“Better report it to Mason,” suggested Stalky. “He knows our tender consciences. Hold on a shake. I’ve got to tie my boot-lace.”
The other study hurried forward. They did not wish to be dragged into stage asides of this nature. So it was left to McTurk to sum up the situation beneath the guns of the enemy.
“You see,” said the Irishman, hanging on the banister, “he begins by bullying little chaps; then he bullies the big chaps; then he bullies some one who isn’t connected with the College, and then catches it. Serves him jolly well right... I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you were coming down the staircase.”
The black gown tore past like a thunder-storm, and in its wake, three abreast, arms linked, the Aladdin company rolled up the big corridor to prayers, singing with most innocent intention:
“Arrah, Patsy, mind the baby! Arrah, Patsy, mind the child!
Wrap him up in an overcoat, he’s surely goin’ wild!
Arrah, Patsy, mind the baby; just ye mind the child awhile!
He’ll kick an’ bite an’ cry all night! Arrah, Patsy, mind
the child!”
AN UNSAVORY INTERLUDE.
It was a maiden aunt of Stalky who sent him both books, with the inscription, “To dearest Artie, on his sixteenth birthday;” it was McTurk who ordered their hypothecation; and it was Beetle, returned from Bideford, who flung them on the window-sill of Number Five study with news that Bastable would advance but ninepence on the two; “Eric; or, Little by Little,” being almost as great a drug as “St. Winifred’s.” “An’ I don’t think much of your aunt. We’re nearly out of cartridges, too — Artie, dear.”
Whereupon Stalky rose up to grapple with him, but McTurk sat on Stalky’s head, calling him a “pure-minded boy” till peace was declared. As they were grievously in arrears with a Latin prose, as it was a blazing July afternoon, and as they ought to have been at a house cricket-match, they began to renew their acquaintance, intimate and unholy, with the volumes.
“Here we are!” said McTurk. “‘Corporal punishment produced on Eric the worst effects. He burned not with remorse or regret’ — make a note o’ that, Beetle — ’ but with shame and violent indignation. He glared’ — oh, naughty Eric! Let’s get to where he goes in for drink.”
“Hold on half a shake. Here’s another sample. ‘The Sixth,’ he says,’is the palladium of all public schools.’ But this lot — ” Stalky rapped the gilded book — ”can’t prevent fellows drinkin’ and stealin’, an’ lettin’ fags out of window at night, an’ — an’ doin’ what they please. Golly, what we’ve missed — not goin’ to St. Winifred’s!...”
“I’m sorry to see any boys of my house taking so little interest in their matches.”
Mr. Prout could move very silently if he pleased, though that is no merit in a boy’s eyes. He had flung open the study-door without knocking — another sin — and looked at them suspiciously. “Very sorry, indeed, I am to see you frowsting in your studies.”
“We’ve been out ever since dinner, sir,” said. McTurk wearily. One house-match is just like another, and their “ploy” of that week happened to be rabbit-shooting with saloon-pistols.
“I can’t see a ball when it’s coming, sir,” said Beetle. “I’ve had my gig-lamps smashed at the Nets till I got excused. I wasn’t any good even as a fag, then, sir.”
“Tuck is probably your form. Tuck and brewing. Why can’t you three take any interest in the honor of your house?”
They had heard that phrase till they were wearied. The “honor of the house” was Prout’s weak point, and they knew well how to flick him on the raw.
“If you order us to go down, sir, of course we’ll go,” said Stalky, with maddening politeness. But Prout knew better than that. He had tried the experiment once at a big match, when the three, self-isolated, stood to attention for half an hour in full view of all the visitors, to whom fags, subsidized for that end, pointed them out as victims of Prout’s tyranny. And Prout was a sensitive man.
In the infinitely petty confederacies of the Common-room, King and Macrea, fellow house-masters, had borne it in upon him that by games, and games alone, was salvation wrought. Boys neglected were boys lost. They must be disciplined. Left to himself, Prout would have made a sympathetic house-master; but he was never so left, and with the devilish insight of youth, the boys knew to whom they were indebted for his zeal.
“Must we go down, sir?’ said McTurk.
“I don’t want to order you to do what a right-thinking boy should do gladly. I’m sorry.” And he lurched out with some hazy impression that he had sown good seed on poor ground.
“Now what does he suppose is the use of that?” said Beetle.
“Oh, he’s cracked. King jaws him in Common-room about not keepin’ us up to the mark, an’ Macrea burbles about ‘dithcipline,’ an’ old Heffy sits between ‘em sweatin’ big drops. I heard Oke (the Common-room butler) talking to Richards (Prout’s house-servant) about it down in the basement the other day when I went down to bag some bread,” said Stalky.
“What did Oke say?” demanded McTurk, throwing “Eric” into a corner.
“Oh, he said, ‘They make more nise nor a nest full o’ jackdaws, an’ half of it like we’d no ears to our heads that waited on ‘em. They talks over old Prout — what he’ve done an’ left undone about his boys. An’ how their boys be fine boys, an’ his’n be dom bad.’ Well, Oke talked like that, you know, and Richards got awf’ly wrathy. He has a down on King for something or other. Wonder why?”
“Why, King talks about Prout in form-room — makes allusions, an’ all that — only half the chaps are such asses they can’t see what he’s drivin’ at. And d’you remember what he said about the ‘Casual House’ last Tuesday? He meant us. They say he says perfectly beastly things to his own house, making fun of Prout’s,” said Beetle.
“Well, we didn’t come here to mix up in their rows,” McTurk said wrathfully. “Who’ll bathe after call-over? King’s takin’ it in the cricket-field. Come on.” Turkey seized his straw and led the way.
They reached the sun-blistered pavilion over against the gray Pebbleridge just before roll-call, and, asking no questions, gathered from King’s voice and manner that his house was on the road to victory.
“Ah, ha!” said he, turning to show the light of his countenance. “Here we have the ornaments of the Casual House at last. You consider cricket beneath you, I believe “ — the crowd, flannelled, sniggered “and from what I have seen this afternoon, I fancy many others of your house hold the same view. And may I ask what you purpose to do with your noble selves till tea-time?”
“Going down to bathe, sir,” said Stalky.
“And whence this sudden zeal for cleanliness? There is nothing about you that particularly suggests it. Indeed, so far as I remember — I may be at fault — but a short time ago — ”
“Five years, sir,” said Beetle hotly.
King scowled. “One of you was that thing called a water-funk. Yes, a water-funk. So now you wish to wash? It is well. Cleanliness never injured a boy or — a house. We will proceed to business,” and he addressed himself to the call-over board.
“What the deuce did you say anything to him for, Beetle?” said McTurk angrily, as they strolled towards the big, open sea-baths.
“‘Twasn’t fair — remindin’ one of bein’ a water-funk. My first term, too. Heaps of chaps are — when they can’t swim.”
“Yes, you ass; but he saw he’d fetched you. You ought never to answer King.”
“But it wasn’t fair, Stalky.”
“My Hat! You’ve been here six years, and you expect fairness. Well, you are a dithering idiot.”
A knot of King’s boys, also bound for the baths, hailed them, beseeching them to wash — for the honor of their house.
“That’s what comes of King’s jawin’ and messin’. Those young animals wouldn’t have thought of it unless he’d put it into their heads. Now they’ll be funny about it for weeks,” said Stalky. “Don’t t
ake any notice.”
The boys came nearer, shouting an opprobrious word. At last they moved to windward, ostentatiously holding their noses.
“That’s pretty,” said Beetle. “They’ll be sayin’ our house stinks next.”
When they returned from the baths, damp-headed, languid, at peace with the world, Beetle’s forecast came only too true. They were met in the corridor by a fag — a common, Lower-Second fag — who at arm’s length handed them a carefully wrapped piece of soap “with the compliments of King’s House.”
“Hold on,” said Stalky, checking immediate attack. “Who put you up to this, Nixon? Rattray and White? (Those were two leaders in King’s house.) Thank you. There’s no answer.”
“Oh, it’s too sickening to have this kind o’ rot shoved on to a chap. What’s the sense of it? What’s the fun of it?” said McTurk.
“It will go on to the end of the term, though,” Beetle wagged his head sorrowfully. He had worn many jests threadbare on his own account.
In a few days it became an established legend of the school that Prout’s house did not wash and were therefore noisome. Mr. King was pleased to smile succulently in form when one of his boys drew aside from Beetle with certain gestures.
“There seems to be some disability attaching to you, my Beetle, or else why should Burton major withdraw, so to speak, the hem of his garments? I confess I am still in the dark. Will some one be good enough to enlighten me?”
Naturally, he was enlightened by half the form.
“Extraordinary! Most extraordinary! However, each house has its traditions, with which I would not for the world interfere. We have a prejudice in favor of washing. Go on, Beetle — from ‘jugurtha tamen’ — and, if you can, avoid the more flagrant forms of guessing.”
Prout’s house was furious because Macrea’s and Hartopp’s houses joined King’s to insult them. They called a house-meeting after dinner — an excited and angry meeting of all save the prefects, whose dignity, though they sympathized, did not allow them to attend. They read ungrammatical resolutions, and made speeches beginning, “Gentlemen, we have met on this occasion,” and ending with, “It’s a beastly shame,” precisely as houses have done since time and schools began.
Number Five study attended, with its usual air of bland patronage. At last McTurk, of the lanthorn jaws, delivered himself:
“You jabber and jaw and burble, and that’s about all you can do. What’s the good of it? King’s house’ll only gloat because they’ve drawn you, and King will gloat, too. Besides, that resolution of Orrin’s is chock-full of bad grammar, and King’ll gloat over that.”
“I thought you an’ Beetle would put it right, an’ — an’ we’d post it in the corridor,” said the composer meekly.
“Par si je le connai. I’m not goin’ to meddle with the biznai,” said Beetle. “It’s a gloat for King’s house. Turkey’s quite right.”
“Well, won’t Stalky, then?”
But Stalky puffed out his cheeks and squinted down his nose in the style of Panurge, and all he said was, “Oh, you abject burblers!”
“You’re three beastly scabs!” was the instant retort of the democracy, and they went out amid execrations.
“This is piffling,” said McTurk. “Let’s get our sallies, and go and shoot bunnies.”
Three saloon-pistols, with a supply of bulleted breech-caps, were stored in Stalky’s trunk, and this trunk was in their dormitory, and their dormitory was a three-bed attic one, opening out of a ten-bed establishment, which, in turn, communicated with the great range of dormitories that ran practically from one end of the College to the other. Macrea’s house lay next to Prout’s, King’s next to Macrea’s, and Hartopp’s beyond that again. Carefully locked doors divided house from house, but each house, in its internal arrangements — the College had originally been a terrace of twelve large houses — was a replica of the next; one straight roof covering all.
They found Stalky’s bed drawn out from the wall to the left of the dormer window, and the latter end of Richards protruding from a two-foot-square cupboard in the wall.
“What’s all this? I’ve never noticed it before. What are you tryin’ to do, Fatty?”
“Fillin’ basins, Muster Corkran.” Richards’s voice was hollow and muffled. “They’ve been savin’ me trouble. Yiss.”
“‘Looks like it,” said McTurk. “Hi! You’ll stick if you don’t take care.”
Richards backed puffing.
“I can’t rache un. Yiss, ‘tess a turncock, Muster McTurk. They’ve took an’ runned all the watter-pipes a storey higher in the houses — runned ‘em all along under the ‘ang of the heaves, like. Runned ‘em in last holidays. I can’t rache the turncock.”
“Let me try,” said Stalky, diving into the aperture.
“Slip ‘ee to the left, then, Muster Corkran. Slip ‘ee to the left, an’ feel in the dark.”
To the left Stalky wriggled, and saw a long line of lead pipe disappearing up a triangular tunnel, whose roof was the rafters and boarding of the college roof, whose floor was sharp-edged joists, and whose side was the rough studding of the lath and plaster wall under the dormer.
“Rummy show. How far does it go?”
“Right along, Muster Corkran — right along from end to end. Her runs under the ‘ang of the heaves. Have ‘ee rached the stopcock yet? Mr. King got un put in to save us carryin’ watter from down-stairs to fill the basins. No place for a lusty man like old Richards. I’m tu thickabout to go ferritin’. Thank ‘ee, Muster Corkran.”
The water squirted through the tap just inside the cupboard, and, having filled the basins, the grateful Richards waddled away.
The boys sat round-eyed on their beds considering the possibilities of this trove. Two floors below them they could hear the hum of the angry house; for nothing is so still as a dormitory in mid-afternoon of a midsummer term.
“It has been papered over till now.” McTurk examined the little door. “If we’d only known before!”
“I vote we go down and explore. No one will come up this time o’ day. We needn’t keep cave’.”
They crawled in, Stalky leading, drew the door behind them, and on all fours embarked on a dark and dirty road full of plaster, odd shavings, and all the raffle that builders leave in the waste room of a house. The passage was perhaps three feet wide, and, except for the struggling light round the edges of the cupboards (there was one to each dormer), almost pitchy dark.
“Here’s Macrea’s house,” said Stalky, his eye at the crack of the third cupboard. “I can see Barnes’s name on his trunk. Don’t make such a row, Beetle! We can get right to the end of the Coll. Come on!... We’re in King’s house now — I can see a bit of Rattray’s trunk. How these beastly boards hurt one’s knees!” They heard his nails scraping, on plaster.
“That’s the ceiling below. Look out! If we smashed that the plaster ‘ud fall down in the lower dormitory,” said Beetle.
“Let’s,” whispered McTurk.
“An’ be collared first thing? Not much. Why, I can shove my hand ever so far up between these boards.”
Stalky thrust an arm to the elbow between the joists.
“No good stayin’ here. I vote we go back and talk it over. It’s a crummy place. ‘Must say I’m grateful to King for his water-works.”
They crawled out, brushed one another clean, slid the saloon-pistols down a trouser-leg, and hurried forth to a deep and solitary Devonshire lane in whose flanks a boy might sometimes slay a young rabbit. They threw themselves down under the rank elder bushes, and began to think aloud.
“You know,” said Stalky at last, sighting at a distant sparrow, “we could hide our sallies in there like anything.”
“Huh!” Beetle snorted, choked, and gurgled. He had been silent since they left the dormitory. “Did you ever read a book called ‘The History of a House’ or something? I got it out of the library the other day. A French woman wrote it — Violet somebody. But it’s translated, you know; and it’s v
ery interestin’. Tells you how a house is built.”
“Well, if you’re in a sweat to find out that, you can go down to the new cottages they’re building for the coastguard.”
“My Hat! I will.” He felt in his pockets. “Give me tuppence, some one.”
“Rot! Stay here, and don’t mess about in the sun.”
“Gi’ me tuppence.”
“I say, Beetle, you aren’t stuffy about anything, are you?” said McTurk, handing over the coppers. His tone was serious, for though Stalky often, and McTurk occasionally, manoeuvred on his own account, Beetle had never been known to do so in all the history of the confederacy.
“No, I’m not. I’m thinking.”
“Well, we’ll come, too,” said Stalky, with a general’s suspicion of his aides.
“Don’t want you.”
“Oh, leave him alone. He’s been taken worse with a poem,” said McTurk. “He’ll go burbling down to the Pebbleridge and spit it all up in the study when he comes back.”
“Then why did he want the tuppence, Turkey? He’s gettin’ too beastly independent. Hi! There’s a bunny. No, it ain’t. It’s a cat, by Jove! You plug first.”
Twenty minutes later a boy with a straw hat at the back of his head, and his hands in his pockets, was staring at workmen as they moved about a half-finished cottage. He produced some ferocious tobacco, and was passed from the forecourt into the interior, where he asked many questions.
“Well, let’s have your beastly epic,” said Turkey, as they burst into the study, to find Beetle deep in Viollet-le-Duc and some drawings. “We’ve had no end of a lark.”
“Epic? What epic? I’ve been down to the coastguard.”
“No epic? Then we will slay you, O Beetle,” said Stalky, moving to the attack. “You’ve got something up your sleeve. I know, when you talk in that tone!”
“Your Uncle Beetle” — with an attempt to imitate Stalky’s war-voice — ”is a great man.”
“Oh, no; he jolly well isn’t anything of the kind. You deceive yourself, Beetle. Scrag him, Turkey!”
“A great man,” Beetle gurgled from the floor. “You are futile — look out for my tie! — futile burblers. I am the Great Man. I gloat. Ouch! Hear me!”
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 339