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Cock-House at Fellsgarth

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<h3>Chapter Five.</h3> <h4>Percy Wheatfield, Envoy Extraordinary.</h4> The misgivings of the Classics were justified. The Moderns did not accept their victory at Elections with a meekness which augured harmony for the coming half. On the contrary, they executed that difficult acrobatic feat known as going off their heads, with jubilation. For many terms they had groaned under a sense of inferiority, partly imagined but partly well founded, in their relations with the rival side. The Classics had given themselves airs, and, what was worse, proved their right to give them. In its early days the Modern side was not “in it” at Fellsgarth. Its few members were taught to look upon themselves as altogether a lower order of creation than the pupils of the old foundation, and had accepted the position with due humility. Then certain rebellious spirits had arisen, who dared to ask why their side wasn’t as good as any other? The answer was crushing. “What can you do? Only French, and book-keeping and ‘stinks’”—(the strictly Classical nickname for chemistry). “You can’t put a man into the cricket or football field worth his salt; your houses are rowdy; your men do nothing at the University; two out of three of you are not even gentlemen.” Whereupon the Moderns went in desperately for sports, and claimed to be represented in the School clubs. They maintained that they were as good gentlemen as any who talked Latin and Greek; and to prove it they jingled their money in their trouser-pockets, and asked what the Classics could do in that line. The Classics could do very little, and fell back on their moral advantages. By degrees the new side grew in numbers, and made themselves heard rather more definitely. They put into the field one or two men who could not honestly be denied a place in the School teams; and they began to figure also among the School prefects. The present seniors, Clapperton and his friends, carried the thing a step further, and insisted on equal rights with their rivals in all the School institutions. To their surprise they found an ally in Yorke, who, as we have already said, hurt the feelings of many of his admirers by his Quixotic insistence on fair play all round. The proceedings yesterday had been the most recent instance of the flow in the tide of Modern progress at Fellsgarth. Reinforced by an unusual influx of new boys, they had aimed at, and succeeded in winning, their level half of the control of the School clubs; and Yorke had looked on and let them do it! No wonder they went off their heads as they discoursed on their triumph, and no wonder they already pictured themselves masters of Fellsgarth! It never does occur to some people that the mountain is not climbed till the top is reached. “Really, you know,” said Brinkman, “I felt half sorry for those poor beggars; they did look so sick when Dangle was elected.” “It’s my opinion,” said Clapperton, “you’d have been in too, if all our fellows had turned up. I saw four or five of our youngsters come in at the last moment.” “Yes—by the way,” said Dangle, “that ought to be looked into. It’s fishy, to say the least of it, and would have made all the difference to Brinkman’s election.” “Do you know who the fellows were?” asked Clapperton. “I believe your fag was one of them.” “Percy Wheatfield? Catch him being shut out of anything. But I’ll ask about it. Fancy poor Yorke’s feelings if we were to demand a new election!” “I tell you what,” said Dangle, “I don’t altogether understand Yorke. He tries to pass off as fair, and just, and all that sort of thing; but one can’t be sure he’s not playing a game of his own.” “We shall easily see that when it comes to choosing the football fifteen against Rendlesham. I mean to send him in a list of fellows on our side. It’s only fair we should have half of them our men.” “Half fifteen is seven and a half,” said Fullerton, a melancholy senior who had not yet spoken; “how will you manage about that?” “Shut up, you ass!” “I only asked,” said Fullerton. “It doesn’t matter to me, I don’t mind going as the half man, if you like. If you send seven names you’ll be in a minority in the fifteen, and if you send eight you’ll be in a majority. It doesn’t matter to me a bit.” “Just like Fullerton. Always asking riddles that haven’t got an answer,” said Dangle. “I wonder how Fisher will manage the treasurership,” said Brinkman, who was evidently sore at his defeat. “I shouldn’t have thought accounts were much in his line.” “He can’t have very hard work doing his own,” said Clapperton, laughing, “but that’s not his fault, poor beggar. Only I think it would be much better to have a fellow for treasurer who wasn’t in a chronic state of being hard up.” “I suppose you mean,” said Fullerton, who had a most awkwardly blunt way of putting things, “he’d have less temptation to steal. I hope Fisher’s not a thief.” “What an idiot you are, Fullerton!” said Clapperton; “whoever said he was?” “I didn’t. I only asked what you thought. It doesn’t much matter to me, except that it wouldn’t be creditable to the School.” “Of course it wouldn’t; it’s hardly creditable to our side to have a jackass in it,” said Clapperton. “Oh, all right—I’ll go. I dare say you’ll get on as well without me.” The others presently followed his example, and Clapperton, left to himself, proceeded to draw up his list. “Dear Yorke,” he wrote, “You will probably be making up the fifteen for the Rendlesham match shortly. Please put down me, Brinkman, Dangle, Fullerton, West, Harrowby, and Ramshaw major, to play from our side. This will give your side the odd man. “Yours truly,— “Geo. Clapperton.” This important epistle accomplished, he shouted for his fag to come and convey it to its destination. It was not till after several calls, on an increasing scale of peremptoriness, that Master Percy condescended to appear. When he did, he was covered with dust from head to foot, and his face, what could be seen of it, was visibly lopsided. “Why don’t you come when you’re called? Whatever have you been up to—fighting?” “Rather not,” said Percy, “only boxing. You see, it was this way; Cottle brought a pair of gloves up this term, and young Lickford had an old pair; so we three and Ramshaw have been having an eight-handed mill. It was rather jolly; only Ramshaw and Lickford had the old gloves on, and they’ve all the horse-hair out, so Cottle and I got it rather hot on the face. But we took it out of them with our body blows—above the belt, you know—not awfully above. I couldn’t come when you called, because we were wrestling out one of the rounds. It’s harder work an eight-handed wrestle than four hands. Just when you called first, I nearly had Cottle and Lickford down, but you put me off my trip, and Ramshaw had me over instead.” “All very interesting,” said Clapperton, “but you’ll have to come sharp next time or I shall trip you up myself. Take this note over to Yorke. Stop while he reads it, and if there’s any answer, bring it; if not, don’t wait.” “Can’t Cash take it? We’re not nearly finished.” “No. Cut off, sharp!” “Awful shame!” growled the messenger to himself, as he departed. “I hate Clapperton; he always waits till I’m enjoying myself, and then routs me out. I shan’t stand it much longer. What does he want with Yorke! Perhaps it’s a challenge. Yes, by the way, very good chance! I’ll see what that cad Wally’s got to say about those kids I found in his room yesterday. Nice old games he gets up to; Wally’s all very well when he’s asleep, or grubbing, or doing impositions, but he’s a sight too artful out of school, like all those Classic kids. One’s as bad as another.” As if to emphasise this sentiment, a Classic kid at that moment came violently into collision with Master Percy’s waistcoat. It was Fisher minor, who had once more caught sight in the distance of the mysterious borrower of his half-crown, and was giving chase. “Where are you coming to, you kid. You’ve nearly smashed a button. I’ll welt you for that.” “I beg your pardon, Wally, I—” “Wally—what do you mean by calling me Wally?” exclaimed Percy. “Well, Wheatfield, I beg your pardon; I was in a hurry to catch a fellow up and I didn’t see you.” “Didn’t you? Well, you’ll feel me. Take that.” Fisher minor meekly accepted the cuff, and, full of his half-crown, essayed to proceed. But Percy stopped him. “You’re that new kid, Fisher’s minor, aren’t you?” It astonished Fisher minor, that the speaker, whom he supposed he had seen only ten minutes ago, should so soon have forgotten his name. “Yes, but I say, Wally, I mean Wheatfield—” “Humph—I suppose you held up both hands for your precious brother yesterday.” “No, only one. I was nearly late, though. I waited an hour at the gymnasium, you know, and no Modern chaps came out at all.” Percy began to smell rats. “Waited at the gymnasium, did you? Who told you to do that?” “Oh, you know—it was part of the canvassing.” “Oh, you were in that job, were you, my boy? All serene, I’ll—” “I say,” cried Fisher minor, turning pale, “aren’t you Wally Wheatfield? I thought—” “Me Wally? what do you take me for? I’ll let you know who I am. You’re a beauty, you are. Some of our chaps’ll tell you who I am, Mr Canvasser. Now, look here, you stop there till I come back from Yorke’s. If you move an inch—whew! you’ll find the weather pretty warm, I can tell you. Canvassing? You’ll get canvassed, I fancy, before you grow much taller.” And off stalked the indignant Percy, promising himself a particularly pleasant afternoon, as soon as his errand to the captain was over. Yorke was at work, with his lexicon and notebooks on the table, when the envoy entered. “Well, is that you or your brother?” inquired he. “Not my brother, if I know it,” said Percy. “That’s not much help. He says exactly the same when I put the same question to him.” “He does, does he? I owe Wally one already, now—” “Thanks—then you’re not Wally. What do you want?” “This note. Clapperton said I was to wait while you read it, and bring an answer if there was one.” Yorke read the note, and smiled as he did so. Percy wished he knew what was in it. He didn’t know Clapperton could make jokes. “Any answer?” he demanded. “Yes—there’s an answer,” said the captain. He took out a list of names from his pocket, and compared it with that on Clapperton’s letter. Then he wrote as follows:— “Dear Clapperton,—The fifteen against Rendlesham is already made up as follows,” (here followed the list). “You will see it includes six of the names you sent. We must play the best team we can; and I think we shall have it. “Yours truly,— “Cecil Yorke.” “There’s the answer. Take it over at once.” “I like his style,” growled Percy to himself. “He don’t seem to have a ‘please’ about him. Catch me hurrying myself for him; I’ve got this precious canvasser to look after.” And he returned at a leisurely pace to the rendezvous. No Fisher minor was there! That young gentleman, when left to himself, found himself in a perspiration of doubt and fear. He had made a most awkward blunder, and confessed the delinquencies of his comrades to the very last man they would wish to know of them. That was bad enough; but, to make things worse, he was to be let in for the blame of the whole affair, and, with Master Percy’s assistance, was shortly to experience warm weather among the Moderns. Happy thought! He would not stay where he was. He would retire, as the Latin book said, into winter quarters, and entrench himself in the stronghold of Wally and D’Arcy and Ashby. If he was to get it hot, he would sooner get it from them than from the barbarians in Forder’s. With which desperate conclusion, and once more devoutly wishing himself safe at home, he made tracks, at a rapid walk, to Wally’s room. His three comrades were all there. “What’s up?” said they as he entered, with agitated face. “Oh, I say, it’s all because you and your brother are so alike. I met him just now; and—he’s heard about that canvassing, you know, and I thought you’d like to know.” “You mean to say you blabbed?” said Wally, jumping to his feet. “It’s your fault,” said D’Arcy. “I’ve made the same mistake myself. Why can’t you grow a moustache or something to distinguish you?” “Why can’t you get your brother to be a Classic! then it wouldn’t matter—either of you would do,” suggested Ashby. Ashby was beginning to feel quite at home in Wakefield’s. “I’ll let some of you see if it won’t matter,” retorted Wally. “If they’ve got wind of that affair the other side, there’ll be a fearful row. They’ll want another election. Oh, you young idiot! That comes of trusting a new kid, that sings comic songs, and parts his hair the wrong side, with a secret. D’Arcy’s nearly as big an ass as you are yourself, to trust you.” After this Philippic, Wally felt a little better, and was ready to consider what had better be done. “He’s bound to come here, you chaps,” said he. “You cut. Leave him to me—I’ll tackle him.” Fisher minor considered this uncommonly good advice, and obeyed it with alacrity. The other two followed less eagerly. They would have liked to stay and see the fun. As Wally expected, his affectionate relative, being baulked of his prey outside, came to pay a fraternal visit. “What cheer?” said he. “I say, have you seen a kid called Fisher minor? The new kid, you know, that we had a lark with at dinner on first-night.” “Oh, that chap. Bless you, he messes in our study. What about him?” “I want him. I want to say something to him.” “I’ll tell him.” “All right. He’s come and told you, has he? and you’re hiding him? Never mind; I’ll bowl him out, the beauty. I know all about that little game of yours, yesterday, you know!” “What little game?” “As if you didn’t know! Do you suppose I didn’t find five of ’em shut up here yesterday, being kept out of the way at Elections?” “Yes; and do you suppose if it hadn’t been for me they’d have got into the Hall at all? Don’t be a beast, Percy, if you can help. They stayed here of their own accord. No one kept them in. I say, have some toffee?” “Got any?” “Rather. A new brew this morning. I say, you can have half of it.” “Thanks, awfully, Wally.” “You see—oh, take more than that—these new kids are such born asses, they boss everything. You should have heard that Fisher minor at lamb’s singing the other night—like the toffee? I say, don’t be a sneak about those chaps. You’d never have got them in without me. I backed you up, and got the door open. I say—would you like a Turkish stamp? I’ve got one to swop—but you can have it if you like.” “Thanks, old man. Yes, new kinds are rot. Well, ta, ta—better make it up, I suppose. I say, I shan’t have time to write home to-day. You write this time, and I’ll do the two next week.” “All serene, if you like. Here, you’re leaving one of your bits of toffee. Ta, ta, old chappie.” And these great twin brethren, whose infirmity it was always to be fond of one another when they were together, and to scorn one another when they were apart, separated in a most amicable fashion. “Well?” asked the three exiles, putting in their heads as soon as the enemy had gone. “Choked him off,” said Wally, fanning himself. “Jolly hard work. But he came round.” Percy, meanwhile, having suddenly remembered his errand, hastened back to the house. As he did so he observed notices of the fifteen for the Rendlesham match posted on Wakefield’s door, on the school-board, and at Forder’s. He solaced himself by writing in bold characters the word “beast” against each of the names which belonged to a Classic boy, and discovered, when his task was done, that he had inscribed the word nine times out of fifteen on each notice. Whereupon he made off at a run to his senior’s. “Well,” said Clapperton, evidently anxious, “didn’t I tell you to come back at once! Any answer?” “Yes, this,” said Percy, producing the captain’s letter. “I say, Yorke grinned like anything when he read yours.” “Did he?” replied Clapperton, opening the envelope. Evidently Yorke in his reply had not been guilty of a joke, for the face of the Modern captain was dark and scowling as he read it. “Cool cheek,” muttered he. “Dangle was right, after all. You can go, youngster.” “All right. I say, they’ve got the fifteen stuck up on the boards—six of our chaps in it. We ought to lick them this year.” But as Clapperton did not do him the favour of heeding his observations, he retired, and tried vainly to collect his scattered forces to conclude the eight-handed boxing match, which had been so unfeelingly interrupted an hour ago. Clapperton, to do him justice, could not deny to himself that the team selected by the captain was the best fighting fifteen the School could put into the football field. But, having advanced his claim for half numbers, his pride was hurt at finding it almost contemptuously set aside. It would never do for him to climb down now. The Moderns, after all, had a right to have their men in; and he had a right to assume they were better players than some of the selected Classics. It was easy to work himself into a rage, and talk about favouritism, and abuse of privilege, and all that. His popularity in his own house depended on his fighting their battles, and he must do it now. So he wrote a reply to Yorke. “Dear Yorke,—I do not agree with you about the fifteen. I consider the men on our side whom you have omitted are better than the three I have marked on your list. If we are to make the clubs a success, we ought to pull together, and let there be no suspicion, however groundless, of favouritism. “Yours truly, Geo. Clapperton.” To this letter, which he sent over by another junior, more expeditious than his last, he received the following reply:— “Dear Clapperton,—Sides have nothing to do with it. If the best fifteen names were all on your side, I should have to select them. But they are not. The fifteen I have chosen are undoubtedly the best men we have, and the team most likely to win the match. I suppose that is what we play for. “Yours truly,— “Cecil Yorke.” This polite correspondence Clapperton laid before his friends. The general feeling was that the Moderns were being unfairly and disrespectfully used. “It’s the old story over again,” said Dangle. “If we don’t look after ourselves, nobody else will.” “At any rate, as long as he’s captain, I suppose he has the right to pick the team,” said Fullerton. “I shouldn’t be particularly sorry if he were to leave me out. It wouldn’t matter to me.” “Who cares whether it matters to you? It matters to our side,” said Brinkman, “and we oughtn’t to stand it.” <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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