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Cock-House at Fellsgarth

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<h3>Chapter Twenty Four.</h3> <h4>“Bury the Hatchet!”</h4> Notwithstanding Yorke’s exploit, and the prevailing hopefulness of the juniors, the feeling of gloom deepened on Fellsgarth when another day ended, and no news was forthcoming of the lost boy. To a great many it was a shock to hear he was not on the mountain. From what was known of his eccentricities and recklessness, it seemed as likely as not he would retreat up there and remain till he was fetched down. When it was found he was not there, there seemed to be nowhere else left to look. The lake (quite independently of the eventful cruise of the “Cock-house”) had been thoroughly searched; Penchurch had been ransacked; every cottage and home in the neighbourhood had been called at. The river-banks, up and down stream, had been searched too, and daily communication with Rollitt’s home made it increasingly clear he had not gone there. The incident of the six Abernethys and the 6 pence was not seriously considered. There was no evidence that Rollitt had effected the mysterious purchase, and the eccentricities of the young shopmen left it very doubtful whether more than half of that story was not a sensational fiction of their own. Masters and boys alike went to bed full of trouble and foreboding. Fisher major, more perhaps than any one, took the situation to heart. He had never ranged himself with Rollitt’s accuser; yet, had it not been for his bad management and stupidity, all the trouble would never have come about. Now, if anything grave had happened to the missing boy, Fisher major felt that on his shoulders rested all the blame. But his misery was turned into rage when, just before bedtime, a fag came over with the following letter from Dangle:— “I am not surprised you should be so ready to be imposed upon. You have done mischief enough already; but you have been robbed all the same. Any one but a simpleton would see that the turning up of the money just when it did was a suspicious coincidence. What could be easier than for the thief either to impose on Widow Wisdom, and get her to bring back the money with the story about the shirt; or else, during one of his frequent visits there, as soon as he saw that he was found out, to slip it into the pocket himself! Where he got it from I don’t pretend to guess; but I don’t mind betting that somebody in the School is poorer by £4 10 shillings for this tardy act of restitution. It deceived no one but you. ‘None are so blind,’ etcetera. “R. Dangle.” Fisher fairly tore his hair over this scoundrelly document. His impulse was to go over then and there, drag the writer out of his bed, and make him literally swallow his own words. He might have done it, had not the captain just then looked in. “Why, what’s up?” said the latter, who seemed none the worse for his big climb. “What’s the matter?” “Matter? Read this!” shouted Fisher. Yorke read the letter. An angry flush spread over his face as he did so. “He shall answer for it to-night!” said Fisher. “No, not to-night. Let the cad have a night’s rest. He shall answer for it to-morrow, though, before the whole School. Let me have the letter, old man.” “If you’ll promise to make him smart for it.” “You can make your mind easy about that.” Next morning, to the surprise of every one, a notice appeared on the door of each house. Notice. “A School meeting is summoned for this afternoon at 3. <blockquote> ”(Signed) C. Yorke (Wakefield’s).         G. Clapperton (Forder’s).         P. Bingham (Stratton’s).         L. Porter (Wilbraham’s).” </blockquote> “What’s up now?” said Wally, as he read it. “Like Clapperton’s cheek to go sticking his name under our man’s—and old Bingham, too! What right has he to stick his nose in it?—and, ha, ha, Porter! that’s the green idiot in specs, who calls himself captain of Wilbraham’s! Well, I never!” “Shall you go?” asked D’Arcy. “Rather! Wonder what they’re up to, though?” “Perhaps Rollitt’s found, and they’re going to trot him out.” “Perhaps they’re going to have an eight-handed mill, those four—you know—like what we had.” “I know, when you rammed me below the belt,” said Cottle. “Crams. You know I played on your third waistcoat button. I was never below it once.” “Perhaps Yorke’s going to give a lecture on the ascent of Hawk’s Pike.” “I know what it is. They’re going to give the chaps back their subscriptions. What a run there’ll be on the shop directly after!” This last rumour was industriously put about by the juniors, and was believed in a good many quarters. A new diversion, however, served to put aside speculation for a time. “Hullo, who’s that lout?” asked D’Arcy, as he and Wally, having shaken off the others for a season, were “taking a cool,” arm in arm near the playing-field gate. The object of this remark was a stalwart, middle-aged, labouring man, who carried an American cloth bag in his hand, and, to judge by the mud on his garments, had travelled some distance. He was trying to open the gate into the field, and on seeing our two juniors beckoned to them inquiringly. “You can’t get in there,” said Wally. “You’ll have to go to the other gate at the Watch-Tower.” “Is this here Fellsgarth School, young master?” said the man. “Rather,” replied Wally. “Is the governor at home!” “Who—Ringwood? I don’t know; they’ll tell you at the gate.” “He’s come to mend the door of your young brother’s room, I expect,” said D’Arcy. “I hope he won’t bung up the squirt-hole while he’s about it.” “No. I say, carpenter,” said Wally, as the man was about to turn off in the direction of the other gate, “when you mend that door in Forder’s, make it strong, do you hear? It gets kicked at rather by fellows. And don’t bung—” “Carpenter? I ain’t no carpenter. I want to see the governor.” Gruffly as the man spoke, he evidently regarded the two young gentlemen as persons of some distinction, and lingered a moment longer to ask another question. “Beg your pardon, young gents,” said he; “but you don’t chance to know if Alf Rollitt has come back?” They gazed at him in amazement. “Rollitt? no. Do you know where he is, I say?” “Not come back?” said the man, hoarsely. “I made sure as he’d be back afore now.” “Do you know where he is?” repeated Wally. “Not me—he’s bound to be somewheres. But the missus, she wouldn’t rest till I come and see.” “The missus! I say, do you know Rollitt?” “Well, they do say it’s a wise father as don’t know his own child.” “What! Are you Rollitt’s father?” asked they, glancing involuntarily at the shabby clothes and rough, weatherbeaten face. “Nothing to be ashamed of, are it?” said the stranger. “’Tain’t my Alf’s fault I ain’t in gents’ togs.” This rebuke abashed our two juniors considerably. “Rather not,” said Wally. “Our lot’s backing Rollitt up, you know. We’ve been out to look for him, haven’t we, D’Arcy?” “Of course we have; good old Rollitt,” said D’Arcy. “Thank you kindly, young gents,” said Mr Rollitt, who seemed rather dazed. “I ain’t no scholar, nor no gent either. But my boy Alf’s a good boy, and he don’t mean no disrespect to the likes of you by running away. He’s bound to be somewheres.” “I say,” said Wally, “if you come round to the other gate, you can get in—we’ll show you where Ringwood’s house is.” “Tell you what,” said he to D’Arcy, as the two boys went back by the field to meet him, “he doesn’t seem a bad sort of chap—it won’t do to let my young brother Percy and those Modern cads get hold of him. I vote we nurse him on our side while he’s here.” “All serene,” said D’Arcy. “Ask him to tea after the meeting.” “I suppose we shall have to let those other chaps be in it too,” suggested Wally dubiously, after a moment. “Better. We’ll all see him through together.” The spectacle of two juniors, looking very important, carefully conducting an anxious-faced labouring man across the School Green, was enough to rouse a little curiosity. And when presently the bodyguard, after sundry whispered communications, increased from two to nine, who marched three in front, two behind, and two on either side of their celebrity, speculation became active and warm. The escort glared defiantly at any one who ventured to approach the group; but when it was observed that they made straight for the doctor’s house, and one by one shook hands with the visitor on the doorstep, there was very little doubt left as to who the stranger might be. “Mind you come to tea,” said Wally, as they parted. “Don’t you make no mistake, I’ll be there,” said the guest. Work in school that morning dragged heavily. The impending meeting was perplexing the minds of not a few. The phenomenon of Yorke’s and Clapperton’s names appended to the same document puzzled boys who still kept alive the animosity which had wrecked the School clubs earlier in he term and brought the sports to a deadlock. And the addition of the names of the captains of the other two houses made it evident that the whole School was concerned in the business. This, coupled with the mystery of Rollitt’s disappearance, and the now notorious internecine feuds of the Modern seniors, gave promise of one of the biggest meetings ever held in Hall. As to the juniors, they had a treble care on their mind. First, the meeting, and the expected refunding of the Club subscriptions; second, the consequent run on the shop; and third, the “small and early.” in Wally’s study afterwards to meet A. Rollitt, Senior, Esq. However, despite all these cares, the morning’s work was got through, the dreaded impositions were avoided, and when the midday meal was ended a general rush was made for the familiar benches in Hall. The state of doubt every one was in operated adversely to the usual cheering. Fellows didn’t know whom they were expected to cheer. Dangle, for instance, pale and sullen,—were the Moderns expected to cheer him? The Classics hissed him, which was one reason why his own house should applaud. But then, if they cheered Dangle, how should they do about Clapperton, who had fought Dangle a week ago? They got over the difficulty by doing neither, but starting party cries which they could safely cheer; and chaffing everybody all round. Punctually at three, Yorke rose and said they no doubt were curious to know what the meeting was called for. It was called for one or two purposes. The first was to see if they could revive the School clubs. (Cheers.) He wasn’t going to say a word of ancient history. (Laughter.) But as they stood now, they had a lot of fellows anxious to play, they had the materials for as good a fifteen this winter, and as good an eleven next spring (cheers), as any school in the country; and yet the playing-fields stood idle, and the name of Fellsgarth was dropping out of all the records. They had had enough of that sort of thing. Every one was sick of it. Fellows had agreed with him when it was proposed to disband the clubs; he hoped they would agree with him now that the time had come for reviving them. But there was to be a difference. The clubs were not to be open to everybody, as heretofore. They didn’t want everybody. (Hear, hear, from Wally, D’Arcy, Ashby, and Fisher, as they pointed across to the Modern juniors.) They only wanted fellows who would play and could play; as to the former, that of course would be decided by the fellow himself, who would send in an application to the committee. As to the latter, that would be decided by the captain. (Oh!) Yes, by the captain. What’s the good of a captain if he’s not to decide a matter like that? And if the fellow is not satisfied with the captain’s decision, he may appeal to Mr Stratton, the new president of the club. (Cheers.) There’s nothing to prevent any one who plays his best joining—there’s nothing to prevent those youngsters at the end of the room, who are kicking up such a row, joining the clubs, as long as they work hard in the field. (Cheers and laughter.) The fellows who won’t be eligible are the louts, and those who can play but won’t. (Loud cheers.) Clapperton rose to second the motion. He had lost a great deal of his “side” during the last few days, and though he looked in better tiff than he had done lately, the present occasion was evidently an effort. He said: “Yorke has made a generous speech. He avoided ancient history, and therefore did not go into the reason why the clubs were dissolved and the School sports came to smash. I could tell you—but what’s the use? You all know. Yorke said to me before the meeting, ‘Let bygones be bygones, old man—we were all to blame—bury the hatchet—let’s get right for the future.’ Gentlemen, there was one fellow who was not to blame. His name was not Clapperton. It was Yorke.” (Loud cheers.) “But I say with him, if you let me, ‘Bury the hatchet.’” (Cheers.) “And to prove it, I beg to hand in my name to the committee for election. I answer for myself that I am willing to play; and if the captain decides that I can play,” (laughter), “why, I will play.” (Loud applause.) Fullerton and Corder both sprang up to support the motion. The former made way for Corder, who merely wished to say how delighted he was. He also voted for the burying of the hatchet. He had minded being stopped football more than anything else. He gave in his name. He would play, and he might tell them that the captain had already told him he could play. (Laughter, and cries of “Blow your own trumpet.”) All right—it was the only thing he had to be cocky about; and he meant to be cocky. He supported the motion. (Cheers.) Fullerton handed in his name, and was very glad to think that he and his old friend Clapperton would have a chance of running up the field again together. (“If you’re elected!” from the end of the room, and laughter.) Oh, of course, if he was elected. He hoped when the gentleman down there was captain, fifty years hence, he would deal as liberally with candidates as he was sure Yorke would deal now. (Laughter, at Wally’s expense.) The other prefects followed suit, and gave in their allegiance to the new clubs. Curiosity was alive to see what attitude Brinkman and Dangle would adopt. For a while it seemed as if they would take no part; but at length, when Yorke was about to put the motion, Brinkman rose and said, “I made up my mind when I came here I’d have no more to do with the clubs. But Yorke’s ‘Bury the hatchet’ gives a fellow a chance. If you mean that,” (Yes, yes), “if this is a fresh start, here’s my name!” (Loud cheers.) “You needn’t cheer. I didn’t mean to give it—but now I have, I—I—won’t shirk it,” and he sat down hurriedly. Then Dangle rose, with a sneer on his face. “This sort of thing is infectious. I can’t feel quite so sure as some of you about burying the hatchet; but, not to be peculiar, you may put me down—” “And I can tell you at once, and before all these fellows,” said Yorke, rising hotly, and interrupting, “that we won’t have you! And that brings me to the other business—and that’s about Rollitt. We can’t bury the hatchet so easily, as far as he is concerned. For he is still absent, and no one knows what has become of him. I’m not going to say a word to make little of Fisher’s major’s mistake. It was bad enough, in all conscience, for Rollitt. But it was only a mistake. But what do you fellows say of the cad who deliberately gets up a story about him; and, even when he finds out there is not a shadow of truth in it, repeats it in a worse form than before? There are some here who believed the first report and joined in the suspicions. That was hardly to be wondered at. But every one of them had the decency, as soon as the money was found, to admit that they had been wrong, and to regret their unfair suspicion of a Fellsgarth fellow. All but one—this cad here! Only last night, you fellows, he wrote the letter I hold in my hand. I mean to read it to you, and I hope you won’t forget it in a hurry.” “You shan’t read it; it wasn’t to you!” said Dangle, making a rush at the paper; “give it back!” “You shall have it back,” said Yorke in a warmer temper than any one had seen him in before, “when I’ve read it. Stop, and listen to it. It’ll do you good.” “Read away!” sneered Dangle, giving up the contest. “It’s the truth.” Yorke read, and as he proceeded, shame and anger rose to boiling-point in the audience, so that towards the end the reader’s voice was almost drowned in the hisses. “There,” said the captain, crumpling up the paper in his hand and flinging it at the writer’s feet, “there’s your letter; and until you apologise to the whole school you have insulted, you needn’t expect we’ll bury the hatchet!” Dangle scowled round and tried to swagger. “Is that all the business?” he sneered. “No!” shouted some voices. “He ought to be kicked.” “Wait a bit,” cried Wally, excitedly, standing on a form, “there’s Rollitt’s governor just come. Some of our chaps have gone to fetch him. He’ll—” Here the door opened, and, escorted by half a dozen of the juniors, Mr Rollitt, looking more bewildered than ever, walked in. He looked apologetically from one side to the other, saying, “Thank’ee kindly,” and “No offence, young gents,” until he found himself at the end of the Hall among the prefects. Then Yorke got up again, still hot with temper, and a dead silence ensued. Dangle smiled at first. But his face gradually blanched as he looked round and found his retreat cut off, and guessed what was coming. “Mr Rollitt,” said Yorke, “we are your son’s schoolfellows. A great wrong has been done him. He has been suspected of being a thief, and has run away. We all now know that he’s not a thief; and we are ashamed that he has ever been suspected. We hope he will come back, so that we may tell him so. But there is one fellow here who still says your son is a thief, although he knows as well as we do he isn’t. What shall we do to him?” Mr Rollitt looked up and down, casting a glance first at his young protectors at the end of the Hall, then scanning the benches before him, then running his eye along the row of prefects, and finally taking the measure of Yorke as he stood and waited for an answer. Then suddenly the question seemed to come home. “My son Alf a thief? There’s one of ’em says that, is there? My son Alf a thief? Do to him! Why, I’ll tell you. Just keep him till my son Alf comes back, and make him go and say it to his face. That’s what I should do to him, young gents.” “That’s what we will do,” said Yorke. “The meeting is over.” And amid the excitement that ensued, the rush to put down names for the new club, the cheers and hootings and hand-shakings of old enemies, Mr Rollitt was carried off in triumph by his nine hosts to high tea in Wally Wheatfield’s room. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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