“And what, sir?” demanded the doctor.
“And,” said Game, in rather a faltering voice, “we thought you would not be angry if we petitioned you about it.”
“Do you speak for yourself, Game,” said the doctor, “or for others?”
“For the monitors, sir; that is, for those who have signed that paper.”
The doctor folded up the petition and handed it back to Game without reading it.
“I am glad you have told me what it is all about,” said he, sternly, “in time to prevent my reading either the petition or the names attached. It does not do you credit as monitors, and I hope you will soon see the matter in the same light. I did not expect it of you, but I regret it less on your account than on account of the school, to whom you have set a bad example. You may go.”
The doctor spoke in tones of unwonted anger, not unmixed with scorn. He rarely “flared up,” but when he did it was always uncomfortable for those against whom his wrath was roused.
The deputation slunk off sheepishly, carrying their petition with them, and too glad to get out of the angry presence of the head master to think of anything else.
The doctor may have been right, and probably was right in thus summarily extinguishing the petition and the petitioners. But he had done it in a manner which was hardly calculated to smooth matters.
Indeed, when the deputation reported their bad success to the monitors who awaited them, the general feeling was far more one of anger at being snubbed than of repentance for having done a foolish thing.
“If Paddy had only taken the trouble to read the thing through,” said Ashley, “and honour us with one or two reasons for not doing what we asked, it wouldn’t have been so bad.”
“As it is he’s as good as told us to mind our own business and he’ll mind his,” said Tipper, little thinking how exactly he had described the case.
“If we’re not to be allowed to say a word about the management of the school,” said Game, “I don’t see what right he has to expect us to do his work for him, and keep order.”
“Oh, it won’t do to resign or anything of that sort,” said Ashley. “That would be like funking it altogether.”
“He’ll soon find his mistake out, never fear,” said another. “He won’t listen to us, but he can’t help believing his own eyes.”
“Yes, it can’t go on for long,” said Tipper. “Riddell’s bound to show that he’s not up to his work sooner or later, and I won’t interfere to prevent it.”
“Meanwhile,” said Game, who of all the malcontents was the most honest, “what’s to become of Willoughby? We must keep some sort of order, whoever is captain.”
“Why, whatever authority can we have when the most we can do is to report fellows to that milksop?” said Tipper.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Ashley, “if we’re compelled to
“What do you mean?” asked some one.
“He means,” said Game, “and it’s not half a bad idea, that if Bloomfield will help us to keep order, we can consider him captain whether he’s called so or not. If once the fellows know they’ll get reported to him, we shall have some sort of authority.”
“Of course,” said Bloomfield, who had not yet spoken, “I’ll do my best to keep order and all that; but as I’m not captain, it’s no use to pretend being it.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” said Ashley. “If you choose to work for the school after what has happened, all I can say is you deserve to be backed up, and I’ll back you up for one.”
“So will I,” said Wibberly.
Bloomfield could not resist flattery. As soon as it was represented to him that the hope of Willoughby centred in him, and that he was acting a beautiful and Christian part in still taking an interest in its welfare after the way he had been treated, he felt as if he really ought to meet his admirers half-way.
“Already a lot of the kids consider you as captain,” said Game. “Didn’t you hear a boatful of them cheering you yesterday?”
“Yes,” said Bloomfield, “I heard that.”
“Very well, they’re much more likely to keep order for you than for that other fellow. We’ll try it anyhow.”
“I know a lot of the schoolhouse monitors think just the same as we do,” said Tipper, “but they’re so precious jealous for their house. They’d sooner stick to Riddell than allow a Parrett’s fellow to be cock of the school.”
“A Parrett’s fellow is cock of the school all the same,” said Wibberly. “I wish the regatta was over. That will put things right.”
“Yes; when once Parrett’s boat is at the head of the river the schoolhouse won’t have much to crow for,” said Ashley.
“For all that,” replied Bloomfield, “they seem to be grinding a bit with the crew they have got.”
“Let them grind,” said Game, laughing. “I’d as soon back Welch’s boat as theirs. Fairbairn’s the only man that does any work, and he’s no form at all. Why don’t they put the new captain in the boat, I wonder?”
The bare idea was sufficient to set the company laughing, in the midst of which the assembly-dispersed.
“By the way,” said Game to Ashley, as they went into the “Big,” “to-night is the opening meeting of the School Parliament. I mean to propose Bloomfield for president; will you second it?”
“Rather,” said Ashley.
Chapter Seven
The New Captain enters on his Duties
The morning that witnessed the collapse of the famous Monitors’ Petition had not been idly spent by the new captain. He had made the worst possible preparation for his new duties by lying awake half the night, brooding over his difficulties and working himself into a state of nervous misery very unlike what one would expect of the captain of a great public school.
What worried him was not so much that he felt himself unpopular, or that he knew all Willoughby was in arms against him. That wasn’t cheerful, certainly, or precisely solacing to a fellow’s self-esteem; but it was not nearly so disheartening as the feeling that he himself was unequal to cope with the difficulties he would have to face. How could he cope with them? He had never succeeded yet in keeping Telson, his own fag, in order. How was he to expect to administer discipline to all the scapegraces of Willoughby? It would be bad enough, even if the monitors as a body were working with him, but when he was left almost single-handed, as seemed probable, what chance was there? Whatever would he do supposing a boy was reported to him for some offence, such as going out of bounds or—
By the way! And here a horrible thought flashed across his mind. He had been so flurried last night with one thing and another that he had hardly noticed a message sent him after call-over by the Register Clerk. But it occurred to him now that it was about some boys who had not answered to their names.
He got out of bed with a groan and searched the mantelpiece for the note. Ah! here it was:
“Co. Fr. p.m., Telson (S.H.), Bosher, King, Lawkins, Parson (P), Abs. Go Capt. 8? Sa. (Telson 2, Bosher 1, Parson 2.)”
After a great deal of puzzling and cogitation Riddell managed to translate this lucid document into ordinary English as follows:
“Call-Over, Friday evening, Telson (schoolhouse), Bosher, King, Lawkins, Parson (Parrett’s), absent. To go to the captain at half-past eight on Saturday. (Telson has already been absent twice this week, Bosher once, Parson twice.)” And with the discovery the unhappy captain found his worst fears realised.
Whatever would he do? It was now half-past five. In three hours they would be here. What would Wyndham have done? Caned them, no doubt. Riddell had no cane. Ruler? He might break one of their ringers, or they might resist; or worse still baffle him with some ingenious excuse which he would not know how to deal with.
He sat by his bed staring hopelessly at the paper and wishing himself anywhere but head of the school — and then as no new light appeared to dawn on the question, and as going back to bed would be a farce, he proceeded to dress.
He had just completed his toilet when he heard some one moving in the next study.
“There’s Fairbairn getting up,” he said to himself. “I wonder if he could help me?”
He thought he could. And yet, under the nervous exterior of this boy there lurked a certain pride which held him back from acting on the impulse. After all, if he was to do the work, why should he try to shunt part of his responsibility on to another?
So, though he went to his friend’s study, he said nothing about the batch of juniors from whom he expected a morning call.
Fairbairn was arraying himself in his boating things, and greeted his friend cheerily.
“Hullo, Riddell, here’s an early start for you!”
“Yes,” said Riddell; “I couldn’t sleep very well, so I thought I might as well get up.”
“Best thing for you. But why haven’t you your flannels on?”
“I’m not going out,” said Riddell. “Besides, I don’t believe I have flannels,” added he.
“What, a Willoughby captain and no flannels! You’ll have to get a suit at once, do you hear? But, I say, why don’t you come down to the river with Porter and me? We’re going to have a little practice spin, and you could steer us. It would do you more good than sticking indoors. Come along.”
Riddell protested he would rather not, and that he couldn’t steer; but Fairbairn pooh-poohed both objections, and finally carried off his man to the river, where his unwonted appearance in the stern of the schoolhouse pair-oar caused no little astonishment and merriment among the various early visitors who usually frequented the waters of the Craydle.
Despite these unflattering remarks, and despite the constant terror he was in of piloting his boat into the bank, or running foul of other boats, Riddell decidedly enjoyed his little outing, the more so as the exercise and occupation drove away entirely for a time all thoughts of the coming visit of the ill-behaved juniors.
But as soon as he returned to the school the prospect of this ordeal began again to haunt him, and spoilt morning chapel for him completely.
As he stood during the service in his captain’s place he could not prevent his eye wandering hurriedly down the ranks of boys opposite and wondering how many of them he would be called upon to interview in his study before the term was over. As he reached the end of the array his eye rested on Telson close to the door, talking and laughing behind his hand with Parson, who listened in an unconcerned way, and looked about him as if he felt himself to be the monarch of all he surveyed. These were two of the boys who would wait upon him in his study immediately after prayers! Riddell turned quite miserable at the idea.
Prayers ended at last, and while the other monitors repaired to the Sixth Form room to discuss the presentation of the petition as narrated in our last chapter, Riddell walked dejectedly to his study and prepared to receive company.
No one came for a long time, and Riddell was beginning to hope that, after all, the dreaded interview was not to come off, or that there was a mistake somewhere, and some one else was to deal with the culprits instead of himself, when a scuttling of footsteps down the passage made his blood run cold and his heart sink into his boots.
“I
Riddell, while waiting for them, had hastily considered what he ought to say or do. But now, any ideas he ever had darted from his mind, and he gazed nervously at the small company.
“Oh!” said he at length, breaking silence by a tremendous effort, and conscious that he was looking as confused as he felt, “I suppose you are the boy—”
“Yes,” said Bosher, leaning complacently against the table and staring at a picture over the mantelpiece.
“The boys who were late,” said Riddell, stammering. “Let me see.” Here he took up the paper and began to read it over: “‘Co. Pri. Telson (S.H.).’ Ah, yes! Telson. You were late, weren’t you? Why were you late?”
A question like this was decidedly a novelty; Wyndham’s formula had invariably been, “Telson, hold out your hand,” and then if Telson had anything to remark he was at liberty to do so. But to be thus invited to make excuses was an unexpected treat which these cunning juniors were quite sharp enough to jump at.
“Oh, you know,” began Telson, “it wasn’t our fault. We were up-stream in the Ark, and meant to be back all right, only the schoolhouse boat overhauled us, and we had to race them a bit — didn’t we, you fellows?”
“Rather,” said Parson; “and a spanking race it was. We held up to them all down the Willow Reach, and were just collaring them for the finish up to Balsham Weir, when the beasts pulled in and funked it.”
“And then, of course, we couldn’t get back in time,” said Lawkins. “We were jolly fagged — weren’t we, you fellows? — and it was all a plant of those schoolhouse cads.”
“Fight you!” said Telson, menacingly.
“Oh, beg pardon, old man, didn’t mean. They ran us up on purpose to make us late. You ask them. It was a beastly low trick!”
“And then coming back,” continued Telson, “we ran down old Parrett in his skiff and spilt him, and we had to fish him out — didn’t we, you chaps? — and that made us late. You ask Parrett; he’s potted us for it, last night.”
Riddell listened to all this in a bewildered way, not knowing what to make of it. If the boys’ story was correct, there certainly might be some force in their excuse. It would hardly be fair to punish them if they were decoyed out of their way by some seniors. And then, of course, this story about Mr Parrett; they would never make up a story like that. And if it was true — well, he did not see how they could have done otherwise than stay and help him out of the water after capsizing him into it. It really seemed to him as if these boys did not deserve to be punished. True, Telson and Parson had been twice late this week, but that was not what they were reported for now. The question was, were they to be chastised for this third offence or not?
“What did Mr Parrett do to you?” he asked presently. “Oh,” said Parson, gaily, fully taking in the situation so far, “he was down on us hot. He’s stopped our going on the river a week, and then we’ve got to get a permit till the end of the term. Jolly hard lines it is, especially race term. I shan’t be able to cox. Parrett’s boat at the regatta. No more will young Telson cox the schoolhouse boat. You ask Parrett,” said he, in tones of manly appeal.
“Then you mean Mr Parrett has already punished you?” asked Riddell.
“Rather,” said Telson. “I’d sooner have had a licking any day than get stopped river-play. Wouldn’t you, Parson?”
“I should think I would,” said Parson.
“Well,” said Riddell, dubiously, “of course if Mr Parrett has already punished you—”
“You ask him!” again said Parson. “You ask him if he’s not stopped our river-play. Ah five of us! Mayn’t go on at all for a week, and then we’ve got to get your permit. Isn’t that what he said, you chaps?”
“Yes,” chimed in the “chaps,” in injured voices.
“Well, then,” said Riddell, “as that is so, I think you can — that is, I wish just to tell you — you — it mustn’t occur again.”
“Oh, all right,” said Parson, making for the door.
“And I hope,” began Riddell—
But what it was he hoped, his youthful audience did not remain to hear. They had vanished with amazing celerity, and the captain, as he walked pensively up to the door and shut it, could hear them marching jauntily down the passage shouting and laughing over their morning’s adventures.