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Cock-House at Fellsgarth

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<h3>Chapter Two.</h3> <h4>Lamb’s Singing.</h4> Wakefield’s house, as Fisher minor entered it under his brother’s wing, hardly seemed to the new boy as disreputable a haunt as his recent Modern friend had led him to expect. Nor did the sixty or seventy fellows who clustered in the common room strike him as exactly the lowest stratum of Fellsgarth society. Yorke, the captain, for instance, with his serene, well-cut face, his broad shoulders and impressive voice hardly answered to the description of a lout. Nor did Ranger, of the long legs, with speed written in every inch of his athletic figure, and gentleman in every line of his face, look the sort of fellow to be mistaken for a cad. Even Fisher major, about whom the younger brother had been made to feel decided qualms, could hardly have been the hail-fellow-well-met he was with everybody, had he been all the new boy’s informant had recently described him. Indeed, Fisher minor, when presently he gathered himself together sufficiently to look round him, was surprised to see so few traces of the “casual-ward” in his new house. True, most of the fellows might be poor—which, of course, was highly reprehensible; and some of them might not be connected with the nobility, which showed a great lack of proper feeling on their part. But as a rule they held up their heads and seemed to think very well of themselves and one another; while their dress, if it was not in every case as fashionable as that of the temporary owner of Fisher minor’s half-crown, was at least passably well fitting. Fisher minor, for all his doubts about the company he was in, could not help half envying these fellows, as he saw with what glee and self-satisfaction they entered into their own at Wakefield’s. They were all so glad to be back, to see again the picture of Cain and Abel on the wall, to scramble for the corner seat in the ingle-bench, to hear the well-known creak on the middle landing, to catch the imperturbable tick of the dormitory clock, to see the top of Hawk’s Pike looming out, down the valley, clear and sharp in the falling light. Fisher minor and Ashby, as they sat dismally and watched all the fun, wondered if the time would ever come when they would feel as much at home as all this. It was a stretch of imagination beyond their present capacity. To their alarm, Master Wally Wheatfield presently recognised them from across the room, and came over patronisingly to where they sat. “Hullo, new kids! thinking of your mas, and the rocking-horses, and Nurse Jane, and all that? Never mind, have a good blub, it’ll do you good.” Considering how near, in strict secrecy, both the young gentlemen addressed were to the condition indicated by the genial twin, this exhortation was not exactly kind. They tried to look as if they did not mind it, and Fisher minor naturally did his best to appear knowing. “I don’t mind,” said he, with a snigger; “they’re all milksops at home. I’d sooner be here.” “I wouldn’t,” put in the sturdy Ashby. “I think it’s horrid not to see a face you know.” “There you are; what did I say! Screaming for his mammy,” gibed Wally. “And if I was,” retorted Master Ashby, warming up, “she’s a lot better worth it than yours, so now!” Master Wally naturally fired up at this. Such language was hardly respectful from a new junior to an old. “I’ll pull your nose, new kid, if you cheek me.” “And I’ll pull yours, if you cheek my mother.” “Booh, booh, poor baby! Who’s cheeking your mother? I wouldn’t cheek her with a pair of tongs. Something better to do. I say, are both you kids Classics?” “Yes,” they replied. “I thought you must be Moderns, you’re both so precious green. All right, there’ll be lamb’s singing directly, then you’ll have to sit up.” “What’s lamb’s singing?” said Ashby. “Don’t you know?” replied Wally, glad to have recovered the whip hand. “It’s this way. Every new kid has to sing in his house the first-night. You’ll have to.” “Oh,” faltered Ashby, “I can’t; I don’t know anything.” “Can’t get out of it; you must,” said the twin, charmed to see the torture he was inflicting. “So must you, Hair-parting.” Fisher minor was too knowing a hand to be caught napping. He had had the tip about lamb’s singing from his brother last term, and was prepared. He joined in, therefore, against Ashby. “What, didn’t you know that, kid? You must be green. I knew it all along.” “That’s all right,” said Wheatfield. “Now I’m going. I can’t fool away all my evening with you. By the way, mind you don’t get taking up with any Modern kids. It’s not allowed, and you’ll get it hot if you do. My young brother,” (each twin was particularly addicted to casting reflections on his brother’s age) “is a Modern. Don’t you have anything to do with him. And whatever you do, don’t lend any of them money, or there’ll be a most awful row. That’s why we always call up subscriptions for the house clubs on first-night. It cleans the fellows out, and then they can’t lend any to the Moderns. You’ll have to shell out pretty soon, as soon as Lamb’s singing is over. Ta, ta.” This last communication put Fisher minor in a terrible panic. He had evidently committed a gross breach of etiquette in lending that Modern boy (whose name he did not even know) a half-crown; and now, when the subscriptions were called for, he would have to declare himself before all Wakefield’s a pauper. “I say,” said he to Ashby, dropping the patronising for the pathetic, “could you ever lend me half-a-crown? I’ve—I’ve lost mine—I’ll pay it you back next week faithfully.” “I’ve only got five bob,” said Ashby; “to last all the term, and half a crown of that will go in the clubs to-night.” “But you’ll get it back in a week—really you will,” pleaded Fisher minor, “and I’ll—” But here there was a sudden interruption. Every one, from the captain down, looked towards the new boys, and a shout of “lamb’s singing,” headed by Wally Wheatfield, left little doubt as to what it all meant. “Pass up the new kids down there,” called one of the prefects. Whereupon Fisher minor and Ashby, rather pale and very nervous, were hustled up to the top of the room, where sat the grandees in a row round the table on which the sacrifice was to take place. For the benefit of the curious it may be explained that “lamb’s singing,” the name applied to the musical performances of new boys at Fellsgarth on first-night, is supposed to have derived its title from the frequency with which these young gentlemen fell back upon “Mary had a little lamb” as their theme on such occasions. “Isn’t one of them your minor?” asked Yorke of Fisher senior. “Yes,” said the latter rather apologetically; “the one with the light hair. He’s not much to look at. The fact is, I only know him slightly. They say at home he’s a nice boy.” “Does he spend much of his time under tables, as a rule?” asked Ranger, recognising the lost property which had hung on to his legs at dinner-time. “If so, I’ll take the other one for my fag.” “He’s bagged already,” said Denton. “Fisher and I put our names down for him an hour ago.” “Well, that’s cool. If Fisher wanted a fag he might as well have taken his own minor.” “Fisher major knew better,” said the gentleman in question. “It might raise awkward family questions if I had him.” “Wouldn’t it be fairer to toss up?” suggested the captain. “Or I don’t mind swopping Wally Wheatfield for him; if you really—” Ranger laughed. “No, thank you, I draw the line at Wally. I wouldn’t deprive you of him for the world. I suppose I must have this youngster. Let’s hear him sing first.” “Yes, lamb’s singing. Now, you two, one at a time. Who’s first? Alphabetical order.” Ashby, with an inward groan, mounted the rostrum. If anything could have been more cruel than the noise which greeted his appearance, it was the dead silence which followed it. Fellows sat round, staring him out of countenance with critical faces, and rejoicing in his embarrassment. “What’s the title!” demanded some one. “I don’t know any songs,” said Ashby presently, “and I can’t sing.” “Ho, ho! we’ve heard that before. Come, forge ahead.” “I only know the words of one that my con—somebody I know—sings, called the Vigil. I don’t know the tune.” “That doesn’t matter—out with it.” So Ashby, pulling himself desperately together, plunged recklessly into the following appropriate ditty; which, failing its proper tune, he manfully set at the top of his voice, and with all the energy he was capable of, to the air of the Vicar of Bray— <blockquote> The stealthy night creeps o’er the lea, My darling, haste away with me. Beloved, come I see where I stand, With arms outstretched upon the strand.   The night creeps on; my love is late, O love, my love, I wait, I wait; The soft wind sighs mid crag and pine; Haste, O my sweet; be mine, be mine! </blockquote> This spirited song, the last two lines of which were aught up as a chorus, fairly brought down the house; and Ashby, much to his surprise, found himself famous. He had no idea he could sing so well, or that the fellows would like the words as much as they seemed to do. Yet they cheered him and encored him, and yelled the chorus till the roof almost fell in. “Bravo,” shouted every one, the captain himself included, as he descended from the table; “that’s a ripping song.” “That sends up the price of our fag, I fancy,” said Denton to his chum. “Your young brother won’t beat that.” “Next man in,” shouted Wheatfield, hustling forward Fisher minor. “Now, kid, lamm it on and show them what you can do.” “Title! title!” cried the meeting. Now, if truth must be told, Fisher minor had come to Fellsgarth determined that whatever else he failed in, he would make a hit at “lamb’s singing.” He had made a careful calculation as to what sort of song would go down with the company and at the same time redeem his reputation from all suspicion of greenness; and he flattered himself he had hit upon the exact article. “Oh,” said he, with an attempt at offhand swagger, in response to the demand. “It’s a comic song, called Oh no.” It disconcerted him a little to see how seriously everybody settled down to listen, and how red his brother’s face turned as he took a back seat among the seniors. Never mind. Wait till they heard his song. That would fetch them! He had carefully studied not only the song but the appropriate action. As he knew perfectly well, there is one invariable attitude for a comic song. The head must be tilted a little to one side. One eyebrow must be raised and the opposite corner of the mouth turned down. One knee should be slightly bent; the first finger and thumb of one hand should rest gracefully in the waistcoat pocket, and the other hand should be free for gesture. All these points Fisher minor attended to now as carefully as his nervousness would permit, and felt half amused at the thought of how comic the fellows must think him. “Do you—” he began. But at this point Ranger unfeelingly interrupted, and put the vocalist completely out. “Did you say ‘Oh no’ or ‘How now’?” “Oh no,” repeated the singer. “You mean h-o-w n-o-w?” “Oh no; it’s o-h n-o.” “Thanks—sorry to interrupt. Fire away.” Fisher tried to get himself back into attitude, and began again in a thin treble voice;— Do you think I’m just as green as grass! Oh no! Do you take me for a silly ass! Oh no! Do you think I don’t know A from B! Do you think I can’t tell he from she! Do you think I swallow all I see? Oh no—not me! He was bewildered by the unearthly silence of his audience. No one stirred a muscle except Wheatfield, who was apparently wiping away a tear. Was the song too deep for them, or perhaps he did not sing the words distinctly, or perhaps they had laughed and he had not noticed? At any rate he would try the next verse, which was certain to amuse them. He looked as droll as he could, and by way of heightening the effect, stuck his two thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat and wagged his hands in time with the song. Do you think I lie abed all day? Oh no! Do you guess I skate on ice in May? Oh no! Do you think I can’t tell what is what? Do you think I don’t know pepper’s hot? Or whereabouts my i’s to dot? Oh no, no rot! As he concluded, Fisher minor summoned up enough resolution to shake his head and lay one finger to his nose in the most approved style of comedy, and then awaited the result. Fellows apparently did not take in that the song was at an end, for they neither cheered nor smiled. So Fisher minor made an elaborate bow to show it was all over. The result was the same. A gloomy silence prevailed, in the midst of which the singer, never more perplexed in his life, descended from the table and proceeded to look out for the congratulations of his admirers. “Beautiful song,” said Wally, still mopping his face. “I never thought I could be so touched by anything. We generally get comic songs on first-night.” “This is a comic one,” said Fisher minor. “Go on,” said Wheatfield; “tell that to D’Arcy here—he’ll believe you—eh, D’Arcy?” D’Arcy looked mysterious. “It’s no laughing matter, young Wheatfield,” said he, in a loud whisper, evidently intended for the eager ears of Fisher minor. “I heard Yorke just now ask Denton if he thought Fisher’s minor was all there. Denton seemed quite cut up, and said he hadn’t known it before, but it must be a great family trouble to the Fishers. It accounted for Fisher major’s frequent low spirits. You know,” continued D’Arcy confidentially, “I can’t help myself thinking it’s a little rough on Fisher major for his people to send a minor who’s afflicted like this to Fellsgarth. They might at least have put him on the Modern side. He’d have been better understood there.” This speech Fisher minor listened to with growing perplexity. Was D’Arcy in jest or earnest? He seemed to be in earnest, and the serious faces of his listeners looked like it too. Had the captain really made that remark to Denton? Suppose there was something in it! Suppose, without his knowing, he was really a little queer in his head! His people might have told him of it. And Fisher major, his brother—even he hadn’t heard of it! Oh dear! oh dear! How was he ever to recover his reputation for sanity? Whatever induced him to sing that song? Poor Fisher minor devoutly wished himself home again, within reach of his mother’s soothing voice and his sisters’ smiles. They understood him. These fellows didn’t. They knew he was not an idiot. These fellows didn’t. Further reflection was cut short by a loud call to order and cheers, as Yorke, the captain, rose to his feet. Every one liked Yorke. As captain of the School even the Moderns looked up to him, and were forced to admit that he was a credit to Fellsgarth. In Wakefield’s, his own house, he was naturally an idol. Prodigious stories were afloat as to his wisdom and his prowess. Examiners were reported to have rent their clothes in despair at his answers; and at football, rumour had it that once, in one of the out-matches against Ridgmoor, he had run the ball down the field with six of the other side on his back, and finished up with a drop at the goal from thirty yards. But his popularity in his own house depended less on these exploits than on his general good-nature and incorruptible fairness. He scorned to hit an opponent when he was down, and yet he would knock down a friend as soon as a foe if the credit of the School required it. A few, indeed, there were whose habit it was to sneer at Yorke for being what they called “a saint.” The captain of Fellsgarth would have been the last to claim such a title for himself; yet those who knew him best knew that in all he did, even in the common concerns of daily school life, he relied on the guidance and help of a Divine Friend, and was not ashamed to own his faith. The one drawback to his character in the eyes of certain of his fellow-prefects and others at Wakefield’s was that in the standing feud between Classics and Moderns he would take no part. He demanded the allegiance of all parties on behalf of the School, and if any man refused it, Yorke was the sort of person who would make it his business to know the reason why. Now as he got up and waited for the cheers to cease, no one could deny that he wasn’t as fine a captain as Wakefield’s could expect to see for many a day. And for the first time some of those who even feared him realised with a qualm that this was the last “first-night” on which he would be there to make the usual speech. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we are all glad to be back in the old place,” (cheers). “At any rate I am,” (loud cheers). “On first-night, as you know, we always combine business with pleasure. We have just had the pleasure,” (laughter, in the midst of which Fisher minor pricked up his ears and wondered if his song wasn’t going to be appreciated after all). “The lambs have bleated and done their level best, I’m sure,” (renewed laughter, and cries of “How now?”). “Now for the business. Gentlemen, the house clubs demand your support.” (Fisher minor turned deadly green as he remembered the Modern boy and his half-crown. He looked round wildly for Ashby, but Ashby was standing between Wally and D’Arcy, and the proximity was not encouraging for Fisher’s purpose. The idea occurred to him of appealing to his brother. But Fisher major, pen in hand, sat at the receipt of custom, and he dare not approach). “We hope there will be no shirking. Every fellow in the house is expected to back up the clubs. If the House clubs are not kept up to the mark, the School clubs are sure to go down,” (cheers). “We don’t ask much. The seniors pay 5 shillings, the middle-boys 3 shillings 6 pence, and the juniors 2 shillings 6 pence.” (Fisher minor glanced frantically in the direction of the door, and began to edge that way.) “Now, gentlemen, one word more. You know, last term, there was a lot of bad blood between Classics and Moderns,” (great cheers and three groans for the Moderns). “Of course it’s open to any idiot who likes to make a fool of himself, and quarrel with anybody he likes. He’s welcome to do it up to a certain point, if it gives him pleasure. But I want to say this—and I’d say it if the whole of the school was here—that if these rows once begin to interfere with the honour of the School in sports or anything else, as they nearly did last term, the fellows who indulge in them will be dropped on pretty heavily, no matter what side or what house they belong to.” The captain looked so uncommonly like meaning what he said, that D’Arcy, who had already made an appointment to fight Lickford, a Modern boy, at the Three Oaks before breakfast to-morrow, quailed under his eye, and wondered if he could with dignity “scratch” the engagement. A general movement towards the table at which Fisher major sat with his pen and account-book followed the captain’s speech. Of all the company present, only one failed to enrol himself. He was a new boy called Fisher minor, who, evidently worn out by the fatigues of the day and unversed in the etiquette of first-night, had sought the dame at a somewhat early hour, and received her permission to go to bed. Such at least was that lady’s version when Fisher major, having missed his minor, made inquiries respecting his absence. “Best thing he could do, to make himself scarce, after such a performance,” said the elder brother to Denton, who accompanied him. “Yes, indeed, I envy Ranger his fag. It’s a lucky thing we bagged the other one in time.” “The young donkey couldn’t be in better hands,” said Fisher; “but I say, Den, didn’t the captain come down rather heavy with his thunder to-night? What does it all mean?” “Bows, I expect,” said Denton. “He’s not going to stand what went on last term, and I’m jolly glad of it. We must back him up.” “If he means I’m not to feel inclined to kick Dangle whenever I see him, I can’t promise him much.” “Dangle’s a good quarter-mile man, and a good long-stop. If your kicking him prevents his playing for the School, you’ll have to mind your eye, my boy. That’s what he means.” “Oh!” grunted Fisher major, “I suppose the rows will begin to-morrow, when we elect the officers for the School clubs. Those fellows are sure to want to stick their own men in.” “At any rate you’re safe enough for treasurer, old man. But come, I’m dead sleepy to-night. Time enough for rows to-morrow and the next day.” <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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