Kitabı oku: «King of Ranleigh: A School Story», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XIII
TRENDALL AND SOME OTHERS
After all, Masters had to have his joke, and knowing that inconsequential and extraordinary young gentleman as we do now, we can imagine that even the fierce ire of Hugh and of Bert and Clive had little terrors for him. He harped on that stale old joke of the burglars.
"How's burglars?" he fired off at the unfortunate heroes of that late adventure quite a dozen times within the first twenty-four hours of their return to Ranleigh, and was promptly hustled. Then, too, think of the bitterness of it all, the "Peach," the placid Mr. Canning, smiled at them and winked.
"Like his beastly cheek!" declared Clive indignantly, speaking in undertones to Bert and Hugh. "See the beggar smile and wink?"
"Grinned, the beast!" said Hugh, his lips pursed together. Hugh always did that when he was annoyed. He appeared to be endeavouring to muzzle himself, as if long experience of his temper warned him that an open mouth would result in some very bitter sayings. "Grinned, ugh!" he repeated.
"After all," began Bert, in those aggravatingly droning and dreamy tones of his, "you can't exactly blame the fellow, now can you?"
"Eh?" asked Hugh sharply. Here was an opportunity to be taken. A few more words from his respected brother would lead to a flare-up between them. Hugh rather wanted that. It would clear the air and get rid of some of his own irritability.
"Sticking up for the Canning beast, eh?" he demanded threateningly.
"No. Not quite, but – well, if you were in his shoes – "
"I'm not," snapped Hugh.
"But, if you were, you'd – "
"Wouldn't deign to wear 'em, ever," declared his brother haughtily.
"Oh, well, let's imagine someone else wearing them. He'd grin, wouldn't he? It was mighty funny, you know – er – for Canning."
"Oh, shut up!" shouted Hugh.
"Let's talk of something else," suggested Clive. "I say, the school's going to the dickens."
"Without Harvey, yes," assented Hugh, forgetting his irritation for the moment. "What'll we do? Who'll be captain of the school?"
They looked blankly at one another. To speak the truth, a bomb had fallen squarely into the middle of Ranleigh boys. Harvey, the head scholar and captain of the school, had left suddenly. He was not to have said good-bye for a couple of terms. But the Head had announced within a few hours of their return that Harvey had been called abroad suddenly to join his father in India. It was, without a shadow of doubt, a terrible blow.
"What'll we do?" asked Hugh blankly, appealing to the members of the Old Firm, now gathered about him. "The school'll go to the dogs."
"Not while the Old Firm's lively," said Masters.
"Try me as captain," suggested Susanne, with one of his quiet grins.
"Oh, do let's talk sense!" cried Clive pettishly. "It'd be ripping if Sturton got it. He's in the running, he's a scholar, and he's splendid at games. George! wouldn't he give some of the outside footer teams socks if he were captain."
But, till the point was cleared up, and the Upper Sixth had duly met together to discuss this momentous question and elect a captain, there was unusual despondency throughout the school. The Old Firm went about disconsolately that afternoon after their arrival.
"Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Nothing decent," grumbled Hugh.
"Except impots," said Masters, with a scowl. "I've still some unfinished for that fellow Canning. A chap never gets clear of them at this school. I complained to the Governor."
"Ah. What happened?" asked Bert.
There was silence for a moment. Masters looked anything but pleased at the train of thought the question gave rise to.
"Let's do something pleasant," he said. "My Governor don't understand a fellow. To begin with, look at my allowance! A dog'd be disgusted. As for the impots, he laughed – laughed, I tell you."
Bert grinned. This question of impots was in the case of Masters quite an amusing affair. Besides, whenever the matter was mentioned Bert's mind always went back to the day when Clive's magic pen was brought into requisition, and when Masters had conducted his work so skilfully that he had contrived to ruin the tablecloth and drench himself in ink. But to grin at this point was dangerous. Bert straightened his features while Susanne changed the conversation.
"Hullo! Here's Trendall," he said. "He and Rawlings don't speak nowadays. I'm a bit sorry for that fellow."
"So am I," agreed Bert.
"Acted like an idiot. Might have belonged to the Old Firm if he'd behaved," remarked Hugh magnanimously.
"Let's invite him to feed," suggested Clive of a sudden.
"I say!" cried Masters, hearing the words. "You know – well, I don't mind, of course. In fact, glad to invite him. But Trendall's a fellow to eat; it'd be expensive."
"Hang expense! Hi, Trendall!" shouted Susanne, always the prince of good fellows.
The object of their regard was at that moment crossing the quad, looking forlorn and unhappy. The new term had begun badly for him, in fact. He was depressed like every other fellow at the thought of Ranleigh's loss. And then, slowly but surely, and in some few cases rapidly and with uncouth bluntness, he was being led to see that he was by no means a popular individual.
"Sit next one another in Hall?" he had asked Marsham, once quite a friend of his.
"Promised," came the surly answer.
"But there's another side. I'll sit there."
"Blandy's bagged it; you can't," Marsham told him sharply.
Thereat Trendall swallowed his annoyance and went elsewhere. But what a change it was to the commencement of the term before, when Clive had first made the acquaintance of Ranleigh! Then Rawlings and Trendall had grandly elected their table companions. No one had then been strong enough to refuse their invitation. Still, Trendall had not yet had his full lesson.
"I say, Wilkins," he began, accosting one of his own form fellows, "how'd it be if we went clubs with our grub this term? You know, I've had a bit of a turn up with Rawlings, and you and I have always been pals."
Wilkins was a thin, hook-nosed individual, with sandy hair already thinning at the temples, prominent cheek bones, a bent figure, and a pair of curious pink eyes which long ago had given him the soubriquet of the "Rabbit." He was one of those ill-developed youths who always appear anxious and hungry. But he had his good points, plenty of them, and was friendly with the majority.
"What say, Rabbit?" added Trendall, with all his old assurance.
"Thanks; not for me," came the chilling answer. "Try Parkin Tertius. He's new this term. He don't know too much about you."
"Look here!" ejaculated Trendall angrily. And then, recollecting the change in his circumstances, and deciding that he could not afford to be pugnacious, turned mildly upon Wilkins.
"Don't be funny, Rabbit," he said in tones almost of entreaty.
"Rabbit! Hang your cheek! I'm Wilkins to you, Trendall. Just see that you don't forget it."
His own particular friends would have smiled at Wilkins' fierceness. The Rabbit was the very last person to act in this manner. A little while ago he would never have dared speak to Trendall with such directness. Not that he was taking advantage now of the downfall of that young fellow. Wilkins was merely disgusted with him, just as were the majority of Ranleigh, and meant to let him know it. And after all, perhaps the Rabbit was doing Trendall a real service in thus dealing with him. For bluntness at school brings its lessons. It is never pleasant, perhaps, but it is more bearable there than in later life, when lessons are assimilated less easily.
Trendall turned sadly on his heel and went off dejectedly, his hands sunk deep in his pockets. At the corner of the corridor he came face to face with Rawlings, when the two passed one another without even nodding.
"Who funked after Guildford?" The gibe came floating down the corridor. "Who sat tight so as to let Susanne and his crowd get a whacking for you?" came with maddening distinctness.
Rawlings stopped abruptly. He felt almost impelled to return to Trendall's side as if to claim his support at such a moment. But Trendall was already moving rapidly away. With cheeks aflame and despair at his heart he raced from the corridor, leaving Rawlings to face the tormentors. Flushed to the roots of his hair, his hands in his jacket pockets, Rawlings strode majestically forward. He could see a bunch of small boys at the far end of the corridor, and made no doubt that they were the authors of those gibes.
"Come here, Jarvis," he commanded huskily, singling out a lad somewhat taller than the others. "What do you mean by shouting in the corridor?"
"Shan't!" was the answer flung at him. "You're not a prefect now, and I've as much right to shout in the corridor as you have."
Rawlings lifted his hand threateningly. Jarvis dived swiftly, twisted out of the grip of the bigger boy, kicked his legs from beneath him and then bolted.
"Who left Susanne's gang in the lurch?" came screaming down at Rawlings.
"Look out!" shouted Jarvis, hugely delighted at the success of his movements, and at seeing the bully sprawling. "Susanne's coming. Better hop, Rawlings. Susanne's promised to give you a hiding."
To return to Trendall, he dashed away from the corridor, hid his face in his class-room for a while, and then sauntered aimlessly across the quad, his chin sunk disconsolately on his chest, his hands once more buried deep in his pockets.
"Hi! Trendall!" he heard, and took no notice; doubtless it was those kids again.
"Little brutes," he growled. "All the same, we deserve it. Rawlings and I acted like low-down cowards. We left Susanne and his crowd to stand the whole trouble. We were found out, as I was sure would be the case. It'd have been better to have owned up. I would have done but for Rawlings. But there, we acted like hounds. Now they're making us pay for it."
"Hi! Trendall!" came floating once more across the quad. "Look sharp, there's a good fellow."
There was something kind about the voice. Trendall looked up and over at the far side. His cheeks flushed instantly, for there were Susanne and his friends beckoning to him. He hesitated. It was true that at the end of last term he had made amends to the Old Firm, and they had magnanimously shaken hands with him. But were they really inclined to be friendly? Had the intervening holiday swept away such good intentions?
"Well?" he asked doubtfully.
"Come over here," shouted Clive. "We want to speak to you."
"Rotten this about Harvey, eh?" began Susanne when at last Trendall had joined them, and was standing somewhat shamefacedly near the group. "Makes a chap feel like kicking the bucket. Let's have a feed, eh?"
"You know, over by the tuck-boxes," said Clive, nodding vigorously.
"Bert's got some ripping sardines," Masters informed the company. "And there's a whole loaf of new bread in my box. At least, it was new two days ago. Expect it'll be a bit hard now. But there's heaps of butter. I sneaked a whole heap from the kitchen. You see, our cook's a perfect ripper."
"This way," pointed Hugh, leading the party off to the huge room wherein tuck-boxes were stored. "We've fixed the whole business you know, Trendall. It's to be a sort of feast of peace. Something after the style of Red Indians smoking the pipe of peace. Susanne wanted it to be that really, using a pipe he's brought from home with him. But eating's better. Besides, there's a heap of stuff that must be tackled soon or it won't be fit for consumption. Here, take a pew."
Trendall was breathless. When one came to look at him now it appeared as if he had lost a good deal of his usual flabbiness. His cheeks seemed no longer fat and jowly. His whole aspect was more alert and pleasing. And now there was positively a smile on his lips, a glad smile, a smile almost of gratitude.
"Awfully decent of you chaps," he said.
"Rot! Try a sardine," cried Susanne, stripping the lid off and handing the tin. "Sorry there ain't forks, Trendall, but then, fingers first, eh? Hook one out with your penknife if you like. But it's easy enough to get hold of a tail. They are splendid like that. You just eat them like the Italians eat macaroni. Only look out. Sometimes the tail breaks away, and an oily sardine makes a beast of a mess on a fellow's breeches."
"Ripping!" ejaculated Trendall, swallowing his second sardine. "But, I say, I'm having more than my fair share."
"There's heaps more," declared Clive instantly. "We want you to have a real solid feed. Like those biscuits?"
"Look here, you fellows," said Trendall, and then paused, as if he had not the courage to continue.
The Old Firm became silent for the moment, Masters because he could hardly be expected to answer, seeing that his mouth was stuffed with bread liberally coated with butter and jam. They looked at their old enemy in a manner which showed their friendship. In fact, it was obvious to anyone who cared to look, and to Trendall certainly, that this was undoubtedly the Old Firm's method of showing their feelings.
"Ham, eh?" asked Susanne, breaking a somewhat trying silence, and offering their guest a huge slice hacked from a joint by means of Clive's penknife.
"Thanks. It's mighty kind of you chaps, but, really, I feel an awful brute to take your things and enjoy your hospitality. I – "
"Oh, that's all right," smiled Bert, looking straight at him. "Bygones are bygones, Trendall. We're burying the hatchet."
They were burying a good deal more to look at Hugh and Masters. The enormous masses of food those two healthy youngsters were causing to disappear threatened them with apoplexy.
"And, you know," said Susanne, "we're jolly glad to have you with us. The Old Firm don't like having enemies. This feast's to celebrate the loss of one of 'em, and to offer him friendship."
"Friendship! You – you don't mean – " began Trendall almost breathlessly, and then, remembering the painful experience he had already had, stopped abruptly. But Susanne's happy, open smile reassured him. Clive improved the occasion by offering their guest an enormous apple, while Masters bashed a hole in the lid of a tin of sweetened milk and held it out invitingly.
"You have first go," he said. "I daren't offer it to Hugh. He's such a thirsty beggar, and Clive's no better. Better have the first shot, Trendall. Then you're sure to get plenty."
But their guest declined the invitation with a shake of the head. For the moment his thoughts choked him. He gulped. Looking at him, Susanne felt sorry for their late enemy, for he was so obviously overcome by this cordial welcome.
"We understand all about it, don't you know, Trendall," he ventured, as if to save Trendall. "They're all bygones. We begin afresh here. You're one of us."
"You don't mean that you – want me to join you? That you would be glad to have me with you?" gulped Trendall, perspiration now on his forehead, the huge slice of ham on the lid of a tin box, serving as a plate, now neglected. "I – I – "
"That is, we'd like it, if you would," cried Bert, who had a knack of always saying the right thing at the right moment.
"You see," reflected Clive, "the Old Firm ain't a limited company. We've powers always to add to our numbers. We go on the principle of 'the more the merrier' – in reason, of course. Well, there's the invitation. Join the Board. Become one of the unlimited."
There were positively tears in Trendall's eyes. He pitched the tin lid to the floor and stood up. Clive could see that his knees were actually shaking. His face had gone a deadly pale colour. His breath came fast and deep and in jerks. Bert was terribly afraid lest he should faint and fall at the feet of those who were doing him this honour. Then a flush came to the sallow cheeks. Those who had known Trendall in the old days, the bad days when Rawlings dominated his thoughts and actions, would, had they seen him at this moment, have declared without hesitation that now they saw a vast improvement. The old sly, sneaking air was gone. This young fellow was no longer filled with arrogance. And when he smiled at Susanne and Clive and the others, genuine friendship looked out of his eyes, even if the latter were somewhat blurred by the mist which had risen so suddenly to cloud them.
"I'll join gladly," he said, with a catch in his voice. "If only you fellows knew how gladly! I've been a pig in the past."
"Hush!" interrupted Bert. "Bygones, you know, Trendall."
"Are bygones, and not to be remembered," cried Masters, having now got rid of the huge hunch of bread which had obstructed his vocal organs.
"Then let's shake hands again," said Trendall. "You can't tell how decent I think it of you fellows."
It was decent. When the Old Firm – that is to say, its first members – came later on to discuss the matter, they agreed that they had behaved nobly.
"Of course, we might have kept the enmity up for a long while," said Masters. "That'd have made Trendall sit up a trifle. But it's better to be friends. And think how useful."
"Useful. How's that?" asked Bert.
"Well, to commence with, Trendall's a slogging good chap at classics. If I'm in a hole ever – "
"You're always in one," laughed Bert, interrupting him.
"There's Trendall to help me," continued Masters, scowling at the interrupter.
"A nice way to look at a friendship!" jeered Susanne. "What next?"
"Well, you know," said Masters lamely, "I used to sit within sight of Trendall."
"That's why you warned us that he was such an eater," cried Clive. "He didn't do much this time, anyway."
"It wasn't that I meant. But Trendall's a lucky beggar," said Masters, his eyes opening at the thought of what he'd seen. "Talk about a spread at table! Why, his people sent him a whole turkey last term, a turkey ready cooked, with sausages. I just wanted that turkey. Wish my people'd think sometimes that turkey's good for fellows at Ranleigh."
Everyone, no doubt, have their own way of looking at the same matter. Masters at the moment viewed the addition of Trendall to the Old Firm from the point of view of what he personally would gain. Not that he was really serious. It may be said, in fact, that Masters was above such pettishness. Still, it was true enough that Trendall was first rate at classics, while Masters was an utter duffer. A little help now and again would certainly be an advantage. As for the turkey, well, it was known that Trendall had ripping hampers. Why shouldn't the Old Firm rejoice at their coming?
It may be imagined, too, that this sudden accession of Trendall to the ranks of Susanne and Clive and Company created quite a storm at Ranleigh. That very afternoon they were seen for the first time strolling arm in arm across the ground sloping down in front of the school. They were laughing and chatting as if there had never been such a thing as a disagreement between them. Then they turned into the tuck-shop, and casual visitors there saw and marvelled at Trendall treating fellows to apple tarts and cups of tea or coffee to whom, a couple of months before, they could imagine his administering something far less pleasant. That evening, in Hall, Rawlings saw the members of the Firm gaily signalling to one another, while, as if to make matters worse, there was Trendall seated comfortably between Hugh and Bert Seymour. Rawlings scowled behind his cup. He kicked savagely at the boy opposite when he remarked on this singular friendship which had arisen so unexpectedly. And then he found his attention caught by the entry of the members of the Upper Sixth. They came in in single file. There was Sturton, tall and cool and unconcerned. Stebbins, the fellow next behind him, a strong candidate for the captaincy, looked bored and sullen. Fellows liked him at Ranleigh; but not as they liked Sturton. Then came Bagshaw, "the oyster" as some called him, the poet, the leader writer, pale of face, stooping and delicate, but with flashing eye and jovial smile which were always captivating. You could knock poor Bagshaw down with the greatest ease. A fellow in Middle School could defeat him without the need to remove a coat. And yet Bagshaw was a power in the school, a force there was no denying. The most muscular boy had been known to tremble before him. It was said of Bagshaw that even Mr. Canning felt less assurance when "the oyster" was his opponent at the weekly meetings of the Debating Society.
Slowly, one by one, they filed to their places, while the heads of all at Ranleigh were turned to watch them. And then the figure of the Head suddenly appeared on the dais, with the master of the week beside him.
"Sturton is elected Captain of Ranleigh," he declared, and then disappeared with a discretion there was no denying.
"Hooray! Three cheers for Sturton!" bellowed one of his supporters.
The boys shouted till they were hoarse. Bert and Hugh and Trendall did their best to drown the shouts of those beside them. Susanne beat the table with a knife till the noise was deafening.
"Speech! Speech! Speech!" came thundering through the Hall; and – who would have thought it? – it was Bagshaw the delicate who possessed that enormously deep voice. Then Sturton popped up on the dais, and waited there for silence.
"You fellows," he began, his hands deep in his pockets, a habit at Ranleigh as elsewhere, "I'm awfully sorry about Harvey – "
Cheers. Counter cheers from opposite sides of the Hall. "For he's a jolly good fellow," started by Masters, and dropped with suddenness when that young gentleman found himself the only one chanting.
"He was a rattling good fellow" – more cheers. "One of the very best" – a perfect tornado – "and we all loved him. I say that he was one of the best captains this school has ever seen" – more cheers. "You'll do as well," was shouted from the far end of the Hall. "Hooray for Sturton!"
"I'll do my level best, be sure of that," went on Sturton. "I want to thank the Upper Sixth for choosing me, and you fellows for applauding their selection. I'm going to work hard. I'm going to make you fellows work hard too, I can tell you." "Shame!" from the end of the Hall. Laughter throughout. "Not me," from the irrepressible Masters.
"Yes, and Masters too," continued Sturton, at which there was another outburst of merriment. "We're all going to work hard. We're going to train steadily, and at the end of the term we're going to pull off that footer cup we've been so long after. You fellows, three cheers for Harvey!"
They gave them with a vigour there was no denying. Ranleighans shouted themselves hoarse in their exuberance. And then they filed out of the Hall where many busy tongues commenced wagging.
"Don't seem so bad after all," observed Clive. "This afternoon everything was at sixes and sevens, and a fellow could have sworn that we were in for a sickening term. Now it's A1. Sturton's Captain."
It was a fine thing for Ranleigh too. Harvey had been a fine fellow and a first-class leader. Sturton was to be as good. We shall see what he did with the material he had to handle, and how he made ready for the great day when Ranleigh was to fail or triumph.
