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"Help!" called Harvey, for that was the name of the youth speaking, grinning at this quaint exhibition. However, he returned the compliment by lifting his own. "We don't do that sort of thing in England," he said, quite kindly. "I shouldn't if I were you. Fellows would start rotting. I say, can you play footer and cricket?"

Susanne's eyes sparkled. "I like them both tremendously. But play, ah, that is another question. In England fellows get a chance. In France you may say that games are only beginning."

"Book him for a trial next scratch footer," exclaimed Harvey, addressing his comrade. "Look here, you two, I'm Harvey. This is Bagshaw, secretary of our Games Committee, and of everything else that's useful. He's head bottlewasher to every institution at the school, and don't you forget it. I say, how do you call yourselves?"

How different was his manner from that of Rawlings. Feofé gave his at once, while Clive was not backward. The latter took an instant liking for Harvey. Of course, he must be a tremendous fellow at the school, top of all probably. Or was he a master? He looked almost old enough. Besides, he had a moustache, quite a decent affair. As to Bagshaw, he was a delicate-looking fellow of eighteen, perhaps, with a kindly, wizened face. A calm, studious man. The scholar of the school, no doubt, but not a games player. Nor was Clive far out in his reckoning. For Harvey was head scholar, a man head and shoulders above his comrades. Good at work, keen on books and such things, a decided master at debate, he was still a first-rate man at games, and perhaps shone still more as a leader. His clean-cut figure was the observed of all observers in School matches. His had been the fortune to listen to howls of appreciation when he had carried off the hundred yards, the quarter mile and the long jump at the School sports, while one and all, his football team or his cricket eleven watched his every move and gesture, loyal observers of all his wishes.

As to Bagshaw, he was almost as popular. No one expected him to play games. It was well known that he had a weak heart, and with that, of course, no fellow could play. But his Ranleighan Gazette was a masterpiece. His poems were enthralling; while, strangely enough, this delicate-looking fellow, a scholar also, could hold the boys spellbound. When taking "prep." Bagshaw was not one to be trifled with. There was no nonsense about this delicate, ascetic fellow. He was cool, calm and commanding, and to those who had the sense, a real help in difficulties.

"Ranleigh. All change!"

The lamps at the station were lighted now. Clive tumbled out on to a platform seething with boys of every age. Boys laden with footballs and bags. Boys clad in warm overcoats, and others nobly discarding the same for the walk up to the school. Caps were lifted in recognition of one of the masters. Clive found himself doing likewise and wondering whether all masters were the same. For this one, a fair giant, of ample proportions, smiled down upon them all. He gripped Harvey's hand with a vigour there was no denying, while still smiling round at the company. And then in twos and threes, and here and there in forlorn ones, for your new boy is not quick to discover chums, the contingent of Ranleigh boys took the road for the school. Through a portion of the village they went, leaving the Village Jubilee Memorial behind them. Up towards the common, all railed in, where sports and cricket matches are held, up past the butcher's shop, with its slaughter-house close handy, and so onward through the tree-clad lane, past the master's entrance, giving access to the Sanatorium also, past an even more important institution, the tuck-shop to wit, and so to the gates of the school. Above, a third way down the hill, myriad lights flashed from the building. Clive forged his way up the front drive with Susanne beside him, up the steep slope to the front doors, never entered except in the case of a few, save on arriving or departing on the first or last days of the term. And so into the wide space past the chapel entrance, between Middle and Second Form rooms. And there, swept continuously by a seething mass of boys, stood a short, bald-headed master, nodding here and there, smiling all the time, evidently delighted to welcome everyone.

"Darrell!"

Clive heard his name and stopped. The lynx-eyes of the bald-headed master had espied him.

"Sir," he gulped. He felt almost frightened. There were so many boys, and there was such an uproar.

"One South, Darrell," he heard. "How are you, boy? Glad you've come. Hop up the stairs there and you'll find One South dormitory. Your name's on one of the beds. Put your bag down on it, and then go to hall. You'll get tea there. Chapel'll be in ten minutes."

How did he know that this was Darrell? Clive found himself wondering that. And what about Susanne?

"Feofé," he heard, as he ascended. And then less distinctly, "One South," with the same instructions.

"I'm glad," he thought. "Susanne'll be with me. Wonder about that howling cad Rawlings. What a downfall! He'll not meddle with Susanne whatever happens. But he'll have his pound of flesh from me if the chance comes. Wish Harvey was to be in One South also."

He clambered up the steps and turned into a dormitory but dimly illuminated. But it was big and clean and airy, and bore an appearance of comfort, some thirty beds being covered with cosy-looking red coverlets.

Clive found his bed, deposited his bag, and then enquired his way to hall. Thick slices of bread and butter – known colloquially as "toke" – appeased a ravenous appetite. He had not even time to admire the huge proportions of the Hall, the many long tables, the names of boys long since departed who had won honours at the school, and the few pictures and portraits. A clanging bell summoned him he knew not where. He found himself processing with a number of others. Through that gallery they passed, with Middle and Second Forms on either side; then sharp to the left down a paved corridor, to a wide, arched entrance. They were in the chapel. Clive passed through the handsome raised seats of the choir, down the central aisle, and drifted aimlessly to one side.

"Here," someone whispered. "One South?"

"Yes."

"Then this'll do. Squat here."

The fellow made room for him. Clive squatted and listened. The organ was filling the whole beautiful chapel with the sweetest sound. Boys had ceased entering. He raised his eyes to the entrance through which he had come, just to be seen above the choir. "Be sure your sin will find you out," he read above the doorway. The bell ceased ringing, the notes of the organ were hushed, a low "Amen" came from the vestry. And then the choir processed to their seats. Harvey was amongst them, and Trendall, his fat cheeks shaking. There was a string of masters, of all ages almost, all appearances and all sizes, looking somewhat out of their element. And last of all came the Head. Not so very tall, not big, not imposing, there was yet something about him which called for another look. But the organ was pealing again, filling this magnificent building, with its high arched roof, to the depths of every crevice.

Clive cast his eyes aloft over the screen – in itself a thing of surpassing beauty – to the curtains about the organ loft, above which showed the foreheads and eyes of two of the school. And then the notes died away in a sob, which somehow seemed to have a welcome in it. The congregation kneeled. Then the voice of the Head broke the silence with the opening of the evening service, calm and dignified and musical. His eyes wandered round the assembled boys, not curiously, not with recognition in them, but with a welcome for all.

Ah! Clive shivered just a little. Of a sudden it had come to him that he was one of them, that he was a Ranleighan, that the school honour was his honour, its prowess his, its victories his to boast of. And then the singing of the choir thrilled him as he had never been thrilled before. He felt as do those old, loyal Ranleighans who visit their Old School after the lapse of years. The music, the lighting of the chapel, the very scent of the stone and bricks awake old memories, sweet memories and thrill them. So with Clive. He sang lustily with the rest, and then sank to his seat to listen to the lesson. There was Harvey at the lectern. Harvey the hero of the school, looking magnificent in his simple surplice. Harvey with head erect, his fair moustache curling, reading to them in a voice that showed no sign of trembling. How Clive would have shrunk from such a task! He shivered again at the thought of such a possibility.

Then came a hymn, the last prayers, and the thunder of the organ following. The choir filed away as they had come, the school remaining motionless till they heard the last "Amen" from the vestry. Then came movement. The boys were beginning to file out of the chapel and Clive prepared to follow. His eyes strayed this way and that, as he waited for his turn. All of a sudden he received something in the nature of a shock, something which set his heart thumping. For opposite him, waiting also to take their place in the procession of slippered boys, were two with familiar faces. Clive could have shouted their names. He almost did in his excitement and delight. For within a short dozen yards of him, as yet unconscious of his presence, were Hugh and Bert, his fellow conspirators, sent from their home as a direct result of that booby trap prepared for the unpopular Rawlings.

CHAPTER IV
SOME INTRODUCTIONS

"At last! Got you, you little demon! I'll teach you to laugh when a beggarly froggy gives me sauce. This'll help to make you remember manners, and is just a sample of what's to follow."

The amiable Rawlings, still smarting after his downfall in the train, had waylaid Clive Darrell. He pounced upon that youngster just as he issued from the chapel corridor, and with a heave and a jerk forced him through the narrow entrance into Middle School. A dim gas jet only served to show the immensity of the place, and its uncomfortable bareness. It was tenantless, save for the two who had now entered.

"No use your howling, my son," exclaimed the brutal Rawlings sneeringly, twisting Clive's arm till it was a wonder it did not break, and holding it so firmly behind his back that the lad could not move. "We'll commence with your lessons now, before school begins to-morrow."

He kneed the youngster unmercifully, shaking his whole body till it was a wonder his teeth were not jerked down his throat, and repeated the dose promptly. Clive shouted and kicked. His face was pale with pain, for his arm was terribly twisted. And yet he was powerless to get free. He wondered if he were going to faint. He certainly felt very giddy. Beads of perspiration were rolling down his forehead, and no doubt, in a little while, had the torture been continued, he would have actually fainted. But there came a sudden interruption. A stout, square figure lounged into the class-room, while a head appeared at the door behind. The figure belonged to Susanne.

"Pardon," he began, with that peculiar politeness for which, in the course of a few days, he became notorious, "but you are hurting Darrell."

Rawlings swung round on him, thereby nearly completing the fracturing of Clive's arm.

"You get off," he cried angrily. "You've nothing to do with this affair, and if there's any more of your sauce I'll serve you likewise. Hear that?"

Susanne seemed to be completely deaf. Not for one second did he forget his politeness. Indeed, it came to be said of Susanne, the good-natured, stolid Frenchman, that nothing ever put him out, and that even in the heat of footer he was always himself, the essence of politeness. But he could be deaf to threats. Moreover, such a thing as temper seemed to be foreign to him. He strolled up to Rawlings, took him by the nose and pinched that organ very thoroughly – pinched it, in fact, till Rawlings holloed. He let go his hold of Clive instantly, and clung to the injured organ, while his vengeful eyes flashed over the edge of his hands at Susanne. What precisely would have happened next it is impossible to state, for there came now a second interruption. Harvey's voice was heard. He had entered the class-room and was just behind the three.

"Serve you right," he said bluntly; "and look here, Rawlings, understand this from me: while I'm Head Scholar and Captain of the School this sort of thing's got to be put a stop to. I'll have no bullying, mind that. And have the goodness to remember that Darrell's a new boy. Now, youngster, cut. It's time you were upstairs in your dormitory. Same in your case, Feofé. Rawlings, you can come along to the scholars' room. I want a chat with you."

Clive clambered briskly to One South. True, he became a little muddled between the passages and the staircases, and found himself in the wrong dormitory. But a howl from a fellow hardly as big as himself sent him running like a rabbit.

"Here! Who's this kid?" he heard, while a youth with red hair sticking up abruptly from his forehead, as if he had received a severe fright when very young and had never recovered from it, stretched out and snatched at his collar. "What dormitory?" came the curt question.

"One South."

"Then out you go. We don't have One South kids fooling about in Two South, I can tell you. Clear off!"

Clive was actually staggered by the insolent arrogance of this youngster. He bolted, whereas, with all his wits about him, it is probable that there would have been at least a wordy warfare for some few minutes. And then he dived into his own abode, and made for his own particular bed. The dormitory was almost full now. That is to say, there was a boy to every bed save one. Clive sat down on the box placed between his bed and the next, and looked curiously round. There was silence in the place. There came to his ears merely the pattering of many restless heels upon the floor, while from the other three dormitories which went to make up the four in the south of the school buildings there came not so much as a sound.

Was Rawlings in the place? Thank goodness, no! Then Harvey? Of course, he'd gone off with the bully to the scholars' room. So there was still the chance that ill luck might put Rawlings in One South. Opposite, smiling at him, was Susanne, his peace of mind apparently unruffled by the scuffle in which he had so recently taken a part. As for the rest of the thirty odd fellows, they were large and small and medium, shock-headed, sunburned after their holidays, rather clean and well groomed for schoolboys, but then they were fresh from home, and as jolly looking as one could wish for. Compulsory silence, however, muzzled them for the moment. At the call of "speak" within ten minutes such a babel of voices arose that Clive was almost deafened. Susanne grinned now and crossed to speak to him.

"I say," he began, "who's that fellow I caught twisting your arm?"

"Rawlings; he lives near us at home. He's an out-and-out bounder."

"Ah! And a bully. He'll not try again when I'm near. But when he catches you alone, then there'll be trouble. I say, er – "

"Darrell."

"Then, Darrell, pity we're not next to one another here. Wonder if it could be managed?"

The suggestion was hardly made before a hand was placed on Susanne's shoulder.

"Look here, you're a new boy, aren't you?" asked a voice. "Well, I'm Sturton, you know, prefect of One South, and chaps aren't allowed to move over and speak to one another without getting leave. Now you know, eh?"

Susanne apologised in his best manner, while Clive inspected the one who had spoken. He hadn't seen him before, for the simple reason that Sturton was one of those who ascended to the organ loft at chapel time, and was there invisible. He had come up to the dormitory after "speak," and here he was, admonishing and advising Susanne as if he were another Harvey. Clive liked Sturton at once, liked his clean-cut figure and features, his bold brown eyes, his crisp and yet friendly way of talking.

"I say, please – " he began, and then became somewhat abashed.

"Eh? Fire away! You say – "

"I was wondering, sir, if – "

"Oh, come now, none of your 'sirs.' What is it?" asked Sturton, thinking that Clive was quite a decent little fellow, an acquisition to the dormitory.

"Well – er – oh, I don't know."

Sturton laughed outright. Susanne grinned. If Clive suffered from bashfulness, at least he didn't.

"He doesn't like to say it; but we're chums – isn't that the word?" he asked. "You see, I got into the same carriage with him. There was another chap there, and he'd come to make himself disagreeable to Darrell. So I – er, chipped in, eh?"

"Got it right – chipped in's the word," admitted Sturton, looking interested, while Clive nodded vigorously.

"Chipped in, and together Darrell and I made him look foolish. Darrell's wondering whether we could have our beds close together, then I needn't bother to ask leave."

"Why, of course! Bring your bag over. Change places with one of these fellows on either side. I dare say they won't mind."

The exchange was made promptly, and Clive found himself chatting away with his new friend. He was half undressed when that fair giant whom he had first seen at the station, and then again amongst the masters processing into chapel, entered the dormitory. He went from boy to boy, shaking hands heavily but with sincerity and friendship.

"Well, Darrell," he began, accosting our young friend, and speaking in so gentle and subdued a voice that Clive wondered if he had a bad cold, or if the voice really belonged to him, "been digging any more pits of late, eh? Or making motor-cars? Tell me all about them."

There was such genuine interest in this master that Clive told the tale, till Mr. Branson – for that was this master's name – wiped tears of enjoyment from his eyes. Also the same eyes sparkled when the boy spoke of his motor-car, and forgetting all else in the depths of his interest plunged into a description of levers and gears, of throttle and ignition apparatus, of lubrication and cooling. Was Branson – Old B., as fellows spoke of him usually – was he a fellow enthusiast?

"So you like engineering things, then, Darrell?" he said in his sing-song drawl, "and digging pits too? Well, so do I. Er – that is, I like the first. You'd like to join the carpenter's shop, eh? and the smith's shop? But no motor-cars. Ranleigh can't afford to have its boys rushing about the roads. And there are the police to be considered. Well, boy, I'm your dormitory master; I hope you'll like Ranleigh."

It was Susanne's turn next. Clive watched the slouching figure of the young fellow bend politely, and marvelled as he discussed his coming with Old B. as if he were his grown-up equal. But that was the peculiarity about Susanne. Perhaps he had mixed more with men than with boys. Certainly he had an old-fashioned manner about him, while his self-assurance was far in excess of that usually displayed by one of school age. Then came the turn of other new boys, while the place of the master was taken by Sturton armed with pencil and paper, and rattling silver in his pocket. There were silver coins to be paid for the support of the football club run by One and Four South, a request to which Clive assented readily enough, though it depleted his purse sadly.

It was striking half-past nine when at length all had turned in save Sturton and Massey, the other prefect. They sat on the edge of the table occupying the centre of the dormitory, on a line with the two rows of basins running down the middle. Snuggled down on his pillow Clive watched them debating in animated manner, and rose on his elbow as a pair of heavy feet came thundering into the dormitory. A young man dressed in a blue cotton jacket hurried from jet to jet of the gas pipes, and with the help of a notched stick extinguished all but one. He was gone in a moment, his thunder resounding from the other dormitories.

"Good night, Darrell," called Susanne.

"Good night, Susanne."

Darrell dropped asleep feeling happy and entirely peaceful. He liked Ranleigh so far, liked it immensely. If there was a great drawback to the place, if Rawlings did happen to be there, and to have shown the most unfriendly intentions, at least there were good fellows enough. Bert and Hugh, for example. What luck their being at the school! And Susanne too, and Sturton, and Harvey. Yes, Harvey held pride of place. He was Captain, lord of all he surveyed, immeasurably above the head of the humble Clive Darrell.

The violent ringing of a bell awakened Clive. He started up in bed to find daylight streaming in through the high-placed dormer windows. That same youth who had operated the gas taps on the previous night was thundering through the dormitory with his hobnailed boots, swinging a bell of generous proportions. Later, Clive gathered that he was known as a "beaky." He crossed to a door at the near end of the place and tapped heavily upon it. Then he disappeared as if in a perpetual hurry, and the ringing of the bell resounded from the other dormitories. Clive hopped out of bed, thereby arousing the inmate of the next bed. That young gentleman raised a very sleepy face from his pillow, hit rather snappishly at the hand which Clive had laid on his bed thereby to steady himself, and dropped back on his pillow.

"Hang you, waking me!" he grumbled, his eyes half shut, as if, too, there had been no such thing as a bellman. "It's always the same with new kids. Get funked when they hear a bell. Want to hop up at once. Here, you Darrell, call me when it's twenty past the hour. I give myself ten minutes the first morning, afterwards just five. Any decent fellow can wash and dress in that time."

Clive followed Sturton and a few of the others out of the dormitory, slippers on his feet and a towel about his waist.

"Swim, eh?" asked Sturton, giving him an encouraging nod.

"Rather!"

"You're the sort of chap we want then. Hullo! Masters still fugging. None of those old games, Masters," sang out Sturton, whose manner of addressing the one in question showed that he meant to be head of his dormitory whatever happened. "Here, out you come! Fugging may be allowed at home, but at Ranleigh, never!"

The unfortunate individual who lay next to Clive, and who had declared his intention of sparing a bare ten minutes on this, the first morning, for the purpose of ablution and dressing, was dragged out of bed without ceremony.

"Hop into your shoes and no skulking," said Sturton, standing over him. "I've had enough of your slackness, Masters. Every chap over twelve in this dormitory goes down for a dip every morning. The kids can, too, if they like. Same with those in Four South. I tell you One and Four are going to come out cock dormitory in footer this term if I can manage it."

Grumbling was of no use. Indeed, Masters showed no great inclination that way. Clive found him, after a while, when they had become more intimate, a merry, contented fellow, but dreadfully lazy.

"A regular slacker," Sturton declared on more than one occasion. "There's a cart-load of sisters at his home, and they molly-coddle the fellow. If he imagines an ache or a pain, even in his toe, he lies abed in the morning and is fed by one of the many sisters. But there's no bringing chaps up here on the spoon. No hand-rearing at Ranleigh if I know it. When a chap's ill, he can go to the sick-room. That's right enough. Or to the 'sanny' if he's really bad. Otherwise he's got to be fit – fit as a fiddle, Darrell."

Sturton was nothing if not open and straight-forward. Clive found in him something strangely akin to Harvey, the idol of the lower school, the man admired and envied by all the seniors. For Sturton was fresh and breezy in his ways. He addressed the juniors, not as if they were so many nuisances, or as individuals vastly beneath his notice – a manner much resorted to by Rawlings and the fat-faced Trendall – but as equals, cheerily; but always in a way that showed that he expected instant obedience.

His motto was perfection. He set an example of the strenuous life, and allowed no shirking where games were concerned. Nor was he backward where work came into account. His figure, dressed in an overcoat over his pyjamas, often with a towel about his curly head, was familiar to all in the dormitory who happened to open their sleepy eyes in the early morning. For Sturton was "swatting." He had some examination in view, and since the rules of Ranleigh forbade the burning of the candle at both ends, and indeed compelled the shutting down of all lights by ten o'clock at night, Sturton perforce had to burn the candle at one end only, and that the daylight one. Five o'clock found him poring over his books at the dormitory table.

And now he was ready to lead his juniors for the morning plunge. His conquering eyes viewed every bed in the place. Peremptorily he called to certain fellows. And then the procession set out for the bath, not sedately following Sturton, but in a rushing crowd, which went like an avalanche down the stairs, out of the wide passage between Middle and Second Schools, and then into the corridor about the quad. Clive peeped through the open windows, innocent of glass till the coming of December, when the school carpenter would put the frames into position. He saw a wide quad, smoothly asphalted, and rising by steps on the north side to a central doorway. Those open windows ran round it on three sides, and doubtless there were corridors within them. But he had little time for observation, for as part of that scampering throng he went pell-mell down the corridor, swung sharply to the left, and then along the east side of the quad. Up a short flight of steps, worn into deep hollows by the shoe-leather of many a Ranleighan, to the right abruptly, and so down a whitewashed passage with an abrupt turn at the far end, and then through a doorway into the dressing-room of the bath. A stretch of water lay between concreted walls.

"Cold as ice," shivered Masters, still begrudging the comfort of his bed. "Sturton's a demon for hardening fellows. All the same, a fellow feels frightfully fit when he's had a dip in the early morning. But a bed pulls; I could always do two hours longer any morning."

What fellow in his schooldays couldn't? A cosy bed pulls very hard on a cold, dark morning; but, with a peremptory Sturton about, there was no shirking. One and Four South boys mingled with others from West, a single, large dormitory, with those from North and East, and splashed into the bath. Sturton had his own ideas as to how the plunge should be taken.

"Can't stand a chap who walks in," he said. "Might just as well have three inches of water in a tub in one's room. A fellow ought to dive, and he can go in off the board if he wishes. For me, there's no place like the shallow end. You've got to be canny when you dive, for there's not three feet of water, and if you scrape the bottom, why, concrete on a naked chest acts like a rough file on soft wood. It draws blood every time. So you've got to remember that. Now, young Darrell, show Susanne the way. Follow me to the deep end. The first plunge'll freeze you to the marrow. The swim down will warm your blood. You'll come out again with your skin on fire, feeling as fresh as a daisy."

Off he went, cutting the water obliquely. Indeed, the dive was bound to be almost a flat one. Sturton did not appear again till he rose at the far end of the bath. Down he sank again, pushed off from the far wall under water and came up under Clive's nose, to that young gentleman's wonder and admiration. Then Clive attempted the same thing, flopped badly, stinging his hide severely. The ice-cold water sent a chill to his very marrow as he entered it. And then, as Sturton had said, his blood seemed to boil up as he took a first stroke. He was in a beautiful heat when at length he returned to the shallow end and clambered out to watch Susanne. That young man – known already to his dormitory by the name Clive had given him – looked somewhat doubtfully at the bath.

"Swim?" asked Sturton, who had not yet got his measure, and who with insular pride and prejudice was apt to look down upon a foreigner. "Eh?"

"Yes, but – "

"What? Funk the dive?"

"Yes," admitted Susanne frankly. "But I'll do it if it kills me."

He went souse into the water, sending a huge wave before him, and rising a moment later to rub his knees and elbows.

"Come to ground?" asked Sturton sympathetically. "Well, you won't to-morrow. Nothing like having one jar to teach you to be careful. Off you go. We'll all of us have to be nippy."

Clive had never before had much need to practise haste, for at home breakfast had not been an early function, while the school he attended was within easy distance. But at Ranleigh he soon learned what it was to be something of a speed merchant where dressing was concerned. He could scrub his skin dry after his morning bath in a mere jiffy. The rush back to One South dried all the parts he had missed in his hurry. To dive into his clothing was a process facilitated by many an artful dodge. Masters, in fact, was a promising instructor.

"Stick your things overnight so as you can hop into 'em all together," he advised. "Vest and shirt always as one, mind you, and tie still on the collar. Of course, any juggins knows the dodge of getting into pants and socks at one operation, while if you don't bother to undo your shoes, you can push your feet into 'em in a jiffy. Five minutes is my time for washing and dressing."

"Was," corrected Sturton, who happened to overhear this edifying conversation. "Was, Masters. I've been doubtful about the efficacy of the washing part. Chaps in One South have got to be known as fresh-water fellows, and a piece out of your short allowance won't help us. Besides, you're over twelve. Don't you let me catch you missing your dip in the morning."

Once dressed on that first morning Clive drifted down the stairs to Middle School. There was no particular reason why he should go there. But numbers of the school were entering the narrow doors, and he followed. Bert was just within, looking thinner than ever, his eyes still more dreamy. And Hugh was beside him, vivacious and very wide awake.