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Cock-House at Fellsgarth

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<h3>Chapter Three.</h3> <h4>Canvassing.</h4> When Fisher major woke early next morning he had the curious sensation of something on his mind without knowing what it was. He was not out of sorts. The private supper of which he and Denton and Ridgway had partaken last night in Ranger’s study had been wholesome, if miscellaneous. Ranger’s people had given him a hamper to bring back, containing a good many good things—cake, biscuits, potted meats, jam, Worcester sauce, pickles, coffee, and other groceries intended to diversify the breakfasts of the half. By some error of judgment this valuable article of luggage had come from town in the van, where it had apparently been placed at the very bottom of the baggage. The consequence was, that when it came to be opened, its several ingredients were found to have got loose, and fused together in a most hopeless way. Jam, and pickles, and Liebig’s extract, and moist sugar were indistinguishable. The only thing seemed to be to attack the concoction en masse, without needless delay, and to that end Ranger had summoned the assistance of his friends and neighbours. Fisher major was unable to attribute any part of the weight on his mind to this perfectly wholesome and homely refreshment. What was it? It was not Denton. He had come back as loyal and festive as ever, threatening to work hard this half, and determined to have Fisher major as his guest at the rectory on the lake for the Christmas vac. Nor was it the captain’s speech last night that bothered him. True, it was not altogether conciliatory to those, who, like Fisher major, were resolved to have no truce with the enemy. Of course it was the right thing for Yorke to say. But Yorke knew, as well as anybody, that the Classics meant to keep their house Cock-House at Fellsgarth. Nor was it the accounts; although Fisher minor had to own to himself he was not a grand hand at finance, and that if he was appointed treasurer of the School clubs, as well as of his House clubs, he would have his work cut out for him to keep both funds clear and solvent. What then was it? His young brother? He supposed it must be. The young donkey had made a bad beginning at Fellsgarth—which was bad enough. But had the elder brother done quite the decent thing in half disowning him, and letting him run on his fate in the way he had? A little brotherly backing up, a word or two of warning, and, if needs be, a little timely intimidation, might have made all the difference to the youngster, and would not have done the senior much harm. Yes; it was this precious minor of his who was on Fisher major’s mind. It was too late, of course, to pick up the milk already spilled. But it might be worth while to give him a word of admonition as to his future conduct. With this view he sent Ashby (who, with all the alacrity of a brand-new fag, punctually presented himself for orders before getting-up bell had ceased ringing) to summon Fisher minor to his brother’s room. “Well, kid,” said the elder brother, commencing his toilet, “how did you get on? Sleep well?” “Middling,” said Fisher minor. “Some of the fellows had put pepper on the blankets, and it got into my eyes—that’s all.” “It’s a good job they did nothing worse.” “Well,” said Fisher minor, who was evidently in a limp state, and had not at all enjoyed his night, “they did tease a good deal.” “Humph—who did!” “Well, there was that boy they call—” “Stop,” said Fisher major, turning round fiercely in the middle of brushing his hair; “do you mean to say you don’t know that it’s only cads who sneak about one another?” “But you asked me.” “Of course I did, and made sure you wouldn’t let out. I hope they’ll give you a few more lively nights, to teach you better.” The young brother’s lips gave an ominous quiver at this unfeeling speech, and he horrified Fisher major by betraying imminent symptoms of tears. “Look here, Joey,” said the senior, rather more soothingly, “you’ve made a jolly bad start, and that can’t be helped. The mistake you made is in thinking you know everything, whereas you’re about as green as they make them. Why ever do you pretend not to be? Look at that other new kid—the other one who sang. He’s green too; but, bless you, it’s no crime, and all the fellows take to him because he doesn’t put on side like you. Why, that song you sang—oh, my stars!—what on earth put that rot into your head?” This finished up poor Fisher minor. The recollection of his performance last night was more than he could stand, and he began to whimper. “Come, old chap,” said Fisher major, kindly, patting him on the shoulder; “perhaps it’s not all your fault. I suppose I ought to have given you a leg-up, and prevented you making a fool of yourself. You’ll get on right enough if you don’t swagger. And in any case, don’t blubber.” “I shall never get on here,” said the new boy. “All the fellows are against me. Besides—I didn’t know it was wrong; and—oh, Tom?—I lent a fellow half a crown, and now I’ve nothing to pay for the clubs!” Fisher major laughed. “I thought from your tones you were going to confess a murder, at least. You’d better look alive and get the half-crown back.” “That’s just it. I lent it in the dark to a—a Modern chap; and I don’t know his name.” “Upon my honour, Joey, you are a— Well, it’s no good saying what you are. I hope you’ll see your money again, that’s all.” Fisher minor groaned. “Would you ever mind lending me half-a-crown for the clubs, just this once?” he pleaded. “Very convenient arrangement. I suppose I shall have to. At least I’ll mark you as paid; and if you’ve not got back what you’ve lent your friend before I have to shell out, I shall have to pay it for you.” “Thanks, Tom; you’re an awful brick,” said the younger brother, brightening up rapidly. “I say, I wish I could be your fag. Couldn’t I?” “Ranger’s bagged you—you’ll get on better with him than me. He won’t stand as much nonsense as I might. There! he is calling. Cut along, and don’t go making such an ass of yourself again. You’ll have to get on the best you can with your fellows; I can’t interfere with them unless they break rules, you know. You can come in here, of course, any time you like, and if you want a leg-up with preparation, and Ranger’s busy, you may as well do your work here.” After this Fisher major felt a little easier in his conscience, and was able to face the tasks of the day with a lighter mind than if he had had the care of his minor upon it all the time. The school work of the day was not particularly onerous. Dr Ringwood, the head-master, held a sort of reception of the Sixth, and delivered, as was his wont, a little lecture on the work to be taken up during the ensuing half, interspersed with a few sarcastic references to the work of the previous half, and one or two jokes, which scoffers like Ridgway used to say must have cost him many serious hours during the holidays to develop. “Aristophanes,” said the head-master, after calling attention to the particular merits of the Greek play to be undertaken, “did not write solely for the Sixth form of a public school. I am afraid some of you, last term, thought that Euripides did. He will require more than usual attention. I am sure he can easily receive it. I would not, if I were you boys, be too chary this term of extra work. Some of you are almost painfully conscientious in your objection to overdo a particular study. Aristophanes is an author with whom liberties may safely be taken in this respect. The test of a good classical scholar, remember, is not the work he is obliged to do, but what he is not obliged to do—his extra work; I advise you not to be afraid to try it. The Sanatorium has been unusually free of cases of over-pressure lately. A quarter of an hour’s extra work a day by the Sixth is not at all likely to tax its capacity,” etcetera. This was the doctor’s pleasant style, delivered with a severe face and downcast eyes. Then ensued a little lecture to the prefects on their duties and responsibilities, which was respectfully listened to. To judge by it, such a thing as any rumour of dissensions between rival sides and houses in the school had never reached his ears. And yet the knowing ones said the doctor knew better than the captain himself everything that went on in Fellsgarth, and could at any moment lay his hand on an offender. But he preferred to leave the police of the place to his head boys; and on the whole it was perhaps better for the School that he did. To a larger or less degree the other forms, Classic and Modern, were lectured in similar strains by their respective masters. The new boys among the junior division were, perhaps, the only ones who listened attentively to what Mr Stratton, the young, cheery athlete who presided over their studies, had to say. And even the irrespectful admiration was a good deal distracted by the babel of voices which was going on all round them. “Never mind him,” said D’Arcy; “he’s a kid of a master, and don’t know any better. It’s all rot. Bless you, we get the same thing—” “D’Arcy,” said the master, suddenly, “I was recommending the value of extra work, especially for clever boys. Perhaps you will try the experiment with fifty lines of Virgil by this time to-morrow.” “There you are,” said D’Arcy, appealing to his neighbours; “didn’t I tell you he talked rot? Did you ever hear such a stale joke as that?” The two new boys were tremendously impressed by this sudden swoop of vengeance, and gazed open-mouthed at the master for the rest of the class, stealing only now and again a hasty glance at D’Arcy to see how he was bearing up against his sore afflictions. D’Arcy, to do him justice, appeared to be bearing up very well. He was, in truth, engaged in a mental calculation as to how, during the coming term, he could most economically “job” out the impositions which usually fell to his share. If his countenance now and then brightened as he met the awe-struck gaze of the two new boys, it was because in them he thought he discerned a lively hope of solving the problem creditably to himself and not unprofitably to them. “Come along,” said he as soon as the class was released; “let’s get out into the fresh air and have a cool. Hullo, Wally,” as the owner of that name trotted up, “what’s up?” “Up?” said Wally in tones of injured innocence; “one would think you didn’t know it was School club elections on in an hour, and all the chaps to whip up! If the Moderns turn up in force, it’ll be touch-and-go if they don’t carry every man. I can’t stop now—mind you bring those kids.” And off he went with all the importance of captain’s fag on his electioneering tour. “Wally’s right,” said D’Arcy. “It’ll be a close shave to carry our men. You see, kids,” added he condescendingly, “it’s just this way. The Moderns are going to try to carry the clubs to-day, and if they do, the whole of us aren’t going to stand it, and there’ll be such a jolly row in Fellsgarth as—well, wait till you see.” This sounded very awful. Fisher minor would have liked to know what sort of clubs were to be carried, but did not like to ask. Ashby, however, more honest, demanded further particulars. “I don’t know what you mean,” said he. “Don’t suppose you do. Whose fault is that? All you’ve got to do is to yell for our side and vote for our men.” That seemed simple enough, if D’Arcy would only vouchsafe to tell them when to begin. “Come along,” said the latter. “We’ve half an hour yet to canvass. You know Wally’s and my study?” “Yes.” “All right; now you,” pointing to Ashby, “you hang outside that door. That’s the Modern minors’ class. Collar one of them as they come out, or two if you can; and fetch ’em up to my room. You,” pointing to Fisher minor, “go and prowl about the kids’ gymnasium and fetch any one with a blue ribbon on his hat, as many as you can bag. I’m going to see if I can find some of ’em near the tuck-shop. Kick twice on my door and say ‘Balbus,’ so that I shall know it’s you. Go on; off you go. Don’t muff it, whatever you do, or it’ll be your fault if Fellsgarth goes to pot.” Ashby, whose uncle was an M.P., had had some little experience in general elections, but he never remembered canvassing of this kind before. However, D’Arcy had an authoritative air about him, and as the School was evidently in peril, and there was no suspicion of practical joking in the present case, he marched off sturdily to the Modern minors’ class-room, and sheltering himself conveniently behind the door, waited the turn of events. He had not to wait long. He could hear the master announcing the lesson for preparation, and the general shuffle which precedes the dismissal of a class. Then his heart beat a little faster as he distinguished footsteps and heard the unsuspecting enemy approaching his way. Now Ashby, although a new boy, was man enough to calculate one or two things. One was that his best chance was either to attack the head or the tail of the procession; and secondly, that as the head boys in a form are usually those nearest the front, and conversely, the lowest are usually nearest to the door, the smallest boys would probably be the first to come out. For all of which reasons he decided to make his swoop at once, and if possible abscond with his booty before the main body arrived on the scene. The event justified his shrewdness. The moment the door opened, two small Moderns scampered out clean into the arms of the expectant kidnapper, who before they had time so much as to inquire who he was or what he wanted, had a grip on the coat-collar of each, and was racing them as hard as their short legs could carry them across the grass. “Let go, you cad!” squeaked one, presently. “What we you doing!” “It’s only fun,” said Ashby, encouragingly; “come along.” The other prisoner was more practical. He tried to bite his captor’s hand, and when he failed in that, he tried to kick. But though he succeeded better in this, the pace was kept up and the grip on his collar, if anything, tightened. Whereupon he attempted to sit down. But that, though it retarded the progress, was still insufficient to arrest it. The pace dropped to a quick walk, and in due time, greatly to Ashby’s relief, the portal of Wakefield’s was reached. Here, of course, all was safe. If any of the few boys hanging about had been inclined to concern themselves in the affair, the colour of the ribbon on the victims’ hats was quite sufficient reason for allowing the law to take its course; and Ashby, who began to grow very tired of his burden (which insisted on sitting down on either side all the way upstairs), arrived at length at Messrs D’Arcy and Wally’s door without challenge. He had no need to knock, or say “Balbus,” as the room was empty. The other canvassers had evidently not yet returned. With a sigh of relief he deposited his loads on the carpet and locked the door. “Let us go, you cad!” yelled the prisoners. “What do you want bringing us here into this place for?” “Fun,” said Ashby. “You’ll know presently.” “If you don’t let us out, we’ll yell till a master comes.” “Will you?—we’re used to yelling here. Yell away; it’ll do you good.” To the credit of the two “voters” they did their best, and made such a hideous uproar that Ashby began to grow uneasy, and was immensely relieved when presently he heard outside a sound as of coals being carelessly carried up the staircase. Some one was evidently coming up with a good load. Ashby was prudent enough not to open the door till an irregular double kick and a breathless cry of “Balbus, look sharp,” apprised him that another of the electioneering agents had returned. He then cautiously opened the door, and in tumbled D’Arcy, gasping, yet triumphant, under the weight of three fractious youngsters. “Bully for us,” said he, surveying the harvest. “Five for our side. Jolly well done of you, kid—you’re a stunner. Two of mine are new kids—they came easy enough; but the other’s a regular badger.” The badger in question seemed determined to maintain his reputation, for he flew upon his captor, calling upon his fellow-prisoners to do the same. All but the new boys obeyed, and the two “canvassers” were very hard put to it for a while, and might have fared yet worse, had not D’Arcy astutely hung out a flag of truce. “Look here,” said he; “I never knew such idiots as you Modern kids are. Here I’ve done my best to be friends and invited you to a spread in my room; and now you won’t even let me go to the cupboard and get out the black currant jam and cake.” “You’re telling crams; that’s not why you brought us here. You’re a howling—” “Yes, really,” said D’Arcy, in quite a friendly tone, “Cry pax for one minute, and if I don’t hand out the things you may go; honour bright. I’ve a good mind to kick you out without giving you anything.” The caged animals sullenly fell back and eyed the cupboard which D’Arcy leisurely opened. A row of half a dozen pots on a top shelf, a segment of a plum-cake, and something that looked very like honey in the comb, met their greedy eyes. “There you are,” said D’Arcy. “What did I tell you! They belong to Wally; he’ll be here directly. You’ll be all right—all except you,” said he, singling out his principal assailant. “You don’t know how to behave, like these other kids. I shall advise Wally not to waste any of his stuff on you.” “I didn’t know it was a feast,” said the youth, much softened. “I thought you were only humbugging; really I did.” “I’ve a good mind to do what you think. You’d better mind your eye, I can tell you—I wish Wally would come. There’s five o’clock striking—I’ll go and look for him. Ashby, you see if he’s in the library; you kids, stay here, and lock the door, and don’t let anybody in but Wally. Do you hear? If you do, you’ll get it pretty hot for being out of your house. And look here, if Wally doesn’t come by half-past, you can help yourselves.” “Thanks awfully,” said the party. “Mind! honour bright you don’t touch a thing till the clock strikes the half. When you’ve done, stay here till one of us comes to fetch you, and we’ll see you safe out. Don’t go without, as our chaps are awfully down on Moderns this term, and you’ll get flayed alive. If they’ve seen you come in, they’ll try to get at you, be sure; so lock yourselves in, whatever you do, and don’t make the room in too great a mess. Come along, Ashby; let’s look for Wally.” “Cut hard,” said he, as soon as they stood outside, and had heard the lock within duly turned. “We’ve only just time to get over; that’s five votes lost to their side! Real good business! I wonder where the other new kid is? He was bound to make a mess of it. That’s why I sent him to the gymnasium; it’s closed to-day.” “Hooray for the Cock-House!” shouted Ashby, as, side by side with his now admiring patron, he entered the School Hall, where the ceremony of club elections was just beginning. At the door they encountered Wheatfield. “Such games!” whispered D’Arcy, clapping him joyously on the back. “We’ve got five Modern kids boxed up in our room, waiting for the clock to strike the half-hour before they have a tuck in at our empty jam-pots.” “Ha, ha!” said Wheatfield; “splendid joke!” and vanished. D’Arcy’s countenance suddenly turned pale as he gripped his companion by the arm. “What’s the matter?” inquired Ashby, alarmed for his friend’s health. “What’s up?” “It’s all up! We’re regularly done. My, that is a go!” “Whatever do you mean?” “Why, you blockhead, didn’t you see that was the wrong Wheatfield—not Wally, but the Modern one! And now he’s gone to let those chaps out, and we’re clean done for!” “Whew! what is to be done?” groaned Ashby, almost as pale as his friend. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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