The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter XX

< The eventful day, which at the beginning of the term had seemed an age away, slowly but surely drew near.

This was Saturday. On Monday the examination would be over, and in a week the competitors would know their fates!

Some of my readers may know the queer sensation one sometimes gets at the approach of a long-looked-for and hardly-worked-for examination. For a week or so you have quietly been counting up what you do know. Now there breaks upon you an awful picture of what you do not know, and with it the absolute conviction that what you do not know is exactly what you ought to know, and what you do know is no use at all. It is too late to do anything. You cannot get up in a day what it would take you a fortnight to go through. And it is not much good, now you are sure it is useless, to go over again what you have done. You begin to feel a sort of despair, which becomes, as the hours close in, positively reckless. What do you care if you do miss? What’s the use of bothering any more about it? It cannot be helped; why make yourself miserable? Only, you would give worlds to have the thing all over. Such at least were the sensations which stirred in the breasts of Oliver Greenfield and Horace Wraysford as they sat somewhat dejectedly over their books in Oliver’s study that Saturday afternoon.

They had both worked hard since the holidays, generally together, neither concealing from the other what he had read or what he intended to read. Very bad rivals were these two, for though each was intent on winning the scholarship, each felt he would not break his heart if the other beat him, and that, as every one knows, is a most unheard of piece of toleration. Now, however, each felt he had had enough of it. Oliver in particular was very despondent. He slammed up his books suddenly, and said—

“I give it up; it’s not a bit of use going on!”

Wraysford pushed back his chair slowly, and said, not very cheeringly—

“Upon my word I think you’re right, Noll.”

“I’ve a good mind,” said Oliver, looking very morose, “to scratch, and leave you and Loman to fight it out.”

“Don’t be a jackass, Noll,” replied Wraysford, half laughing. “That would be a sensible thing to do!”

“All very well for you to laugh,” said Oliver, his brow clouding. “You know you are well up and are going to win.”

“I’m no better up than you are,” said the other.

“You know you’re going to win,” repeated Oliver.

“I only wish I did,” said Wraysford, with a sigh.

“Why,” pursued Oliver, evidently bent on a melancholy tack, “I assure you, Wray, I’ve forgotten half even of what I did know. I was going over some of those brutal Roman History dates in bed last night, for instance, and I positively couldn’t remember one. Then I tried the map of Greece, but I was still worse there; I couldn’t remember where one single place was except Athens and Corinth, and I’m sure I used to be pretty well up in that.”

“I expect you were half asleep at the time,” suggested his friend.

“No, I wasn’t; I couldn’t sleep a wink. I say, Wray, wouldn’t it be jolly if we only knew now what the questions are going to be on Monday?”

“Why don’t you go and ask the Doctor?” said Wraysford, laughing; “he’d be delighted to tell you.”

“What a humbug you are, Wray! I say, suppose we shut up work now and have a turn on the river. I’m certain it will do us more good than cracking our skulls here.”

“Just what I had been thinking. I’m game, and it can’t make much difference.”

“I suppose Loman is grinding up to the last?”

“I suppose so; I was almost in hopes he wouldn’t keep it up.”

“Never mind, it will all be over on Monday; that’s a comfort! Come along, old man. Suppose we get young Stee to cox us up to the lock and back.”

Hue and cry was forthwith made for Stephen, but he was not to be found. He was out, Paul said; at the post, or somewhere.

“Oh, all right; you can come and cox us yourself, youngster,” said Wraysford.

“Cox you!” exclaimed Paul; “why, ain’t the Nightingale exam. coming on, then, on Monday?”

“Of course it is!”

“And you two going out to row! I say, the Sixth will win it if you don’t look out!” said Paul, in a very concerned voice.

It was quite a revelation to the two boys to discover how great was the interest taken by outsiders in the coming event. Paul was in a great state of alarm, and was actually inclined to refuse to aid and abet what he imagined to be a wicked waste of precious opportunity, until, putting his head into Loman’s study, he found that the Sixth Form fellow was also not at work.

When Oliver and Wraysford appeared in boating flannels in the playground they created as much sensation as if they had been ghosts.

“You don’t mean to say you’re going out, you fellows?” exclaimed Ricketts, one of the idle ones of the Fifth.

“Yes, I do,” said Wraysford.

“But the Nightingale, I say?”

“That’s not till Monday.”

“I know; but aren’t you grinding for it? I say, don’t let them beat you! Hadn’t you better work instead of going out?”

Ricketts, by the way, had not done a stroke of work that he could possibly help all the term!

All the other Fifth Form fellows they encountered echoed more or less anxiously the same advice. But the two friends were obdurate. Threats, promises, entreaties, would not put them off their row up the river, and they went on their way, leaving behind them an unusual gloom on the spirits of their dearest friends.

The only person who seemed really glad to see them leaving their work was Bramble. He, with his friend, Padger, and a few other irreconcilables, were just returning from a rat-catching expedition, and the sight of the Fifth Form heroes in boating costume filled them with joy.

“Hullo—my eye—hurrah!” shouted Bramble, taking in the situation in a moment. “There they go! I hope they get drowned; don’t you, Padger?”

Padger was understood to assent to this benevolent aspiration.

“Go it. You’ll get the Nightingale! I thought you would! Hope you get drowned, do you hear! Hurrah for the Sixth!”

At this juncture Master Paul gave chase, and for a few moments Bramble and his friends were too much engaged to speak; but at last, when the chase was over, and further reprisals were out of the question, the hero of the Tadpoles summoned up all his remaining powers to yell—

“Yah boo, Nightingale! Hope you get drowned! Yah!” after which he went his way.

The two friends paddled quietly up the river. They talked very little, but both felt relieved to be away from their books. As they went on their spirits rose, greatly to Paul’s displeasure. That young gentleman, immoderately jealous for the glory of the Fifth, was content as long as the two rowers remained grave and serious; he could then make himself believe they were engaged in mental exercises favourable to Monday’s examination. But as soon as they began to whistle, and chaff him and one another, and talk of their holiday adventures, Paul became displeased, for they could not possibly do this and be inwardly preparing for the examination at the same time.

However, he had to submit as best he could, and gave all his attention to steering them carefully, so that it should be no fault of his, at any rate, if they were prevented from showing up on the critical day.

“This old Shar isn’t half such a jolly river as the Thames, is it, Wray?”

“Rather not!” replied Wraysford, resting on his oar; “and yet it’s pretty enough in parts.”

“Oh, up at the weir?—yes. But I’m out of love with weirs at present. I shudder every time I think of that one up the Thames.”

“It wasn’t pleasant, certainly,” said Wraysford.

“Pleasant! Old man, if you hadn’t been there it would have been a good deal worse than unpleasant. Poor Stee!”

“Pull your left, Greenfield senior, or you’ll be into the bank!” sung out Paul.

They paddled on again until Gusset Lock came in sight. There were very few boats about; the season was, in fact, at an end, and the river, which a month or two ago had generally swarmed with boats just at this part on Saturday afternoons, looked quite deserted.

“Shall we go through the lock or turn round?” inquired Paul.

“May as well turn, eh, Wray?”

Paul was about to obey the order and turn the boat, when, casting his eyes on the bank, he started suddenly to his feet and exclaimed, pointing towards the lock-house, “Hullo! I say, there’s something up there!”

The two others looked round; something more lively than usual was undoubtedly taking place at old Mr. Cripps’s residence, to judge by the shouts and laughter which proceeded from the group of people assembled near the door.

From where they were the boys in the boat could not see what the nature of the excitement was, and therefore paddled on with a view to satisfy their curiosity.

As they came up to the lock Paul suddenly exclaimed, “That’s young Greenfield!”

“What!” said Oliver—“Stephen?”

“Yes, and—what on earth are they doing to him?”

The boat being low down under the bank, it was impossible to see what was going on on the tow-path. Oliver, however, having once heard Stephen’s name, ordered Paul to put them into the opposite bank quick, where they could land.

While this was being done a shriek from the bank sent the blood suddenly to the faces of the two friends. It was Stephen! They dashed ashore, and in a moment were across the lock and on the spot. The spectacle which met their eyes as they came up was a strange one. The central figure was the luckless Stephen, in the clutches of three or four disreputable fellows, one of whom was Cripps the younger, who, with loud laughter at the boy’s struggles and brutal unconcern at his terror, were half dragging, half carrying him towards the water’s edge.

Beside them stood Loman, flushed, excited, and laughing loudly. Poor Stephen, very unlike himself, appeared to be utterly cowed and terrified, and uttered shriek upon shriek as his persecutors dragged him along.

“Oh, don’t! Please, Cripps! Don’t let them, Loman—don’t let them drown me!” he shouted.

A laugh was the only answer.

It was at this moment, and just when, to all appearances, the boy was about to be thrown into the water, that Oliver and Wraysford appeared on the scene.

Their appearance was so sudden and unexpected that the fellows, even though they did not know who the two boys were, were momentarily taken aback and dropped their prey.

With a bound Oliver sprang furiously on Cripps, who happened to be nearest him, and before that respectable gentleman knew where he was, had dealt him a blow which sent him staggering back in the utmost alarm and astonishment. Wraysford, no less prompt, tackled one of the other blackguards, while Stephen, now released, and cured of his momentary terror by the appearance of the rescuers, did his share manfully with one of the others.

The contest was short and sharp. A pair of well-trained athletic school-boys, with a plucky youngster to help them, are a match any day for twice the number of half-tipsy cads. In a minute or two the field was clear of all but Cripps, who appeared, after his short experience, by no means disposed to continue the contest single-handed. As for Loman, he had disappeared.

“What is all this?” demanded Oliver, when at last, breathless and pale with excitement, he could find words.

“Oh, Noll!” cried Stephen, “I’ll tell you all about it. But let’s get away from here.”

“No, I won’t go!” shouted Oliver—“not till I know what it all means. You fellow!” added he, walking up to Cripps, “you’d better speak or I’ll thrash you!”

Mr. Cripps, who had had time to recover somewhat from his first surprise, looked a little inclined to defy his young antagonist, but, thinking better of it, suddenly assumed his usual impudent swagger as he replied, with a laugh, “Come, I say, you do do it well, you do! It was a joke—just a joke, young gentleman. You’ve no occasion to flurry yourself; we wouldn’t have hurt a hair on the young gentleman’s head. Ask Mr. Loman.”

“Where’s Loman?” demanded Oliver.

“Gone,” said Stephen. “But I say, Noll, do come away. I’ll tell you all about it. Do come.”

Cripps laughed. “Don’t you swallow all that young swell tells you. He’s a nice boy, he is, but—well, he’d better mind what he says, that’s all!”

“Do come away!” once more entreated Stephen.

“Yes, do come away,” laughed Cripps, mimicking the boy’s tones. “When I calls up at the school I’ll let them all know what a nice young prig he is, coming down and drinking at my public-house and then turning round on me. Never fear! I’ll let them know, my beauties! I’ll have a talk with your Doctor and open his eyes for him. Good-bye, you sneaking young—”

“Look here!” said Wraysford, quietly walking up to the blackguard in the midst of this discourse, “if you don’t stop instantly you’ll be sorry for it.”

Cripps stared a moment at the speaker, and at the fist he held out. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel into the cottage, leaving the three boys standing in undisputed possession of the tow-path.

“Come on, now, old man!” said Wraysford; “we can’t do any good by staying here.”

Oliver looked disposed to resist, and cast a glance at the cottage door by which Cripps had just vanished. But he let himself be persuaded eventually, and turned gloomily towards the boat. Here Paul, who had been a witness of the fracas on the tow-path, was waiting, ready to steer home, and bursting with curiosity to hear all Stephen had to say.

Greatly to his disgust, Oliver said, peremptorily, “You’ll have to walk home, Paul; Stephen will steer.”

“Why, you said I might steer.”

Oliver was in no humour for an argument, so he gave Paul a light box on his ears and advised him to go home quietly unless he wanted a thrashing, and not say a word to any one about what had occurred.

Paul had nothing for it but sulkily to obey, and walk back. At last the others got on board and put off homeward.

“Now,” said Oliver, presently, resting on his oar and bending forward towards Stephen.

“Oh, Noll!” began that unhappy youngster. “I am so very, very sorry! it was all—”

“None of that,” angrily interrupted the elder brother. “Just tell me how it came about.”

Stephen, quite cowed by his brother’s angry manner, told his story shortly and hurriedly.

“Why,” he said, “you know I promised you never to go to the Cockchafer again, and I didn’t, but I thought I ought to see Cripps and give him back the bicycle-lamp.”

“Young muff!” ejaculated his brother.

“So,” pursued Stephen, still more falteringly, “I thought I’d come up this afternoon.”

“Well, go on, can’t you?” said Oliver, losing his temper at the poor boy’s evident uneasiness.

“Cripps asked me into the cottage, and there were some fellows there, smoking and drinking and playing cards.”

“Was Loman one of them?” put in Wraysford.

“I think so,” said poor Stephen, who had evidently started his story in the hope of keeping Loman’s name quiet.

“Think so, you young cad!” cried Oliver. “Why can’t you tell the truth straight out? Was he there or not?”

“Yes, he was. I did mean to tell the truth, Noll, really, only—only there’s no need to get Loman in a row.”

“Go on,” said Oliver.

“They made fun of me because I wouldn’t smoke and play with them. You know I promised mother not to play cards, Noll; I didn’t mind that, though, but when I wanted to go away they—that is, Cripps—wouldn’t let me. I tried to get away, but he stopped me, and they said they’d make me play.”

“Who said? Did Loman?” inquired Oliver, again.

“Why—yes,” said Stephen, falteringly, “he and the rest. They held me down in a chair, and made me take hold of the cards, and one of them opened my mouth and shouted beastly words down into it—ugh!”

“Was that Loman?”

“No,” said Stephen, relieved to be able to deny it.

“What did he do?” demanded Oliver.

“They all—”

“What did Loman do, I say?” again asked Oliver.

It was no use trying to keep back anything.

“He pulled my ears, but not very hard. Really I expect it was only fun, Noll.” This was said quite beseechingly. “I said I thought they were very wicked to be doing what they did; but they only laughed at that, and called me a prig.”

“Much better if you’d kept what you thought to yourself,” said Wraysford. “Well?”

“Oh, then they did a lot of things to rile me, and knocked me about because I wouldn’t drink their stuff, and they swore too.”

“Did Loman swear?”

“They all swore, I think,” said Stephen; “and then, you know, when I wouldn’t do what they wanted they said they’d throw me in the river, and then you fellows turned up.”

“Did Loman tell them to throw you in the river?” said Oliver, whose brow had been growing darker and darker.

“Oh, no,” exclaimed Stephen, “he didn’t really! I think he was sorry.”

“Did he try to prevent it, then?” asked Oliver.

“Well, no; I didn’t hear him say—” faltered Stephen; but Oliver shut him up, and turning to Wraysford said—

“Wray, I shall thrash Loman.”

“All serene,” replied Wraysford; “you’d better have it out to-night.”

“Oh, Noll!” cried Stephen in great distress; “don’t fight, please. It was all my fault, for—”

“Shut up, Stee,” said Oliver, quietly, but not unkindly. Then turning to Wraysford, he added—

“After tea, then, Wray, in the gymnasium.”

“Right you are!” replied his friend.

And then, without another word, the three rowed back to Saint Dominic’s.