by W E Johns
He had just dried his face when into the room came an untidy-looking boy, rather smaller than himself, with a round, good-natured face, well sprinkled with freckles. A wisp of limp, hay-coloured hair dangled diagonally across his forehead. His nose, slightly up-turned at the end, seemed to be too small for his face, to which it gave a pert expression. A swelling on one cheek suggested toothache, but when it switched suddenly to the opposite side with a faint gurgle of satisfaction, Biggles realised that the bump was caused not by a gumboil, but by something the boy was sucking. Pale blue eyes smiled at Biggles from behind steel-rimmed spectacles, one side of which had evidently been broken, for it had been tied up with a piece of string.
“Hello!” said the newcomer cheerfully. “I’m Smith tertius. I see you’ve managed to get it off.”
“Yes,” answered Biggles, without enthusiasm.
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“What was he like?”
Biggles described the boy who had put his hands over his eyes.
Smith tertius nodded. “Just what I thought. It was that rotter Hervey. He always plays that trick on new boys, but he should have known better when Froggy was taking class. Any of the other masters would have laughed, but Bougade, being new, wouldn’t see the joke. But that’s like Hervey. He’s a cad, and the worst bully at the school. All over the place you’ll see where the kids have chalked up ‘Hervey is a bully,’ or ‘Hervey is a beast and a cad.’”
A movement at the door made both boys turn. It was the object of their conversation, and from the expression on his face it was at once evident that he had overheard.
In three swift strides he had crossed the room and taken the ear of Smith tertius between his finger and thumb. “So I’m a cad, am I?” he demanded wrathfully.
Smith let out a squeal of agony.
“A beast, am I?”
An even shriller squeal from Smith.
Biggles stepped in. “Yes, you are,” he cried. “Leave him alone!” He snatched at the bigger boy’s arm.
Hervey made a swipe at him. Biggles ducked and, hitting out blindly, caught Hervey in the stomach. That did it. The next moment all three boys were locked in a furious scuffle—it could not be called a fight. Hervey slipped and fell. The others fell with him and the engagement was continued on the stone floor. There was a good deal of noise. How the tussle would have finished had there not been an interruption is a matter for surmise; but above the thumps and grunts and gasps another voice now made itself heard. “All right, Hervey, that’s enough of that. I’ve told you about it before.”
The contestants broke apart and staggered to their feet. A tall, good-looking boy of about seventeen was standing in the doorway.
“They set on me,” growled Hervey.
“I’ve heard that one,” retorted the newcomer. “Clear out before I give you a thick ear.”
With a final scowl Hervey went without another word.
The big boy smiled, took a paper bag from his pocket and, after helping himself to a sweet, offered it. “Like a sweet, kids?”
The offer was accepted with alacrity.
The big boy looked at Biggles. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“I came today,” answered Biggles.
“What’s your name?”
“Bigglesworth.”
“Was your brother here?”
“Yes.”
“He was a friend of mine. But you’d better tidy yourselves up and get back to class. Chevy’s on the prowl.” The boy departed.
“Who was that?” Biggles asked his companion.
“Jack Smalley. He’s Captain of the School.”
“He seems an awfully nice chap.”
“He is. The lower school kids worship him. He won’t stand for bullying if he sees it.”
Biggles looked at himself in the glass. What he saw was not pretty. One eye was closing. His nose was bleeding. His tie was at the back of his neck and a sleeve had been nearly torn from his jacket. “What form is Hervey in?” he asked, as he did what he could with his appearance.
“Same as us—Four.”
“Are you in Four?”
“Yes,” answered Smith tertius, as, with the soap he printed on the mirror, in large letters, “Hervey is a cad.” “I must say you looked an ass when you came in with those sooty rings round your eyes. I shall have to go back now.” He tossed the soap into the basin and went out whistling.
Soon after Biggles, too, made his way back to the classroom. Just as he reached the door it opened and the Head came out. He stopped dead, drawing himself erect, staring at Biggles’ face. “Hello, I see you’ve bumped into something,” he observed cheerfully.
“Yes, sir.”
“You should look where you’re going, boy,” said the Head, and with a twirl of his gown strode on.
Biggles, watching him go, noticed that he seemed to bounce a little as he walked.
The form master, whose name he learned presently was Mr. Bruce, who had returned now that the French class was over, was on the rostrum. Biggles introduced himself and was allocated a desk, which, by an unfortunate chance, he felt, was next to the one occupied by Hervey. He sat down, but before the class could proceed the bell rang for the morning break.
During the interval he had his first opportunity to see the boys with many of whom he was to spend the next three years. It would be futile to pretend that he was happy. It was not so much that he minded school as the fact that he was starting under a handicap, which he was not slow to perceive. In his earlier life he had known fewer than half a dozen boys of his own age and colour. Now he had been dropped into a crowd of more than a hundred. Their behaviour, the things they were doing, even the things they were talking about, were new to him. In short, he felt out of it, as much out of his element as a cat in a pond. His sensations were, of course, those of any new boy at a big school, plus the knowledge of the disadvantages incurred by ill-health and a life of comparative seclusion in a distant country. What he now saw was more foreign to him than the Indian jungle. The older boys were together, playing fives or waiting to play. The young boys had congregated in a corner. Some were fighting, or wrestling, or chasing each other, with a considerable amount of noise. Those of his own age stood about in little groups, talking and arguing, also with a good deal of horse-play.
To his surprise, and somewhat to his alarm, he saw Hervey coming towards him. He braced himself for rough treatment, but the encounter turned out to be altogether different from what he expected. Hervey greeted him with a broad grin. “Hello,” he said. “Sorry about this morning. It was only a jape.”
“It’s all right,” answered Biggles. “I can take a joke.”
Hervey produced a bag from his pocket. “Have some monkey nuts?”
“Thanks.”
“Go on—you can have the lot,” offered Hervey. “I’ve had all I want.”
“I say, that’s awfully decent of you,” stammered Biggles, taken aback by this unexpected generosity. He didn’t really want the nuts, but it seemed churlish to refuse.
Hervey went off.
A minute later Smith tertius arrived. “What did Hervey want?” he asked, without preamble.
“He didn’t want anything,” replied Biggles. “He gave me some monkey nuts. Jolly decent of him, wasn’t it?”
“He gave you some nuts?” cried Smith incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Let’s look at ‘em,” said Smith suspiciously. “ It isn’t like him to give anything away, although he has more pocket money than anyone else at school.”
Biggles held out the bag.
Smith peered into it. “Looks like nuts,” he admitted. He took one from the bag, examined it critically, cracked it cautiously, and nibbled the kernel. “Tastes all right,” he announced.
“Didn’t you expect it to?”
“No. I expected them to be mouldy,” stated Smith frankly. “It isn’t like Hervey to give away anything that’s any good. When
I saw him going over to you I thought at least he’d scrub your knuckles.” Smith finished the nut and took another.
“Well, it seems that he’s not so bad after all,” remarked Biggles, joining Smith in the nut eating.
Smith pointed across the quadrangle. “That chap over there with Hervey is Brickwell. He’s a rotter. They’re always together. It’s best to bolt when you see them coming. That kid they’re after now is Page. He’s only ten. He’s the youngest boy at the school. His pater and mater were killed in an accident. Bruce, the form master, isn’t bad. When he sniffs it means he’s got indigestion—then you want to look out. There goes the bell. See you after school.”
Biggles stuffed the bag containing the uneaten nuts into his pocket and joined the boys trooping into his classroom. He took his place next to Hervey, and the class, which happened to be Euclid, proceeded.
To Biggles it was very dull. He could not understand why it was necessary to go to so much trouble to prove that two right-angle triangles were equal, when it was obvious at a glance that they were.
The preposition concluded, the master turned to the class. He sniffed. “Now,” he said, “what have we proved? Bigglesworth?”
Biggles started. “I really don’t know, sir,” he answered truthfully.
Mr. Bruce sniffed again. He drew a deep breath. “You—really—don’t—know?” he said slowly, but with cutting sarcasm.
“No, sir.”
For a few seconds the master stared at Biggles as a man might look at an automatic machine into which he has put a coin without result. Then his eyes travelled from Biggles’ face to his feet. They stopped, and remained fixed. He sniffed again, loudly. An uncomfortable silence fell. Every eye in the room was now on Biggles, who was painfully aware of it.
“Bigglesworth, come here,” said Mr. Bruce.
Biggles went forward.
“I want you,” said Mr. Bruce, in a voice ominously calm, “to turn out your pockets on this desk.” Biggles obliged. There was not much to turn out—a blood-stained handkerchief, a piece of string, a penknife, a shilling, and, of course, the almost empty bag of monkey nuts.
Mr. Bruce looked into the bag. “You like monkey nuts, Bigglesworth?” he observed smoothly.
“Not particularly, sir,” answered Biggles.
“But you have been eating monkey nuts?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, Bigglesworth. Because you are a new boy I shall show leniency; but to discourage your dirty habits I shall have to punish you.”
“But I haven’t eaten any nuts in school, sir,” protested Biggles, in a voice pitched high with indignation and surprise.
The master pointed to the floor under Biggles’ desk.
Turning, Biggles understood—understood several things. Where he had been sitting the floor was littered with monkey nut shells.
“But I didn’t do that, sir,” he declared, with the warmth of one who speaks the truth.
“Are you suggesting that someone else ate nuts and threw the shells under your desk?” inquired Mr. Bruce, coldly.
“Yes, sir.”
Instantly a low hiss ran round the classroom. A voice said “Sneak.”
“ I did not put those shells there,” insisted Biggles grimly, through his teeth.
“Then perhaps you will tell me who did?”
Biggles’ lips tightened. “It is not for me to prove my innocence, sir,” he said in a thin voice. “The fact that the shells are there does not necessarily mean that I put them there.”
“Then who did?”
Biggles was silent.
Mr. Bruce looked round the classroom. “Hervey, did you put those shells there?”
“No, sir,” replied Hervey without hesitation.
Biggles’ lips curled in a smile of contempt.
The master looked back at Biggles. “Have you anything more to say?”
“Yes, sir, I have,” replied Biggles. His voice was bitter. “My word is as good as Hervey’s. Indeed, sir, I have reason to believe that it is better.”
“It is a cowardly thing, Bigglesworth, to try to throw blame on a schoolfellow,” said Mr. Bruce airily. “You have eaten nuts. You admit that. You still have nuts in your possession. I shall, therefore, draw my own conclusions. You will write me, neatly, a thousand times, ‘I must not eat nuts in school’.”
Biggles’ eyes strayed to the blackboard. “It is easier, sir, I see, to prove things in theory, than it is in reality.”
“That, Bigglesworth, sounds very much like insolence,” said Mr. Bruce frostily. “You will now write the line in Latin. You can translate it, I presume, into Latin?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry, I can’t,” answered Biggles.
Mr. Bruce looked at the class. “He cannot translate it into Latin,” he said, with a sad smile, and was rewarded with the titter he obviously expected.
“No, sir,” said Biggles evenly. “You see, sir, I have never been where they speak Latin. I could translate the line into Hindi, though.”
Mr. Bruce frowned. “Are you trying to be funny, Bigglesworth?”
“No, sir,” replied Biggles. “One speaks the language to which one is accustomed. You speak Latin. I can speak Hindi.”
“Go back to your desk,” snapped Mr. Bruce.
There were tears of anger and mortification in the corners of Biggles’ eyes as he obeyed. He did not look at Hervey.
The class continued.
CHAPTER 3
BIGGLES HITS BACK
IN the weeks that followed Biggles settled down to the general routine of his new life. He had many unhappy days, but none as miserable as the first. In class and on the playing fields he found he was no worse than the majority of the boys at school, and better than some. This knowledge brought a degree of self-confidence.
The head was a strict disciplinarian, but not so harsh, Biggles suspected, as he pretended to be. And the same could be said of most of the masters, with the possible exception of Mr. Bruce, who, he feared, had not forgotten or forgiven their first clash. The dislike was mutual, because it seemed to Biggles that the master was too fond of exercising a sarcastic wit at the expense of boys to whom certain subjects did not come easily. Biggles got on particularly well with Monsieur Bougade, possibly because French was one of his best subjects and he really strove to improve. They often had long talks out of school.
Biggles learned to know his friends, and his enemies. His friendship with Smith tertius had ripened, and they spent most of their leisure together. Why this should be he did not know, because there was nothing remarkable about Smith beyond the fact that he was by nature cheerful, and easy to get on with. Or it may have been a mutual fear and dislike of Hervey and Brickwell that had brought them together in the first place, although this had become more a matter of an armed truce than open hostility. For this Biggles had been responsible, as will in due course be narrated. For some time Hervey had been the bane of his life.
Biggles had not only learned his way about the school and its precincts, but also about the nearby town of Hertbury, and its rural countryside, through which he took long walks, sometimes alone, but more often with Smith. He got to know—by sight, at any rate—many of the local people, tradesmen and the like, particularly those with whom the boys at the school sometimes came into conflict. Notable among these were Police-Constable Grimble, known to the school as “Grumble,” and Mr. Sam Barnes, a gamekeeper with a notorious reputation for being handy with his stick. Barnes, Smith told him, was the terror of trespassers. Biggles often saw him about, a big, bearded man, in green velveteens with brass buttons. Being one of the old-fashioned sort, he still wore a bowler hat, which boys often talked of knocking off —but never did. In his heart Biggles had a certain sympathy for him, for from his own experience on his uncle’s estate he knew the difficulties, and sometimes dangers, of his work.
On one of his country walks Biggles formed a rather curious friendship, and at the same time made a discovery. It was an exceptionally warm afte
rnoon and he was toiling home up the long hill that led to Hertbury, when, passing a small whitewashed cottage that stood alone a little way back from the road, a voice said, “Like an apple?”
Turning, Biggles saw a young woman looking at him over the hedge. She was about twenty, very pretty, and smiling.
Raising his cap, Biggles said he would like an apple very much.
“Come in and help yourself; there are plenty of windfalls,” he was told.
He went in through the gate and lost no time in sinking his teeth into a ripe pippin. The woman helped him to fill his pockets at the tree under which she had obviously been sitting, for a rug had been spread, and on it lay some magazines.
“You’re from the school, aren’t you?” she observed, looking at his cap.
Biggles said he was.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s all right,” acknowledged Biggles. “It’s the first school I’ve been to, so perhaps I’m no judge.”
“Warm to-day, isn’t it?”
“Jolly hot, walking,” agreed Biggles, starting on another apple.
“What have you been doing?” was the next question.
“Oh, just walking, looking at things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Anything interesting. I like exploring.”
“We’ve got a cave at the bottom of our garden.”
Biggles stopped munching. “Not really?”
“Yes, really.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not. It’s in there.” The woman pointed to a cliff, a short distance away, that rose about a hundred feet towards the sky. “Those are the golf links on top.”
“They’re out of bounds for boys at the school.”
“I know. Years ago a boy climbed down the cliff to get to a jackdaw’s nest. He fell and was badly injured. The links have been out of bounds ever since.”
“Is this cave a real one, or just a little hole?” asked Biggles.
“It’s a real one.”
“How far does it go on?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been to the end. It’s full of bats.”