Chapter Nine
A Scientific Afternoon in Welch’s
“Pil,” said Cusack, a few days after the unfortunate end to that gentleman’s “motion” in Parliament—“Pil, it strikes me we can do pretty much as we like these times. What do you think?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Pil, meditatively; “I got a pot from Coates to-day for playing fives against the schoolhouse door.”
“Oh yes; of course, if you fool about out of doors you’ll get potted. What I mean is, indoors here there’s no one to pull us up that I can see.”
“Oh! I see what you mean,” said Pil. “Yes, you’re about right there.”
“Gully, you know,” continued Cusack—“Gully’s no good as master of a house; he’s always grubbing over his books. Bless his heart! it doesn’t matter to him whether we cut one another’s throats!”
“Not it! I dare say he’d be rather glad if we did,” replied Pilbury.
“Then there’s Tucker. No fear of his reporting us, eh!”
“Rather not! when he’s always breaking rules himself, and slinking down to Shellport, and kicking up rows with the other chaps. What do you think I found in his brush-and-comb bag the other day? Thirteen cigar-ends! He goes about collecting them in Shellport, I suppose, and finishes them up on the quiet.”
“Oh, he’s a beast!” said Cusack. “And old Silk’s about as bad. He doesn’t care a bit what we do as long as he enjoys himself. Don’t suppose he’d be down on us, do you?”
“No fear! He might pot us now and then for appearances’ sake, but he wouldn’t report us, I guess.”
“And suppose he did,” said Cusack; “the new captain’s as big a muff as all the lot of them put together. He’s afraid to look at a chap. Didn’t you hear what he did to the Parrett’s kids the other day?”
“Yes; didn’t I!” exclaimed Pilbury. “He let them all off, and begged their pardons or something. But I’m jolly glad Parrett was down on them. He’s stopped their river-play, and they won’t be able to show up at the regatta.”
“I’m jolly glad!” said Cusack; “chaps like them deserve to catch it, don’t they, Pil?”
“Rather!” replied Pilbury.
A silence ensued, during which both heroes were doubtless meditating upon the unexampled iniquities of the Parrett juniors.
Presently Pilbury observed somewhat dolefully, “Beastly slow, isn’t it, Cusack?”
“What’s beastly slow?”
“Oh, everything! No fun kicking up a row if there’s no one to pull you up. I’m getting sick of rows.”
Cusack stared at his friend with rather concerned looks. He could not be well, surely, or he would never come out with sentiments like those.
“Fact is,” continued Pilbury, contemplatively balancing himself on one foot on the corner of the fender, “I’ve half a notion to go in for being steady this term, old man, just for a change.”
As if to suit the action to the word, the fender suddenly capsized under him, and shot him head first into the waistcoat of his friend.
Cusack solemnly restored him to his feet and replied, “Rather a rum start, isn’t it?”
“Well,” said Pilbury, examining his shin to see if it had been grazed by the treacherous fender, “I don’t see what else there is to do. Any chap can fool about. I’m fagged of fooling about; ain’t you?”
“I don’t know,” said Cusack, doubtfully. “It’s not such a lark as it used to be, certainly.”
“What do you say to going it steady this term?” asked Pilbury.
“Depends on what you mean by ‘steady.’ If you mean never going out of bounds or using cribs, I’m not game.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that, you know,” said Pilbury. “What I mean is, shutting up rows, and that sort of thing.”
“What can a fellow do?” asked Cusack, dubiously.
“Oh, lots to do, you know,” said Pilbury—“dominoes, you know, or spellicans. I’ve got a box at home.”
“Jolly slow always playing dominoes,” said Cusack, “or spellicans.”
“Well, then, there’s—”
“Hold hard!” broke in Cusack, struck with a sudden idea. “What’s the name of the thing old Philpot’s always at?”
“What, chemistry? Jolly good idea, old man! Let’s go in for that.”
“Not a bad lark,” said Cusack—“lots of explosions and things. Philpot told me he could make Pharaoh’s serpents, and smells like rotten eggs. We’ll get him to coach us, eh, Pil?”
“I’m game,” said Pil, no less delighted than his friend at this happy thought.
And, full of their new idea of “going it steady,” the two worthies forthwith sallied out and made hue and cry for Philpot.
Unless Philpot in his leisure moments was engaged in some predatory expedition, or happened to be serving a term of imprisonment in the detention room, it was a pretty safe guess to look for him in the laboratory, where as an ardent student of science he was permitted to resort, and within certain limits practise for himself. Philpot himself bore the office of “second under bottle-washer” in Willoughby; that is, he assisted the boy who assisted the chemistry fag who assisted the assistant master to the science master; and
Cusack and Pilbury found him busy blowing through a tube into a bottle of water, looking very like a purple cherub bursting at the cheeks. He was so engrossed with his task that he did not even notice their entry, indeed it was not till Pilbury had stepped behind him and clapped him suddenly on either side of the face, making his cheeks explode like a small balloon, and spilling the contents of his bottle all over the table, that he became aware that he had visitors. “What a frightful idiot you are, Pilbury!” he exclaimed; “you’ve spoilt that whole experiment. I wish you’d shut up fooling and get out.”
“Awfully sorry, old man,” said Pilbury, “but you did look so jolly puffed out, you know; didn’t he, Cusack?”
“Now you’ve done, you’d better hook it,” said Philpot, “you’ve not got leave to come here.”
“Oh, don’t be riled,” said Cusack; “the fact is, Pil and I came to see if you’d put us up to a thing or two in this sort of business.”
“We’ve gone on the steady, Phil, you know,” explained Pilbury, in conciliatory tones, “and thought it would be rather jolly if we three worked up a little chemistry together.”
“We’d watch you do the things at first, of course,” said Cusack, “till we twigged all the dodges.”
“And it would be jolly good practice for you, you know, in case ever old Mix-’em-up is laid up, and you have to lecture instead.”
Philpot regarded his two would-be pupils doubtfully, but softened considerably as they went on.
“You’ll have to promise not to fool,” said he, presently, “or there’ll be a row.”
“Oh, rather; we won’t touch anything without asking, will we, Pil?” replied Cusack. “Awfully brickish of you, Philpot.”
Philpot took the compliment very complacently, and the two students settled themselves one on either side of the table and waited for operations to begin.
“Wire in, old man,” said Pilbury, encouragingly; “cut all the jaw, you know, and start with the experiments. Can’t you give us a jolly flare-up to begin with?”
“All serene,” said Philpot, who had now quite recovered his humour, and was pleased to find himself in the position of an instructor of youth, “wait a bit, then.”
He reached down from a shelf a large saucer containing water, in which lay a round substance rather like the end of a stick of peppermint-rock. On this Philpot began to operate with a pair of scissors, greatly to the amusement of his spectators, for try all he would he couldn’t get hold of it.
“What are you trying to do?” said Cusack.
“Cut a bit off,” said Philpot, trying to stick the substance with a long bodkin, in order to hold it steady.
“Why, that’s not the way to cut it, you old dolt,” said Pilbury. “Here, I’ll do it,” and he advanced to the saucer.
“What’ll you do?”
“Why, fish it out, of course, and cut it then.”
“You’d better not try. It’s phosphorus.”
“Is it, though — and what does it do?”
“Burn you, rather, unless you keep it in water. Ah, got him at last.”
So saying Philpot triumphantly spiked the obstinate piece of phosphorus, and succeeded in cutting off a small piece.
“Is that what makes the flare-up?” asked Cusack.
“Yes, wait a bit, till I get the jar.”
“What jar?” asked Pilbury. “Here’s one; will this do?”
“Look out, I say!” exclaimed Philpot, in great excitement; “let it go, will you?”
“What’s the row?” asked Pilbury and Cusack, both in alarm.
“Why, that’s got my oxygen in it,” cried Philpot, securing the bottle and gently lifting it on to the table, taking care to hold the glass plate that covered the mouth in its place.
“Got his what in it?” asked Cusack.
“Oxygen. It took me an hour to get.”
“There’s nothing in that empty jar,” said Pilbury, laughing. “Isn’t there, though?” said Philpot; “it’s full.”
“You mean to say that jar’s full of something,” said Cusack. “Look here, don’t you try to stuff us up. What’s the use of saying it’s full when it’s empty?”
“It’s full of gas, I tell you,” said Philpot. “Don’t you talk till you know.”
This rebuke somewhat silenced the two devotees of science, who, however, continued to regard the jar sceptically and rather contemptuously.
Philpot next dived into a drawer and drew from it a large cork, through which passed a long wire having a small cup at the lower end.
“Now look out,” he said.
He proceeded to shovel the small piece of phosphorus into the little cup under the cork, and drawing it out of the water, applied a light. The phosphorus lit up immediately, and at the same instant he slipped the glass plate off the mouth of the oxygen jar, and clapped the cork, with the wire and cup hanging down from it, in its place. The effect was magical. The moment the phosphorus was introduced into the oxygen it flared up with a brilliancy that perfectly dazzled the spectators, and made the entire jar look like one mass of light.
The two pupils were delighted; Philpot was complacently triumphant; when all of a sudden there was a loud report, the illumination suddenly ceased, and the jar, broken to pieces, collapsed.
Pilbury and Cusack, who at the first alarm had retreated somewhat suddenly to the door, returned as soon as they perceived there was no danger, and were profuse in their praises of the experiment and the experimenter.
“Awfully prime, that was!” cried Cusack; “wasn’t it, Pil?”
“Stunning!” said Pilbury.
“Jolly grind that jar bursting up, though,” said Philpot, with a troubled countenance.
“Why, wasn’t that part of the show-off?” asked Pilbury. “Part of the show-off! No!” exclaimed Philpot. “I thought it was the best part of it all,” said Cusack. “So did I. No end of a bust up it was.”
“You see,” said Philpot, solemnly, “what I ought to have done was to dilute the oxygen with a little air first, but you fellows flurried me so I forgot all about it.”
“Jolly glad you did, or we’d have missed the bust up,” said Cusack. “I say, can’t we try now? I know the way to do it quite well.”
But this proposal Philpot flatly declined to accede to, and could only appease their disappointment by promising to perform one other experiment for their benefit.
This was of rather an elaborate nature. The operator first placed in a saucer some stuff which he explained was iodine. On to this he poured from a small bottle which smelt uncommonly like smelling-salts a small quantity of liquid, and then proceeded to stir the concoction up.
The two students were not to be restrained from offering their services at this point, and Philpot yielded. After they had stirred to their hearts’ content, Philpot ordered them to desist and let it stand a bit.
This they consented to do, and occupied the interval in taking down and smelling all the bottles within reach, with a hardihood that frightened the wits out of poor Philpot.
“Look here,” he said, when presently Pilbury suddenly dropped one bottle with a crash to the floor, and began violently spitting and choking, “you promised you wouldn’t touch anything, and I’ll shut up if you go on fooling any more. Serves you right, Pil, so it does.”
It was some time before the unfortunate Pil recovered from the results of his unlucky experiment, and even when he did, the odours from the broken bottle were so offensive that the windows had to be opened wide before the atmosphere of the room became tolerable. It wouldn’t have taken so long, only it was deemed advisable to shut the door at the same time to prevent the smell getting outside and telling tales to the school at large.
By the time this pleasant diversion was disposed of the concoction in the saucer had recovered from its stirring, and Philpot declared it was ready to go ahead with.
He therefore placed another saucer upside down upon this one, and carefully strained off between the two all the liquid, leaving only a black powder in the saucer, which he announced was iodide of nitrogen.
“Jolly rum name,” said Cusack, “what does it do?”
“You wait a bit,” said Philpot, scooping the wet powder up with the end of a knife and spreading it out on small separate pieces of paper.
“Fellow’s born a chemist,” said Pilbury, watching him admiringly; “that’s just what old Joram does at the dispensary. What’s all the spread out for?”
“To dry it,” said Philpot.
“Why don’t you stick it on the shovel and hold it over the gas?” suggested Cusack. “Jolly fag waiting till it dries itself.”
“Oh, it won’t be long,” said Philpot.
“And what’s it going to do when it’s done?” asked Cusack.
“Hope it’ll flare-up like the other,” said Pilbury.
“It ought to,” said Philpot.
“Ought it? Hurrah! I say, Cusack, what a jolly clever beggar old Phil is, isn’t he?”
“Rather,” said the admiring Cusack, perching himself on the side of the table and swinging his legs to pass the time.
“Oh,” said Philpot, condescendingly, “it only wants a little practice.”
“Rather; I mean to practise hard, don’t you, Cusack?”
Cusack said, Yes he did, and proceeded to prowl round the laboratory in a manner that made Philpot very uncomfortable.
It was a relief to all parties when the powders were at last pronounced to be dry.
“Now,” said Philpot, taking up one of the small papers gently on the flat of his hand, “we shall have to be careful.”
“That little lot won’t make half a flare,” suggested Pilbury; “let’s have two or three at once.”
So saying he lifted up one of the other papers and emptied its contents into the paper on Philpot’s hand.
“Look out,” said Philpot, “it’ll blow up.”
“Eh, what?” cried Cusack, jumping off the table in his excitement at the glorious news.
As he did so Philpot uttered a cry, which was accompanied by a loud crackling explosion, and a dense volume of blue smoke, which made the boys turn pale with terror. For a moment neither of them could move or utter a sound except Philpot, who danced round and round the room in the smoke howling and wringing his hand.
When at last they did recover presence of mind enough to inquire of their preceptor if he was injured, it was in tones of terrible alarm.
“Oh, Phil, old man, are you hurt? What was it? We’re so awfully sorry. Is your hand blown off?”
“No,” said Philpot, continuing to wring his injured hand, but otherwise considerably recovered, “it was your fault jumping off the table. The beastly stuff goes off almost if you look at it. It’s lucky it wasn’t all dry, or I might have had my eyes out!”