Biggles Goes To School

by W E Johns

  CONTENTS

  FOREWORD

  CHAPTER 1: ENTER BIGGLES

  CHAPTER 2: TRICKED

  CHAPTER 3: BIGGLES HITS BACK

  CHAPTER 4: A DAY TO REMEMBER

  CHAPTER 5: THE FIELD DAY

  CHAPTER 6: ALL THE FUN OF THE FAIR

  CHAPTER 7: “ONE GOOD TURN...”

  CHAPTER 8: THE TREASURE TRAIL

  CHAPTER 9: THE CHESTNUT WOOD

  CHAPTER 10: ON THE MAT

  CHAPTER 11: DARK DOINGS

  CHAPTER 12: TRAGIC NEWS

  CHAPTER 13: ON THE TRAIL

  CHAPTER 14: RETRIBUTION

  FOREWORD

  THE events narrated in this book have been set down to satisfy the many readers who have expressed a desire to know something of Biggles’ schooldays. It must not be supposed that such episodes as those described were an everyday affair. They were not. Such events were the exception, not the rule. They were the outstanding incidents of the period when Biggles was new to school life. Even then, for the most part one day followed another, as is usual at school, with little to break the general monotony.

  To record such days in detail would be mere repetition; and there would be no purpose in it, because the ordinary routine at Malton Hall School ran on lines familiar to everyone who has been to boarding school. Biggles may have been somewhat unlucky in his first term, although the discerning reader may observe that luck was not altogether responsible for what happened. Let us admit that Biggles’ own inquiring mind may have been sometimes reponsible for the difficulties in which he found himself.

  For the rest, he was no better and no worse than any other schoolboy of his age and era. Like any normal boy, he excelled in some subjects and failed dismally in others. He was thoughtful, and inclined to be serious rather than boisterous. If he was temperamental, headstrong in some things and nervous in others, it was probably because of a physical weakness, the result of illness contracted early in his life in India, of which he was conscious. He soon outgrew this handicap in the healthy air of his native land.

  It must be realised that at the time of which we are writing things were very different from what they are today. The country roads still lay under a mantle of white dust that was seldom disturbed by a motorcar. Horses still shied at mechanical vehicles. When he arrived at Malton Hall Biggles had never seen an aeroplane. Few people had. Bicycles were still in their early stages of development, and a three-speed gear was a device to boast about. The telephone was still a modern wonder. Such entertainments as the cinema and radio were unknown. War was a thing remote, except to a few well-informed men, and even they had no idea of the transformations that were to occur when it came. Rural England still went about its business quietly, and without haste, in the peace it had long enjoyed.

  W. E. J.

  CHAPTER 1

  ENTER BIGGLES

  COLONEL HORACE CHASE, M.A., Headmaster of Malton Hall School, affectionately known to three generations of schoolboys as “Chevy,” did not glance up from his desk as, in answer to a gentle knock on the door, he uttered a curt, “Come in.” Not until he had signed the letter he had just written, and carefully wiped the point of the quill he always used, did he raise his eyes to the boy who now stood in front of him.

  For perhaps five seconds master and scholar took stock of each other in silence. The master saw a slight, neatly-dressed, delicate-looking boy, with a sensitive face, thoughtful eyes and a small but firm mouth. Fair hair was parted at the side.

  The boy saw a man of medium build, gowned in black, with a gaunt, clean-shaven face, and close-cropped iron-grey hair. His age might have been anything between fifty and sixty. His eyes were blue and, while not exactly hard, held in them a penetrating quality that made them not easy to meet. Little lines at the corners of a tight-lipped mouth helped to soften an expression that otherwise would have been severe.

  It is unlikely that the boy realised the importance of the meeting: the effect that the personality of the man before him was to have in shaping his own—not only for the period of their association, but throughout his entire life. But the master knew.

  The Head, leaning back with his fingers together, spoke first ; and there was a crispness in his voice that made the boy start. “So you’re the new boy, Bigglesworth, eh?”

  “ Yes, sir.”

  “When did you arrive?”

  “This morning, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you come yesterday for the opening of the term?”

  “I was not well, sir. I had a recurrence of fever.”

  “I see. Have you found your dormitory?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stand up, boy,” ordered the Head trenchantly. “Hold your head up and pull those shoulders back. There’s no need to wilt—here, or anywhere else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And open your mouth when you speak. If you mumble people can’t hear what you say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s better. How’s your brother?”

  “He’s very well, sir.”

  “Is he still at Sandhurst?”

  “No, sir. He’s got his commission. He was gazetted to the Rifle Brigade last week. No doubt he will be writing to you.”1

  “A fine fellow, your brother,” averred the Head. “He should make a good soldier. He was here for nearly three years, you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Head’s face softened as he smiled. “The boys called him Biggles. They’ll call you that, too, I expect. Had he still been here we should have had a Biggles primus and a Biggles secundus.”

  “I’m sorry he’s not still here,” said Biggles, feeling more at ease.

  “He was Captain of the School of his last term—but you know all about that, no doubt. How old are you?”

  “Fourteen and a half, sir.”

  “Your brother was about that age when he came. I hope you’ll do as well.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir, but I think it’s very unlikely,” said Biggles frankly.

  The Head frowned. “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t?”

  “He was bigger and stronger than I shall ever be.”

  “But you want to be a soldier, don’t you?” asked the Head, sharply.

  “No, sir.”

  The Head’s frown deepened. “You understand this is primarily a school for boys going into the army?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s why my father insisted on my coming here. He wants me to be a soldier.”

  “And you don’t like the idea?”

  “It isn’t that I don’t like the idea, sir, but I don’t think I’m cut out for it. You see, sir, my health has never been very good.”

  “ Hm,” mused the Head. He pulled forward a sheet of paper. “Your uncle, Brigadier-General Bigglesworth, mentions that in this letter. He was here twenty-five years ago. You’ve been staying with him, I understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve lived in his house, in Norfolk, since I was sent home from India to recover from fever.”

  “He tells me there’s no reason why you shouldn’t become a first-class soldier. Your father was not a soldier, I believe?”

  “He wanted to be a soldier, sir, because of the family tradition. But his health broke down, so he went into the Indian Civil Service. He’s now Assistant Commissioner in the United Provinces.”

  “I see. And you were born out there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is your mother still there?”

  “My mother died some years ago, sir.”

  “Oh. Did you go to school at all, in India?”

  “No, sir. There was no school near us. I had a private tutor. My father also took an interest in my education.”

  “What did your father teach you?
”

  “He taught me to ride, sir. I had my own pony, and played a little polo, and sometimes cricket, mostly with boys of the country. He taught me to shoot. I did quite a lot of shooting.”

  “Gun or rifle?”

  “Both, sir, but the rifle chiefly. My father started me off with a point two-two when I was quite small. When I could hit sitting targets I used to go out with an old shikari—who also taught me tracking—to shoot crows and hawks on the wing. He said it was good practice.”

  The Head smiled. “I should think it was. Did you ever hit one?”

  “Yes, sir, often. I had plenty of practice.”

  “Ever bag a tiger?”

  Biggles smiled ruefully. “No, sir. I had a chance one day, but I only wounded him. My father was very angry about that because the beast was a man eater. My father shot him at the finish.”

  “But you got a leopard, though, so your uncle tells me? Saved a man’s life.”

  Biggles shrugged. “It was nothing, sir. The fellow was an old packman. The brute went for his goats, and when he tried to drive it off it attacked him. I just happened to come along. The leopard was so close I couldn’t very well miss.”

  “But you stood up to him?”

  “I was too scared to run, sir,” confessed Biggles frankly.

  The Head smiled tolerantly. “Well, stalking and an ability to hit birds on the wing with a single bullet may be amusing pastimes,” he observed, “but as accomplishments likely to be useful to you in your chosen career they can be ignored.”2

  The Head looked again at Brigadier-General Bigglesworth’s letter. “I understand you have been reading books rather in advance of your age?”

  “My uncle seems to think so, sir. I’ve spent a lot of time in bed, where there was nothing for me to do except read.”

  “What did you read?”

  “Books about travel and exploration chiefly, sir. I like to know about other countries.”

  “What about history?”

  “ I’ve read quite a lot of history, sir.”

  “What about fiction?”

  “I’ve read some detective stories, sir.”

  “Humph,” grunted the Head. “They won’t do you much good. What are your best subjects?“

  “History and geography, I think, sir.”

  “What do you mean—you think? Don’t you know?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then say so. Those are the subjects you find easiest, I imagine?”

  “Yes, sir. When I have nothing to read I always fall back on my atlas. One day I hope to travel round the world and see all these places.”

  “How about maths?”

  Biggles looked uncomfortable. “No good at all, sir, I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid? What are you afraid of?”

  “Well, sir, things like algebra and Euclid. I can’t seem to make headway in them.”

  “That’s no reason to be afraid of them. There’s no reason to be afraid of anything. You know what they call people who are afraid?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Funks.”

  The Head’s lip twitched. “You wouldn’t like to be called that, would you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, you will, here, jolly soon, if you talk about being afraid. What about languages?”

  “I speak some Hindi from talking to the people of the country in India. And I’m fair at French, or so my tutor said. I’m not so good at Latin, though.”

  “What have you been doing in Norfolk?”

  “Pottering about my uncle’s estate with one of the gamekeepers, sir, mostly. The doctor wanted me to get plenty of fresh air and exercise.”

  “Do you know any other boys?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “There were no other white boys near us in India, and after I came home, when I met any I didn’t know what to say.”

  “That’s something you’ll learn here,” said the Head drily. “Very well, Bigglesworth,” he went on. “For a start I’m going to put you in the Fourth Form. We’ll see how you get on. You can join it right away. You’ll find the classroom on the right of the Big School. The form is now taking French. Introduce yourself to Monsieur Bougade. I must give you a word of warning about that. Monsieur Bougade is new to this country. His English is therefore rather limited, so I have made it a rule to double any punishment for misbehaviour that occurs in his class. That is to discourage boys from trying to be funny at his expense. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For the rest, you must learn to stand on your own feet. You may find some of the boys a bit rough, which means that you’ll have to learn to take care of yourself.”

  Biggles looked puzzled. “I don’t quite understand, sir. Why are the boys rough?”

  The Head smiled faintly. “Because they’re boys. As you haven’t mixed much with boys of your own sort you may find things a little difficult at first; but you’ll soon get the hang of it. Remember what I said about standing on your own feet. It’s no use running to me with your troubles. Only one thing can teach you to be a man, and that’s your own conscience. Never forget that before an officer can expect to control his men he must be captain of himself. You’ll have to join the School Cadet Corps, of course.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll see about your uniform. Now go and join your class.”

  “Thank you, sir, I’ll do my best,” promised Biggles, and started for the door.

  “Boy!”

  Biggles spun round. “Yes, sir?”

  “Have you forgotten what I said about keeping your shoulders back and your head up?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why don’t you do it?”

  Biggles drew a deep breath. “I’ll remember it in future, sir.” He went out and closed the door.

  Inside the room the Head sat staring at the closed door, his lips pursed, for a minute. Then he went on with his writing.

  * * *

  1 Major Charles Bigglesworth, D.S.O., M.C., was killed in action in September, 1918.

  2 Which shows that headmasters can sometimes be mistaken, for it is probable that these were the very crafts that within five years were to lift Biggles into the top flight of combat pilots. At least, it may be said that they went far to enable him to survive a war in which so many of his school-fellows were to lose their lives. But then, at this time air combat was unknown. There were few aircraft, and these had not been armed.—EDITOR.

  CHAPTER 2

  TRICKED

  DEEP in thought, Biggles made his way along the corridor, down the stairs, and through the main passage towards the Big School. A sudden footfall behind made him start to turn, but before he could get round two hands closed over his eyes, holding his head firmly.

  “Guess who it is?” said a voice.

  Biggles stood still. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone here yet,” he said quietly. “I’m a new boy.”

  The hands were removed, and he turned to find himself facing a big, loose-limbed, heavily-built boy, with black hair, who seemed to be choking with laughter. Then, to Biggles’ amusement, without any explanation, the stranger turned and ran up the passage. Biggles could hear him still laughing after he had turned the corner.

  Wondering at this strange behaviour, Biggles walked on until he came to a door from behind which came the sound of many voices droning the French regular verbs. After knocking on the door, he opened it, went in, closed it, and then turned to face the room. On a rostrum, a short, dark, bearded man, who had been speaking, broke off abruptly; and at the expression that suddenly convulsed his face every head in the room turned.

  A yell of laughter rent the air; but it died suddenly to a tense hush as the French master began walking slowly between the desks.

  Biggles went to meet him. “I have been ordered to report to Form Four, monsieur. My name is Bigglesworth.”

  There were more titters, again quickly hushe
d as Monsieur Bougade spun round with an angry hiss. Very calmly the master turned back to Biggles, his eyes on his face. He nodded his head slowly, at the same time rocking himself gently on his heels and toes.

  At last he spoke. “So you are so droll, you think?” he said in a silky whisper.

  Biggles, completely at a loss, could only stare helplessly. All around him boys were choking with suppressed laughter, some stuffing handkerchiefs into their mouths.

  “I’m very sorry, monsieur, but I don’t understand,” he said at last.

  The master offered no explanation. He returned to his desk, wrote a short note on a slip of paper, folded it, and came back to Biggles. “My compliments to the Headmaster, and please to give him this,” he said succinctly, holding out the note. “He will make explanations.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Biggles went out. As he closed the door behind him another yell of laughter came from inside the room—again to be swiftly silenced. Slowly he made his way back to the study he had just left. He knocked, and receiving an invitation to enter, went in. He marched straight to the Head and delivered the note. “Monsieur Bougade sends his compliments, sir, and asked me to give you this.”

  The Head’s face was expressionless. “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You remember what I said about playing the fool in French class?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Head read the note and looked up. “On this occasion,” he said sternly, “I shall accept ignorance as an excuse. Go back to your classroom.”

  “Yes, sir.” Biggles turned to the door.

  “And on the way I think it might be a good thing if you called at the wash-room,” said the Head.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Biggles made his way to the toilet accommodation. The moment he opened the door he understood everything, for facing him was a mirror. He stopped dead when he saw his face. Around each eye was a ring of soot, giving him an absurd, owlish expression. He realised that this must have been funny to others, but seeing nothing to laugh at himself he went over to a wash-basin and removed—not without difficulty—the offending disfigurement. He knew, of course, how the trick had been played on him.