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Cock-House at Fellsgarth

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<h3>Chapter Nine.</h3> <h4>Carried Nem. Con.</h4> It must not be supposed that in the midst of the excitement of School politics the intellectual side of the Fellsgarth juniors, life was being quite neglected. On the contrary, they complained that so far from being neglected it was rather overdone. The Classic juniors, for instance, suffered many things at the hands of the cheerful Mr Stratton, who really worked hard to instil into their opening minds some rudiments of those studies from which their side took its name. He took pains to explain not only when a thing was wrong, but why; and, unlike some of his calling, he devoted his chief attention to his most backward boys. This was his great offence in the eyes of D’Arcy and Wally and some of their fraternity, because under the arrangement they came in for the special attention alluded to. “That kid,” said Wally, one day, sotto voce, as class was proceeding, “has no more idea of teaching than my hat. We don’t get a chance to do things ourselves, with him always messing about and looking over. It’s rude to look over. I mean to mark my exercise private in future.” “The thing is,” said D’Arcy, “if he’d anything original to say it wouldn’t matter so. But he’s always talking the same old rot about roots. What’s the use of a root, I should like to know, if you can’t bury it? Eh, kid?” Fisher minor, to whom the question was addressed, did not know, and remarked that they didn’t teach Latin here the same way as when he learned from a governess at home. He regretted this admission almost as soon as he had made it. For Wally and D’Arcy immediately got paper and began to draw fancy portraits of Fisher minor learning Latin under the old régime. The point of these illustrations was not so much in the figures as in the conversation. The figures were more or less unlike the originals; at least, Fisher minor declared that the three isosceles triangles piled by Wally one on the top of the other were not a bit like his governess; while the plum-pudding on two sticks, with a little pudding above for a head which emitted four huge tears, the size of an orange, from either eye, he regarded as a simple libel on himself. In one sense the likenesses were speaking—that is, a gibbous balloon proceeded from the mouth of each figure, wherein the following dialogue was indicated. “Governess.—‘Naughty little Tommy-wommy, didn’t know his Latin. Tommy must have a smack when he goes bye-bye.’ Tommy.—‘Booh, hoo, how bow, yow, wow, oh my! I’ll tell my ma!’” “Bring up that paper, Wheatfield,” said Mr Stratton. Wally made a wild grab at Ashby’s exercise, and was proceeding to take it up when the master stopped him. “Not that; the other, Wheatfield. Bring it immediately.” Whereupon Wally with shame had to rejoice Ashby’s heart by restoring his exercise, and take up in its place the fancy portrait. Mr Stratton gazed attentively and critically at this work of art. “Not at all well done, Wheatfield,” said he. “Sit down at my table here and draw me thirty copies of it before you leave this room. Next boy, go on.” Wally confessed, in later life, that of all the impositions he had had in the course of his chequered career, none had been more abominable and wearisome than this. Oh, how he got to detest that governess and her ward, and how sickening their talk became before the task was half over! He sat in that room nearly three hours by the clock, groaning over this task, and when at last he went in search of Mr Stratton with the original and thirty copies in his hand, he felt as limp and flabby, bodily and mentally, as he had ever done in his life. Mr Stratton, who was having tea in his own room, examined each picture in turn, and rejected two as not fair copies of the original. “Do these two again—here,” said he. Wally meekly obeyed. He had not a kick left in him. “That’s better,” said the young master when they were done. “Now sit down and have some tea.” It was a solemn meal. Mr Stratton went quietly on with his meal, looking up now and then to see that his guest was supplied with bread and butter and cake and biscuits. Wally was equally silent. He felt sore against the master, but he liked his cake—and the tea was “tip-top.” The ceremony came to an end about the same time as the cake, and then Mr Stratton said, pointing to the papers— “You can put them in the fire now, Wheatfield.” Wally obeyed with grim satisfaction. “Thanks. You can go now. You must come another day and bring your friends. Good-bye,” and he shook hands. “I wonder if the chap’s all there,” said Wally to himself as he limped over to his quarters. “He forgot to jaw me. Wonder if I ought to have reminded him? Wonder who he gets his cake from? I wouldn’t care for many more impots like that. It was pretty civil of him asking me to tea, when you come to think of it. Not sure I sha’n’t back him up a bit this half, and make the chaps do so too. Wonder if he meant all four of us to come to tea? One cake wouldn’t go round. Besides, there’s no saying how that young cad Fisher minor would behave.” This little episode was not without its effect on all the occupants of Wally’s study. For that young gentleman had not the slightest intention of turning over a new leaf by himself. No, bother it; if he was going to “back up” Stratton, the other fellows would have to back up too. His one grief was that the stock of impositions stored up by the industry of the two new boys would not be likely to be wanted now, which would be wicked waste. D’Arcy had already occasionally drawn on them, and one day nearly spoiled the whole arrangement by taking up to Mr Wakefield fifty lines of Virgil precisely five minutes after they had been awarded. Fortunately, however, his hands were exceedingly grimy at the time, so that Mr Wakefield sent him back for ablutions before he would communicate with him. And in the interval he fortunately discovered his error, and instead of taking up the imposition with his clean hands, he delighted the master with a knotty inquiry as to one of the active tenses of the Latin verb “To be.” However, there was no saying when the impositions might not come in useful, and meanwhile Ashby and Fisher minor were taken off the job and ordered to sit up hard with their work for Stratton. “You know,” said Wally, propounding his scheme of moral reform in a little preliminary speech, “you kids are not sent up here to waste your time. No more’s D’Arcy.” “How do you know what I was sent up here for?” said D’Arcy. “It wasn’t to hear your jaw.” “Shut up. I’ve just been having tea with Stratton, and we were talking about you chaps, him and I—I mean he and me.” “You didn’t get on to English grammar, did you, while you were about it?” asked Ashby. “No. Look here, you chaps, no larks. It would be rather a spree if we put our back into it this term, wouldn’t it?—beastly sell, you know, for the others; and rather civil to Stratton too, for asking us to tea.” This last argument was more impressive than the first; and the company said they supposed they might. “All right—of course we may have to shut off a lark or two, but unless we stick— Hullo, I say, look at those Modern chaps down there punting a football on our side of the path! Cheek! Why, it’s Cash and my young brother. I say, let’s go and drive them off, you fellows.” So the four descended, and a brisk scrimmage ensued, which resulted in the complete rout of the invaders and the capture of their football. With which tremendous prize the victorious army returned to quarters and continued their discussion on moral reform. “Yes, as I was saying, we shall have to stick to it a bit. But young Stratton’ll make it worth our while, I fancy.” This hidden allusion to the tea and cake completed the speaker’s argument, and the party forthwith sat down with one ink-pot among them for preparation. As it happened, the preparation for the day was an English Essay on “Your favourite Animal,” with special attention to the spelling and the stops. It was always a sore point with the Classic juniors to be set an English lesson. They could understand being taught Latin, but they considered they ought to be exempt from writing and spelling their own language. It wasn’t Classics, and they didn’t like it, and they oughtn’t to be let in for it. However, it was no use growling; and as the subject (apart from the spelling and points) was a congenial one, it seemed a fair opening for the commencement of their reformed career. “Look here,” said Wally, “don’t let’s all have the same beast. I’m going to have a dog.” “Oh, I wanted a dog,” said Fisher minor. “Can’t; he’s bagged. Have a cat?” “No, I don’t like cats—can’t I write about a dog too?” “That would be rot. Haven’t you got the whole of Noah’s Ark to pick from—lions, tigers, ants, hippopotamuses, cobra de capellos?” “How much?” asked D’Arcy. “Are they good to eat?” “Uncommon good. Will you take cobra de capellos?” “Ah right,” said D’Arcy; “I don’t mind.” “I shall take pigs,” said Ashby. “There you are,” said Wally; “there’s lots left. You have cows, kid—” “No—if you won’t let me have the dog—” “Dog in the Wheatfield. Joke!—laugh, you chaps,” interjected D’Arcy. “I shall have rabbits,” said Fisher minor. “Good old rabbits! Did you ever keep any? What were their names?” said Wally. “Don’t you know?” said Ashby, solemnly. “One was called ‘How’ and the other ‘Now,’ weren’t they, Fisher minor?” Whereupon there was mirth at the expense of Fisher minor. Silence having been procured, D’Arcy began to write. “‘Cobbrer de Capillars is my favrite—’ What is it? Bird, beast, or fish, Wally?” “Shut up; bird, of course.” “‘Bird,’” continued the essayist. “‘It was in Nore’s arck and is good eating’—that’s all I know about it. Tell us something more, Wally, there’s a good chap.” “Oh, bother. Don’t go disturbing, it spoils everything.” “‘The cobberer oart not to be disterbd for it spoyls everything—it spoyls your close and—’ wire in, Wally, what else does it do? You might tell a chap.” “What I’ll do to you, you cad, and that’s pull your nose if you don’t shut up!” retorted Wally, who was busy over his own theme. “‘—and puis yore knows if yore a cad, and don’t shut up.’ There, bother it, that ought to do—twelve lines. Good enough for him.” “Stuck in the stops?” asked Ashby. “No; by the way—glad you reminded me—I suppose about every four words, eh?” “Something about that,” said Ashby. So D’Arcy sprinkled a few stops judiciously through his copy, and having done so began to upbraid his partners for their slowness. Some time was lost in suppressing him, but he was eventually disposed of under the bath, which was turned upside down to accommodate him and sat upon by the other three, who were thus able to continue their work in peace. Ashby was done first. He had a congenial subject and wrote con amore. “I shall now say something about the pig which is my favourite annimal—The pig is a quadruped—Sometimes he is male in which case he is called a hog. Sometimes he is female in which case he is called a sow. Pigs were rings in their noses and are fond of apple-peal. Their young are called litter and are very untidy in their habbits. Pig’s cheek is nice to eat and pork in season is a treat.” (The writer was very proud of this little outbreak of poetry.) “It is preferrablest roast with sage and apple sauce. I hope I have now described the pig and told you why he is my favourite.” Fisher minor, on the uncongenial topic of the rabbit, found composition difficult and punctuation impossible. “I like rabbits next best to dogs which Wally has taken mine were black and white one was one and the other the other the white one died first of snuffles he had lobears the other had the same pequliarity and was swoped for 2 white mice who eskaped the first-night owing to the size of the bars there is a kind of rabbit called welsh rabbit that my father is fond of he says it goes best on toast but I give mine oats and bran it is a mistake for boys to keep rabbits because first they give them too much and burst them and then they give them too little and starve them which is not wright and makes the rabbit skinny to eat if a boy feeds rabbits well he can get his mother to give him half-a-crown a peace to make pies of them which is very agreeable so I therefore on this account consider rabbits favourites.” Before this conclusion had been reached, Wally, with a complacent smile, had laid down his pen, flattering himself he had made a real good thing of the dog. He scorned commonplace language, and, mindful of the eloquent periods of certain newspapers of his acquaintance, had “let out” considerably on his favourite theme, which, if the spelling and punctuation had been as good as the language, would have been a fine performance. “The dog is the sublymest, gift of beficient nature to the zografical Speeches, He has been the confidenshul playmate of; man since before the creation, he is compounded of the most plezing trays and Generaly ansers to the endeering name of carlo? if you put his noes at the extremity of a rat-Hole he: will continue their ad libbitums till he has his man; In Barberous lands there is an exorable law ordayning muscles but It can be invaded by a little despeshun and sang frore, as one side of the streat is not unfrequentedly Outside the rools so that if you take him that side the politician cannot Run him in which is the wulgar for lagging him for not (waring Mussles I have) ockasionaly done bobys this Way myself so that I am convinzed of my voracity, the lesson we learn from this is that dogs should be treeted kindly and not Injected to unkind tretemant there? was Ice a dog with the pattrynamie of dognes who lived in a tub but; tubs are not helthy kenels because, they Roal when you dont stick brix under, which teechus to be kind ‘to our’ fello animals and pleze Our masters—I will. Only include by adding that dogs like cake? which Shoes how like they are to boys who have kind masters that they strive to pleas in ewery way in Their incapacity as the righter of this esay strives ever to endevor.” “That ought to fetch him,” said the delighted author, as he dotted his last “i,” and released D’Arcy from under the bath. “Now I vote we stow it, and—” Here there was a loud knock at the door and a senior’s voice calling, “Open the door, you youngsters.” The intruder was Dangle, at sight of whom the backs of our four heroes went up. “What do you youngsters mean by bagging one of our balls!” said the Modern senior. “Give it me directly.” “It doesn’t belong to you,” said Wally; “it’s my young brother’s.” “Do you hear?—give it to me,” said Dangle. “He can fetch it if he wants it. You’re not our prefect,” retorted Wally. None of the four were more astounded than Wally himself at the audacity of this speech. It must have been due to the exhilarating effect of his tea and essay combined. Dangle was evidently unprepared for defiance of this sort and became threatening. “If you don’t give me that ball at once, I’ll give the lot of you the best hiding you ever had in your lives.” “Try it. We’re not going to give up the ball. There! If Percy wants it, let him come for it. Back up, you chaps.” In a tussle between one big boy and four small ones, the odds are usually in favour of the former, but Dangle on the present occasion did not find his task quite as easy as he expected. The juniors defended themselves with great tenacity, and although the senior’s blows came home pretty hard, he could only deal with them one at a time. It got to be a little humiliating to discover that he would have to fight hard to gain his end, and his temper evaporated rapidly. Seizing his opportunity, when Fisher minor, who had been fighting perhaps the least steadily of the four—yet doggedly enough—was within reach, he struck out at him wildly, determined to get him disposed of first. It was a cruel blow even for a fellow in Dangle’s plight. The small boy recoiled half-stunned, and uttered a yell which for an instant startled the bully. Before Dangle had time to recover, the three survivors were upon him tooth and nail; at the same moment the door opened again, and Rollitt, of all persons, stood in the room. He took in the situation at a glance—the big boy white with rage, his three assailants with heads down and lips tight, pounding away, and Fisher minor leaning against the wall with his handkerchief to his face. “Stop!” said he in a voice which suspended hostilities at once. Then turning to Dangle he said— “Get out.” Dangle glared defiantly, and remained where he was, whereupon Rollitt, without another word, lifted him in his arms like a child, and slinging him across his shoulders marched forth. Wakefield’s boys were just trooping up the staircase from the fields, and at this strange apparition stood still and made a lane for it to pass. Dangle’s struggles were futile. The giant, if he was aware of them, heeded them no more than the kicking of a kitten, and proceeded deliberately down the stairs, past everybody, juniors, middle-boys, prefects and all, and walked with his burden out at the door. There every one expected the scene would end. But no. He walked on sedately across the Green. Indifferent as to who saw him or what they said, until he came to the door of Forder’s house, where he entered. Up the stairs he stumped amid gaping juniors and menacing middle, boys until he reached his captive’s study; where without ceremony he deposited him, and, not vouchsafing a word, turned on his heel. Strangely enough, no one had the presence of mind to challenge him or demand reparation for the insult to their house. He neither dawdled nor hurried. At the door a bodyguard of Classics had assembled to meet him and escort him back. But he had no need of their services. He made his way through them as coolly as if he was coming from class; and utterly indifferent to the rising clamour and shouts behind him—for the Moderns had by this time recovered breath enough to use their tongues—reached Wakefield’s, where without a word to any one he proceeded to his own study and shut himself in to continue the scientific experiments which had only been interrupted a few minutes before by the sudden cry of distress from the one boy in Fellsgarth to whom he owed the least obligation. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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