Talbot Reed - The Willoughby Captains

Two days before the election a mass meeting of juniors and Limpets of all houses and ages, summoned by proclamation, was held in a corner of the playground, “to hear addresses by the candidates, and elect a member for Shellport.” Pringle, of course, was to figure as his distant uncle, and upon the unhappy Bosher had fallen the lot of assuming the unpopular rôle of Mr Cheeseman. The meeting, though only professing to be a juniors’ assembly, attracted a good many seniors also, whose curiosity and sense of humour were by no means disappointed at the proceedings.

The chairman, Parson, standing on the top of two cricket-boxes, with a yellow band round his hat, a yellow rosette on each side of his jacket, and a yellow tie round his neck, said they were met to choose a member, and knew who was their man. (Loud cheers for “Pringle.”) “They didn’t want any Radical cads — (cheers) — and didn’t know what they wanted down here.” (Cheers.) (Bosher: “ I don’t want to be a Radical, you know.”) — (Loud cries of “Shut up!” “Turn him out!”) He’d like to know what that young ass Curtis was grinning at? He’d have him turned out if he had any of his cheek. He always suspected Curtis was a Radical. (Curtis: “No, I’m not — I’m for Pony.”) There, he knew he was, because Radicals always told crams! Whereat Parson resumed the level ground. Pringle, who had about as much idea of public speaking as he had of Chinese, was then hoisted up on to the platform amid terrific applause.

He smiled vacantly, and nodded his head, and waved his hand, and occasionally, when he caught sight of some particularly familiar friend, brought it up vertically near his nose.

“Silence! Shut up! Hold your row for Pony!” yelled the chairman.

“Go ahead, Pringle!” cried the candidate’s supporters.

“Speak out!” shouted the crowd.

“All right,” said the unhappy orator, “what have I got to say, though?”

“Oh, anything — fire ahead. Any bosh will do.”

Pringle ruminated a bit, then, impelled to it by the cheers of his audience, he shouted, for lack of anything better to say, all he could remember of his English history lesson of that morning.

“Gentlemen — (cheers) — the first thing Edward III did on ascending the crown — (terrific applause, in which the seniors present joined) — was to behead the two favourite ministers — (prolonged cheers) — of his mother.” (Applause, amidst which Pringle suddenly disappeared from view, and Morrison, the Limpet, mounted the cricket-box. Morrison was a politician after Willoughby’s own heart.)

“I beg to move that Sir George Pony is a fit and proper member for Willoughby,” he screamed. “I think the Radicals ought all to be hung. (Cheers.) They’re worse than the Tories. (Counter-cheers.) One’s about as bad as the other. (United cheers.) We’re all Whigs here. (Applause.) I say down with everybody that isn’t. (Cheers.) If the Radical gets in I don’t mind if the Constitution gets smashed.” (“Nor do we!”) “It will serve them right for allowing the Radicals in.” (Mighty applause.)

I am not going to continue the report of this animated and intellectual meeting. It lasted till call-over, was renewed again directly after tea, and continued long after the speakers and audience were in bed. Bosher got dreadfully mobbed, besides being hit on the ear with a stone and hunted several times round the playground by the anti-Radicals.

Altogether Willoughby had gone a little “off its head,” so to speak, on the subject of the election. Riddell found himself powerless to control the excitement, and the other monitors were most of them too much interested in the event themselves to be of much service. The practice for the Rockshire match, as well as the play of the newly-started Welchers’ club, was for the time completely suspended; and it was evident that until the election was over there was no prospect of seeing the school in its right mind again.

The day before the event was a busy and anxious one for the captain. All day long fellows came applying to him on the wildest of pretexts for “permits” the following afternoon to go into town. Pilbury, Cusack, and Philpot wanted to get their hair cut. King and Wakefield had to get measured for boots, and to-morrow afternoon was the only time they could fix for the ceremony. Parson and Telson suddenly recollected that they had never called to pay their respects at Brown’s after the pleasant evening they had spent there a few weeks ago. Strutter, Tedbury, and a few other Limpets were anxious to study geology that afternoon at the Town Museum, Pringle wanted to see how his “uncle” was getting on, etcetera, etcetera.

All which ingenious pretexts the captain very naturally saw through and firmly declined, much to the mortification of the applicants — who many of them returned to the charge with fresh and still more ingenious arguments for making an exception in their particular case. But all to no effect. About midday the captain’s study was empty, and the following notice pasted on the door told its own story.

Notice.

By the Doctor’s order, no permits will be allowed to-morrow. Call-over will be at four instead of five .

A. Riddell, Capt.

In other words, the authorities were determined that Willoughby should take no part in the election, and to make things quite sure had fixed call-over for the very hour when the poll would be closing. Of course poor Riddell came in for all the blame of this unpopular announcement, and had a bad time of it in consequence. It was at first reported that the captain was a Radical, and that that was the reason of the prohibition, but this story was contradicted by his appearance that same evening with a yellow ribbon in his buttonhole. It was next insinuated that as he had not been allowed to go down himself he was determined no one else should, and Willoughby, having once taken up the idea, convinced itself this was the truth. However, when a good many of the disappointed applicants went to Bloomfield, and were met by him with a similar refusal, it began to dawn upon them that after all the doctor might be at the bottom of this plot to thwart them of their patriotic desires, and this discovery, though it by no means allayed their discontent, appeared to keep their resentment within some sort of bounds.

The juniors, disappointed in the hope of publicly displaying their anti-radical sentiments before all Shellport, looked about for consolation indoors that evening, and found it in a demonstration against the unlucky Bosher, who, against his will, had been forced to personate the Radical at the recent meeting, and now found it impossible to retrieve his reputation. He was hissed all round the playground, and finally had to barricade himself in his study to escape further persecution. But even there he was not safe. The youthful Whigs forced their way into his stronghold, and after much vituperation and reproach, proceeded to still more violent measures. “Howling young Radical cad!” exclaimed Telson, who, carried away by the excitement of the hour, had forgotten all Mr Parrett’s prohibitions, and had come to visit his old allies; “you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Indeed, I’m Yellow,” pleaded the unhappy Bosher. “They forced me to be Cheeseman at the meeting, but it wasn’t my fault.”

“Don’t tell crams,” cried the others. “It’s bad enough to be a Radical without trying to deceive us.”

“I’m not trying to deceive you, really I’m not,” protested Bosher.

“I’ll be anything you like. I hate the Radicals. Oh, I say, don’t be cads, you fellows. Let me be a Whig, do!”

“No,” cried the virtuous Parson. “We’ll have no Radical cads on our side.”

“But I’m not a Radical cad,” cried Bosher; “at least not a Radical.”