Biggles Goes To School

by W E Johns

  “May I look at it?”

  “Of course. Come in.”

  The woman led the way to a tangle of bushes that fringed the base of the cliff. She pointed. “There it is.”

  “May I go in?”

  “If you like, but don’t go far.”

  Biggles pushed his way to the low cavern and peered inside. “I wish I had some matches,” he called. “It’s pretty dark in there.”

  “Would you like me to get you some?”

  Biggles hesitated. “ I’m afraid I haven’t time to explore it now, thanks all the same. I must be getting back to school. May I come another time—Saturday afternoon?”

  “ If you like.”

  “Thanks.” Biggles’ eyes sparkled. “I say, you’re an awfully decent sort, you know.”

  The woman laughed and they went back to the road.

  “Saturday afternoon about three,” said Biggles, at the gate. “Mind if I bring a friend?”

  “Not a bit. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, and thanks awfully for the apples.” Biggles raised his cap and went on feeling that he had a new interest in life.

  The following Saturday afternoon, at three o’clock sharp, he was at the gate. With him was Smith, to whom he had confided his thrilling secret. The woman was waiting. Moreover, she had brought with her a candle and a box of matches.

  The cave turned out to be very disappointing. At least, Biggles found it so, although he did not say so. It ran in perhaps a hundred yards and came to a dead end. There were several side turnings, and these were investigated, but they all came back to the main tunnel, forming a little labyrinth that was soon explored. There was one smallish hole which they did not bother to go into, because it would mean crawling and getting their clothes in a mess. Biggles came to the conclusion that the cave was nothing more than the old workings of a disused limestone quarry. But it was, as he averred, better than no cave at all. “It’ll be a good place to hide when Hervey is after us,” he observed. The bats that hung upside-down on the walls were interesting, anyway.

  The woman, who told them her name was Mrs. Grant, was waiting outside, and a pleasant afternoon was spent under the apple-tree. They were at liberty to visit the cave as often as they liked, she told them at parting. Thereafter, it was to this hiding-place that they often made their way when pursued by Hervey and Brickwell. This was, in fact, the only use to which the cave was put, once the novelty had worn off. Sometimes Mrs. Grant gave them tea and cakes. They voted her a jolly good sort.

  For a long time Biggles had followed Smith’s advice to bolt when Hervey was about, rather than risk a bullying which, administered by an expert, could be painful. But his soul revolted in ever-increasing measure from such a manceuvre, particularly as Hervey and Brickwell usually caught him anyway. As he told Smith, it only encouraged Hervey in his bullying. Of late, too, the bullying had taken a sinister turn, one which, in Biggles’ estimation, made Hervey a downright thief. This took the form of extortion. That is to say, Hervey, having caught one of them, would demand a penny for what he called ransom money. True, a penny was not a large sum, but its loss was felt from a meagre weekly allowance. Biggles and Smith had several times bought a ball between them to kick about, but on each occasion it had been lost when Hervey had taken it from them.

  Biggles had made one attempt at retaliation, and although it failed dismally it revealed a flair for improvisation that was developed in later years. In Hertbury there was a curio shop in which the items offered for sale were strange and wonderful. The window was one of the most popular with the boys. Gazing in it one day with Smith, Biggles remarked on a cannon ball which, described as an antique, had been picked up on the battlefield of Balaclava. With the truth of this Biggles was not concerned. What he could see was a solid ball of iron, about five inches in diameter. And as he looked at it, wondering to what practical use it could be put, there came to his mind an idea that he lost no time in conveying to his companion. It was perhaps a natural one in view of what had happened to the balls they had previously bought.

  “Look at that cannon ball,” said Biggles. “If Hervey kicked that he’d know all about it.”

  “He’d stub his toe jolly hard,” agreed Smith.

  “Let’s buy it,” suggested Biggles.

  “What for?”

  “For Hervey to kick.”

  “He’s not a fool. He’d spot it’s an iron one.”

  “We could paint it grey, to make it look like a tennis ball.”

  “So we could,” agreed Smith thoughtfully.

  The ball was marked ninepence, but the man let them have it for sixpence. Another penny spent at the ironmongers provided the paint, and when the trap was set the ball did in fact look like a tennis ball.

  The spot chosen for the scheme was immediately outside the main gates of the school, where began a carriage-way through an avenue of conker trees, flanked on one side by a wall, and on the other, an ancient churchyard. On the following Saturday afternoon, at the time when Hervey and Brickwell usually emerged, the ball was set up invitingly in the middle of the drive. Biggles and Smith took up position behind convenient tombstones to watch. It had been decided that if any small boys came out they could be warned to leave the ball alone. This removed the risk of the hail being kicked by the wrong person.

  The first person to come out was Mr. Bruce. He still wore his gown and mortar-board, and was presumably taking a stroll for some fresh air. Biggles was not particularly alarmed because it seemed to him unlikely that the master would touch the ball, even if he saw it. But there is something about a ball that makes an irresistible appeal to people of all ages. It pleads, as it were, to be kicked, and the invitation is seldom ignored.

  As Mr. Bruce’s eyes fell on the ball his habitually rather sour expression changed to one of interest. Like a cat stalking a mouse, he lined up with it. After a quick glance around to make sure that he was not observed in a display of light-hearted abandon so far beneath his normal dignity, he hopped, took a short run, and kicked. There was a horrid thud, as of piledriver falling on a log. The ball barely moved. It rolled slowly to the grass verge.

  Mr. Bruce staggered, his face twisting into a horrible grimace. His mortar-board flew off. A deep groan broke from his lips, wrenched, it seemed, from the very bottom of his stomach. He hopped to the nearest tree and, standing on one leg with head bowed, breathing deeply and audibly, clung to it for support.

  Biggles lay behind his tombstone and quaked. Smith, behind the next one, with a face the colour of the stone, appeared to be trying to dig himself into the grave.

  Presently Mr. Bruce picked up his cap. With tears in his eyes, he limped back painfully to the school gates through which he disappeared.

  “Phew! What a bit of luck he didn’t see us,” breathed Biggles.

  “He looks awfully ill,” whispered Smith, in an agitated voice. “There’ll be a frightful row if he’s broken his leg.”

  Biggles did not answer because at that moment, to his chagrin, Hervey and Brickwell came out and walked on without seeing the ball. As soon as they were out of sight he retrieved it; and not daring to be found in possession of evidence so incriminating, kicked a hole in the grass with his heel and buried it. And there, probably, it remains to this day.

  Mr. Bruce limped for a week, but the reason was never disclosed.

  The bullying continued.

  There came a day when Biggles decided that he could stand no more of it. The pain was becoming mental as well as physical. There was no peace at all. Sitting with Smith one afternoon at the entrance of the cave, whither they had fled for refuge, he said so, and there was a ring of determination in his voice. “If it goes on our lives won’t be worth living,” he asserted. “Hervey will be at school for over a year yet. Why should we let him make our lives a misery?”

  “Because we can’t help it,” answered Smith miserably.

  “We shall have to do something about it,” declared Biggles.

  “It’s no use going t
o the Head,” muttered Smith. “He hates sneaks.”

  “I never said anything about going to the Head,” retorted Biggles hotly. “He told me to stand on my own feet, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “How?” asked Smith, biting at an apple. “We can’t fight Hervey.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s too big. He and Brickwell would give us an awful hiding if we kicked. Struggling only makes them worse.”

  “All the same, we’ll fight them,” decided Biggles. “I’d as soon be killed outright as die a slow death from bruises.”

  “Hervey could lick us with one arm tied behind his back,” stated Smith morosely.

  “I’m not talking about fighting with fists,” answered Biggles. “I agree that would be no use. But when an inferior force meets a superior one it must use its head.”

  Smith looked surprised. “Who told you that?”

  “Herodotus.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A chap who wrote a book.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He lived,” said Biggles, “about two thousand years ago.”

  “Was he bullied?”

  “Of course. Everyone is bullied in turn.”

  “And he used his head?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean we’ve got to butt Hervey in the stomach?”

  “No. We should only get our heads punched.”

  “What then?”

  “We’ve got to give Hervey such a lesson that he’ll leave us alone for ever afterwards.”

  “How can we give that big bully a lesson? I’ve chalked Hervey is a cad all over the school, but it does no good.”

  “We shall have to arm ourselves,” declared Biggles. “Then, when he thinks he’s got hold of a couple of rabbits he’ll find he’s grabbed a couple of wolves.”

  “Do you mean we bite him?”

  “No.”

  “What then?” Smith tossed away the core of his apple.

  “We’ll attack him with sticks and stones.”

  Smith looked startled. “But we can’t do that!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that sort of thing isn’t done.”

  “Who said it isn’t done?”

  “I don’t know, but it isn’t.”

  “What is done?”

  “You’re supposed to fight with your fists.”

  “Perhaps the people who made that rule had big fists,” observed Biggles shrewdly. “If I hit Hervey with my fist I should hurt my knuckles more than I should hurt him, so that’s no use.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Smith sadly. “You’re new here, but I can tell you that fighting with sticks isn’t playing the game.”

  Biggles’ voice rose a shade. “Playing what game? I’m not playing a game. I’m jolly well sick of being knocked about. Is that supposed to be a game? If it is, Hervey always wins. Now it’s our turn.”

  “All I know is, if we use sticks, there’ll be an awful howl.”

  “Yes, and it’ll be Hervey who does the howling,” asserted Biggles.

  “He won’t be ready for sticks.”

  “So much the better,” retorted Biggles. “Are you game?”

  “If we fail we might as well go and jump under a train. We’d have an awful time.”

  “We have that, anyway, don’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we shall be no worse off,” Biggles pointed out.

  “All the same, I don’t like the idea.”

  “What don’t you like about it?”

  “I don’t like the idea of letting him get close enough to be hit with a stick,” admitted Smith frankly.

  “All right. Have you got a better plan?”

  “What about blowing him up with gunpowder?”

  It was Biggles’ turn to look startled. “I’m not thinking of killing him!”

  “He wouldn’t necessarily die,” argued Smith. “My brother was making fireworks one day when the gunpowder caught alight and burnt off all his front hair and eyebrows. Hervey would look silly without any hair.”

  “So should we, when the Head got to know why.”

  “All right. What about a dog?”

  “What about a dog?”

  “Let’s buy a dog and make it bite Hervey.”

  “It might not bite him.”

  “We could get a ferocious one. Mick Dunnage, the poacher, has an awful brute. It was always biting people. That’s why it has to be kept chained up. He might lend it to us.”

  “But if the brute is as ferocious as that it would start by biting us,” Biggles pointed out.

  “What’s the use of me getting brain-waves if you’re going to throw cold water on them?” protested Smith. “We’ll have it your way if you like, but let’s have a fence between us—a barbed-wire one for preference. That would give us a chance to bolt.”

  “I’ve told you I’ve finished bolting,” remonstrated Biggles curtly.

  “All right,” sighed Smith.

  “ If you funk it, I’ll do it alone,” declared Biggles grimly. “You can go on being bullied if you like.”

  “ Brickwell will be with him. He always is.”

  “Then I’ll take on the two of them,” retorted Biggles. “You can tell my father and my uncle and the Head and all the rest of them that I died fighting. They seem to think that’s the right thing to do,” he added bitterly.

  Smith drew a deep breath. “Now you’re talking! I’ll die with you. I bet we should have a grand funeral with all the kids blubbing and Hervey will be hung for murder.”

  “What good would that do us if we were dead?” inquired Biggles cynically. “If we could be there to see Hervey hung it would be worth it though.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” conceded Smith. “But it would be no use getting Hervey hung if we weren’t there to watch it.”

  “Don’t talk rot,” snorted Biggles. “Are you game to help me fight Hervey, or aren’t you?”

  “I’m game,” agreed Smith, but without enthusiasm. “What are we going to do exactly?”

  “On Saturday afternoon we’ll each find a good cudgel. There are plenty under the conker trees. The kids use them to knock the conkers off. We’ll sit outside the gates and wait for Hervey to come out. He mustn’t see the cudgels till we’re ready. We might fill our pockets with conkers, too.”

  “And when he comes out do we spring on him?”

  “No, you ass. We’ll let him start it, then he’ll be responsible. When he sees us he’ll expect us to bolt. When we don’t, he’ll come for us. That’s when we start. There must be no half-measures about it. We’ve got to give him a real fright.”

  “I’m frightened before we start,” confessed Smith.

  “Never mind how frightened you are, don’t let him see it,” warned Biggles.

  “What about getting some more chaps to help us?” suggested Smith anxiously. “The more the better, I say.”

  “There should be plenty of kids picking up conkers.” agreed Biggles thoughtfully. “We might tell them to fill their pockets so that when they see Hervey is getting the worst of it they could pelt him.”

  “All right,” agreed Smith. “But I bet we finish up in hospital.”

  “If we do, we shall at least be safe from Hervey,” countered Biggles. “Come on, let’s go and collect some conkers.”

  It all fell out much as Biggles had planned. On the following Saturday, after school, Biggles and Smith—the latter looking rather pale—sat on a heap of dead leaves close to the main gates, at some risk of being hit on the head by the sticks and stones that were being hurled into the trees by small boys in an endeavour to bring down more conkers.

  Through the gates came Hervey and Brickwell. They stopped when they saw Biggles and Smith sitting there. “Come here, you brats,” ordered Hervey loudly.

  Biggles felt his companion shudder, as, gripping his cudgel, he answered: “Come here yourself.”

  Hervey’s eyes opened wide with surprise. Then
they narrowed. He advanced slowly, ready, as Biggles knew from experience, to make his usual rush.

  “Hervey,” said Biggles in a high-pitched voice, “you’re not going to bully me any more. Lay a finger on me and you’ll see what happens!”

  Hervey accepted the invitation. He made his rush.

  Biggles sprang up, cudgel in hand. As Hervey made a grab at him, he jumped aside and swung the weapon at Hervey’s legs. It caught Hervey across the shins and brought from him a howl of pain and surprise. He hopped, yelling, clutching at his legs. Biggles waited, his face flushed, swinging the cudgel like a flail. “I warned you!” he shouted wildly. “Come on if you want some more!” Occasionally he made a swipe at Brickwell, who was trying to dodge Smith’s cudgel. Smith was fighting like the leader of a forlorn hope.

  Above the general pandemonium came the shrill yelling of excited treble voices. Conkers began to fly, some whirling on strings. Brickwell was already backing away before the storm, and Hervey, assailed from all sides by a shower of missiles, followed. The retreat became a rout. More boys, attracted by the din, came running out, and seeing what was happening, joined in, snatching up the bouncing conkers for ammunition. The uproar, with everyone yelling at once, was terrific. War cries such as School! School! Form! Form! Down with the bullies! could be heard. The business became a riot.

  As the turmoil passed the outside door of the Big School the Head dashed out, but retired quickly as an unshelled conker, complete with prickles, whizzed past his nose.

  But, with the appearance of the Head, the noise died as a big wave subsides when it is spent. There was a general stampede for cover, and when, presently, the Head peeped cautiously out of the door, not a soul was in sight. All that remained on the field of battle were conkers. It was not unusual to see conkers in the school yard, but it is unlikely that ever before were there so many at one time.

  Biggles, like everyone else, had thought it prudent to retire. Back on the heap of leaves with Smith he grinned triumphantly. “There you are!” he cried. “I told you they’d run!”

  The Head came bouncing through the gates. “Bigglesworth!” he called crisply. “What was all that noise about?”

  Biggles’ eyes became pools of innocence. “Noise, sir?”