Talbot Reed - The Willoughby Captains

“He’s gone down all the same,” said Fairbairn.

“Yes, and not alone either,” replied Riddell.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Fairbairn just then, as a sudden sound broke the unwonted stillness of the deserted school, “that sounds like some of the fellows coming back.”

He was right. As the two seniors stood leaning out of the window, the sounds which at first had been little more than a distant murmur increased to a roar.

Willoughby was evidently returning in force, and anything but peacefully.

Cries of “Now then, school!”

“Hack it through, there!”

“Down with the Radicals!”

“Pony for ever!” mingled with yells and cheers and coarser shouts of “Down with the schoolboys!” indicated clearly enough that a lively battle was in progress, and that Willoughby was fighting its way home.

The whole town seemed to be coming at their heels, and more than once a pitched battle had to be decided before any progress could be made. But slowly and surely the discipline of the schoolboys, animated by the familiar words of command of the football-field, asserted itself above the ill-conditioned force of their assailants, and at every forward step the triumphant shout of “Pony for ever!” rose with a mighty cheer, which deafened all opposition cries.

In due time the playground gate was reached, amid tremendous cheering, and next moment, driving before them some of their demoralised opponents, the vanguard of the school burst in.

Even Riddell and Fairbairn, as they looked down on the scene, could hardly forbear a little natural pride on witnessing this triumphant charge home of their truant schoolfellows.

That the battle had been sore and desperate was evident by the limping gait, the torn clothes, and the damaged faces of some of the combatants as they swarmed in in an irresistible tide, amid the applause of their comrades and the howls of the baffled enemy, who raged vainly without like so many wild beasts robbed of their prey.

Among the last to fight their way in were Game, Ashley, Tipper, and a few other seniors, who, truants as they were, had yet, to their credit, assumed the place of danger in the rear, where the crowd pressed thickest and with most violence. A sorry spectacle were some of these heroes when finally they plunged into the playground and then turned at bay at the gate.

“All in!” shouted a voice, and immediately a rush was made to close the gates and prevent further entrance, when a loud cry of “Hold on, Willoughby! Rescue here!” held them back.

Riddell started at the sound, and next moment had vaulted from the low window to the ground, closely followed by Fairbairn.

“Rescue! rescue! Man down!” cried the school within.

“Keep them in! — shut them in!” cried the roughs without.

“It’s young Wyndham!” said Riddell, rushing wildly to the front; “he’ll be murdered!”

“Scrag him! — scrag the schoolboy!” yelled the roughs, making a rush in the direction of the cries.

Not a moment was to be lost; in another minute it might be too late to do any good, and, with a tremendous shout of “Rescue, Willoughby!” the school turned as wildly to get out of the playground as it had just now struggled to get in.

The captain and Fairbairn were the first to get through the gate, followed closely by the other seniors. Riddell was conscious of seeing young Wyndham lying a few yards off among the feet of the roughs, and of being himself carried forward to within reach of him; then of a blow from behind, which sent him forward, half-stunned, right on to the top of his young friend.

After that Riddell was only dimly conscious of what passed, and it was not until he found himself once more in the playground, being helped along by Fairbairn towards the house, that he took in the fact that the rescue had been accomplished, and that the battle was at an end.

“Did they get Wyndham in all right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Was he much damaged?”

“Very little. You got it worse than he did.”

“Some fellow got behind me and sent me over,” said Riddell.

“Some fellow did,” said Fairbairn, fiercely, “and I know who.”

“Who?”

“Silk.”

“What! are you sure?”

“I was as close to you at the time as I am now — I’m quite sure.”

“The coward! Did any one else see it?”

“No, I think not.”

The two walked on in silence to Welch’s house, and once more reached the study they had so abruptly quitted.

“Are you badly hurt?” asked Fairbairn.

“Not a bit; my shin is a little barked, that’s all.”

“What a bulldog you can be when you like, old man,” said Fairbairn, laughing. “I never saw any one go into battle so gamely. Why, the whole glory of the rescue belongs to you.”

“What bosh! You had to rescue me as well as Wyndham. But I’m thankful he’s safe.”

“You’re awfully sweet about that precious youngster,” said Fairbairn. “I hope he’ll be grateful to you, that’s all.”

Riddell said nothing, and shortly afterwards Fairbairn said he must go. As he was leaving Riddell called him back.

“I say, Fairbairn,” said he, in his half-nervous way, “you needn’t say anything about Silk, there’s a good fellow; it wouldn’t do any good.”

“He deserves a good thrashing,” said Fairbairn, wrathfully.

“Never mind; don’t say anything about it, please.”

And Fairbairn promised and went.

It was quite a novel sensation for the captain to find himself figuring in the eyes of Willoughby as a “bulldog.” He knew he was about the last person to deserve the proud title, and yet such are the freaks of fortune, the exaggerated stories of the rescue, differing as they did in nearly every other particular, agreed in this, that he had performed prodigies of valour in the engagement, and had, in fact, rescued Wyndham single-handed.

More than one fellow dropped in during the evening to inquire how he was, and to confirm his new reputation.

Pilbury and Cusack were among the first.

“Is it true your leg’s broken?” cried the latter, as he entered the study, in tones of unfeigned concern.

“No, of course not,” replied the captain, laughing. “What made you think so?”

“The fellows said so. Pil and I were too far behind to back you up, you know, or we would have, wouldn’t we, Pil?”

“Rather,” replied Pil.

“Why,” said the captain, catching sight of the bruised and ragged condition of these young men of war—“why, you’ve been knocked about a great deal more than I have.”

“Oh,” said Cusack, “that was in the run up from Shellport, you know. We did get it a little hot at first until we pulled together and came up in a body.”

“Never mind,” said Pilbury, “it was a jolly fine show-up for Pony. He’s sure to get in; the Radicals were nowhere.”

“And what are you going to say to the doctor in the morning?” asked Riddell.

“Eh? oh, I suppose we shall catch it. Never mind, there’ll be lots to keep us company. And we’ve given Pony a stunning leg-up.”

And so the two heroes, highly delighted with themselves, and still far too excited to feel ashamed of their mutinous conduct, departed to talk over the day’s doings with the rest of their set, and rejoice in the glorious “leg-up” they had given to the Whig candidate.

Other fellows looked in, and bit by bit Riddell picked up the whole history of that eventful afternoon.

It did not appear whether the wholesale breaking of bounds had been a preconcerted act or a spontaneous and infectious impulse on the part of the whole school. Whichever it was, directly dinner was over and the monitors had retired to their houses, a general stampede had been made for Shellport, and almost before many of the truants knew where they were they were in the thick of the election crowd.