The Willoughby Captains

by Talbot Baines Reed

  It was quite evident that the majority of the boys were at a loss how to take this strange and unexpected announcement. True, they hated the Radicals, but they also hated impositions and detention, and the probability is that, if left to themselves, they would quietly have availed themselves of Mr Cheeseman’s clemency.

  But to the small band of hot-headed enthusiasts the very notion of being under an obligation to the Radical was repulsive. They could scarcely wait till the doctor had departed before they vehemently denounced the idea.

  “Well,” said Merrison, “if that’s not what you call adding insult to injury, I don’t know what you do! I know I mean to write every letter of my impot if it was a thousand lines instead of a hundred!”

  “So shall I; and I’ll not stir out of doors all Wednesday afternoon either,” said another.

  “Of course not; no honourable fellow would.”

  “I suppose he thinks he’s going to bribe us, the cad. Perhaps he hopes we’ll give him a leg-up next election?”

  “I vote we put on a spurt with the impots and get them all done together,” said another. “Paddy shall see which way we go, at any rate.”

  And so, sorely to the disappointment of some of the juniors, who had been rejoicing prematurely in the removal of their penalties, the order went round in all the houses that every boy was expected in honour to finish his imposition by next day, and also to remain in on Wednesday afternoon, as a protest against “Radical cheek,” and this was an appeal no loyal Whig could resist.

  It was at least an unusual spectacle in Willoughby to see nearly the whole school insisting on performing a task which no one required of them; each boy not only doing it himself, but seeing that his neighbour did it too!

  Several of the small boys and a few lazy seniors protested, but they were coerced with most terrific threats.

  The Wednesday half-holiday was spent in determined seclusion, scarcely a boy showing his face in the playground. Even those who had not broken bounds on election-day, and who, therefore, in no case came under the penalty, felt quite out of it, and half ashamed of themselves in the presence of this general burst of political devotion; and it was rumoured that one or two of the weakest-minded of these actually stayed in and wrote out the imposition too!

  The following morning was an impressive one in the annals of Willoughby. The doctor, as he stood in the Great Hall speaking to Mr Parrett after morning prayers, was, much to his amazement, waylaid by the school in a body. Every boy carried in his hand a sheet of paper, and wore on his face a most self-satisfied expression.

  “What is all this?” inquired the doctor, sharply, a little bit frightened, perhaps, at this sudden and mysterious invasion of his privacy.

  Merrison was pushed forward by the crowd, and advancing paper in hand, replied for the company generally.

  “Please, sir,” said he, “we’ve brought the impositions.”

  “Eh?” said the doctor.

  “The impositions, sir. We didn’t want to be let off, so we stayed in yesterday afternoon, all of us, and wrote them.”

  From the tones in which Merrison uttered this explanation one might have supposed he expected the doctor to fall on his neck and shed tears of joy over the lofty virtue of his pupils.

  Dr Patrick was quick enough to take in the state of affairs at once, and was wise enough to make the best of the situation.

  “Ah,” said he, coolly, taking Morrison’s proffered imposition and glancing his eyes down it. “I am glad to see you desire to make amends for what occurred on Saturday. You can leave the impositions on this table.”

  “Please, sir, it’s not that,” said Merrison, hurriedly, alarmed at being suspected of anything like contrition. “It’s not that; we—”

  “You can leave the impositions on the table,” said the doctor, sternly, turning at the same time to continue his conversation with Mr Parrett, which the arrival of the visitors had interrupted.

  It was a sad blow for Willoughby, this! They had expected better things. They had meant their act of self-devotion to be a crushing defiance to the Radical, and even a mild rebuke to the doctor himself. But it had turned out neither.

  Slowly and sorrowfully they filed past the table and laid their sacrifices thereon, and then departed, dejected and crestfallen. The doctor, with his back turned, never noticed them, and no one had the hardihood to attempt further to attract his attention.

  So ended the election episode at Willoughby.

  “I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves,” said Crossfield to Tedbury the Limpet, that afternoon. “Jolly time you’ve had of it.”

  “It’s all that young ass Morrison’s doing,” growled Tedbury.

  “Never mind,” said Crossfield, laughing; “I’m sure it’s done you all good. You all wanted something of the sort, and you’ll be better of it.”

  “You’re always trying to make a fool of me, Crossfield,” said Tedbury, wrathfully.

  “My dear fellow, there’s not much chance of that. You are far too good a hand at making a fool of yourself to put any one else to the trouble. Ta, ta. Shall you be down at the cricket practice again now?”

  This last was a pertinent question. For in the midst of all the late political excitement cricket had decidedly languished at the school, and the Rockshire match as well as the house matches were getting alarmingly near.

  However, on the first afternoon after Willoughby had returned to its senses a general rush took place once more to the Big, and it was evident during the week which followed that the fellows intended to make up for lost time.

  Nowhere was this activity more observed than in the newly-revived Welchers’ club, presided over by the captain, and enlivened by the countenances of that ardent trio, Cusack, Pilbury, and Philpot.

  During the week preceding the election they had worked with unabated enthusiasm. You might have seen practice going on any morning at half-past six in the Welchers’ corner of the Big. The other houses at first regarded it as a good joke, and the earliest practices of the new club were usually performed in the presence of a large and facetious audience, who appeared to derive infinite delight from every ball that was bowled and every run that was made. But the Welchers were not to be snuffed out. Riddell watched over the fortunes of the new club with most paternal interest, losing no opportunity of firing its enthusiasm, and throwing himself heart and soul into its work. Indeed, as a cricketer the captain came out in quite a new light, which astonished even himself.

  He had always taken for granted he was utterly incapable of any athletic achievement, but, with the steady practice now entailed upon him, it began to dawn, not only upon himself, but other people, that as a fielder — at slip or cover-slip — he was decidedly useful, while as a batsman he exhibited a certain style of his own that usually brought together a few runs for his side.

  But even his own success was less than that of the club generally. Every member of that small fraternity was intent on the glory of the club, and worked hammer and tongs to secure it. Mr Parrett, kindly jack-of-all-trades as he was, was easily persuaded by Riddell to come down occasionally and bowl them a few balls, and give them a few hints as to style generally. And every time he came down he was more encouraging. Even Bloomfield and a few of the First Eleven magnates thought it worth their while to saunter round once or twice and watch the practice of this promising club.

  It may be judged that, in proportion as the young Welchers found themselves succeeding, their enthusiasm for their club and its president increased. The club grew daily. Some Limpets joined it, and even a few seniors. There was some talk of a first eleven to play in the house matches, while by this time the second-eleven was an accomplished fact, its members thirsting for the day when they should match their prowess against the Parretts or schoolhouse juniors.

  The election, as I have said, had rudely interrupted all this healthy preparation, and for a moment it seemed to Riddell as if all his new hold on his boys had disappeared. But that event once over, great was his relie
f to find that they returned to the sport with unabated and even increased ardour.

  That week Welch’s had out for the first time two sets of wickets, and even thus could hardly keep going all who wanted to play.

  “I tell you what,” said Bloomfield, one afternoon, as, with his friend Ashley, he was quietly looking on, while pretending not to do so, “say what you will, Riddell doesn’t do badly at slip. Watch this over.”

  As it happened, Mr Parrett was bowling down some rather swift balls to the boy who was batting, with a little break from the off, which the batsman seemed unable to play in any manner but by sending them among the slips. So that, during the over, Riddell, blissfully unconscious of the critical eyes that were upon him, had a busy time of it. And so well did he pick the balls up that the two spies stayed to watch another over, and after that another, at the close of which Bloomfield said, “Upon my word, it’s not half bad. And a slip’s the very man we want to make up the eleven for Rockshire.”

  “My dear fellow,” said Ashley, in tones almost of alarm, “you’re surely not thinking of putting a fellow like that into the eleven.”

  “I don’t care much who goes in so long as he can play,” said Bloomfield.

  “But fancy the fellow’s bumptiousness if he gets stuck into the team! He’s bad enough as it is,” said Ashley.

  “We’ve got the schoolhouse fellows to look at,” said Bloomfield, “come along. If they’ve any one better we’ll take him, but we must get hold of the best man.”

  So off they went, and the Welchers’ practice continued gaily till the bell for call-over sounded.

  “Riddell,” said Cusack, who had become captain’s fag since the migration to Welch’s, “there’s a letter for you.”

  “Where?” asked the captain.

  “On your table. I saw it there when I was sticking away your pens just now.”

  “You may as well bring it,” said Riddell; “I am going to the library.”

  So Cusack went off, and presently reappeared in the library with the letter.

  Riddell was busy at the moment searching through the catalogue, and consequently let the letter lie unopened for some little time beside him. In due time, however, he turned and took it up.

  It was a strangely directed letter, at any rate — not in ordinary handwriting, but in printed characters, evidently to disguise the authorship.

  Riddell hastily tore open the envelope of this mysterious missive and read the contents, which were also written like printing, in characters quite unrecognisable.

  The letter was as follows:

  “Riddel, — If you want to get to the bottom of that boat-race affair, you had better see what Tom the boat-boy has to say. That’s all.”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Tom the Boat-boy earns four-and-sixpence

  Riddell, as he read over and over again the mysterious document in his hand, hardly knew what to make of it.

  It looked like a clue, certainly. But who had sent it? Was it a friend or an enemy; and if the latter, might it not just as likely be a hoax as not?

  He examined the disguised writing letter for letter, but failed to recognise in it the hand of any one he knew. He called back Cusack and cross-examined him as to how and when the letter was brought to his study; but Cusack could tell him nothing. All he knew was that when he went in to look after Riddell’s tea that afternoon, it was lying there on the table. He couldn’t say how long it had been there. He hadn’t been in the room since dinner, nor had Riddell.

  Cusack was very curious to know what the letter was about concerning which the captain seemed so much excited; but Riddell declined to gratify him on this point, and put the paper away in his pocket and returned to his work.

  “No,” said he to himself, “if it’s a hoax there’s no object in making it public property, and still less reason if there’s anything in it.”

  Of one thing he was determined — he must go down to-morrow morning and have an interview with Tom the boat-boy. The thing might all be a hoax, but if there was the remotest chance of its being otherwise it was clearly his duty to do what he could to find out the miscreant who had brought such disgrace upon Willoughby. So he spent a somewhat uneasy evening, and even appeared absent-minded when young Wyndham, now a constant visitor to his study, paid his usual evening call.

  “I say,” said the boy, with beaming face, as he entered, “isn’t it prime, Riddell? Bloomfield’s going to try me in the second-eleven, he says. You know I’ve been grinding at cricket like a horse lately, and he came down and watched me this afternoon, and I was in, and made no end of a lucky score off Dobson’s bowling. And then Bloomfield said he’d bowl me an over. My eye! what a funk I was in. I could hardly hold the bat. But I straightened up somehow, and his first ball went by. The next was frightfully swift, and dead on, but it broke a bit to the leg, and I was just in time to get at it and send it right away between long-leg and long-stop in the elms — a safe five if we’d been running. And old Bloomfield laughed and said he couldn’t wait till the ball was sent up, and said I could turn up at the second-eleven Big practice to-morrow and see how I got on there. I say, isn’t it prime, Riddell? I tell you, I shall stand on my head if I get into the team.”

  Riddell had only partially heard this jubilant speech, for at that moment Tom the boat-boy was more in his thoughts even than Wyndham the Limpet. However, he had heard enough to gather from it that his young protégé was in a vast state of joy and content, and as usual he was ready with any amount of sympathy.

  “It will be splendid if you do get in,” said he.

  “Yes. They’ve only got eight places actually fixed, I hear, so I’ve three chances. I say, Riddell, I like Bloomfield, do you know? I think he’s an awfully good captain.”

  Riddell could not help smiling at this artless outburst from the young candidate for cricket honours, and replied, “I like him too, for he came and watched our practice too, here at Welch’s.”

  “Did he bowl you any balls?” demanded Wyndham.

  “No, happily,” said Riddell; “but some one told me he told somebody else that I might possibly squeeze into the eleven against Rockshire if I practised hard.”

  “What!” exclaimed Wyndham, in most uncomplimentary astonishment. “You in the first eleven! I say, it must be a mistake.”

  “I’m afraid they’ll think it a mistake,” said Riddell, laughing; “but I certainly have heard something of the sort.”

  “Why, you usen’t to play at all in our house,” said Wyndham.

  “No more I did; but since I came here I’ve been going in for it rather more, though I never dreamt of such rapid promotion.”

  “Well,” said Wyndham, quite patronisingly, “I’m jolly glad to hear it; but I wish you were in the schoolhouse instead of Welch’s. By the way, how are the ‘kids’ in your house getting on?”

  “The ‘kids’ are getting on very well, I fancy,” said the captain. “They’ve a match with the Parrett’s juniors fixed already, and mean to challenge the schoolhouse too, I fancy.”

  “I say, that’s coming it rather strong,” said Wyndham, half incredulously.

  “It’s a fact, though,” said Riddell, “and what’s more, I have it on Parrett’s authority that they are getting to play very well together, and any eleven that plays them will have to look out for itself if it is to beat them.”

  “Ho, ho! I guess our fellows will be able to manage that. Of course, you know, if I’m in the second-eleven, I shan’t be able to play with my house juniors.”

  “That will be a calamity!” said Riddell, laughing, as he began to get out his books and settle himself for the evening’s work.

  Despite all the boy’s juvenile conceit and self-assurance, Riddell rejoiced to find him grown enthusiastic about anything so harmless as cricket. Wyndham had been working hard the last week or so in a double sense — working hard not only at cricket, but in striving to act up to the better resolutions which, with Riddell’s help, he had formed. And he had succe
eded so far in both. Indeed, the cricket had helped the good resolutions, and the good resolutions had helped the cricket. As long as every spare moment was occupied with his congenial sport, and a place in the second-eleven was a prize within reach, he had neither time nor inclination to fall back on the society of Silk or Gilks, or any of their set. And as long as the good resolutions continued to fire his breast, he was only too glad to find refuge from temptation in the steady pursuit of so honourable an ambition as cricket.

  He was, if truth must be told, more enthusiastic about his cricket than about his studies, and that evening it was a good while before Wyndham could get his mind detached from bats and balls and concentrated on Livy.

  Riddell himself, too, found work more than ordinarily difficult that night, but his thoughts were wandering on far less congenial ground than cricket.

  Supposing that letter did mean something, how ought he to act? It was no pleasant responsibility to have thrown on his shoulders the duty of bringing a criminal to justice, and possibly of being the means of his expulsion. And yet the honour of Willoughby was at stake, and no squeamishness ought to interfere with that. He wished, true or untrue, that the wretched letter had been left anywhere but in his study.

  “I say,” said young Wyndham, after about an hour’s spell of work, and strangely enough starting the very topic with which Riddell’s mind was full—“I say, I think that boat-race business is blowing over, do you know? You don’t hear nearly so much about it now.”

  “The thing is, ought it to blow over?” said the captain, gravely.

  “Why, of course! Besides, after all it may have been an accident. I broke a bit of cord the other day, and it looked just as if it had been partly cut through. Anyhow, it’s just as much the Parretts business as ours, and they aren’t doing anything, I know.”