Talbot Reed - The Willoughby Captains

“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “I’m awfully sorry.”

“It’s done us completely now,” said Silk. “For all we know they may win. Who’s to take your place?”

“Crossfield.”

“Just the man I was afraid. He’s the best man they could have picked out. I tell you what, Gilks, you’d better go and apologise and see if you can’t get back into the boat. Who could have believed you’d be such a fool! Go at once, for goodness’ sake.”

Gilks, who saw his own mistake fully as well as his friend, obeyed. He found Fairbairn in his study with Riddell. The former seemed not at all surprised to see him.

“Fairbairn,” said Gilks, “I hope you’ll let me stay in the boat. I’m sorry I played the fool this morning.”

“Then you were playing the fool?” demanded Fairbairn, to whom Riddell had just been confiding that perhaps, after all, there had been some fault in the steering to account for it.

“Yes,” said Gilks, sullenly.

“Then,” said Fairbairn, hotly, “you may be a fool, but I won’t be such a big one as to let you stay in the boat another day!”

Gilks glared a moment at the speaker. Evidently it would be no use to argue or plead further; and, smarting with rage and humiliation, none the less keen that Riddell had been present and heard all, he turned away.

“You’ll be sorry for this, you two,” he growled. “Humbugs!”

“Well rid of him,” said Fairbairn, as soon as he had gone.

“Yes. I don’t think much of him,” said Riddell, thinking as much of young Wyndham and his temptations as of the schoolhouse boat.

“Well, old man,” said Fairbairn, after a pause, “you steered awfully well when you once began. Whatever made you so shaky at first?”

“My usual complaint,” said Riddell, smiling. “I was thinking what other people were thinking.”

“Oh,” said Fairbairn, “unless you can give that up you may as well shut up shop altogether.”

“Well, if I must do one or the other, I think I’ll keep the shop open,” said Riddell, cheerily. “By the way,” added he, looking at his watch and sighing, “I have to see some juniors in my study in two minutes. Good-bye.”

“Be sure you’re down for the tub practice this afternoon.”

“I’ll be there,” said Riddell.

Bloomfield was beginning to discover already that the new dignity to which he had been raised by his own partisans at Willoughby was anything but a bed of roses. Vain and easily led as he was, he was not a bad fellow by any means; and when the mutiny against the new captain first began, he flattered himself that by allowing himself to be set up in opposition he was really doing a service to Willoughby, and securing the school against a great many disasters which were certain to ensue if Riddell was left supreme.

But in these lofty hopes he was getting to be a trifle disappointed. In his own house, of course, especially among those over whom he was wont to rule in athletic sports, his authority was paramount. But these, after all, constituted only a small section of Willoughby. Over the rest of the school his influence was strangely overlooked, and even the terrors of his arm failed to bring his subjects to obedience.

It was all very well at first, when the one idea was indignation against the doctor’s new appointment. But as soon as the malcontents discovered that they had raised one more tyrant over their own heads, they began to find out their mistake, and did their best to correct it. They argued that as they had elected Bloomfield themselves they weren’t bound to obey him unless they chose; and when it came to the point of having to give up their own will in obedience to his, they remembered he was not the real captain of Willoughby and had no right to order them!

So poor Bloomfield did not find things quite as comfortable as he had expected.

One of the first rebuffs he got was administered by no less stately a hand than that of Master Telson of the schoolhouse.

This young gentleman ever since his last unfortunate expedition in “Noah’s Ark” had been somewhat under a cloud. His forced absence from the river for a whole week had preyed upon his spirits. And when at the end of that period he did revisit his old haunts, armed with a captain’s permit, it was only to discover that whatever small chance he ever had of coxing his house’s boat at the coming regatta, had vanished under the new arrangement which had brought Riddell into the boat.

It is only fair to say that this disappointment, keen as it was, had no effect on his loyalty. He was as ready as ever to fight any one who spoke ill of the schoolhouse. But it certainly had given him a jar, which resulted in rather strained relations with some of his old allies in Parrett’s.

Of course nothing could shake his devotion to Parson. That was secure whatever happened, but towards the other heroes of Parrett’s, particularly the seniors, he felt unfriendly. He conceived he must have been the victim of a plot to prevent his steering the schoolhouse boat. It was the only reason he could think of for his ill-luck; and though he never tried to argue it out, it was pretty clear to his own mind some one was at the bottom of it. And if that was so, who more likely than Bloomfield and Game and that lot, who had everything to gain by his being turned out of the rival boat?

This was the state of mind of our aggrieved junior one afternoon not long before the regatta, as he strolled dismally across the “Big” on his way to the river. Parson was not with him. He was down coxing his boat, and the thought of this only reminded Telson of his own bad luck, and added to his ill-temper.

He was roused from his moody reflections by the approach of two boys, who hailed him cheerily.

“What cheer, Telson, old man?” cried King. “How jolly blue you look! What’s the row?”

“Nothing,” replied Telson.

“We’ve just been down to see the boats. Awful spree to see old Riddell steering! isn’t it, Bosher?”

“Yes,” said Bosher; “but he’s better than he was.”

“Never mind, they won’t lick us,” said King. “You should have seen our boat! Bless you, those schoolhouse louts—”

“King, I’ll fight you!” said Telson, suddenly.

“Oh! beg pardon, old man, I didn’t — eh — what?”

This last remark was caused by the fact that Telson was taking off his coat. King, utterly taken aback by these ominous preparations, protested his sorrow, apologised, and generally humiliated himself before the offended schoolhouse junior.

But Telson had been looking out for a cause of quarrel, and now one had come, he was just in the humour for going through with the business. “Do you funk it?” he asked.

“Oh, no; not that, old man,” said King, still friendly, and very slowly unbuttoning his jacket; “but I’ll apologise, Telson, you know.”

“Don’t want any apologising; I want to fight,” said Telson. “I’ll take young Bosher too.”

“Oh!” said Bosher, rather alarmed, “I don’t want to fight.”

“I knew you were a beastly funk!” said Telson, scornfully.

“No, I’m not,” said Bosher, meekly.

“Get out of the way!” cried the majestic Telson, brushing past him towards King, who now stood with his coat off and a very apologetic face, ready for the young bantam’s disposal.

Telson and King fought there and then. It was not a very sanguinary contest, nor was it particularly scientific. It did Telson good, and it did not do King much harm. The only awkward thing about it was that neither side knew exactly when to stop. Telson claimed the victory after every round, and King respectfully disputed the statement. Telson thereupon taunted his adversary with “funking it,” and went at him again, very showy in action, but decidedly feeble in execution. King, by keeping one arm over his face and working the other gently up and down in front of his body, was able to ward off most of the blows aimed, and neither aspired nor aimed to hit out himself.