Talbot Reed: The Willoughby Captains

“I hope,” said Game, “snivelling’s not going to be the order of the day. I can’t stand it.”

“I don’t think you’ve any right to call Riddell a sniveller,” said Porter. “He may be a muff at sports, but I don’t fancy he’s a sneak. And I don’t see that it’s against him, either, if he does go in for being what he professes to be.”

“Hear! hear! — quite a sermon from Porter,” cried Wibberly.

“Porter’s right,” said Bloomfield. “No one says it was against him. All I say is that I don’t expect the fellows will mind him as much as they would a fellow who — well, who’s better known, you know.”

“Rather,” said Game, “I know it would seem precious rum being a monitor under him.”

“Well,” said Bloomfield, “I suppose it will be settled soon. Meanwhile, Game, what do you say to another grind in the tub? You didn’t half work this morning, you beggar.”

Game groaned resignedly, and said “All right;” and hue and cry was forthwith made for Master Parson’s services at the helm.

But Master Parson, as it happened, was not to be found. He was neither in the school nor in his house, and a search through the grounds failed to unearth him. He had not been seen since his escape from the monitorial fangs after morning school. The natural thing, of course, on not finding him at home in his own quarters, was to look for him in Telson’s. But he was not there, nor, strange to say, was Telson himself. And, what was still more odd, when search came to be made, Bosher, another fag of Parrett’s house, was missing, and so was Lawkins, and Pringle, and King, and Wakefield, and one or two others of the same glorious company. After a fruitless search, the oarsmen had finally to go down to the river without a fag at all, and impound the boat-boy to steer for them.

The fact was, Parson’s miraculous release from the hands of the law that morning, and the reason which led to it, had suggested both to himself and the faithful Telson that the present was rather a rare opportunity for them in the annals of Willoughby. If there was no captain, there was no one to give them a licking (for the worst an ordinary monitor could do was to give an imposition), and that being so, it would surely be a waste of precious opportunity if they failed to signalise the event by some little celebration. And, as it happened, there was a little celebration which badly wanted celebrating, and for which only a chance like the present could have been considered favourable. In other words, there was a rather long score which the juniors of Parrett’s were anxious to settle up with the juniors of Welch’s. The debt was of long standing, having begun as far back as the middle of the Lent term, when the Welchers had played upon some of Parrett’s with a hose from behind their own door, and culminating in the unprovoked outrage upon the luckless Parson on the river that very morning.

Now if there was one thing more than another the young Parretts prided themselves in, it was their punctuality in matters of business; and it had troubled them sorely that circumstances over which they had no control (in other words, the fear of Wyndham) should have prevented their settling scores with the Welchers at an earlier date.

Now, however, an opportunity was come, and, like all honest men, they determined at once to avail themselves of it.

So the reason why Bloomfield and Game could find no fags in Parrett’s house to steer for them was because all the fags of Parrett’s house, aided by Telson of the schoolhouse, were at that moment paying a business call at Welch’s, and having on the whole rather a lively time of it.

The juniors of Welch’s were, take them altogether, a rather more rowdy lot than the juniors of either of the two other houses, or, indeed, than those of both the other houses put together. Somehow Welch’s was always the rowdy house of Willoughby. The honours of the school, whether in class or in field, always seemed to go in any direction but their own, and as, for five or six years at any rate, they had been unable to claim any one distinguished Willoughbite as a member of their house, they had come to regard themselves somewhat in the light of Ishmaelites. Everybody’s hand seemed to be against them, and they therefore didn’t see why their hand shouldn’t be against every one.

It was this feeling which had prompted the assaults of which the youthful Parretts had come to complain, and which the Welchers distributed as impartially as possible among all their fellow Willoughbites.

The fact was, Welch’s was a bad house. The fellows there rarely made common cause for any lawful purpose, certainly never for the credit of the school. They were split up into cliques and sets of all sorts, and the rising generation among them were left to grow up pretty much as they liked.

On the afternoon in question an entertainment on a small scale was going on in the study jointly occupied by Cusack and Pilbury. Captain Cusack, R.N., when he had parted from his dutiful son the night before, had put five shillings into his hand as a pleasant memento of his visit; and Master Cusack, directly after second school that morning, had skulked down into Shellport with his hat-box, and returned in due time with the same receptacle packed almost to bursting with dough-nuts, herrings, peppermint-rock, and sherbet. With these dainties to recommend him (and his possession of them soon got wind) it need hardly be said he became all of a sudden the most popular youth in Welch’s. Fellows who would have liked to kick him yesterday now found themselves loving him like their own brother, and the enthusiasm felt for him grew to such a pitch that it really seemed as if not only his hat-box, but he himself, was in danger. However, by a little judicious manoeuvring he got safe into his study, and, after a hasty consultation with Pil, decided to ask Curtis, Philpot, Morrison, and Morgan, their four most intimate friends, to do them the pleasure of joining in a small “blow-out” after third school. These four worthies, who, by a most curious coincidence, happened to be loafing outside Cusack’s study-door at the very moment when Pilbury started off to find them, had much pleasure in accepting their friend’s kind invitation; and the rest, finding themselves out of it, yapped off disconsolately, agreeing inwardly that Cusack was the stingiest beast in all Willoughby.

If punctuality is a test of politeness, Curtis, Morgan, Philpot, and Morrison were that afternoon four of the politest young gentlemen in the land; for they were all inside Cusack’s study almost before the bell dismissing third school had ceased to sound.

“Jolly brickish of you, old man,” said Morrison, complacently regarding the unpacking of the magic hat-box. “I’ve not seen a dough-nut for years.”

“I got these at a new shop,” said Cusack, trying to rescue some of the sherbet which had fallen in among the herrings. “Gormon never has anything but red-currant jam in his. These are greengage.”

“How jolly prime!” was the delighted exclamation.

“Three-halfpence each, though,” said Cusack, laying the herrings out in a row on the table. “I say, I wish we’d got some forks or something to toast these with.”

“Wouldn’t the slate do to stick them on?” suggested Curtis.

“Might do, only Grange wrote out a lot of Euclid questions on it, and I’ve got to show them to him answered to-morrow, and I’d get in an awful row if it was rubbed out.”

“Rather a bore. I tell you what, though,” exclaimed Philpot, struck with the brilliant idea, “there’s the pan in the chemistry-room they mix up the sulphur and phosphorus and that sort of thing in. I’ll cut and get that. It’s just the thing.”

“All serene,” said Cusack; “better give it a rub over in case it blows up, you know.”