“Oh!” said Bosher, rather alarmed, “I don’t want to fight.”
“I knew you were a beastly funk!” said Telson, scornfully.
“No, I’m not,” said Bosher, meekly.
“Get out of the way!” cried the majestic Telson, brushing past him towards King, who now stood with his coat off and a very apologetic face, ready for the young bantam’s disposal.
Telson and King fought there and then. It was not a very sanguinary contest, nor was it particularly scientific. It did Telson good, and it did not do King much harm. The only awkward thing about it was that neither side knew exactly when to stop. Telson claimed the victory after every round, and King respectfully disputed the statement. Telson thereupon taunted his adversary with “funking it,” and went at him again, very showy in action, but decidedly feeble in execution. King, by keeping one arm over his face and working the other gently up and down in front of his body, was able to ward off most of the blows aimed, and neither aspired nor aimed to hit out himself.
The “fight” might have lasted a week had not Game, coming up that way from the boats, caught sight of it. As it was neither an exciting combat nor a profitable one, the Parrett’s monitor considered it a good case for interfering, as well as for calling in the authority of the popular captain.
“King and Telson,” he said, stepping between the combatants, “stop it, and come to Bloomfield’s study after chapel. You know fighting in the ‘Big’ is against rules.”
“What are we to go to Bloomfield for?” demanded Telson, whose temper was still disturbed.
“For breaking rules,” said Game, as he walked on.
“Shall you go?” said Telson to King as the two slowly put on their coats.
“Yes, I suppose so, or he’ll give us a licking.”
“I shan’t go; he’s not the captain,” said Telson.
“I say, you’ll catch it if you don’t,” said King, with apprehension in his looks. “They’re always down on you if you don’t go to the captain when you’re told.”
“I tell you he’s not the captain,” replied Telson, testily, “and I shan’t go. If they want to report me they’ll have to do it to Riddell.”
With which virtuous decision he went his way, slightly solaced in his mind by the fight, and still more consoled by the prospects of a row ahead.
Telson was quite cute enough to see he had a strong position to start with, and if only he played his cards well he might score off the enemy with credit.
He therefore declined an invitation to Parson’s to partake of shrimps and jam at tea, and kept himself in his own house till the time appointed for reporting himself to the captain. Then, instead of going to Bloomfield, he presented himself before Riddell.
“Well?” said the captain, in his usual half-apologetic tone.
“Oh!” said Telson, “I’m reported, please, Riddell.”
“What for? Who reported you?” asked Riddell.
“Game — for fighting,” replied Telson.
“He hasn’t told me of it. You’d better come in the morning.”
“Oh! it’s all right,” said Telson. “I was fighting King in the ‘Big’ this afternoon.”
Riddell looked perplexed. This was the first case of a boy voluntarily delivering himself up to justice, and he hardly knew what to do.
However, he had found out thus much by this time — that it didn’t so much matter what he did as long as he did something.
“You know it’s against rules,” said he, as severely as he could, “and it’s not the first time you’ve done it. You must do fifty lines of Virgil, and stop in the house on Monday and Tuesday.”
“All right! Thanks,” said Telson, rapidly departing, and leaving Riddell quite bewildered by the apparent gratitude of his fag.
Telson betook himself quietly to his study and began to write his lines. It was evident from the restless way in which he looked up at every footstep outside he did not expect to remain long undisturbed at this harmless occupation. Nor was he disappointed.
In about ten minutes King entered and said, “I say, Telson, you’re in for it! You’re to go to Bloomfield directly.”
“What’s he given you?”
“A licking!” said King; “and stopped my play half a week. But I say, you’d better go — sharp!”
“I’m not going,” said Telson.
“What!” exclaimed King, in amazement.
“Cut it,” said Telson; “I’m busy.”
“He sent me to fetch you,” said King.
“Don’t I tell you I’m not coming? I’ll lick you, King, if you don’t cut it!”
King did “cut it” in a considerable state of alarm at the foolhardiness of his youthful comrade.
But Telson knew his business. No sooner had King gone than he took up his Virgil and paper, and repaired once more to Riddell’s study.
“Please, Riddell,” said he, meekly, “do you mind me writing my lines here?”
“Not a bit,” said Riddell, whose study was always open house to his youthful fag.
Telson said “Thank you,” and immediately deposited himself at the table, and quietly continued his work, awaiting the result of King’s message.
The result was not long in coming.
“Telson!” shouted a voice down the passage in less than five minutes.
Telson went to the door and shouted back, “What’s the row?”
“Where are you?” said the voice.
“Here,” replied Telson, shutting the door and resuming his work.
“Who’s that?” asked Riddell of his fag.
“I don’t know, unless it’s Game,” said Telson.
“Now then, Telson,” cried the voice again, “come here.”
“I can’t — I’m busy!” shouted Telson back from where he sat. At the same moment the door opened, and Game entered in a great state of wrath.
The appearance of a Parrett monitor “on duty” in the schoolhouse was always a strange spectacle; and Game, when he discovered into whose study he had marched, was a trifle embarrassed.
“What is it, Game?” asked Riddell, civilly.
“I want Telson,” said Game, who, by the way, had scarcely spoken to the new captain since his appointment.
“What do you want?” said Telson, boldly.
“Why didn’t you come when you were sent for?” demanded Game.
“Who sent for me?”
“Bloomfield.”
“I’m not Bloomfield’s fag,” retorted Telson. “I’m Riddell’s.”
“What did I tell you this afternoon?” said Game, beginning to suspect that he had fallen into a trap.
“Told me to go to the captain after chapel.”
“And what do you mean by not going?”
“I did go — I went to Riddell.”
“I told you to go to Bloomfield,” said Game, growing hot.
“Bloomfield’s not the captain,” retorted Telson, beginning to enjoy himself. “Riddell’s captain.”
“You were fighting in the ‘Big,’” said Game, looking uneasily at Riddell while he spoke.
“I know I was. Riddell’s potted me for it, haven’t you, Riddell?”
“I’ve given Telson fifty lines, and stopped his play two days,” said Riddell, quietly.
“Yes, and I’m writing the lines now,” said Telson, dipping his pen in the ink, and scarcely smothering a laugh.
Game, now fully aware of his rebuff, was glad of an opportunity of covering his defeat by a diversion.
“Look here,” said he, walking up to Telson, “I didn’t come here to be cheeked by you, I can tell you.”
“Who’s cheeking you?” said Telson. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” said Game. “I’m not going to be humbugged about by you.”
“I don’t want to humbug you about,” replied the junior, defiantly.
“I think there’s a mistake, you know,” said Riddell, thinking it right to interpose. “I’ve given him lines for fighting in the ‘Big,’ and there’s really no reason for his going to Bloomfield.”
“I told him to come to Bloomfield, and he ought to have come.”
“I don’t think you had any right to tell him to go to Bloomfield,” replied Riddell, with a boldness which astonished himself. “I’m responsible for stopping fights.”
“I don’t want you to tell me my business,” retorted Game, hotly; “who are you?”
Game could have thrashed the captain as easily as he could Telson, and the thought flashed through Riddell’s mind as he paused to reply. He would much have preferred saying nothing, but somehow the present seemed to be a sort of crisis in his life. If he gave in now, the chance of asserting himself in Willoughby might never return.
“I’m the captain,” he replied, steadily, “and as long as I am captain I’m responsible for the order of the school, and I prefer to do my own work!”
There was something in his look and tone as he uttered these inoffensive words which took Game aback and even startled Telson. It was not at all like what fellows had been used to from Riddell, certainly very unlike the manner he was generally credited with. But neither Telson nor Game were half so amazed at this little outburst as was the speaker himself. He was half frightened the moment he had uttered it. Now he was in for it with a vengeance! It would go out to all Willoughby, he knew, that he meant to stand by his guns. What an awful failure, if, after all, he should not be able to keep his word!
Game, with a forced smile which ill accorded with his inward astonishment, left the study without another word, heedless even of the laugh which Telson could no longer repress.
Of course many perverted stories of their adventure immediately got abroad in Willoughby. Telson’s highly-coloured version made it appear that a pitched battle had been fought between Game and the new captain, resulting in the defeat of the former chiefly through Telson’s instrumentality and assistance. As, however, this narrative did not appear in the same dress two hours running, it was soon taken for what it was worth, and most fellows preferred to believe the Parretts’ version of the story, which stated that Riddell had announced his intention of keeping order in Willoughby without the help of the monitors, and had had the cheek to tell Bloomfield to mind his own business.
The indignation of Parrett’s house on hearing such a story may be imagined. It was even past a joke. Bloomfield seriously offered to resign all pretensions to authority and let things take their course.
“It makes me seem,” he said, “as if I wanted to stick myself up. If he’s so sure of keeping order by himself, I don’t see what use it is my pretending to do it too.”
“It would serve him right if you did so,” said Game. “But it would be so awfully like giving in now, after you have once begun.”
This view of the matter decided the question. But Bloomfield all the same was considerably impressed by what had happened.
He knew in his heart that his only title to the position he assumed was the whim of his schoolfellows. He was a usurper, in fact, and however much he tried to persuade himself he was acting solely for the good of Willoughby, he knew those motives were only half sincere. And in spite of all his efforts, the school was as rowdy as ever. If he did thrash a batch of juniors one day, or stop some disorderly Limpets of their play, it never seemed to make much impression. Whereas the one or two rioters whom Riddell had ventured to tackle had somehow distinctly reformed their habits. How was it?
Bloomfield, as he thought the thing over, was not quite happy. He had been happier far last term when, under old Wyndham, he had exerted himself loyally for the good of the school. Was he not exerting himself now? Why should he be unhappy? It was not because he felt himself beaten — he scorned the idea — or that he felt unequal to the task before him. That too was preposterous. And yet, he felt, he certainly needed something. If only now he were first classic as well as captain of the clubs, what a pull he would have!
And as this thought occurred to him, he also recalled Crossfield’s famous speech at the last Parliament and the laughter which had greeted it. Could he translate “Balbus hopped over a wall” without the dictionary? Ah! He thought sometimes he would try, just to prove how slanderous Crossfield’s insinuation had been. The result of all these cogitations was that Bloomfield began to discover he was not quite such an “all-round” man as his friends had told him. And that being so, had not he better qualify himself like an honest man for his post?
He did not like to confide the idea to his friends for fear of their laughter, but for a week or two at least he actually read rather hard on the sly. The worst of it was, that till the examinations next term there could be nothing to show for it. For the Sixth did not change their places every day as the lower forms did. There was no chance of leaping to the top at a bound by some lucky answer, or even of advancing a single desk. And therefore, however hard he worked this term, he would never rise above eighteenth classic in the eyes of the school, and that was not — well, he would have liked to be a little higher for the sake of Willoughby!
The outlook was not encouraging. Even Wibberly, the toady, and Silk, the Welcher, were better men than he was at classics.
Suppose, instead of spending his energy over classics, he were to get up one or two rousing speeches for the Parliament, which should take the shine out of every one else and carry the school by storm? It was not a bad idea. But the chance would not come. No one could get up a fine speech on such a hackneyed subject as “That Rowing is a finer Sport than Cricket,” or that “The Study of Science in Public Schools should be Abolished!” And when he did attempt to prepare an oration on the subject of Compulsory Football, the first friend he showed it to pointed out so many faults in the composition of the first sentence that prudence prompted him to put the effusion in the fire.
Meanwhile his friends and admirers kept him busy. Their delight seemed to be to seize on all the youngsters they could by any pretext lay hands on and hale them to appear before him. By this means they imagined they were making his authority known and dealing a serious blow at the less obtrusive captain in the schoolhouse.
Poor Bloomfield had to administer justice right and left for every imaginable offence, and was so watched and prompted by officious admirers that he was constantly losing his head and making himself ridiculous.
He gave one boy a thrashing for being found with a paper dart in his hand, because Game had reported him; and to another, who had stolen a book, he gave only twenty lines, because he was in the second-eleven. Cusack and Welcher, who was caught climbing the schoolhouse elms one Monday, he sentenced to an hour’s detention; and Pilbury, whom he caught in the same act on Tuesday, he deprived of play for a week — that is, he said he was not to leave his house for a week. But Pilbury turned up the very next day in the “Big,” under the very nose of the Parrett captain, who did not even observe his presence.
It was this sort of thing which, as the term dragged on, made Bloomfield more and more uncomfortable with his position. It was all very well for Game, and Ashley, and Wibberly to declare that but for him Willoughby would have gone to the dogs — it was all very well of them to make game of and caricature Riddell and his failures. Seeing is believing; and Bloomfield, whose heart was honest, and whose common sense, when left to itself, was not altogether feeble, could not help making the unpleasant discovery that he was not doing very much after all for Willoughby.
But the boat-race was now coming on. There, at any rate, was a sphere in which he need fear no rival. With Parrett’s boat at the head of the river, and he its stroke, he would at any rate have one claim on the obedience of Willoughby which nobody could gainsay.