CHAPTER XI
THE CONCLUSION OF THE PICNIC
If the form-rooms had been lonely, the Great Hall was doubly, trebly,so. It was a vast room, stretching from side to side of the middleblock, and its ceiling soared up into a distant dome. At one end was adais and an organ, and at intervals down the room stood long tables.The panels were covered with the names of Wrykynians who had wonscholarships at Oxford and Cambridge, and of Old Wrykynians who hadtaken first in Mods or Greats, or achieved any other recognisedsuccess, such as a place in the Indian Civil Service list. A silenttestimony, these panels, to the work the school had done in the world.
Nobody knew exactly how many the Hall could hold, when packed to itsfullest capacity. The six hundred odd boys at the school seemed toleave large gaps unfilled.
This morning there was a mere handful, and the place looked worse thanempty.
The Sixth Form were there, and the school prefects. The Great Picnichad not affected their numbers. The Sixth stood by their table in asolid group. The other tables were occupied by ones and twos. A buzzof conversation was going on, which did not cease when the mastersfiled into the room and took their places. Every one realised by thistime that the biggest row in Wrykyn history was well under way; andthe thing had to be discussed.
In the Masters' library Mr. Wain and Mr. Shields, the spokesmen of theCommon Room, were breaking the news to the headmaster.
The headmaster was a man who rarely betrayed emotion in his publiccapacity. He heard Mr. Shields's rambling remarks, punctuated by Mr.Wain's "Exceedinglys," to an end. Then he gathered up his cap andgown.
"You say that the whole school is absent?" he remarked quietly.
Mr. Shields, in a long-winded flow of words, replied that that waswhat he did say.
"Ah!" said the headmaster.
There was a silence.
"'M!" said the headmaster.
There was another silence.
"Ye--e--s!" said the headmaster.
He then led the way into the Hall.
Conversation ceased abruptly as he entered. The school, like anaudience at a theatre when the hero has just appeared on the stage,felt that the serious interest of the drama had begun. There was adead silence at every table as he strode up the room and on to thedais.
There was something Titanic in his calmness. Every eye was on his faceas he passed up the Hall, but not a sign of perturbation could theschool read. To judge from his expression, he might have been unawareof the emptiness around him.
The master who looked after the music of the school, and incidentallyaccompanied the hymn with which prayers at Wrykyn opened, was waiting,puzzled, at the foot of the dais. It seemed improbable that thingswould go on as usual, and he did not know whether he was expected tobe at the organ, or not. The headmaster's placid face reassured him.He went to his post.
The hymn began. It was a long hymn, and one which the school liked forits swing and noise. As a rule, when it was sung, the Hall re-echoed.To-day, the thin sound of the voices had quite an uncanny effect. Theorgan boomed through the deserted room.
The school, or the remnants of it, waited impatiently while theprefect whose turn it was to read stammered nervously through thelesson. They were anxious to get on to what the Head was going to sayat the end of prayers. At last it was over. The school waited, allears.
The headmaster bent down from the dais and called to Firby-Smith, whowas standing in his place with the Sixth.
The Gazeka, blushing warmly, stepped forward.
"Bring me a school list, Firby-Smith," said the headmaster.
The Gazeka was wearing a pair of very squeaky boots that morning. Theysounded deafening as he walked out of the room.
The school waited.
Presently a distant squeaking was heard, and Firby-Smith returned,bearing a large sheet of paper.
The headmaster thanked him, and spread it out on the reading-desk.
Then, calmly, as if it were an occurrence of every day, he began tocall the roll.
"Abney."
No answer.
"Adams."
No answer.
"Allenby."
"Here, sir," from a table at the end of the room. Allenby was aprefect, in the Science Sixth.
The headmaster made a mark against his name with a pencil.
"Arkwright."
No answer.
He began to call the names more rapidly.
"Arlington. Arthur. Ashe. Aston."
"Here, sir," in a shrill treble from the rider in motorcars.
The headmaster made another tick.
The list came to an end after what seemed to the school anunconscionable time, and he rolled up the paper again, and stepped tothe edge of the dais.
"All boys not in the Sixth Form," he said, "will go to theirform-rooms and get their books and writing-materials, and returnto the Hall."
("Good work," murmured Mr. Seymour to himself. "Looks as if weshould get that holiday after all.")
"The Sixth Form will go to their form-room as usual. I should liketo speak to the masters for a moment."
He nodded dismissal to the school.
The masters collected on the dais.
"I find that I shall not require your services to-day," said theheadmaster. "If you will kindly set the boys in your forms some workthat will keep them occupied, I will look after them here. It is alovely day," he added, with a smile, "and I am sure you will all enjoyyourselves a great deal more in the open air."
"That," said Mr. Seymour to Mr. Spence, as they went downstairs, "iswhat I call a genuine sportsman."
"My opinion neatly expressed," said Mr. Spence. "Come on the river. Orshall we put up a net, and have a knock?"
"River, I think. Meet you at the boat-house."
"All right. Don't be long."
"If every day were run on these lines, school-mastering wouldn't besuch a bad profession. I wonder if one could persuade one's form torun amuck as a regular thing."
"Pity one can't. It seems to me the ideal state of things. Ensures thegreatest happiness of the greatest number."
"I say! Suppose the school has gone up the river, too, and we meetthem! What shall we do?"
"Thank them," said Mr. Spence, "most kindly. They've done us well."
The school had not gone up the river. They had marched in a solidbody, with the school band at their head playing Sousa, in thedirection of Worfield, a market town of some importance, distant aboutfive miles. Of what they did and what the natives thought of it all,no very distinct records remain. The thing is a tradition on thecountryside now, an event colossal and heroic, to be talked about inthe tap-room of the village inn during the long winter evenings. Thepapers got hold of it, but were curiously misled as to the nature ofthe demonstration. This was the fault of the reporter on the staff ofthe _Worfield Intelligencer and Farmers' Guide_, who saw in thething a legitimate "march-out," and, questioning a straggler as to thereason for the expedition and gathering foggily that the restorationto health of the Eminent Person was at the bottom of it, said so inhis paper. And two days later, at about the time when Retribution hadgot seriously to work, the _Daily Mail_ reprinted the account,with comments and elaborations, and headed it "Loyal Schoolboys." Thewriter said that great credit was due to the headmaster of Wrykyn forhis ingenuity in devising and organising so novel a thanksgivingcelebration. And there was the usual conversation between "arosy-cheeked lad of some sixteen summers" and "our representative,"in which the rosy-cheeked one spoke most kindly of the head-master,who seemed to be a warm personal friend of his.
The remarkable thing about the Great Picnic was its orderliness.Considering that five hundred and fifty boys were ranging the countryin a compact mass, there was wonderfully little damage done toproperty. Wyatt's genius did not stop short at organising the march.In addition, he arranged a system of officers which effectuallycontrolled the animal spirits of the rank and file. The prompt anddecisive way in which rioters were dealt with during the earlierstages of the business proved
a wholesome lesson to others who wouldhave wished to have gone and done likewise. A spirit of martial lawreigned over the Great Picnic. And towards the end of the day fatiguekept the rowdy-minded quiet.
At Worfield the expedition lunched. It was not a market-day,fortunately, or the confusion in the narrow streets would have beenhopeless. On ordinary days Worfield was more or less deserted. It isastonishing that the resources of the little town were equal tosatisfying the needs of the picnickers. They descended on the placelike an army of locusts.
Wyatt, as generalissimo of the expedition, walked into the"Grasshopper and Ant," the leading inn of the town.
"Anything I can do for you, sir?" inquired the landlord politely.
"Yes, please," said Wyatt, "I want lunch for five hundred and fifty."
That was the supreme moment in mine host's life. It was his bigsubject of conversation ever afterwards. He always told that as hisbest story, and he always ended with the words, "You could ha' knockedme down with a feather!"
The first shock over, the staff of the "Grasshopper and Ant" bustledabout. Other inns were called upon for help. Private citizens ralliedround with bread, jam, and apples. And the army lunched sumptuously.
In the early afternoon they rested, and as evening began to fall, themarch home was started.
* * * * *
At the school, net practice was just coming to an end when, faintly,as the garrison of Lucknow heard the first skirl of the pipes of therelieving force, those on the grounds heard the strains of the schoolband and a murmur of many voices. Presently the sounds grew moredistinct, and up the Wrykyn road came marching the vanguard of thecolumn, singing the school song. They looked weary but cheerful.
As the army drew near to the school, it melted away little by little,each house claiming its representatives. At the school gates only ahandful were left.
Bob Jackson, walking back to Donaldson's, met Wyatt at the gate, andgazed at him, speechless.
"Hullo," said Wyatt, "been to the nets? I wonder if there's time for aginger-beer before the shop shuts."
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