“Oh,” said Riddell, “as to that, you can take as many pounds off me as you like; but—”
“None of your buts, old man,” said Fairbairn. “I say, if we only were to win, with you as cox, what a score it would be!”
“None of your ‘ifs,’ old man,” said Riddell, laughing. “But I’ll come to-morrow, if you are determined to have your way.”
“Of course I am,” said Fairbairn.
This conversation took place the evening that young Wyndham was taking tea with Silk and Gilks in the study of the former.
The intelligence that the new captain was to be taken out to steer the schoolhouse boat mysteriously got wind before the evening was over, and spread over the school like wildfire. Consequently, when Riddell arrived at the boat-house in the morning, he was surprised and horrified to find that nearly all Willoughby was awake and down at the river banks to see him.
It was embarrassing certainly, and when presently the crew got into their seats and a start was made, it became evident the new coxswain was anything but at home in his new position. The boat was a long time getting clear of the landing stage owing to his persistently mistaking in his flurry his right hand for his left, and then when it did get out into mid-stream the same reason prevented him from discovering that the reason why the boat would turn round instead of going straight was because he had his right cord pulled hard the whole time.
This spectacle, as may be imagined, afforded intense gratification to the curious onlookers, and many and hilarious were the shouts which fell on the ears of the unlucky captain.
“Oh, well coxed there!” one voice cried.
“Well steered in a circle!” shouted another.
“Mind you don’t knock the bank down,” yelled a third.
“Pull your right there!”
“Try him without the rudder. See if he don’t steer better that way.”
In the midst of these uncomplimentary shouts the boat slowly wended its erratic course up the river, amidst crowds of boys on either bank.
“Riddell, old man,” said Fairbairn, leaning forward from his place at stroke, “what’s the row?”
It only needed a friendly voice to recall the captain to himself. By an effort he forgot about the crowds and turned a deaf ear to the shouts, and straightening himself, and taking the lines steadily in his hands, looked up quietly at his friend. Richard was himself again.
“Now then!” cried Fairbairn to his men behind, “row all!” and he led them off with a long steady stroke.
For a little distance the boat travelled well. Riddell kept a good course, and the whole crew worked steadily. The scoffers on the bank were perplexed, and their jeers died away feebly. This was not a crew of muffs assuredly. Those first twenty or thirty yards were rowed in a style not very far short of the Parrett’s standard, and Parson himself, the best cox of Parrett’s house, could hardly have taken the boat down that reach in a better course.
There was something ominous in this. But, to the great relief of the unfriendly critics, this showy lead was not maintained. Before a hundred yards were completed something seemed to go wrong in the boat. It rolled heavily and wavered in its course. What was wrong?
The fault was certainly not in Fairbairn, who kept doggedly to work in perfectly even style. Nor, to all appearance, was it in Riddell. He was evidently puzzled by the sudden unsteadiness of the boat, but no one could lay it to his charge.
“Who’s that digging behind?” cried Fairbairn over his shoulder.
None of the other three owned the soft impeachment, and the boat seemed to right itself of its own accord.
Fairbairn, whose temper was never improved by perplexities, quickened his stroke, and gave his men a spell of hard work for a bit to punish them.
This seemed to have a good effect, and once again the onlookers were startled to see how steadily and fast the boat was travelling. But once again the mysterious disturbance interrupted their progress.
This time Fairbairn stopped short, and turning round demanded angrily who it was who was playing the fool, for an effect like this could only be put down to such a course. Porter, Coates, and Gilks all repudiated the suggestion, and once more, amid the ironical cheers of the onlookers, Fairbairn resumed his work and lashed viciously out with his oar.
This last protest of his seemed to have had the desired effect, for during the rest of the journey up to the Willows the boat travelled fairly well, though it was evident plenty of work was needed before the crew could be considered in proper racing trim. But no sooner had they turned and started for the home journey than once again the rolling suddenly became manifest. Fairbairn rowed on a stroke or two without apparently noticing it, then turning sharply round in the middle of a stroke he discovered the reason.
The blade of Gilks’s oar was about a foot under the surface, and he himself was lurching over his seat, with the handle of the oar up to about his chin.
“What on earth do you mean by it?” demanded Fairbairn, angrily.
“Mean by what?” asked Gilks.
“By playing the fool like that; that’s what I mean,” retorted Fairbairn.
“Who was playing the fool?” snarled Gilks. “How can I help catching a crab when he’s constantly turning the boat’s head in the middle of a stroke?”
“All rot!” said Fairbairn.
“All very well for you at stroke,” said Gilks, viciously. “You come and row bow and see if you don’t feel it. I’d like to know who could keep his oar straight with such steering.”
“If you’d row half as well as he steers,” said Fairbairn, “you’d row a precious sight better than you do! You’d better take care, Gilks.”
“Take care of what, you fool?” demanded Gilks, whose temper was now fairly gone.
“Ready all, you fellows!” cried Fairbairn, stretching forward.
This brief conversation had been heard only by those in the boat, but its purport had been gathered by those on the bank who had watched the angry looks and heard the angry voices of the speakers.
“Bravo! fight it out!” cried some one, and the news that there was a quarrel in the schoolhouse boat added greatly to the zest of the critics’ enjoyment.
Fairbairn’s caution — whether purposely, or because he could not help it — was lost upon the offending bow oar. The boat had scarcely started again when Gilks caught another crab, which for the moment nearly upset the crew. Fairbairn rowed on, with thunder in his face, regardless of the incident, and Riddell kept as straight a course as he could, despite the unsteadiness. In due time the unsatisfactory practice came to an end, and the crew stood together again on the steps of the boat-house.
Gilks seemed to expect, and every one else expected, that Fairbairn would once more take the defaulter to task for his performance that morning, and Fairbairn did not disappoint him; though he dealt with the matter in a rather unexpected manner.
“I shall want the tub-pair after third school,” said he to the boatman. “Riddell, will you come and cox. Crossfield and me?”
“Who — Crossfield?” asked Coates.
“Yes; I shall try him for bow.”
“You mean to say,” exclaimed Gilks, taking the matter in, “you’re going to turn me out of the boat?”
“Certainly,” said Fairbairn, coolly.
“What for?” demanded Gilks, threateningly.
“Because,” replied Fairbairn, taking Riddell’s arm and walking slowly off—“because we can do better without you.”
Gilks stared at him a moment as though he meditated flying at him. If he did, he thought better of it, and turned away, muttering to himself that he would pay them all out, let them see if he did not.
Threats of this sort were not unheard-of things from Gilks, and no one was greatly disturbed by them. On the whole, Fairbairn’s decision was approved of by most of the schoolhouse partisans, particularly those who had watched the proceedings of the morning. A few thought Gilks might have been accorded a second chance, but the majority argued that if a fellow caught crabs like that in a practice he would probably do it in the race, and they did not want the risk of that.
As to his excuse about the steering, every one who knew anything about that knew it meant nothing, and Gilks did not repeat it.
As he reached the school Silk met him with angry looks.
“Is it true what I hear,” said he, “that you’re out of the boat?”
“Yes, it is,” growled Gilks.
“Why, you idiot! whatever have you done this for?”
“I did nothing. They wanted to get rid of me, and they did.”
“Yes, because you hadn’t the ordinary sense to keep up appearances till the race, and must begin to practise your tricks a month beforehand!” said Silk, greatly enraged, for him.
“All very well,” said Gilks, sullenly. “I should have liked to see you rowing your best with that puppy steering; thinking he’s doing it so wonderfully, the prig!”
“And just because you hadn’t the patience to hold out a week or two you go and spoil everything. I didn’t think you were such a fool, upon my word.”
Gilks was cowed by the wrath of his friend.
“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “I’m awfully sorry.”
“It’s done us completely now,” said Silk. “For all we know they may win. Who’s to take your place?”
“Crossfield.”
“Just the man I was afraid. He’s the best man they could have picked out. I tell you what, Gilks, you’d better go and apologise and see if you can’t get back into the boat. Who could have believed you’d be such a fool! Go at once, for goodness’ sake.”
Gilks, who saw his own mistake fully as well as his friend, obeyed. He found Fairbairn in his study with Riddell. The former seemed not at all surprised to see him.
“Fairbairn,” said Gilks, “I hope you’ll let me stay in the boat. I’m sorry I played the fool this morning.”
“Then you
“Yes,” said Gilks, sullenly.
“Then,” said Fairbairn, hotly, “you may be a fool, but I won’t be such a big one as to let you stay in the boat another day!”
Gilks glared a moment at the speaker. Evidently it would be no use to argue or plead further; and, smarting with rage and humiliation, none the less keen that Riddell had been present and heard all, he turned away.
“You’ll be sorry for this, you two,” he growled. “Humbugs!”
“Well rid of him,” said Fairbairn, as soon as he had gone.
“Yes. I don’t think much of him,” said Riddell, thinking as much of young Wyndham and his temptations as of the schoolhouse boat.
“Well, old man,” said Fairbairn, after a pause, “you steered awfully well when you once began. Whatever made you so shaky at first?”
“My usual complaint,” said Riddell, smiling. “I was thinking what other people were thinking.”
“Oh,” said Fairbairn, “unless you can give that up you may as well shut up shop altogether.”
“Well, if I must do one or the other, I think I’ll keep the shop open,” said Riddell, cheerily. “By the way,” added he, looking at his watch and sighing, “I have to see some juniors in my study in two minutes. Good-bye.”
“Be sure you’re down for the tub practice this afternoon.”
“I’ll be there,” said Riddell.
Chapter Twelve
Bloomfield In Tribulation
Bloomfield was beginning to discover already that the new dignity to which he had been raised by his own partisans at Willoughby was anything but a bed of roses. Vain and easily led as he was, he was not a bad fellow by any means; and when the mutiny against the new captain first began, he flattered himself that by allowing himself to be set up in opposition he was really doing a service to Willoughby, and securing the school against a great many disasters which were certain to ensue if Riddell was left supreme.
But in these lofty hopes he was getting to be a trifle disappointed. In his own house, of course, especially among those over whom he was wont to rule in athletic sports, his authority was paramount. But these, after all, constituted only a small section of Willoughby. Over the rest of the school his influence was strangely overlooked, and even the terrors of his arm failed to bring his subjects to obedience.
It was all very well at first, when the one idea was indignation against the doctor’s new appointment. But as soon as the malcontents discovered that they had raised one more tyrant over their own heads, they began to find out their mistake, and did their best to correct it. They argued that as they had elected Bloomfield themselves they weren’t bound to obey him unless they chose; and when it came to the point of having to give up their own will in obedience to his, they remembered he was not the real captain of Willoughby and had no right to order them!
So poor Bloomfield did not find things quite as comfortable as he had expected.
One of the first rebuffs he got was administered by no less stately a hand than that of Master Telson of the schoolhouse.
This young gentleman ever since his last unfortunate expedition in “Noah’s Ark” had been somewhat under a cloud. His forced absence from the river for a whole week had preyed upon his spirits. And when at the end of that period he did revisit his old haunts, armed with a captain’s permit, it was only to discover that whatever small chance he ever had of coxing his house’s boat at the coming regatta, had vanished under the new arrangement which had brought Riddell into the boat.
It is only fair to say that this disappointment, keen as it was, had no effect on his loyalty. He was as ready as ever to fight any one who spoke ill of the schoolhouse. But it certainly had given him a jar, which resulted in rather strained relations with some of his old allies in Parrett’s.
Of course nothing could shake his devotion to Parson. That was secure whatever happened, but towards the other heroes of Parrett’s, particularly the seniors, he felt unfriendly. He conceived he must have been the victim of a plot to prevent his steering the schoolhouse boat. It was the only reason he could think of for his ill-luck; and though he never tried to argue it out, it was pretty clear to his own mind some one was at the bottom of it. And if that was so, who more likely than Bloomfield and Game and that lot, who had everything to gain by his being turned out of the rival boat?
This was the state of mind of our aggrieved junior one afternoon not long before the regatta, as he strolled dismally across the “Big” on his way to the river. Parson was not with him. He was down coxing his boat, and the thought of this only reminded Telson of his own bad luck, and added to his ill-temper.
He was roused from his moody reflections by the approach of two boys, who hailed him cheerily.
“What cheer, Telson, old man?” cried King. “How jolly blue you look! What’s the row?”
“Nothing,” replied Telson.
“We’ve just been down to see the boats. Awful spree to see old Riddell steering! isn’t it, Bosher?”
“Yes,” said Bosher; “but he’s better than he was.”
“Never mind, they won’t lick us,” said King. “You should have seen our boat! Bless you, those schoolhouse louts—”
“King, I’ll fight you!” said Telson, suddenly.
“Oh! beg pardon, old man, I didn’t — eh — what?”
This last remark was caused by the fact that Telson was taking off his coat. King, utterly taken aback by these ominous preparations, protested his sorrow, apologised, and generally humiliated himself before the offended schoolhouse junior.
But Telson had been looking out for a cause of quarrel, and now one had come, he was just in the humour for going through with the business. “Do you funk it?” he asked.
“Oh, no; not that, old man,” said King, still friendly, and very slowly unbuttoning his jacket; “but I’ll apologise, Telson, you know.”
“Don’t want any apologising; I want to fight,” said Telson. “I’ll take young Bosher too.”