take it. We must be fair to all."
"Prep. on the last night of the term. Whew!" said Crandall, thinking
of his own wild youth. "I fancy there will be larks."
The school, frolicking among packed trunks, whooping down the
corridor, and "gloating" in form-rooms, received the news with
amazement and rage. No school in the world did prep. on the last
night of the term. This thing was monstrous, tyrannical, subversive
of law, religion, and morality. They would go into the form-rooms,
and they would take their degraded holiday task with them, but--here
they smiled and speculated what manner of man the Common-room would
send up against them. The lot fell on Mason, credulous and
enthusiastic, who loved youth. No other master was anxious to take
that "prep.," for the school lacked the steadying influence of
tradition; and men accustomed to the ordered routine of ancient
foundations found it occasionally insubordinate. The four long
form-rooms, in which all below the rank of study-boys worked,
received him with thunders of applause. Ere he had coughed twice they
favored him with a metrical summary of the marriage laws of Great
Britain, as recorded by the High Priest of the Israelites and
commented on by the leader of the host. The lower forms reminded him
that it was the last day, and that therefore he must "take it all in
play." When he dashed off to rebuke them, the Lower Fourth and Upper
Third began with one accord to be sick, loudly and realistically. Mr.
Mason tried, of all vain things under heaven, to argue with them, and
a bold soul at a back desk bade him "take fifty lines for not 'olding
up 'is 'and before speaking." As one who prided himself upon the
perfection of his English this cut Mason to the quick, and while he
was trying to discover the offender, the Upper and Lower Second,
three form-rooms away, turned out the gas and threw ink-pots. It was
a pleasant and stimulating "prep." The study-boys and prefects heard
the echoes of it far off, and the Common-room at dessert smiled.
Stalky waited, watch in hand, till half-past eight. "If it goes on
much longer the Head will come up," said he. "We'll tell the studies
first, and then the dorm-rooms. Look sharp!"
He allowed no time for Beetle to be dramatic or McTurk to drawl. They
poured into study after study, told their tale, and went again so
soon as they saw they were understood, waiting for no comment; while
the noise of that unholy "prep." grew and deepened. By the door of
Flint's study they met Mason flying towards the corridor.--"He's
gone to fetch the Head. Hurry up! Come on!" They broke into Number
Twelve form-room abreast and panting.
"The Head! The Head! The Head!" That call stilled the tumult for a
minute, and Stalky, leaping to a desk, shouted, "He went and sucked
the diphtheria stuff out of Stettson major's throat when we thought
he was in town. Stop rotting, you asses! Stettson major would have
croaked if the Head hadn't done it. The Head might have died himself.
Crandall says it's the bravest thing any livin' man can do, and
I"--his voice cracked--"the Head don't know we know!"
McTurk and Beetle, jumping from desk to desk, drove the news home
among the junior forms. There was a pause, and then, Mason behind
him, the Head entered. It was in the established order of things that
no boy should speak or move under his eye. He expected the hush of
awe. He was received with cheers--steady, ceaseless cheering. Being
a wise man, he went away, and the forms were silent and a little
frightened.
"It's all right," said Stalky. "He can't do much. 'Tisn't as if you'd
pulled the desks up like we did when old Carleton took prep. once.
Keep it up! Hear 'em cheering in the studies!" He rocketed out with a
yell, to find Flint and the prefects lifting the roof off the
corridor.
When the Head of a limited liability company, paying four per cent.,
is cheered on his saintly way to prayers, not only by four form-rooms
of boys waiting punishment, but by his trusted prefects, he can
either ask for an explanation or go his road with dignity, while the
senior house-master glares like an excited cat and points out to a
white and trembling mathematical master that certain methods--not
his, thank God---usually produce certain results. Out of delicacy the
Old Boys did not attend that call-over; and it was to the school
drawn up in the gymnasium that the Head spoke icily.
"It is not often that I do not understand you; but I confess I do not
to-night. Some of you, after your idiotic performances at prep., seem
to think me a fit person to cheer. I am going to show you that I am
not."
Crash--crash--crash--came the triple cheer that disproved it, and the
Head glowered under the gas. "That is enough. You will gain nothing.
The little boys (the Lower School did not like that form of address)
will do me three hundred lines apiece in the holidays. I shall take
no further notice of them. The Upper School will do me one thousand
lines apiece in the holidays, to be shown up the evening of the day
they come back. And further--"
"Gummy, what a glutton!" Stalky whispered.
"For your behavior towards Mr. Mason I intend to lick the whole of the
Upper School to-morrow when I give you your journey-money. This will
include the three study-boys I found dancing on the form-room desks
when I came up. Prefects will stay after call-over."
The school filed out in silence, but gathered in groups by the
gymnasium door waiting what might befall.
"And now, Flint," said the Head, "will you be good enough to give me
some explanation of your conduct?"
"Well, sir," said Flint desperately, "if you save a chap's life at the
risk of your own when he's dyin' of diphtheria, and the Coll. finds
it out, wha-what can you expect, sir?"
"Um, I see. Then that noise was not meant for--ah, cheek. I can
connive at immorality, but I cannot stand impudence. However, it does
not excuse their insolence to Mr. Mason. I'll forego the lines this
once, remember; but the lickings hold good."
When this news was made public, the school, lost in wonder and
admiration, gasped at the Head as he went to his house. Here was a
man to be reverenced. On the rare occasions when he caned he did it
very scientifically, and the execution of a hundred boys would be
epic--immense.
"It's all right, Head Sahib. _We_ know," said Crandall, as the Head
slipped off his gown with a grunt in his smoking-room. "I found out
just now from our substitute. He was gettin' my opinion of your
performance last night in the dormitory. I didn't know then that it
was you he was talkin' about. Crafty young animal. Freckled chap with
eyes---Corkran, I think his name is."
"Oh, I know _him_, thank you," said the Head, and reflectively.
"Ye-es, I should have included them even if I hadn't seen 'em."
"If the old Coll. weren't a little above themselves already, we'd
chair you down the corridor," said the Engineer. "Oh, Bates, how
could you? You might have caught it yourself, and where would we have
been, then?"
"I always knew you were worth twenty of us any day. Now I'm sure of
it," said the Squadron Commander, looking round for contradictions.
"He isn't fit to manage a school, though. Promise you'll never do it
again, Bates Sahib. We--we can't go away comfy in our minds if you
take these risks," said the Gunner.
"Bates Sahib, you aren't ever goin' to cane the whole Upper School,
are you?" said Crandall.
"I can connive at immorality, as I said, but I can't stand impudence.
Mason's lot is quite hard enough even when I back him. Besides, the
men at the golf-club heard them singing 'Aaron and Moses.' I shall
have complaints about that from the parents of day-boys. Decency must
be preserved."
"We're coming to help," said all the guests.
The Upper School were caned one after the other, their overcoats over
their arms, the brakes waiting in the road below to take them to the
station, their journey-money on the table. The Head began with
Stalky, McTurk, and Beetle. He dealt faithfully by them.
"And here's your journey-money. Good-by, and pleasant holidays."
"Good-by. Thank you, sir. Good-by."
They shook hands. "Desire don't outrun performance--much--this
mornin'. We got the cream of it," said Stalky. "Now wait till a few
chaps come out, and we'll really cheer him."
"Don't wait on our account, please," said Crandall, speaking for the
Old Boys. "We're going to begin now."
It was very well so long as the cheering was confined to the corridor,
but when it spread to the gymnasium, when the boys awaiting their
turn cheered, the Head gave it up in despair, and the remnant flung
themselves upon him to shake hands. Then they seriously devoted
themselves to cheering till the brakes were hustled off the premises
in dumb-show.
"Didn't I say I'd get even with him?" said Stalky on the box-seat, as
they swung into the narrow Northam street. "Now all together--takin'
time from your Uncle Stalky:
"It's a way we have in the Army,
It's a way we have in the Navy,
It's a way we have at the Public Schools,
Which nobody can deny!"
THE FLAG OF THEIR COUNTRY.
It was winter and bitter cold of mornings. Consequently Stalky and
Beetle--McTurk being of the offensive type that makes ornate toilet
under all circumstances-drowsed till the last moment before turning
out to call-over in the gas-lit gymnasium. It followed that they were
often late; and since every unpunctuality earned them a black mark,
and since three black marks a week meant defaulters' drill, equally
it followed that they spent hours under the Sergeant's hand. Foxy
drilled the defaulters with all the pomp of his old parade-ground.
"Don't think it's any pleasure to me" (his introduction never
varied). "I'd much sooner be smoking a quiet pipe in my own
quarters--but I see we 'ave the Old Brigade on our 'ands this
afternoon. If I only 'ad you regular, Muster Corkran," said he,
dressing the line.
"You've had me for nearly six weeks, you old glutton. Number off from
the right!"
"Not _quite_ so previous, please. I'm taking this drill. Left,
half--turn! Slow--march." Twenty-five sluggards, all old offenders,
filed into the gymnasium. "Quietly provide yourselves with the
requisite dumb-bells; returnin' quietly to your place. Number off
from the right, in a low voice. Odd numbers one pace to the front.
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