Kitabı oku: «King of Ranleigh: A School Story», sayfa 6

CHAPTER VII
PLANS FOR AN OUTING

Round about the "tortoise" stove in the workshop at Ranleigh the tongues of certain of the boys wagged with a vigour there was no denying and no checking. Susanne held the post of honour, seated on an up-turned box in front of the stove, his feet on the high, bent-iron fender which kept the hot cinders from coming into contact with the piles of shavings littering the floor. Clive lolled back, his shoulders against the corner of the nearest bench, while Masters occupied a place on the same form.

"My! They don't smell half good," reflected Hugh, sniffing with decided appreciation at the roasting apples placed on top of the stove. "There's apples and apples."

"And orchards and orchards," chipped in Masters.

"And some of them are easier to get at than others, eh?" smiled Bert, prodding a baking potato with the broken prongs of an old fork. "There never was a place such as this is for a wet day. Of course, when one's a senior it's easy enough to bag one of the Fives Courts and have a game. But not being a senior, of course – "

"You have to descend to the workshop," laughed Susanne. "It's good enough for me, anyway. I suppose if we all did as you'd have us, you'd be at Fives, Hugh in the Gym, and Clive hammering iron in the forge. As to Masters – "

"Ah!" grinned that unabashed youth, "I know what you're going to say. Of course, I'd be sweating at impots for that cad Canning. Now, would you believe it? after letting me off the one about a time and a place, the very day after he set me another. That's Canning all over."

There was a grimace as he ended. Masters had found Mr. Canning a strange mixture indeed, for whereas he had experienced his benevolence on the night after the rescue of those who had been plunged into the water, the master had been down upon him like a ton of bricks on the following day.

"Masters, you're not attending. What was the passage we were then construing?"

Masters made a wild shot, one which went very wide of the mark too.

"And that's what we were doing, then?" asked Mr. Canning sweetly.

"Yes, sir – at least, that's the best I can remember."

"Indeed. Your memory is very defective. We were not even dealing with the page in which that passage occurs. As I said, you were not attending, and as you have thereby lost the benefit of the excellent rendering given us by Martin Secundus, you had better write me out page 46, both in Latin and English."

"The beast!" Masters had muttered. "Always down on me! Wish I'd never come to Ranleigh. Talk about freedom and fair treatment! A fellow's down-trodden at this place. That Canning's a tyrant."

But he was whistling within a few minutes, at the end of the lesson, and would have forgotten the "impot" but for a reminder addressed by one of his fellows. That sent him post-haste to discover Martin Secundus.

"What did you want to give that Canning a rendering for?" he demanded roughly, for Martin was of the small order. "See what you've let me in for, too! I've got to write out page 46 in Latin and English."

"Sorry, but your own fault," was the retort, small comfort for Masters.

"Oh, my own fault, eh? Look here, Martin, you've landed me into this impot and will have to help."

"Have?" smiled the other. "I like that!"

"Like it or not, you'll help," came the answer. "Or – "

"Or what?" demanded Martin, not in the least put out. He wasn't afraid of Masters, not in the least, for they had had many a scuffle. He rather liked the fellow, as a matter of fact. But "have" – that was a large order.

"Or – " began the desperate Masters, and then relapsed into a smile. "Oh, look here, Martin, you can do these things standing on your head. I hate Latin. It gives me a headache. Come along to my tuck-box. I had a hamper arrive last week, and we can talk about the impot while we're feeding."

Wise Masters! More than one at Ranleigh had found their way to his notice, if not to his friendship, by offering food. And here he was using the same method of persuasion. However, the "old firm," as Clive, Bert and Hugh, Masters and Susanne had designated themselves, were engaged in discussion round the workshop stove, and we must not forget them.

"As to Masters," declared Susanne, having been interrupted by that young fellow, "as to our friend Masters, he'd probably be found asleep, or at the tuck, or washing himself in ink."

The sally brought a howl from the others. Masters was not likely soon to be allowed to forget that incident. The mere mention of it roused him to a fury. He shot up as if he had been kicked and leaned across to strike at Susanne. But Clive cocked a leg on to the top of the stove and thereby intercepted him.

"Look here," he began, "do let's talk sense."

"Then you shut up altogether. That's the only way to make it possible," retorted the angered Masters, sitting down with a bang.

"And decide what we're going to do and how it's to be done," went on Clive, without notice of the interruption.

"We've decided to go, then?" demanded Bert.

"Rather!" cried Hugh.

"I wouldn't miss the show for worlds," declared Clive.

"There'll be heaps of Frenchmen there," suggested Susanne, with a cool shake of his head. "I'm nearly sure to know some of them. That'd mean a feed, eh?"

The idea was wonderfully attractive. "Of course," suggested Masters, with furrowed brow, "if you didn't know any of them it wouldn't make any great difference. They'd be awfully glad to see you, and – "

"Me, yes," agreed Susanne. "But my friends – well, that's a tall order."

There were signs of dissension at once. "But you'd never be such a sneak as to accept a feed and leave us in the lurch," blurted out Hugh. "If we go, we all go together. If there's a feed – "

"We all feed together," grinned Masters.

"But we aren't there yet," Clive reminded them. "Now, do let's get to business. There's to be a meeting of aeroplanists at Guildford. That's settled."

They all nodded their agreement. Hugh interrupted further conversation for the moment to lift the frizzling apples from the stove and hand one to each of the gathering. "Can't talk without eating," he said. "Now let's get on with it. There's an aeroplane meeting."

"The old firm's going, lock, stock and barrel," interjected Masters, with decision.

"If it can be arranged."

"It can," Clive corrected Bert. "What's to prevent us?"

"The Head! Guildford's out of bounds, in any case. There'd be ructions if a Ranleigh boy were found there."

"But one won't, that's just it," asserted Clive. What "it" was exactly he failed to explain. However, he soon cleared up the resulting mystery.

"Who's going to be such an ass as to go in a school cap?" he asked haughtily. "We'll sneak our bowlers out of store and no one'll be the wiser."

"But how are we to get there?" asked Bert. "That's the question we started with. Everyone knows there's to be such a show. Guildford's a long step away, and the train's out of the question."

"Ah, but you've forgotten Higgins. There's Higgins," Clive reminded them.

Yes, there was Higgins, one of those artful, ingratiating scoundrels ever the dread of a Headmaster, ever the attraction of fellows at school. For this man in question, like many another at other schools than Ranleigh, stocked articles contraband at the school but much sought after by boys. The master of a sweet-stuff shop, wherein was combined a tobacconist business, he could be visited by those who had obtained a pass to the village. Stores of cigarettes were obtained from him. Susanne, whose bad habits had commenced with a somewhat liberal or free education in France prior to coming to England, had no difficulty in purchasing there what smokes he required; while one boy of Clive's acquaintance had even bought a revolver, though for what purpose even he could not say.

"There's Higgins, yes," reflected Clive.

"Who's all serene. He's offered to take us in a brake he can hire. We can join him up at the back of the school and none be the wiser. Call the trip ten miles there, and the same back. Well, we're on the spot in a little more than an hour."

Masters turned a glowing countenance to his friends. But Clive showed disapproval.

"An hour or more. What's the use of wasting all that time on the road? Let's do the thing in style or not at all. Let's go by motor. Higgins can manage that just as easily."

"At a price! He don't forget to open his mouth too."

"Well, what price?"

Clive dragged out all his available coins and counted them carefully.

"Three bob a head by trap. Five, if there's a motor," said Masters. "I talked it over with him. Not a bad chap, Higgins. He knows how to keep his mouth shut too, which is something."

The discussion waned for a while, for each one of the group was busy with his finances. Then all eyes went to Susanne. He was the Crœsus of the party. Never a day but he had money in abundance, the reason being perhaps that his father was a banker.

"Wish mine were," Masters had groaned on more than one occasion. "Then I'd have a few coppers to spend now and again, instead of a beggarly allowance. My Governor seems to think that a chap hasn't need of cash. He rams thrift and economy down my throat till I'm almost afraid to buy even a biscuit."

"Five bob a head," said Bert reflectively. "Is it worth it?"

"Is it worth it?" they shouted derisively at him.

"Ever seen an aeroplane?" asked Clive hotly. "Think of being able to say we'd watched fellows flying. Besides, we might get up in one ourselves. I mean to try."

"And there's the feed," Hugh reminded them.

"Feed? What feed?" demanded Masters eagerly. "Higgins don't include it in his price. I tried to make him. Where's the feed?"

"Susanne's, duffer!"

"Mine?" asked the astounded Frenchman. "It's the first I've heard of it."

"There's a oner. Never heard of it, when only a minute ago he was telling us of his friends and how they'd ask us to lunch with 'em," shouted Masters. "Don't tell us you've forgotten, Susanne."

"Ask me to lunch. I never said a word about you fellows. It was you who suggested the thing. Oh, yes, I dare say there'll be a blow-out for me," said Susanne complacently. "But for you, doubtful. You fellows had better sneak some bread and cheese at supper the night before and carry a store with you."

He grinned provocatively at them, and then calmly tackled a roasted apple. "Yes," he reflected, "I've no doubt I shall meet one friend at least. There's Levallois, a flyer. My word, he can fly! He comes from Lyons, and'll be awfully glad to see me."

"Us," suggested Masters desperately.

"Me. What's he want to know you for? I shall go off to lunch with him as a matter of course. It'll be sickening to leave you fellows, naturally, and no one'll be more sorry than I, er – er – or you – but then, there it is."

So saying he buried his teeth in the apple, taking not the smallest notice of the glaring eyes of his comrades.

"Of all the selfish beggars!" began Masters, whose energy was always pronounced when there was a question of food. "Susanne don't deserve to come with us. It's sickening to hear him jaw about a feed all for himself, and to listen to him advising us to take chunks of bread as hard as bricks, and cheese that's only fit for use as cart grease. It's simply sickening."

His disgust was great – so great, in fact, that he might have pressed the question still further, thereby bringing about a termination of the hitherto comparatively pleasant nature of the meeting. But the practical Bert intervened.

"What's the use of grousing," he asked, "and gassing about a feed that's never been offered? Why, Susanne's friend mayn't be there. He may find no one to invite him."

"I shall. Certain," declared that individual, grinning. "If there's one Frenchman there, he is my countryman. He pays toll. That's quite regular. He'll be awfully glad to meet me."

"Oh, well, then you get an invite. What's it matter? Bread's good enough for me so long as I see the fun. Let's settle the matter. Five bob's a heap. That Higgins is a Shylock. He'll take every cent from me."

"Same here," asserted Hugh, pulling a face. "I shall be short for the rest of the term."

Susanne produced a sovereign. "How much for the lot?" he asked.

"Twenty shillings, and five extra for you," cried Masters.

"Then take it as settled. I'll write home to the people and tell 'em I've had heavy calls. A motor's a call, isn't it?" he asked naïvely, seeing his friends smile. "I pay the motor. If there isn't a feed, then we've something left to buy grub with. How's that? Pass another apple, Clive. You hang over them as if the store belonged to you."

It got dusk before they had finished talking. The far ends of the workshop were hidden in gloom before they rose from their places about the stove. And then there came the sound of a scraping match. A flare lit the gloom in the distance. A tall figure stretched upward to a swinging lamp and lit the wick. It was Hole, the school's carpentry instructor, unchanged after years of service, with an eagle eye for old faces and a keen recollection of incidents gone and forgotten by the majority. If only every school existing had such a workshop, and made attendance there almost compulsory, instead of an extra to be paid for by parents! For there, in the workshop provided by Ranleigh, boys learned a thousand and one things. Handiness came quickly to them, and better than all, perhaps, here was at hand a means to fill many an hour which might otherwise have been idle.

Benches down the centre bore a host of tools, while the special property of individuals was housed in lockers near the entrance. The stove was placed half-way along the shop, and beyond, one entered a second shop provided with turning lathes. See Clive there, with the faithful and interested Hugh in attendance, both lads working the foot pedal with might and main, while dust and shavings whirled about them. Or follow them to the blacksmith's shop, an adjacent institution. There, dressed in leather aprons, with sleeves tucked to the shoulder, they might be seen many and many a time beating out some piece of spluttering metal on the anvil. Or the metal-turning lathe held their attention, and they slowly and laboriously pounded at the pedal while the hardened tool took off shavings at a pace which was slow to the point of exasperation.

But there were days also in this shop when flames and sparks flew up the chimney wildly, when either Hugh or Clive, or even Susanne on occasion, turned the handle of the mechanical blower. Coke heaped high on the hearth glowed redly, while the heat within the shop was stifling. Perhaps these conditions existed for an hour; perhaps for longer, Clive or the shop instructor ever and again lifting the lid of a crucible buried in the glowing coke. And then, with a joyful shout, it was announced that the brass was molten. Think, then, of the joy these young mechanics experienced. The boxes placed so carefully over in the corner had cost them many an hour's labour. Packed with sand, and divided at the commencement, the two halves of the moulds fashioned from their own patterns were now assembled, and the moment had arrived to pour the molten brass into the narrow openings left for that purpose. And imagine the impatience of these model-makers awaiting the setting of their castings.

Those were the days which Clive enjoyed most. It was after a bout of casting that his lessons were worse prepared than on other occasions, while drills and "impots" showered upon him.

"Darrell, inattentive again," Old B. would exclaim sadly, as if the matter were a personal grief to him. "Half an hour's drill to-morrow."

Or Harvey, the great Harvey, would rouse his curly, shapely head from his desk in the middle of prep., strange sounds having disturbed him.

"If that isn't young Darrell again," he'd exclaim testily. "Come here, Darrell."

Fearful of the consequences, but unlikely to be robbed of his love of mechanics by any amount of punishment, Clive would leave his seat and come to the front.

"Well?"

"I – er – "

"What's it this time?"

"Only a wheel. I was just filing it so as to be ready for after school."

The culprit would hand forth a file of gigantic size, and a casting of his own making. Prep., Clive had found, was an excellent time for the doing of such little jobs. But there was the difficulty of drowning noise. Harvey had been annoyed on more than one occasion.

"Oh, only a wheel! Let's see, what was it last time?"

"Another wheel. You see, there are two, and – "

"There generally are two. Look here, Darrell, I'm sick of this nonsense. You not only shirk your own work, and get into trouble with your form master, but you disturb the other fellows and keep them from work. Come along to the Scholars' room after supper. I shall give you a whacking."

And, as a matter of course, Masters would be grinning delightedly as Clive went back to his seat, while Hugh or Bert or Susanne would pass short notes of compassion to him. Sometimes they were shot over the heads of the others in the form of darts, duly labelled with the name of Darrell. Or they were passed from hand to hand, or better still, the wily Susanne's invention, they were rolled into the shape of a fine pencil, inserted in a pea-shooter, and sent hurtling at the head of the one for whom the correspondence was intended. Let us record, too, that Susanne became an expert with this instrument. Such was his dexterity, and such his strength of lung, that with the aid of wet blotting-paper rolled into balls, and essentially of red colour, he could actually eject them at the high ceilings of the form rooms, where the moist condition of the shot caused it to adhere, and – so good was the aim after long practice – that with patience and a sufficiency of these moist pellets Susanne could write his name on the ceiling. That term many a form room ceiling bore in thin lines of red dots the letters Feofé, with "Susanne" close alongside in brackets.

But there was the question of the aeroplane meeting to be settled.

"Masters will see Higgins and fix it," Clive explained to Hugh in a hoarse whisper, when they were seated at prep. that evening. "It's lucky that to-morrow's a saint's day. That'll give us heaps of time, for the meeting don't begin till after midday."

Numerous were the notes which passed between Clive and Masters and Hugh during that hour and a half's prep. The many items to be settled caused the exchange of missives even when they had reached their dormitories, and that fascinating, home-made telephone being as yet incomplete, and, in fact, stubbornly refusing to work in spite of the scientific aid and knowledge of Susanne, they had recourse yet again to the weird series of wheels and strings passing over the partition. And, of course, as fate would have it on this the most important of occasions, Sturton discovered what was happening.

"What the dickens – " he suddenly demanded, swinging round in the chair in which he was seated at the dormitory table. "Here, Darrell, up to something more? I told you last week I wouldn't have any further chucking of notes over the partition. Suppose it's to young Seymour again? Bring that note here."

It was a desperate moment. Clive clambered out of bed and stepped across to the prefect, the note in his hand.

"Here it is," he said grudgingly, eyeing Sturton askance, for that note contained a résumé of the details of their escapade of the morrow. Dished up in finished style, as it were, were full particulars of their intended movements. Anyone glancing through the scrawly and badly spelled lines could not fail but discover the depths of the conspiracy.

"Higgins is a brick," the words went. "Masters saw him to-night after prep and just before chapel and Higgins said he was reddy and didn't want twenty five bob but twenty and that's awfully decent of him and the car's going to be wating over by the windmil at twelve. Won't it be ripping, eh. There's heaps of room for the lot of us and Higgins'll have smokes. Susanne says they're nesessary to him and'll make him look like a blud, and Higgins knows a shop where we can get a blow out for next to nothing. There a bob each to pay to go into the plais where the aroplaynes fly, but Higgins can manage to pass us in free as his frend's the gatekeeper. So all's serene and to-morrow'll be ripping.

"The Firm."

That was the communication. Sturton handled it and turned it over curiously. As a matter of fact, he was rather amused at these notes so constantly passing. It not being so very long since he himself was a youngster, he had a friendly recollection of his own eccentricities.

"What's this?" he asked sternly, causing the pyjamaed Clive to quake. "One would think you young donkeys hadn't a chance for gassing during the daytime. As it is, I know this sort of thing goes on the whole of prep. time. Look here, Darrell, an hour's drill to-morrow."

An hour's drill. Why, that meant that Clive, with a number of other forlorn individuals subjected to the same punishment for their various crimes, would have to assemble in the quad after dinner, and there be marched to and fro and round and round by a prefect as weary of the task as they were. At least, that was the general rule. Sometimes the commander of this squad was a martinet. Sometimes the master for the week wreaked his vengeance on boys in general and these unhappy wights in particular by taking the quad himself, or standing at the entrance to the quad, his mere presence stimulating the prefect till the boys undergoing punishment groaned at the numerous orders to "right wheel," "left wheel," "form line," "form fours." Form every sort of formation that the drill-book allows for or the fertile mind of an ingenious prefect can devise. And Canning was the master for the week, and Rawlings the brute of a prefect who would be on duty on the morrow.

Clive groaned and shivered.

"But to-morrow's a saint's day, Sturton," he ventured in tones of protest.

"All the better. You'll want something to do. Time hangs heavy with you youngsters on saints' days. A drill'll keep you out of mischief."

"But – "

"What's in this precious note?" asked Sturton, holding it up to the gaslight. "Secrets? Let's see 'em."

He handed the note to Clive and invited him to open the folded paper. That young fellow went a sickly yellow colour. The drill could be got over, he reflected. He could miss it. He'd have to do it every day after, that was certain, and Sturton might invite Harvey to give him a slogging. But the cause was worth this sacrifice. But to open the note and show Sturton the contents meant wrecking the whole affair.

"It's private," he managed to say at length.

"Oh, private, and awfully important. Let's see."

In one second Sturton fell in Clive's eyes from the giddy pinnacle on which he had been placed. "Never thought he could be such a cad. Opening fellows' letters. Beastly dodge!" thought Clive, glowering on him.

"Here, open it and read," said Sturton severely.

"It's private."

"Can't help that. Read it."

"It's private, I tell you."

Clive was distinctly angry and stubborn.

"Oh!" Sturton looked him up and down, his brow furrowed. He had not the smallest intention of opening the note himself, nor even of listening to its contents. He was merely gauging Clive's character. "Then you won't?" he asked coolly.

"No, I won't."

"You know what to expect, eh?"

"Yes. I don't care."

"Look here, Darrell, don't be a donkey. Fellows don't look at other chaps' notes, or listen to secrets. You're right not to split. Get back to bed. Promise not to send any more and I'll let you off the drill."

"Not after this one," said Clive. "It's important."

Sturton grinned. He could thoroughly sympathise, and he rather liked Clive for his show of obstinacy.

"Pitch it over then," he said, "and let it be the last. I'll whack you if you break your promise."

"But a chap can telephone, and we'll have to work like niggers to get that thing going," said Clive, when he had whispered to Susanne.

"That won't be sending notes. I wouldn't break a promise to anyone, least of all to Sturton. He's a decent fellow."

The morrow found the Old Firm jubilant and expectant. They slipped off after Chapel, raced down to the common and espied a panting car over by the windmill. All together they changed their school caps for bowlers and donned their overcoats. Susanne and Masters, who always did these things in superior style, had donned the tallest of tall collars, while the former had blossomed forth with an eyeglass. And we are bound to confess that Susanne thus decked out made quite a handsome and impressive foreigner. Masters had the appearance of a third-rate actor, for, as we have said, his collar was of the highest, while his fancy waistcoat would have roused the envy of a Cockney. Patent leather boots, spats, and a cane of huge proportions completed a turn-out which was distinctly startling. However, who thought of that, for were they not off on an expedition which promised huge excitement?

"I mean to get a lift in one of the machines," said Clive deliberately.

"While Susanne ain't forgot his promise," interjected Masters.

"Promise!" exclaimed the gallant Frenchman.

"A blow-out," Masters reminded him.

"For me – yes. Rather!" came the tantalising answer.

"All aboard!" cried the rascal who was to drive them. "Ready? Then off we go!"

The engine roared. The clutch went in with a jerk. The car bounded off for Guildford and the long-anticipated flying meeting which the Old Firm had determined to patronise.