by George Hagen
Determined to make a final point, Mr. Goodkind raised his glass. “To a fine new group of gentlemen!”
Mrs. Brasier had removed all of the other men's drinks, so they looked at one another in puzzlement. Mr. Goodkind downed the contents of his glass, his massive Adam's apple rising and falling.
When Mansworth rose from his bench, Privot shot up too. Both raised their cups. Implicit in this gesture was an acknowledgment of the power in the hall, with the sovereign on the masters' dais and the two houses represented by the northerners and the southerners. As cheers erupted, Tom caught Mr. Grindle's eye—the master glanced at each boy then tipped his head at Tom in warning.
A BLANK SLATE
TOM'S FAMILIARITY WITH THE BIBLE'S TEXT AND VOCABULARY PUT him ahead of many boys in his grammar class, but he found himself at a disadvantage in mathematics, geography, and history, and pledged to catch up as quickly as possible.
One of the more elderly masters, Mr. Trent, taught mathematics. His features were wrenched by gravity; dark bags hung below his eyes, jowls concealed his collars, and his chin wobbled over his top shirt button. No sadder face existed, and he had right cause for it, for the pupils were a constant disappointment to him.
Mansworth explained to Tom that there was a rule in Trent's class— the boys never answered a question correctly. Mansworth and Privot were taskmasters in this regard and set an example by offering the most pathetic replies.
“Will someone multiply twelve by three?”
“Thirty-seven, sir!”
“Wrong. Anybody else?”
“Thirty-five, sir?”
“Good heavens, doesn't anybody know?” cried Mr. Trent.
Cooper, a small boy who clearly knew the answer, glanced back and forth between Mansworth and Mr. Trent, like a terrier torn between duty and desire. Finally, his arm shot up out of sheer frustration.
“Cooper!” cried Trent, recognizing the spark in the boy's eyes. “Please, enlighten us!”
But before Cooper spoke, Privot pressed the nib of his pen into the boy's spine. “It's … thirty-two, sir?”
The shame on Cooper's face was matched by the despair on his master's. Trent rubbed his forehead, sank slowly to his desk, and bitterly prescribed a set of ridiculously easy problems.
“But how are we to pass our exams?” asked Tom later.
“No one fails at Hammer Hall!” said Privot.
“Gentlemen pay good money to send their boys here, Bedlam,” added Mansworth. “The masters could hardly justify their salaries by failing us.”
GEOGRAPHY WAS SIMILARLY CONTROLLED. Again, Mansworth led the way by insisting that the North and South Poles were a hundred miles apart. This provoked a diatribe from Mr. Feeny that wasted a good thirty minutes of the lesson.
Tom noted that Lopping, a tall boy with a thin face, had written the precise distance between the North and South Poles in his notebook margin, but when he attempted to raise his hand, Mansworth slapped his head.
In short, Mansworth and Privot, through distraction and obstruction, ensured that lessons were brief and undemanding.
Mr. Grindle's class was the exception. He taught Latin and began by hauling Privot and Mansworth to the front and addressing them: “I know your game, sirs. If you fail to exert yourselves to the utmost during this term, I shall direct my correspondence to your fathers.”
Sober and chastened, Mansworth and Privot sat down. But one boy Edgar Winesap, with a mop of ginger curls, raised his hand. He had a nasal voice and a sly air that seemed to defy both the fury of the master and the influence of Mansworth and Privot.
“Yes, Winesap?”
“Will you certainmost direct your correspondence to my father, sir?”
“Certainmost is not a word, Winesap, but yes, I will direct my comments to your father.”
Winesap nodded. “Thank you muchly, sir.”
Reminding him that muchly was not a word either, Grindle approached the boy alerted by the odd aspect of his question.
“How is your father's health, Winesap?”
“Consistent, sir.”
“Consistent with what, Winesap?”
The boy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He had a bad spell, sir, but he's no longer in pain. I shall not hesitate to do my best work, sir, to spare him the obligement of correspondence.”
Grindle frowned. “If you continue to use these idiotic expressions, I shall have to write to him. And, mark my words, I shall expect a reply!”
Winesap shrugged. “My father's muchly a figure of sanguinity and placitude, sir; he rarely replies to anything.”
“I have no idea what you're saying, Winesap,” snapped Grindle. “My letters always provoke a reply; I daresay they could raise the dead to respond!”
This remark caused Winesap to wince slightly.
Privot, his lips clamped to prevent a grin, raised his hand.
“What, Privot?”
“Sir, your letter shall have to raise the dead, because Mr. Winesap passed away, sir, four years ago.”
ON FRIDAY EVENINGS, after dinner, the boys were permitted a few hours of free time. It was the first moment that Tom allowed himself a break from his studies. So he took out the comic that Oscar had given him as a farewell present—Ally Sloper's Half Holiday, the adventures of a drunken family man.
Tom had just made his way past the first page when Mansworth appeared beside him. “What's that, Bedlam?”
Tom showed him the comic.
“Phibbs frowns on this sort of thing, Bedlam. I'll keep it for you. I hope you don't have any more of this stuff, because Phibbs will assuredly burn it.”
After Tom assured Mansworth that he had no more, Mansworth retired with the comic. In subsequent evenings, Tom noticed that Cooper, Winesap, and Lopping read his comic in quick succession. When Tom requested its return, he was told that each boy had paid for the right to read it. Lopping gave Mansworth two butterscotch sweets; Cooper, a farthing. Winesap had offered an essay on any subject—a dubious service, since his exotic vocabulary would give the author's true identity away in a moment.
Over the next month, Mansworth earned a considerable profit from Tom's comic. When he could contain himself no longer, Tom brought up the matter privately with him. “You've made a right fortune off my property,” he said. “And I haven't even read it!”
“Bedlam,” murmured Mansworth, “has anyone been rude or unkind to you?”
“No,” Tom replied.
“Have you been ridiculed or maligned?”
“I don't think so.”
Mansworth nodded. “Thanks to me, Bedlam, you have many friends. Thanks to me, you are in good standing, yet I've not received a single expression of thanks. Where is your gratitude?”
ON WEEKENDS THE BOYS OF Hammer Hall were permitted rambles on the trails of Hammer Peak, which lay above the school, its gentle lower slopes often dotted with sheep. The summit rose sharply above the pastures in steep chalk cliffs, and the top plateau extended ten feet over the incline in both directions; this was the “hammer” of Hammer Peak. Occasionally, a sheep would wander up, only to lose its footing and fall. Since the upper peak was often shrouded in mist, the stray was rarely discovered until severely decomposed.
“At first, they sound like babies bleating in the meeze” said Winesap.
“Meeze?” repeated Tom.
“Misty breeze,” Winesap explained. “Once I found a sheep in a gravine, all soggy and stiff and deadened like.”
“Gravine?”
Winesap sneered at Tom. “Never heard of a gravine? It's a rock hole where they fall into.”
“There's no such thing,” said Tom.
“Certainmost is,” grumbled Winesap.
The element of danger on Hammer Peak freed the boys from their scholarly duties. Here they could wander and imagine themselves warriors in Sparta, or Marco Polo traversing the Silk Road, or elephant drivers crossing the Alps with Hannibal. In the gullies and on the paths, they were free from their work and free, also, fro
m the overbearing influence of Mansworth and Privot.
MAIL WAS DISTRIBUTED once a week, and Tom was very excited when he received his first letter. It was from Sissy.
My dear Tom,
Thank you for your letter. I am well.
Your Sissy
Few words, but what words they were! From the simplicity of the message, Tom inferred Sissy's utter devotion. Your Sissy. He imagined her in his arms, her cheek against his, her petulant mouth upon his lips.
When Audrey's missives arrived, by contrast, he was so deluged with information that he missed the essence of her message, which had all the good intentions Sissy's note lacked.
Dearest Tom,
I do hope you are well and happy. We miss you here, and I cannot step out of my door without expecting to see you walking up the stairs patting the dust from your shoulders!
So much has happened since your departure. Oscar has become a reporter for the Vauxhall Gazette; every evening he tells us stories about murderers on trial and the terrible things they have done. It quite puts Father off his food. Mother gets so upset that she keeps a chair against the door in the evenings for fear that half the murderers in London might come visiting as we sleep.
I miss you, Tom. With Oscar working so hard, my days are spent keeping the girls from trouble and the Orfling from even worse a fate. I cannot leave the grocer's without finding something concealed in his squirrelly cheeks that should not be there. Thimbles, buttons, sweets, a sixpence! I fear that Oscar's awful stories of the Old Bailey may include the Orfling one day. And the dear little thing weeps so when I berate him. Perhaps all of our troubles are having an impression on him, for he refuses to grow older; I think he knows that nine months is the happiest age.
How are your studies? Have you made any friends? I do so miss you, and fear that you'll forget me, and I shall see you one day in London, dressed like a gentleman, and you'll not recognize Audrey Limpkin with all your learned respectability.
Please write soon,
Audrey
Tom wrote first to Sissy, but to her he expressed only his ardent affection. To Audrey he poured out everything else. He told her about his father's revelation—that he had a brother somewhere in London, a year older than he—and admitted that this had compelled him to reconsider his father's villainy. Then he described his arrival at the school, Mr. Grindle's care of him, Mr. Goodkind's welcome, Mrs. Brasier's habit of setting fire to herself, and wrote of Mansworth, and the fortunate manner in which Oscar's comic had paid for his popularity. Finally, he dismissed Audrey's concerns, vowing that he would never miss her on any street, and that he couldn't wait to see her again.
When Audrey replied, she promised to ask Oscar to send more comics and advised Tom to beware of Mansworth. “I have the worst feeling about your self-appointed friend,” she warned him.
THE NEW BOY
THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS LASTED TWO WEEKS, AND A NUMBER OF boys left to join their families, perhaps merely to avoid the dark dish Mrs. Brasier called “festive pudding”—a brown hash of pot scrapings sweetened with treacle that was served but eaten by only a few hardy souls. Of the boys who remained at Hammer Hall, many received packages from home. Mansworth and Privot distributed the boxes with mock generosity; the seals were broken, the contents ransacked.
“Winesap, only a pair of socks for you; Lopping, more handkerchiefs. Use them this time,” said Privot.
“Where's my Christmas toffee?” protested Cooper, as he turned his box upside down.
Mansworth patted his pocket. “Delivery tax, Cooper.”
Tom received nothing from his father, but Mr. Shears sent him a note enclosing two shillings. The money, of course, was missing when Mansworth handed him the opened letter. On New Year's Day, however, Mr. Grindle presented Tom with a palm-size package wrapped in brown paper and sealed with string and red wax. “It fell out of the masters' mail yesterday,” he explained.
Tom cut the string with one of Mrs. Brasier's kitchen knives. Inside he found a lozenge tin with a note from Audrey. “Dear Tom,” it read, “Happy Christmas!” He kept the tin concealed in his pocket all day, and only when the lights were out in the attic, and his blankets covered him, did he open it and devour the crumbled lemon tart within.
IT WASN'T UNTIL a new pupil arrived that Tom realized how easy his entry to Hammer Hall had been. The boy was assigned the cot on Privot's side of the room, directly facing Tom's. He received his first punch—this was the way Privot greeted everybody—in the hall and promptly fell flat on his back.
Privot helped the boy up and dusted off his clothes, shaking him until he protested. “Let go of me!” he shouted. “I won't be touched!”
Challenged, Privot extended a finger provocatively and poked the boy in the eye. The newcomer slapped Privot's cheek, and Privot's boys gasped in anticipation of their chieftain's reaction. Privot shrank before the new boy in mock despair. “I'm hurt, lads! Someb'dy get me to hospital!”
The ensuing laughter only made the new boy angry. “Quiet!”
“Simmer down,” Privot laughed. “What's your name then?”
“Arthur Pigeon!”
“Have you any sweets, Pigeon?”
“No!”
“Comics? Money?”
Since Pigeon's replies were disappointing, Privot went on his way, and Pigeon brushed himself down. Eventually he noticed Tom's fascination. Arthur Pigeon's skin was very white, and his face was disproportionately long, resembling that of a stained-glass apostle, or even one of Todderman's more pious figurines. His most distinctive feature was his hair, which bore a resemblance to Mansworth's in that it was long, and sprang from his temples like a cocker spaniel's ears. “What do you want?” he snapped.
Tom said nothing and continued on his way, though he silently thanked Oscar Limpkin for the Ally Sloper comic.
IT TOOK THE OTHER boys only a day to size up Arthur Pigeon. In spite of a command from Privot to eat at his table, Arthur chose the farthest point from Mrs. Brasier's kitchen (he had developed a cough from the smoke), by an open window.
In mathematics class, he compounded this error by answering three questions correctly.
Mr. Trent was visibly moved. “Pigeon,” he gasped, “it appears that God has finally answered my prayers.”
To everyone's relief, Arthur offered no expertise in science. He did, however, give genuine attention to the lesson, which prompted Privot to distract him with a pinch and a twist of the sharp end of his pen in the boy's thigh.
“Pigeon,” Privot whispered, “keep your mouth shut and stop looking interested!”
Although science was devoted to recitation of the amphibians, serious business was focused on slapping a chalk impression on the back of Mr. Barby's waistcoat. The deaf old teacher endured many hearty slaps on the back as each boy attempted to place a perfect handprint between his shoulder blades.
“Please, sir, spiffing jacket you're wearing today!”
“Eh what? Continue with your work!”
“Just a compliment, sir,” the villain said with a smile, patting the old man with a fantail of dust.
Chalky rays of light streamed from the open windows as the game progressed. Mr. Barby coughed. “Why is it so dusty?”
Eventually, Mansworth left a perfect impression and, of course, nobody dared rival his achievement. Arthur, however, couldn't let the matter rest.
“Sir, I believe you've a smudge on your back!” he cried.
The old man, bewildered, attempted to examine himself, spinning in two full circles.
“Let me, sir!” said Arthur. He rose and gave Mr. Barby a strong pat on the back, which removed the mark and provoked a thunderous glance from the dough-faced lad with the loose forelock. Though Arthur missed it, the other boys caught its meaning.
At supper they slid across the benches to fill any space when Arthur approached a table. When Mrs. Brasier burst from her smoky haven to deliver the evening stew, young Pigeon was still wandering about the room like a lost puppy
Mr. Phibbs pounded the floor with his staff, causing Arthur to jump. “Boy find a seat!”
Wary of Mansworth and Privot now, Arthur strayed about the aisles until Tom—enlightened by Mr. Grindle's stern glance—made room for him. By this time, Arthur was beyond gratitude; indignant and furious, he was silent for the meal, which provoked more whispering among the boys.
“What a cad! If Bedlam hadn't moved for him, he'd be sitting on the floor.”
“What do you say to your betters, Pigeon?”
“Swine” was Arthur's indignant reply. Then, closing his eyes, he repeated, “All of you. Swine!”
Later Mansworth took Tom aside. “Bedlam,” he said, “I don't want that one at my table again.”
“He's got to sit somewhere,” Tom replied.
“He's on Privot's side,” replied Mansworth. “He should be begging a seat from him.”
Tom nodded. “Yes, but it doesn't seem like a very decent thing to turn him away. Privot's a brute.”
“If he sits on my side, you will lose your seat, Bedlam. You invited him without asking me. You're new too, remember.”
That evening one of Mansworth's boys gave Pigeon a forward thump that sent him stumbling down the stairs. This was accompanied by profuse apologies and the assistance of several of the perpetrators in carrying him back up the stairs with exaggerated fuss and concern. This mixture of kindness and torment would have driven any boy to hysterics. Arthur Pigeon, however, bore it with stoic detachment.
TOM WASN'T SURE what to think of him. It is hard to pity a boy so oblivious to his own abuse. Tom wrote to Audrey with his impressions. She replied quickly.
My dear Tom,
It is plain to me that you are bound to this boy in some way, and whatever comes of his mistreatment by the other boys will shadow you in the future.
Tom, I implore you to stand by him in spite of his difficult nature.
Prove yourself a reliable friend, Tom. Though boys can be so cruel, they recognize good and evil. If you stand by Arthur Pigeon, your kindness will earn him respect from others. Outcasts do not reflect well upon any society.