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Cock-House at Fellsgarth

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<h3>Chapter Fourteen.</h3> <h4>The Shop Opens.</h4> Robert—no one knew his surname—was a regular institution at Fellsgarth. Pluralist and jack-of-all-trades as he was, he seemed unable to make much of a hand at anything he took up. He was School porter, owner of the School shop, keeper of the club properties, and occasional School policeman; and he discharged none of his functions well. The masters did not regard him with much confidence, the boys, for the most part, did not care for him, the other men about the place disliked him. And yet, as part and parcel of Fellsgarth, every one put up with him. As has already been hinted, his management of the School shop had been a conspicuous failure—both for himself and the young innocents who squandered their substance on his tarts. He complained that he could make no profit; and as his method for recouping himself was to supply the worst possible article at the highest possible price, his young customers neglected him and aggravated his loss. It was rumoured that another more questionable method of replenishing his exchequer was by laying odds on the School games, which (as in the case of the second Rendlesham match) did not always turn out in the way he expected. This, however, was only rumour, and was not to be reckoned among Bob’s known transgressions, which were general stupidity, surliness, unsteadiness, and an inveterate distaste for veracity. Such being his reputation, it astonished no one on the Monday following the events recorded in the last chapter to see the shutters of the shop at the Watch-tower Gate up, and a rudely scrawled announcement, “This shop is closed.” But what did cause astonishment was a subsequent announcement inscribed in print letters:— “This establishment will reopen on Wednesday under entirely new management. Superior grub at greatly reduced prices. No more shoe-leather or flat swipes! Best tarts 1 penny each; ditto ginger-beer 1½ pence a bottle. Fresh fruit and pastry daily. Rally round the old shop! “By Order.” Speculation ran high as to who the enterprising new tradesman could be. Some said it was Mrs Wisdom. Others said one of the Penchurch shops was going to run it as a branch. Others suggested that some of the seniors had a hand in it. But the truth never once leaked out. Our nine juniors played an artful part in that day’s business. They mingled with the crowd in front of the notice, and freely bandied about wild conjectures as to who the new manager or managers could be, at the same time hinting broadly that they intended to patronise the new concern. “Tell you what,” said D’Arcy, “perhaps it’s the doctor wants to turn an honest penny. Don’t blame him either.” “Perhaps it’s Rollitt,” suggested Cash, amid laughter. “What a game! He’ll go selling tarts by the pint and ginger-beer by the ounce. Whew! think of Rollitt’s ginger-beer.” “I asked Bob if he knew who it was,” said Wally, “and he said, ‘No, he wished he did; he’d get something out of him for good-will.’” “What’s that?” asked Ashby. “If he’d said bad temper, there might have been some of that going about.” “Anyhow,” said Wally, “I rather fancy the thing myself. The things can’t be worse than they have been, and if they’re fresh every day, they’re bound to be better, and the tarts are a halfpenny less, and so’s the ginger-pop.” “Hooroo!” said Cottle; “you can get half as much again for the same money. I wish they’d open to-day.” After which, one by one they tailed off, leaving a general impression behind them that whoever else was in the secret, these nine young innocent lambs were not. Matters had not advanced to this stage without considerable deliberation. Several committee meetings had been held, some of which, under Mr Stratton’s presidency, had been of a practical nature, others, without his controlling presence, had ended in dust. On the whole, however, the young merchant adventurers had exhibited a reasonable grasp of their responsibilities and an aptitude for dealing with the necessary details. One point discussed was whether the shop should be open all day, or only at certain times. Mr Stratton was in favour of the latter. He urged that during the off hours between eleven and twelve, and in the afternoon between four and six, would be ample. The committee argued, from personal experience, that there were other hours of the day when a fellow felt in the humour for a “blow out.” To this Mr Stratton replied, “Let him ‘blow out’ by all means, but not on the company’s premises. He could do his shopping during shop hours, and ‘blow out’ with his purchases at any hour of the day or night the School rules permitted. They couldn’t undertake to provide a banqueting hall for their customers.” “But,” urged the committee, “if you have a shopman, why not get your money’s worth out of him?” “Why waste our money on a shopman at all?” propounded Mr Stratton to his astounded fellow-directors. “Why not take turns behind the counter ourselves; say one of the Wheatfields and Cash one week, and Cottle and Ashby the next, and so on? The hours proposed were not school hours; and though the persons on duty might occasionally be done out of a game, still it would fall on all alike, and would be a little sacrifice for the common good.” “But,” said Percy, whose hair was on end at this tremendous proposition, “suppose Wally—that is, I mean, wouldn’t it be necessary to count the tarts before each chap went on duty and see how many there were at the end?” “It might with you and your lot,” retorted Wally, very red in the face. “It’d be best to have a weighing machine handy and charge you 8 pence a pound for every pound extra you weighed at the end of the day!” “We’ll neither count nor weigh,” said Mr Stratton; “we’ll trust to every fellow’s honour. Why, if we couldn’t do that, do you suppose the shop would keep open a week?” This impressed the meeting vastly, and the discussion was changed to the question of profits. The boys were in favour of screwing all they could out of their customers. They didn’t see why, if Bob sold bad tarts for three-halfpence, they shouldn’t sell good ones at least for the same price. “It’s giving it to ’em both ends,” said they. “Why not?” said the master. “We want the fellows to get the benefit. We don’t want all the profit. As it is, we shall make a farthing on every tart we sell. We ought to sell four times as many as Bob did, oughtn’t we?” “Quite that,” said they. “Very well; see how that works out.” And Mr Stratton took his chalk and worked out this sum on the black-board:— 12 bad tarts at 1½ pence = 1 shilling, 6 pence, cost 9 pence, profit 9 pence. 48 good tarts at 1 penny = 4 shillings, cost 3 shillings, profit 1 shilling. “You see,” said he, “if we can only increase the demand, we shall easily make Bob’s profit, and more. Having good tarts will increase it in one way, and selling cheap will increase it another. It’s worth trying, anyhow.” And so the deliberations went on, and the boys’ minds gradually took on the new idea. The thirty shillings, Mr Stratton reported, had been advanced, and Mrs Stratton was appointed a subcommittee to lay it out. A method of accounts was arranged. The first day’s stock was to be charged at the selling price to the shopman for the day. At the end of the day he was to hand over to the treasurer the money he had taken and what was left of the stock, which two items together ought to make up the sum of his responsibility. It was felt that in a very few days the committee would ascertain pretty nearly what quantity of each article was consumed, and would be able to order accordingly. Any deficiency was to be set down to bad management, and no other reason; and any shopman deficient three days running was to forfeit his right to officiate again during that term. Lots were solemnly drawn for the distinction of opening the shop, and the choice fell on D’Arcy, and Lickford, who for the next day or two went about shaking in their shoes. As the day drew nearer, the venture seemed a tremendous one, and Mr Stratton had to use all his powers of encouragement to keep his colleagues from not taking fright at the last moment. “It will all go swimmingly, you’ll see,” said he. “I will hold myself in readiness to come down and back you up if there’s the least hitch, but I shall be greatly disappointed if you need me.” The last act of the committee before commencing proceedings was to draw up a manifesto, which was copied out and duly affixed to the notice boards and the shop-shutters on the morning of the opening. Under the distinguished patronage of Mr and Mrs Stratton. <blockquote> The Fellsgarth Shop will be opened this day from 11 to 12, And 4 To 8, and daily (sundays excepted) till further notice. The following prime goods, at the cheap prices affixed. (Here followed a list of the stores.) Ready money. No tick. Change given. no more stomach-ache!! Real jam! Ripe fruit! Fresh pastry! All the season’s novelties. Nothing stale. Boys of Fellsgarth— Come in your thousands! No risk to man or boy. No favour. Masters and fags treated alike. All the profits for the clubs. Treasurer, Mrs Stratton. Managing directors, Nine gentlemen, Carefully Selected. President, Mr Stratton. Plenty for all. No questions asked. All are welcome. Come early and stay late.   By Order. </blockquote> This soul-stirring manifesto, which had the hearty approval both of the president and treasurer (who carefully revised the spelling), threw some satisfactory light on the mystery. Who were the “carefully selected gentlemen” was still obscure, although it was generally held that Fellsgarth only contained nine individuals answering to that particular description. What was more important was that Mr and Mrs Stratton were at the back of the venture. If so, it was not a swindle, and the grub was pretty sure to be right. The new price list, moreover, was very satisfactory, and on the whole the hours were approved of. When the eleven o’clock bell sounded, on the Wednesday morning, a general movement was made for the Watch-Tower Gate, where, firmly entrenched behind a clean counter piled up with the good things a schoolboy holds dear, demurely stood D’Arcy and Lickford, looking very anxious and scared. At judiciously selected points among the crowd their friends looked on sympathetically. After the laughter which had greeted the discovery had died away, an awkward pause ensued. No one exactly liked to start. The seniors present felt their dignity would be compromised. The middle-boys did not like to do what the seniors were too shy to do. The juniors were afraid some one might laugh if they led off. Consequently for a minute or two every one stared at the two shopmen, who cast down their eyes, and blushed and simpered. At length, however, the ice was broken in a very pretty way. For Mrs Stratton on her way out of the school looked in, and taking in the situation, advanced to the counter and said— “A bottle of ginger-beer, if you please, Lickford.” Lickford, who, to use his own polite phrase, was “bossing the drinks and fruit” for the day, nearly tumbled down with the shock of this sudden challenge, and made a wild grab at the nearest bottle within reach. The eyes of Fellsgarth were upon him; he lost his head entirely, and made herculean efforts to draw the cork without loosing the wire. His contortions were terrible. When he could not hold the bottle firm enough between his knees, he tried gripping it between his feet. Then in a hot whisper he besought D’Arcy to hang on to the end, and for a time the bottle was invisible under the two. Then he took another, amid the enthusiastic cheers of the spectators, and was proceeding to release the corkscrew from the refractory vessel, when Mrs Stratton said in her pleasant way— “I see you keep the new kind of bottles that have the corks wired down. They are much better than the old, and it’s very little trouble undoing the wire.” This saved Lickford. In a moment the wire was removed, and the cork burst out triumphantly, even before it was pulled, showering a grateful froth of fizz into the waistcoat of the operator. “It’s beautifully well up. Thank you, Lickford, how much?” said Mrs Stratton. “They’re a shilling a dozen. I mean three-halfpence each,” said D’Arcy. “We can give you change.” “Here’s twopence. I’ll take a halfpenny apple. That will make it right, won’t it?” And amid loud cheers she departed. The ice thus broken, a rush took place, as Ridgway, who was poetical, said— “Fellows may step in where angels didn’t fear to tread.” Then did D’Arcy and Lickford pant and perspire, and wish they had never been born. Hands reached in from all sides, and helped themselves to cakes and tarts, and coppers showered in on them from nobody could tell where. They found themselves handing change out into space, and sowing sweets broadcast among the crowd. The other directors meanwhile, as in duty bound, nobly rallied round them, and added to their embarrassment. “Walk up, walk up!” shouted Wally. “Try our brandy-balls, eight a penny. Eight brandy-balls for Dalton; you chaps, look sharp. Change for a sov. for Clapperton; beg pardon, sixpence (didn’t know he kept such small coins). Hullo, hullo! stand by for my young brother Percy! He’s just a-going to begin. Fifteen jam tarts, half a pound of peppermints, half a dozen ginger-beer. Bite his money hard, D’Arcy; see there are no bad ’uns. I know the chap!” “Bah! I hope they’ve got better toffee here than that muck you make,” said Percy. “Come, wake up!” cried Cash. “I’ve been waiting five minutes for my cake.” “Can’t have ’em; we’ve run out,” said D’Arcy. “Well, you must be a green one only to get such a few,” said a middle-boy, who had also built his hopes on the same delicacy. “Very sorry,” said Percy to the company generally. “You must excuse these chaps—raw hands—they don’t know how to manage at present. Give ’em time. They’ll do better; won’t you, Lickford? Takes some time to get a notion into Lickford’s head, but when it gets there, my word, it sticks. Get in a double lot of cakes to-morrow, do you hear, or I shall give you the sack.” Despite these pleasant recriminations the business went on merrily. The “tuck” was pronounced a great advance on anything Robert had provided, and rumours of its excellence penetrated into quarters which had never contributed customers to the old shop. In the afternoon the crowd was less, but the business more steady. Mr Stratton dropped in for a slice of cake, and Mrs Wakefield and the three little Wakefields came to patronise the undertaking. One or two fellows, too, sent their fags to secure “extras” for tea, and one or two left orders for another day. Inquiries were made, moreover, for certain articles, such as lemons, tea-cakes, etcetera, which the shopmen took a note of as worth laying in a stock of. And the lack of demand for a few of the things they had, suggested to the same astute young merchants that they might be dispensed with in future. Of course, a few boys tried to interfere with the regulations by demanding “tick,” and wanting to make bargains. But they were promptly met by a non possumus from the directors present, and finally brought to reason by being referred to Mr Stratton. The day passed without the necessity of any appeal to the president. An anxious consultation was, however, held in his room after closing time. Naturally, owing to the exceptional rush, the accounts were a little out, but as they happened to be on the right side this was a matter for congratulation rather than distress. Nearly two pounds had been taken, and the stock left on hand was valued at five shillings, so that actually it was possible to repay half of the thirty shillings lent, after the very first day. Mr Stratton, however, advised that only ten shillings should be repaid this time, and the other five shillings put into a reserve fund, in case of need. “Of course, you can’t expect to do as big a business as this every day,” said he. “It will settle down to a regular jog-trot in a few days, and then we shall be able to judge much better how we stand. I shall be very well satisfied if we make about five shillings clear a day.” “I think you boys have started very well,” began the treasurer, but her husband held up his finger admonishingly. “I should have been very disappointed with them if they had not,” said he. “It’s easy enough to start, the thing will be to keep it up.” “Remember,” he added, “it will be better not to brag out of doors about our profits or that sort of thing. It will be time enough to talk about that when we are able to hand over a good lump sum to the clubs. Now it’s time you went to preparation. Good night all.” “I tell you what,” said Lickford to his fellow-shopman as they walked across the Green, “we shall have to be pretty smart to-morrow if we’re to get to the club meeting.” “Why,” said D’Arcy, “I thought none of you Modern cads were going to show up?” “We heard you’d all funked it,” said Wally. “I don’t blame them,” said Ashby; “they’ve not much to be proud of, those Modern chaps.” “Never mind,” said Fisher minor, “Fellsgarth can get on well enough without them.” The party came to a halt and regarded one another seriously, and Percy said— “Whoever told you we weren’t going to turn up, told crams. We’re coming. We’ll see you don’t have it all to yourselves, rather!” “My eye, won’t you get licked for it! Nice to belong to a house where you mayn’t sneeze unless your senior lets you.” “Go on! Shut up! See if you can’t canvass a bit. That’s what you’re best at—that, and getting it hot on the hands for cheating.” Whereupon the troops separated. The taunts of the Classics made their rivals wince, despite their affected contempt. To-morrow was the day of the meeting; and between now and then they must decide whether or not they would obey their own seniors and stay away, or revolt and take the consequences. The unanimous opinion was in favour of revolt, unless Clapperton made it uncommonly worth their while to obey. They were not destined to remain long in doubt, for the senior invaded their quarters that very evening. “Just remember, you youngsters,” said he, “no one is going to the meeting to-morrow from our side.” “Oh?” “Any fellow who goes will get it hot, I promise him.” “Ah! What about our conditions? What have you done about them?” “Put them in the coal-scuttle; and I’ve a good mind to put all five of you there too, for your impudence.” “Ah!” The captain turned on his heel, with a final warning. “That settles it, you chaps,” said Percy, when he had gone. “We go.” “Rather,” replied everybody. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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