_ CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE "DOMINICAN" ON THE SITUATION
The examination at the beginning of the term had seriously interfered with the prospects of the _Dominican_. Pembury knew well enough it was no good trying to get anything out of the diligent section of his class-fellows at such a time; and he knew equally well that a number contributed entirely by the idlers of the Fifth would neither be creditable to the paper nor appreciated by any one outside.
So like a prudent man he held back patiently till the examinations were over, and then pounced down on his men with redoubled importunity.
"Look here," said he one day to Ricketts, "when are you going to let me have that paper of yours?"
"What paper do you mean?" demanded Ricketts.
"Why for the _Dominican_, of course; you don't suppose I want one of your cast-off exam papers, do you?"
"Oh, I can't do anything for the _Dominican_ this time," said Ricketts.
"Yes, you can, and yes, you will," coolly replied Anthony.
"Who says I will?" demanded Ricketts, inclined to be angry.
"It sounds as if _I_ do," replied the editor. "Why of course you'll do something for it, Rick?"
"I'd be glad enough, but really I'm not in the humour," said Ricketts.
"Why ever not?" demanded Tony.
"Why, the fact is," said Ricketts, "I fancy the Fifth is not exactly looking up at present, and we've nothing particular to be proud of. If you take my advice you'll keep the _Dominican_ quiet for a bit."
"My dear fellow, that's the very thing we mustn't do. Don't you see, you old duffer you, that if we shut up shop and retire into private life, everybody will be thinking we daren't hold up our heads? I mean to hold up my head, for one," added Tony, proudly, "if there were a thousand Greenfields in the class; and I mean to make you hold up yours too, old man. It'll be time enough to do the hang-dog business when we all turn knaves; but till we do, we've as good a right to be known at Saint Dominic's as anybody else. So none of your humbug, Rick. We'll get out an extra good _Dominican_, and let the fellows see we're alive and kicking."
This speech had the required effect. It not only won over Ricketts, but most of the other leading spirits of the Fifth, who had been similarly holding back.
Tony was not the fellow to let an advantage go by. Having once got his men into a becoming frame of mind, he kept them well in hand and worked them up into something like the old enthusiasm on the subject of the _Dominican_.
Every one was determined the present number should be an out-and-out good one, and laboured and racked his brains accordingly.
But somehow or other the fellows had never found it so hard, first to get inspirations, and then to put them down on paper, as they did at present. Every one thought he had something very fine and very clever to say if he could only find expression for it. The amount of brain-cudgelling that went on over this _Dominican_ was simply awful. Wraysford gave it up in disgust. Ricketts, Bullinger, Tom Senior, and others stumbled through their tasks, and could only turn out lame productions at the best. Even Pembury's lucubrations lacked a good deal of their wonted dash and spirit. The cloud which was hanging over the Fifth seemed to have overshadowed its genius for a while.
Still Pembury kept his men at it and gave them no peace till their productions, such as they were, were safe in his hands. One boy only was equal to the emergency; that I need hardly say was Simon. He was indeed more eloquent than ever. He offered Pembury a poem of forty verses, entitled, "An Elegy on the Wick of a Candle that had just been blown out," to begin with, and volunteered to supplement this contribution with one or two smaller pieces, such as, "My Little Lark," or "An Adventure outside the Dormitory Door," or "Mind Mewsings."
Pembury prudently accepted all, and said he would insert what he thought fit, an assurance which delighted Simon, who immediately sat down and wrote some more "pieces," in case at the last moment there might be room for them too. But, in spite even of these valuable contributions, the _Dominican_ fell flat. There were a few good things in it here and there, but it was far below its ordinary form; and not a few of the writers repented sorely that ever they had put pen to paper to help produce it.
The chief amusement of the paper was contained in a "New Code of Regulations for the Better Management of Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles," from the editor's pen. It began thus:
"A society has lately been started at Saint Dominic's for the preservation and management of Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles. The following are some of the rules to be observed:--
"Any one owning a Guinea-pig or Tadpole is to be responsible for washing it with soap and hot water at least twice a day.
"Any one owning a Guinea-pig or Tadpole is to supply the rest of the school with cotton wool and scent.
"No Guinea-pig or Tadpole is on any account to use hair oil or grease which has not been sanctioned by a joint committee of the Fifth, Sixth, and masters.
"During the approaching winter, every one possessing a Guinea-pig or Tadpole shall be at liberty, providing it is regularly washed, to use it as a warming-pan for his own bed."
The small tribe of furious juniors who as usual had crowded round the paper on the morning of publication to get "first read," broke forth at this point into a howl of exasperation.
"They won't! I'll see they won't use me as a warming-pan, won't you, Padger? The brutes! I'll bite their horrid cold feet if they stick them against me, that's what I'll do."
"I'll keep a pin to stick into them," said another.
"I'll get some leeches and put on their legs," shouted another.
"I'll tell you what," said Stephen, changing the subject, "it's cool cheek of them calling us 'it,' as if we were things."
"So they have," exclaimed Paul; "oh, I say, that's too much; I'll let them know _I'm_ not a thing."
"Yes, you are a thing, isn't he, Padger? A regular _it_," exclaimed the vindictive Bramble. "Yah, boo, old '_its_,' both of you."
"Hold hard," said some one, just as the usual hostilities were about to commence. "Listen to this." And he read the next "regulation":--
"Immediate steps are to be taken to pickle a Tadpole as a specimen for the school museum. The following is a recipe for this. Take the ugliest, dirtiest, noisiest, and most ignorant specimen that can be found. Lift it carefully with a pair of tongs into a bath full of vinegar. Close the lid and let it remain there to soak for a week. At the end of that time lift it out and scrape it well all over with a sharp substance, to get off the first coating of grime. Soak again for another week and scrape again, and so on till the ninth or tenth coating is removed. After that the creature will appear thinner than when it began. Hang it up to dry in a clean place, and be sure no other Guinea-pigs or Tadpoles come near it. Then put it in a clean gown, and quickly, before it can get at the ink, put it in a large glass bottle and fasten down the stopper. Label it, 'Specimen of a curious reptile formerly found at Saint Dominic's. Now happily extinct.'"
"There you are," said Paul, when, after much blundering and sticking at words, this remarkable paragraph had been read through. "There you are, Bramble, my boy; what do you think of that?" Bramble had no difficulty in intimating what he thought of it in pretty strong language, and for some little time the further reading of the _Dominican_ was suspended.
When, however, the row was over, the group had been joined by several of the elder boys, who appeared to appreciate Simon's poem, "An Adventure outside the Dormitory Door." It was called an "epick," and began thus. The reader must be contented with quite a short extract:--
"Outside the Dormitory door
I walked me slow upon the floor
And just outside the Doctor's study
A youth I met all in a hurry;
His name perhaps I had better not tell
But like a snail retire into my shell."
This last simile had evidently particularly delighted the poet. So much so, that he brought it in at the close of every succeeding verse. The "epick" went on, of course, to unravel the threads of the "adventure," and to intimate pretty plainly who "the youth" referred to was. To any one not interested in the poet or his epic the production was a dull one, and the moral at the end was not quite clear even to the most intellectual.
"Now I must say farewell; yet stay, methinks
How many many youths do sit on brinks.
Oh joy to feel the soft breeze sigh
And in the shady grove to wipe the eye,
It makes me feel a man I know full well,
But like a snail I'll now retire within my shell."
These were the only articles in the _Dominican_ that afforded any amusement. The remainder of the paper, made up of the usual articles sneering at the Sixth and crowing over the school generally, were very tame. The result of the Nightingale Scholarship was announced as follows:--
"The examination for the Nightingale Scholarship was held on the 1st October. The scholarship was lost by Loman of the Sixth by 70 marks to 97. A good performance on the whole." This manner of announcing the unfortunate result was ingenious, and did Tony credit. For, whether his object was to annoy the Sixth or to shield the Fifth, he succeeded amply in both. There were some, however, in the Fifth who were by no means content that Greenfield should be let off so easily in the _Dominican_, and these read with interest the following "Notes from Coventry," contributed by Bullinger. Anthony had accepted and inserted them against his better judgment.
"If the fellow is at Coventry, why not let him stay there?" he said to Bullinger. "The best thing we can possibly do is to let him alone."
"I don't see it," said Bullinger. "Everybody will think we are trying to shield him if we keep so quiet. Anyhow, here's my paper. You can put it in or not, which you like. I'm not going to write anything else."
Pembury took the paper and put it in. The reader may like to hear a few of the "Notes from Coventry."
"The quaint old city of Coventry has lately been visited by a 'gentleman' from Saint Dominic's, who appears so charmed with all he has seen and heard that it is expected he will remain there for some considerable time.
"The object of his visit is of a private nature, possibly for the purpose of scientific research, for which absolute quiet is necessary. His experiments are chiefly directed to the making or taking of examination papers, and on his return we may look for valuable discoveries. Meanwhile he sees very little company. The society in which he most delights is that of certain Guinea-pigs, between whom and himself a special bond of sympathy appears to exist. It is a touching sight to see him taking his daily walks in company with these singular animals; who, be it said, seem to be the only creatures able to appreciate his character. Curiously enough, since he left us, Saint Dominic's has not collapsed; indeed, it is a singular fact that now he is away it is no longer considered necessary for every fellow to lock his study-door when he goes out, and keep the key." And so on.
Miserable stuff indeed, as Stephen thought, but quite stinging enough to wound him over and over again as he saw the sneers and heard the laughs with which the reading of the extract was greeted. Everybody evidently was against his brother, and, with a deep disgust and fury at his heart, he left them to laugh by themselves and returned to Oliver's study.
He found his brother in what were now his usual cheerful spirits. For after the first week or so of his being sent to Coventry, Oliver, in his own study at least, kept up a cheerful appearance.
"Hullo, Stee," said he as the young brother entered. "You're just in time. Here's a letter from mother."
"Is there? How jolly! Read it out, Noll."
So Oliver read it out. It was an ordinary, kind, motherly epistle, such as thousands of schoolboys get every week of the school year. All about home, and what is going on, how the dogs are, where sister Mary has been to, how the boiler burst last week, which apple-tree bore most, and so on; every scrap of news that could be scraped up from the four winds of heaven was in that letter.
And to the two brothers, far away, and lonely even among their schoolfellows, it came like a breath of fresh air that morning.
"I have been so proud," went on Mrs Greenfield towards the end of the letter, "ever since I heard of dear Oliver's success in winning the scholarship. Not so much for the value of it, though that is pretty considerable, but because I am so sure he deserves it."
"Hear, hear!" put in Stephen.
"Poor Mr Wraysford! I hope he is not very much disappointed. How nice it would have been if there had been two scholarships, and each could have had one! I suppose the Fifth is making quite a hero of Oliver. I know one foolish old woman who would like to be with her boys this moment to share their triumph."
Oliver laughed bitterly.
"That _would_ be a treat for her!"
Stephen, very red in the face, was too furious for words, so Oliver went on:
"And if, instead of triumph, they should ever be in trouble or sorrow, still more would I love to be with them, to share it. But most of all do I trust and pray they may both make a constant friend of the Saviour, who wants us all to cast our burdens on Him, and follow the example He has left us in all things."
There was a silence for some moments after this home message fell on the brothers' ears. The hearts of both were full--too full for words--but I think, had the widow-mother far away been able to divine the secret thoughts of her boys, hope would have mingled with all her pity and all her solicitude on their account.
But the old trouble, for the present at any rate, was destined to swamp all other emotions.
Oliver continued reading: "Christmas will not be so very long now in coming. We must have a real snug, old-fashioned time of it here. Uncle Henry has promised to come, and your cousins. It would be nice if you could persuade Mr Wraysford to come here then. I am so anxious to see him again. Tell him from me I reckon on him to be one of our party if he can possibly manage it."
"Baa!" exclaimed Stephen. "The beast! I'll let her know what sort of blackguard the fellow is!"
"Easy all, young 'un," said Oliver.
"I shan't easy all, Noll!" exclaimed the boy; "he _is_ a blackguard, you know he is, and I hate him."
"I think he's a fool just now," said Oliver, "but--well, he fished you out of the Thames, Stee; you oughtn't to call him a blackguard."
"I wish he'd left me in the Thames," said Stephen, nearly breaking down. "I've been miserable enough this term for half a dozen."
Oliver looked hard and long at his young brother. It never seemed to have occurred to him before how deeply the boy took the trouble of his elder brother to heart.
Now if Oliver had really been innocent, the natural thing would have been--wouldn't it?--for him to be quite cut up at this exhibition of feeling, and fall on his brother's neck and protest once more that he never did or would or could do such a thing as that he was suspected of. But instead of this, the hardened villain turned quite cross when he saw his brother at the point of tears, and exclaimed, hurriedly, "Don't make a young fool of yourself, Stee, whatever you do. It won't do a bit of good."
"But, Noll, old man," pleaded the boy, "why ever don't you--"
"Because I don't choose, and it would be no use if I did," retorted the other.
"But the fellows all suspect you!"
"I can't help that, if they do. Come now, Stee, we've had enough of this. It'll all come right some day, you see, and meanwhile what do you say to a turn in the gymnasium?"
"Well, but," persisted Stephen, not half satisfied, "you surely aren't going to give mother's message to Wraysford? _I_ don't want him home at Christmas."
"No one asked you if you did, you young duffer. But I don't think, all the same, I shall give it just yet."
They were walking down the big passage arm-in-arm in the direction of the gymnasium, and as Oliver spoke these last words the subject of their conversation appeared advancing towards them.
Who could have believed that those three friends who only a month or two ago were quoted all over Saint Dominic's as inseparables could ever meet and pass one another as these three met and passed one another now?
Wraysford coloured as he caught sight of his old ally, and looked another way. Oliver, more composed, kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, and appeared to be completely unconscious of the presence of any one but Stephen, who hung on to his arm, snorting and fuming and inwardly raging like a young tiger held in by the chain from his prey.
An odd meeting indeed, and a miserable one; yet to none of the three so miserable as to the injured Wraysford, who ever since the day of the Nightingale examination had not known a happy hour at Saint Dominic's. _