Reasoning Power

By OWEN OLIVER

OST things that you have rows about aren't worth having rows over. I began to see that when I was a kid in the Lower Third. Carr and I had a scrap over a white rat. Just after we'd finished the second round, Tubby Bennet came along and proved that the beast didn't belong to either of us, but to him, because there was a B inked on its tail.

This story isn't about white rats. I've had to give them up, because I'm nearly fifteen and in the Upper Fourth. It's about the upset with Wickings, the drill instructor last term, which made everybody see that rows and ragging are mugs' games. Mind you, it was a good bit his own fault. He's one of those hefty Johnnies who've had their brains taken out in the Army and a book on regulations shoved inside their skulls instead. (It was Mellor, who's Captain of the school and top of the Classical Sixth, who said that. I don't profess to know about brains.) Wicky was all right at drilling the kids, and he wasn't bad at gym. except that he wanted you to finish everything by bringing your heels together with a click. I'd like to know how you're going to do it with your gym. shoes! He always forgets that he isn't in the Army. He was quite good at boxing really, frightfully smart when he began, though he started by putting up his arms as if he was Mr. Punch posing for the cinema. And I will say he played a good game at cricket. He made forty-three and thirty-seven last summer for the village (he lived there) against the school. He was a decent chap in his bumptious way, because he never reported anyone.

"Bin a boy meself," he'd grunt, "and that's bein' a fool! Boys ain't got no reasonin' power."

He was always telling us that, and we got sick of it, and called him Reasoning Power. A chap must expect to get called things if he keeps saying them over and over like a parrot, so he had only himself to blame.

He got frightfully ratty when you called him Reasoning Power to his face. (You did it from a good way off, of course.) He got rattier when you said "Sergeant Reasoning Power." (You did that from a very long way off, because he could run.) He went right off the deep end when you said "Drill-Instructor Reasoning Power." (You only called that from round the door, or out of a window, or from behind a tree.)

The row was over "reasoning power." He was giving the boxing lesson to the Fourth, and Cockleshell Palmer started an argument with him about the way he told him to put up his hands. Palmer is very keen on boxing—his brother was amateur middle-weight champion—and he'd been reading a book that said nowadays pugilists didn't take up a stiff position, but started in a free attitude, and that the best defence was preparedness (I think that was the word) for attack. Wickings was ass enough to argue with him. (It gives a teacher away directly.)

"All rot!" he growled. "You've got to feel your way before you attack. There's many a chap who goes out to drop the other man one on the boko and catches a napper on his own."

"What's a boko?" Palmer asked. He looked as innocent as a baby—he can-but he's as sharp as a needle, and the best boxer in the Lower School—easily.

"Your smeller," Wickings said, "if you're too nice for slang. If you start swanky with your hands down, you may git rushed on to the ropes by a smart bloke before you git them up."

"What's a bloke?" said Palmer. He's the most aggravating beggar when he likes.

"I ain't here to teach you your alphabet," Wickings told him. "I wish I had you in the Army. I'd learn you discipline, and not to give back-jaw to your betters, that I would! You've been reading out of that shilling book that's on the station stall. I know it. Nobody that has good tips is going to give them away at that price! If you're a Carpenter"—that's how he pronounces Carpentier—"any position's good enough, because you'll hit first. If you ain't—and you're half a class below him, Master Palmer"—he had old Cockleshell there—"you've got to test your 'ponent, and see who's quickest at getting his knock in, before you put your shirt on doing it. Defence has won many a scrap, and premmyture attack lost it."

"You're a theorist," Palmer told him. (You can always get Wicky's rag out with words he doesn't understand.)

"You put it in English," Wicky roared, "and I'll report you! I'll have no low foreign words in this class."

We all laughed, and that made him wilder.

"Tell me it in English," he shouted, "or I'll go straight to Mr. Stead!" He's the Head. We call him Badger.

"Well, if I must," Palmer said, "it means a man who trusts too much to his reasoning power."

Of course Palmer went a bit too far then. He never knows where to stop, none of us being good enough to teach him. But Wickings altogether forgot himself; clouted Palmer in the ear and sent him rolling over and over. Mind you, it was only an open-handed clout, and I don't say that Palmer hadn't asked for it. Still, it wouldn't do to have that sort of thing. Badger would give a master the chuck for it, let alone a bally drill-instructor.

Palmer got on his feet in a sec. and put up his fists. He wouldn't take a hiding lying down from Jack Dempsey. He made a rush toward Wickings, but we held him, and told him that a chap couldn't fight with an instructor, especially when he hadn't "an earthly" against him. He was white with rage, and old Reasoning Power was as red as a beetroot.

"You'll be fired for this," Driscoll told him. (Driscoll's father is a judge, so he always lays down the law.)

"I take my gruel quiet when I've earned it," Reasoning Power said. "I don't say as I should have done it, but he laid out to draw me on, and knew what he was goading me into."

"Wickings," Palmer said through his teeth, "some day, when I'm more your size and weight, I'll strike that blow back."

Wickings nodded; put on his coat. "The lesson's over," he said, and walked out.

"I'm the senior here," Driscoll said. "I suppose I've got to go and report it to Double-Barrel? " We call old Tait that, because he's Secretary and Deputy Head too. He's the favourite master in the school as well.

"No," Palmer said. "It's my affair. Now I've something to grow for … I wish you'd let me go for him."

"Don't be an idiot," I said. "You'd have been smashed. And it isn't only your affair; it's an insult to the Lower School. I shall call a meeting of the Round Table after tea to decide what's to be done."

We have a secret society of the Lower School, and we call it the Round Table. I am Knight-President. It is a serious society, and only deals with important things that affect the tone and customs of the school. It gave up piffle and tommyrot in 1891. The Minute Book (Vol. IV., No. 123) says: "Resolved that rites are antiquated and shall be abolished, but members shall be bound upon capital penalty to observe the laws as before." Father was President then, and signed the minute. He says that the iron was too hot by mistake when Knight Spencer was initiated, and there was a row about it. I don't take in all his yarns, but I think this is right, because Minute 126 says that Knight Spencer ii. is not to be called "Singey."

The meeting was awfully serious this time. I said that we had to deal with an attack upon the most important of the privileges of the Lower School; that a member of it (and therefore of the Round Table) could not be walloped by a master, except the Head or Deputy Head (that's old Double-Barrel), or by order of a prefect's meeting. This privilege had been invaded by a common drill-sergeant, who could not even speak correctly. It was up to the meeting to decide whether we should report the matter to the Head, or take it up ourselves, and, if the latter, how should we do it?

"If we report it," I said, "there's this to remember. Badger will sack Reasoning Power, but he'll make a fuss about Palmer ragging him."

"Palmer only pulled his leg," Fatty Brown said

"Pulling a teacher's leg is ragging," I said. "It's the only way you can do it with most of them. If Cockleshell had done it to, say, Dinky, and got a clout in the ear—and he jolly well would have!—no one would have thought of reporting it. But a drill-sergeant! If Cockleshell wants us to report him, I shall vote for it."

"I don't want to report it," Palmer said. "If we do, he'll be booted, and I want him to stay here till I'm nearer his weight."

"What do you think?" I asked Bennet. He's Knight Vice-President.

"Tell him we'll report it if he doesn't apologise," he said.

"That only means a row that we'll have to report," I objected.

"I'm for showing him that the Lower School can keep a drill-sergeant in his place themselves," said Driscoll.

"That," I said, "is the question. Can we keep Reasoning Power in his place? Of course we can rag him now, and he'll be afraid to round on us for fear that the reason will come out; but once you begin ragging, there's a continual row. You know what old Double-Barrel said about Frenchy. 'Chaps who keep on playing nasty tricks become nasty chaps. If you behave badly in class, you aren't only lowering the master, but the school and yourselves.'" We don't pay much attention to masters' pi-jaw, but old Double-Barrel's a sport, and we believe in him.

"I don't mean in class," Palmer said, "but out of it; and I don't mean doing it over and over, but once for all."

"Doing what?" I asked.

"Say, lay wait for him, as he goes home, and duck him in the horse-pond," Palmer proposed.

"Rot!" I said. "He'd lay out one or two of us. That doesn't matter so much, but all the village would see, and it would come to old Badger's ears, and some of us would get expelled. Talk sense, Cockleshell."

"We don't want a public scrap with a drill-sergeant," Driscoll said. "It would lower the dignity of the Lower School; set the pre's on to us as well as the masters. But I don't see why we shouldn't make him run the gauntlet. My only doubt is between stones and rotten eggs. We'd catch him beautifully as he goes home through Wood Walk. My word!"

"Eggs would be best," Tiddler Smith said. He rubbed his hands. It set us all rubbing ours.

"You can't buy rotten eggs," I objected, "and fresh ones would cost too much. Stones aren't very good form. How about clay pellets—big ones?"

We decided upon clay pellets, as we could make plenty from mud dug out from the pond, and eggs for those who liked to provide them out of their own money (or what anyone would lend them). Everybody said he'd run to one egg, and several of us promised two, and Palmer four. We bought the French ones at a penny three-farthings. They are bad sometimes. This is what we put in the Minute Book:—

186. Resolved that Drill-Instructor Wickings has insulted the Lower School in a manner which can be wiped out only in blood. He is therefore condemned to run the gauntlet. (Clay pellets, eggs, etc.) It is further voted that three shillings shall be advanced out of the funds of the Round Table to assist those who are short of cash to buy the necessary eggs, the same to be repaid as a debt of honour next Saturday.

In case posteriority wants to know why, it is for:—

(1) Clouting a Knight in boxing class for calling him Reasoning Power.

(2) Insulting the Lower School by saying that boys have none.

"This," I said, when I signed it, "will show him that we have."

"Let's make it our battle-cry," Bennet proposed, and that was carried.

It was also agreed that dead rats or mice came under et cetera. Unluckily, we hadn't any; but Todgy Tucker found a dead cat, and Bennet bought it for fourpence, because he was a better shot.

We decided to do it when Reasoning Power went home from the Sixth gym. at a quarter past four the next afternoon, and hurried off to Wood Walk directly school was over. I disposed our forces on the high side of the road. It's a straight cutting, and nearly ten feet up, and there are plenty of bushes to hide behind. We were to wait till I blew my whistle. (It's a silver one, and we say that it belonged to King Arthur, but father says it was a boatswain's.) When I whistled, everybody was to throw. When I blew the second time, we were to run. Palmer wanted to stay and pitch him down, if he tried to climb up, but this was outvoted. Palmer is a bit mad; except for that, I expect they'd have elected him Knight-President instead of me, but we always go in for a sensible chap for president. I forgot to say that when we were starting to throw we were to shout "Reasoning Power!" for a battle-cry.

We were in position at ten past four, and I drew up the forces very carefully. I took the centre, of course. I had two eggs and six clay balls. I put Palmer on my right, because he had four eggs, and Bennet on my left, because he had the dead cat, and we called him the artillery. We were ready at four twelve; but when the quarter struck, Reasoning Power wasn't in sight, the sentries reported. We sent out scouts, but it was nearly half-past before they ran in and said he was on the way.

"Stand to your posts, knights," I ordered. "The Round Table expects that every knight this afternoon will do his duty. ''Donsitabit!" ''

That is our password. It always has been. Father says it is low Latin for "Rush on now and rest presently," but Uncle John says it is a corruption of "Don't sit down for a bit," because fellows didn't alter the old initiation rite, when the new-fights (that's what they call the chaps who are initiated) were put through it.

"The enemy has entered the defile," a knight-scout reported.

"Prepare to give it to him in the neck," I ordered, and then Palmer grabbed me by the arm.

"There's a woman coming the other way," he said. "She'll be here about the same time."

"Why do women always get in the way?" I grumbled.

"She's only his wife," Nosey Jessop said. (He knows everyone and all about them.) "She's come to meet him."

"Even if we didn't hit her, we can't very well rag him before his old woman," I growled. "Wouldn't be cricket."

"Nobody said it would," Bennet grunted. "They'll meet almost exactly here. Hang it all!"

"We can do it to-morrow," I said.

"The cat won't keep," he snapped. "You smell it now. … Well, two of Sanders's rats seem dicky. They might be ready."

"Hold your fire, knights," I commanded, "and your row, too! He mustn't be warned what is in store for him. Get further behind the bush, Nosey. Here he is. He doesn't seem to be noticing much."

He wasn't. He didn't seem to notice the woman even, till she said "Bill!" Then he said "Hallo, Peg!" But he didn't look up.

"Bill," she squealed, "there's something the matter! What is it?"

"I'm fired," he said.

She screamed and grabbed at him. "Bill! Just at this time, with Bessie so queer, and needing the best of nourishment, the doctor says! What's it for?"

"Well, sit down, and I'll tell you." They sat down on the grass just below us. We couldn't see them, but we could hear. "I earned it," he said, "yesterday."

"And you never told me!"

"Thought it 'ud blow over. The fact is, one of my boys—well, I called 'em my boys—he's an aggravatin' little devil; worse tongue than a woman—he nagged me on, and I forgot myself."

"Bill, you never struck the lad? Oh, Bill! You've hurt him?"

"It was only a clout; open hand. Do him good … You needn't look. I know it was wrong as well as you do. In course it was wrong—wrong, if you make me say it. I could have cut my hand off directly I'd done it. He got up and was coming for me, the plucky little chap, and I swear I wasn't going to hit back, Peg; but they held him. Nice lad, if he has got a girl's tongue and rather a girl's face. Some day he'll make a champion boxer, that he will. I tell you, I like the boy!"

Palmer dropped an egg then. Luckily it fell on my foot, so it didn't make much noise, but it made my boot in a beastly mess.

"And he went and told on you?" the woman asked.

"Not him, or any of them. They wouldn't. I know young gentlemen when I deal with them. I ain't got one word to say against none of my lads, except that they're proper boys. I only hope the next man will do better by them than me. No, I didn't never tell on them, and they wouldn't on me. Going to return that blow when he's big enough, Master Palmer says. Aye, and he will! God bless him! All of 'em!"

"Be careful with those eggs. Palmer," I whispered.

"You've smashed up one in your pocket," Driscoll whispered. "It's leaking through. Look what you're doing!"

"I can't stand this stinking cat," Bennet muttered, and dropped it quietly in a bush behind, and I noticed that several of the chaps were laying down their ammunition.

"Who told of you, then, Bill?" the woman asked presently. She sounded as if she'd been blubbing.

"One of the masters happened to look in the door then, and, natural enough, he told the Head. Don't blame him. Doing his duty. If I was him I fire myself. I owned it to him. 'I'd have asked for my papers, sir,' I says, 'if it wasn't for my wife and youngster.' Well, there it is. Don't look at me, my girl. I know I've lost my job. I know my character's gone for another like it. I know a job won't be easy to find. I know we're not flush, and can't hardly do what we want for Bessie. I know I can't look you in the face. …"

"I'm the one person you can, Bill," she said, "for I'd stick by you if you went to—to the bad place."

"Been there," he said, "coming along."

Palmer began to rub his eyes then. I don't think anyone else saw, and, of course, I haven't given him away.

"Come on, my girl," we heard Wickings say. "Let's get along home. I'll be off after something to-morrow morning. When a chap loses a fight, the only thing to do is to learn a lesson for the next."

"That's my man!" Mrs. Wickings said.

If you ask me, old Reasoning Power is one.

Nobody said anything till they'd gone. Then Bennet laughed. It was a funny laugh rather.

"I've wasted fourpence," he said, "on that wretched cat."

"I wonder," someone asked, "if these eggs are any good to eat?"

"No," Palmer said. "Throw them at me. I nagged him into it. I—if his kid doesn't get things, and dies, it will be through my fault."

"Look here," I said—I'd been busy clearing the egg mess out of my pocket—"it's no use worrying over what's done. You've got to think out how to do better next time, as old R. P. says. Brother knights! Oyez! There will be a meeting of the Bound Table directly after tea."

"Of course," I told the meeting, "we'll have to wipe out the last resolution. The Head's made it his job, so it isn't ours. And we don't want to pelt him." (They shouted "Hear, hear!") "Somebody second that, and we'll get on." Bennet seconded. "Unanimous, eh? I'll enter it up presently. The next question is, can we get up a sub. for a man who's been sacked by the Head, without his knowing? There's another thing. We mustn't give Badger away, and make out that we think he was wrong."

"He wasn't," Driscoll said.

"Yes, he was," Palmer contradicted. "He ought to have rounded on me, too. I wonder why he didn't? I suppose he didn't guess that it was my fault, Well, I shall go and tell him!"

"Palmer," I said, "whatever I've said against you I take back. It was all our faults, and I'll go, too."

"It's no use getting into a row for nothing," Bennet said; "we may as well go the whole hog, and ask him to take old Reasoning Power back. I'll make three. I don't care if I get a toshing. What annoys me is wasting fourpence on that cat."

So we passed two resolutions.

187. The previous resolution is ressinded. Drill-Instructor Wickings having been dealt with by the Head, the Round Table has changed its mind. The three shillings advance will not be recovered under the circs.

188. A deputation will wait upon the Head to represent that there was ragging, so that Drill-Instructor Wickings had excuse; and that we hope it may be overlooked this time, as it won't occur again, and Drill-Instructor Wickings is greatly respected. The deputation will say that it makes a suggestion to the Head with much differdence, but thinks perhaps he might alter the sentence if he knew the facts. The deputation will be the Knight-President and the Deputy Knight President, and Knight Palmer, and it will be entered in the Book of Chivalry as War Service.

The Head wasn't so warlike as we expected when he saw us. In fact, he rather helped me out when I got in a mess at the beginning.

"You needn't apologise for speaking to me about the affair," he said. "You are quite right to do so. I was going to send for Palmer, and for you, Steel, as I understand that you are President of the Lower School Society. I didn't do so at the time, because I had just a hope that you might come to me of your own accord, as you have dong. Thank you! Well, Palmer, how did it happen?"

"I ragged him, sir," Palmer said. "That's how it was. I told him he was a theorist. I knew he wouldn't understand it. I think he thought it was swearing, sir. Then he got his rag out—I mean he was annoyed—and wanted to know what it meant, and I said it was 'a man who trusted to his reasoning power.'"

"That's his nickname, sir," I explained, "and he doesn't like it."

"Doesn't take it for a compliment, eh? And you've come to ask me something?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "With great diffidence and—er—respect for your decisions—and—er"

"I understand all that," he said.

"Well, sir, we thought, if you'd look over it this time"

Badger nodded several times.

"You have done the only thing which could make it possible for me to do so," he told us. "I have no doubt that Wickings was aggravated; but, even so, I could not retain him, as an instructor for you, unless you are prepared of your own accord to wipe his very improper action out of your minds. It does you credit that this is the case. It quite wipes out of my mind any faults of yours in the matter. Treat the incident as if it had never occurred. He shall return. You have behaved as gentlemen in coming to me. Put down in the Minutes of the Round Table that I said so. I was Knight-President somewhere about the year 1874 … Donsitabit, eh?"

He chuckled more like a father than a Head, and shook hands with all three of us. I'd have liked to ask him whether Donsitabit was Latin or English, and what it meant, but some subjects you can't very well discuss with a headmaster.

We had another meeting next day, and we passed this minute—

189. The Head having favourably received the deputation, and consented to have Drill-Instructor Wickings back, has requested us to record in the Minutes of the Society (of which he was Knight-President in 1874) that he said that we had behaved as gentleman in going to him over the affair. We think, however, that our behaviour was not quite satisfactory in some respects, and we hope to do rather better in future, as we consider that the Head has shown himself entitled to the support of the Lower School.

We further decide that, as Drill-Instructor Wickings objects to be called Reasoning Power, he shall be known in future as R. P., and that the meaning shall be treated as strictly confidential.

He turned up at our next class all right. He didn't mention the row, neither did we. He began by saying, "Now, young gentlemen," and before he went he gave us a big book on "The Science of Boxing."

"It's very advanced," he said. "Goes into first principles and all that, and argues things out from them. I can't follow it all myself, but you young gentlemen will be able to, having education and good reasoning power."

We thought that was a very handsome apology. So did old Double-Barrel. He spoke to me on the quiet about Wickings. "As brother Knight-Presidents," he said. (He was the last but three before father.) So I told him all about it. (You can trust Double-Barrel.)

"Ah," he said, "the more reasoning power we get, the more we see that we haven't much! Some people have only enough to know that they've been fools afterwards, eh, Steel?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"And—talking as two Knight-Presidents, who have felt the responsibility of directing the opinions of others—it's a good work to get them to see it beforehand, eh?"

He clapped me on the shoulder and laughed. He's jolly artful, and, if you ask me, it wasn't only Wickings that he set out to give me a tip about. But I knew the old boy was right. So I've written this yarn to prove that rows are "no earthly," and save chaps the trouble of using up their reasoning power working it out for themselves.