As it was, he almost ran over him before he perceived who it was. For Riddell just at that moment had halted in his walk, and stooped to pick up a book that lay on the path.
However, when Wyndham saw who it was, he swerved hurriedly in another direction, and got to his destination by a roundabout way, feeling as he reached it about as miserable and hopeless as it was possible for a boy to be.
Chapter Twenty Nine
A Select Party at the Doctor’s
Young Wyndham, had he only known what was in the captain’s mind as he walked that afternoon across the Big, would probably have thought twice before he went such a long way round to avoid him.
Silk’s little piece of pantomime had not had the effect the author intended. In the quick glance which Riddell had given towards the bench and its occupants he had taken in pretty accurately the real state of the case.
“Poor fellow!” said he to himself; “he’s surely in trouble enough without being laid hold of by that cad. Silk thinks I shall fancy he has captured my old favourite. Let him! But if he has captured him he doesn’t seem very sure of him, or he wouldn’t hold him down on the seat like that. I wonder what brings them together here? and I wonder if I had better go and interfere? No, I think I won’t just now.”
And so he walked on, troubled enough to be sure, but not concluding quite as much from what he saw as Wyndham feared or Silk hoped.
As he walked on fellows glared at him from a distance, and others passing closer cut him dead. A few of the most ardent Parrett’s juniors took the liberty of hissing him and one ventured to call out, pointedly, “Who cut the rudder-lines?”
Riddell, however, though he winced under these insults, took little notice of them. He was as determined as ever to wait the confirmation of his suspicions before he unmasked the culprit, and equally convinced that duty and honour both demanded that he should lose not a moment in coming to a conclusion.
It was in the midst of these reflections that the small book which Wyndham had seen him pick up caught his eye. He picked it up mechanically, and after noticing that it appeared to be a notebook, and had no owner’s name in the beginning, carried it with him, and forgot all about it till he reached his study.
Even here it was some time before it again attracted his attention, as its importance was wholly eclipsed by the contents of a note which he found lying on his table, and which ran as follows:
“Dear Riddell, — Will you join us at tea this evening at seven? I expect Fairbairn and Bloomfield.
“Yours faithfully,—
“R. Patrick.”
Riddell groaned. Had he not had trouble, and humiliation, and misery enough? What had he done to deserve this crowning torture? Tea with the Griffins!
He sat down and wrote, as in politeness bound, that he would have much pleasure in accepting the doctor’s kind invitation, and, sending the note off by Cusack, resigned himself to the awful prospect, which for a time shut out everything else.
However, he had no right, he felt, to be idle. He must finish his work now, so as to be free for the evening’s “entertainment,” and for the other equally grave duties which lay before him.
But somehow he could not work; his mind was too full to be able to settle steadily on any one thing, and finally he pushed away the books and gave up the attempt.
It was at that moment that the small black book he had found caught his eye.
He took it up, intending, if possible, to ascertain whose property it was, and, failing that, to send Cusack to “cry” it round the school.
But the first thing that met his eye on the front page roused his curiosity. It was evidently a quotation:
“Pass me not, oh! reader, by,
Read my pages tenderly (‘tenderly’ altered to ‘on the sly’);
All that’s writ is writ for thee,
Open now and you shall see.”
After such a cordial invitation, even Riddell could hardly feel much qualm about dipping farther into this mysterious manuscript.
It appeared to be a diary, which, but for the announcement at the beginning, one would have been inclined to regard as a private document. And the first entry Riddell encountered was certainly of that character:
“Friday, the fifth day of the week. — My birthday. Rose at 6:59½. I am old. I am 24 (and ten off) some one had taken my soap. Meditations As I dressed me. The world is very large I am small in the world I will aspire as I go to chapel I view Riddell who toucheth his hat. Gross conduct of my father sending me only half a crown breakfast at 7:33. Disturbance with the evil Telson whereby I obtained lines.”
This was quite enough for one day, and Riddell, greatly mystified, turned a few pages farther on to see if the narrative became more lucid as it progressed.
“I am now a skyrocket. Meditations on being a skyrocket. The world is very large, etcetera. Gross meeting of Parliament Riddell the little captain sitteth on his seat. I made a noble speech gross conduct of Parson, who is kicked out. Eloquence of Bloomfield who crieth Order under the form I see Telson hanging on. I hang too and am removed speaking nobly. Large tea at Parson’s the cake being beastly. Riddell it seems hath cut the rudder-lines. I indignate and cut him with a razor I remove two corns from my nether foot.”
More in this strain followed, and lower down the diary proceeded:
“Wyndham the junior thinketh much of himself he is ugly in the face and in the second-eleven. I have writ a poem on Wyndham.
“‘I do not like thee, Dr Fell (altered to “Wyndham junior”)
The reason why I cannot tell (altered to “say”);
But this I know, and know full well (altered to “ill”)
I do not like thee, Dr Fell (altered to “Wyndham junior”).”
“I over hear much of Wyndham the gross Telson and the evil Parson not knowing I am by the little boys say they have seen the ugly Wyndham come from Beamish’s. Oh evil Wyndham being taken by Silk and Gilks. No one knows and Wyndham is to be expelled. I joy much Riddell knoweth it. Telson telleth Parson that Riddell is gross expelling for Beamish’s and Wyndham weepeth in private. I smile at the practice Mr Parrett bowleth me balls. I taketh them and am out.”
If Bosher could have seen the effect of this elegant extract upon the captain he would probably have “joyed” with infinite self-satisfaction. Riddell’s colour changed as he read and re-read and re-read again these few lines of idiotic jargon.
He lay down the book half a dozen times, and as often took it up again, and scrutinised the entry, and as he did so quick looks of perplexity, or joy, or shame, even of humour, chased one another across his face.
The truth with all its new meaning slowly dawned upon him. It had been reserved to Bosher’s diary, of all agencies in the world, to explain everything, and cast a flood of light upon what had hitherto been incomprehensible!
Of course he could see it all now. If this diary was to be believed — but was it? Might it not be a hoax purposely put in his way to delude him?
Yet he could not believe that this laboriously written record could have been compiled for his sole benefit; and this one entry which he had lit upon by mere chance was only one of hundreds of stupid, absurd entries, most of which meant nothing at all, and which seemed more like the symptoms of a disease than the healthy productions of a sane boy.
In this one case, however, there seemed to be some method in the author’s madness, and he had given a clue so important that Riddell, in pondering over it that evening and calculating its true value, was very nearly being late for the doctor’s tea at seven o’clock.
However, he came to himself just in time to decorate his person, and hurry across the quadrangle before the clock struck.
On his way over he met Parson and Telson, walking arm-in-arm. Although the same spectacle had met his eyes on an average twice every day that term, and was about the commonest “show” in Willoughby, the sight of the faithful pair at this particular time when the revelations of Bosher’s diary were tingling in his ears impressed the captain
. Indeed, it impressed him so much that, at the imminent risk of being late for the doctor’s tea, he pulled up to speak to them.
Parson, as became a loyal Parrett, made as though he would pass on, but Telson held him back.
“I say, you two,” said Riddell, “will you come to breakfast with me to-morrow morning after chapel?”
And without so much as waiting for a reply, he bolted off, leaving his two would-be guests a trifle concerned as to his sanity.
The clock was beginning to strike as Riddell knocked at the doctor’s door, and began at length to realise what he was in for.
He did not know whether to be thankful or not that Bloomfield and Fairbairn would be there to share his misery. They would be but two extra witnesses to his sufferings, and their tribulations were hardly likely to relieve his.
However, there was one comfort. He might have a chance before the evening was over of telling Bloomfield that he now had every reason to believe his suspicions about the culprit had been wrong.
How thankful he was he had held out against the temptation to name poor Wyndham two days ago!
“Well, Riddell, how are you?” said the doctor, in his usual genial fashion. “I think you have met these ladies before. Mr Riddell — my dear — Miss Stringer. These gentlemen you have probably seen before also. Ha! ha!”
Riddell saluted the ladies very much as he would have saluted two mad dogs, and nodded the usual Willoughby nod to his two fellow-monitors, who having already got over the introductions had retreated to a safe distance.
A common suffering is the surest bond of sympathy, and Riddell positively beamed on his rival in recognition of his salute.
“I trust your mother,” said Mrs Patrick, “whose indisposition we were regretting on the last occasion when you were here, is now better?”
“Very well indeed, I hope,” replied the captain, hardly knowing what he said. “Thank you.”
“And I trust, Mr Riddell,” chimed in Miss Stringer, “that you were gratified by the result of the election.”
“No, thank you,” replied Riddell, beginning to shake in his shoes.
“Indeed? If I remember right you professed yourself to be a Liberal?”
“Yes — that is — the Radical got in,” faltered Riddell, wondering why in common charity no one came to his rescue.
“And pray, Mr Riddell,” continued Miss Stringer, ruthlessly, “can you tell us the difference between a Liberal and a Radical? I have often longed to know — and you I have no doubt are an authority?”
Riddell at this point seriously meditated a forced retreat, and there is no saying what desperate act he might have committed had not the doctor providentially come to the rescue.
“The election altogether,” said he, laughing, “is rather a sore point in the school. I told you, my dear, about the manner in which Mr Cheeseman’s letter was received?”
“You did,” replied Mrs Patrick, who for some few moments had had her eyes upon Bloomfield, with a view to draw him out.
“Now do you really suppose, Mr Bloomfield, that the boys in your house, for instance, attached any true importance at all to the issue of the contest?”
Bloomfield, who had not been aware till this question was half over that it had been addressed to him, started and said — the most fatal observation he could have made—
“Eh? I beg your pardon, that is.”
“I inquired,” said Mrs Patrick, fixing him with her eye, “whether you really supposed that the boys in your house, for instance, attached any true importance at all to the issue of the contest?”
Bloomfield received this ponderous question meekly, and made a feeble effort to turn it over in his mind, and then dreading to hear it repeated once more, answered, “Oh, decidedly, ma’am.”
“In what respect?” inquired the lady, settling herself down on the settee, and awaiting, with raised eyebrows, her victim’s answer.
Poor Bloomfield was no match for this deliberate style of tactics.
“They were all yellow,” he replied, feebly.
“All what, sir?” demanded Mrs Patrick.
“All Whig, I mean,” he said.
“Exactly. What I mean to know is, do they any of them appreciate the distinction between a Whig (or, as Mr Riddell terms it, a Liberal)—”
Riddell winced.
”—Between a Whig and a Radical?”
“Oh, certainly not,” replied Bloomfield, wildly. “And yet you say that they decidedly attached a true importance to the issue of the contest? That is very extraordinary!”
And Mrs Patrick rose majestically to take her seat at the table, leaving Bloomfield writhing and turned mentally inside out, to recover as best he could from this interesting political discussion!
“The Rockshire match was a great triumph,” said the doctor, cheerily, as the company established itself at the festive board—“and a surprise too, surely — was it not?”
“Yes, sir,” said Fairbairn, who, seeing that Bloomfield was not yet in a condition to discourse, felt it incumbent on him to reply—“we never expected to win by so much.”
“It was quite an event,” said the doctor, “the heads of the three houses all playing together in the same eleven.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Fairbairn, “Bloomfield here was most impartial.”
Bloomfield said something which sounded like “Not at all.”
“I was especially glad to see the Welchers coming out again,” said the doctor, with a friendly nod to Riddell.
“Yes,” said Fairbairn, who appeared to be alarmingly at his ease; “and Welch’s did good service too; that catch of Riddell’s saved us a wicket or two, didn’t it, Bloomfield?”
“Yes,” replied Bloomfield.
“Was Rockshire a specially weak team this year?” asked the doctor.
“I don’t think so, sir,” replied Fairbairn, politely handing the toast to Miss Stringer as he spoke; “but they evidently weren’t so well together as our men.”
“And what, Mr Fairbairn,” asked Miss Stringer at this point, in her most stately tones—“what, pray, is the exact meaning of the expression ‘well together,’ as applied to a company of youths?”
Bloomfield and Riddell groaned inwardly for their comrade. They had seen what was coming, and had marked his rash approach to the mouth of the volcano with growing apprehension. They had been helpless to hold him back, and now his turn was come — he had met his fate.
So, at least, they imagined. What, then, was their amazement when he turned not a hair at the question, but replied, stirring his tea complacently as he did so, “You see, each of the Rockshire men may have been a good cricketer, and yet if they had not been used to playing together, as our fellows have been, we should have a decided pull on them.”
Miss Stringer regarded the speaker critically. She had not been used to have her problems so readily answered, and appeared to discover a suspicion of rudeness in the boy’s speech which called for a set-down.
“I do not understand what you mean by a ‘pull,’ Mr Fairbairn,” said she, sternly.
“Why,” replied Fairbairn, who was really interested in the subject, and quite pleased to be drawn out on so congenial a topic, “it’s almost as important to get to know the play of your own men as to know the play of your opponents. For instance, when we all know Bloomfield’s balls break a bit to the off, we generally know whereabouts in the field to expect them if they are taken; and when Porter goes on with slows every one knows to stand in close and look out for catches.”
“Yes,” said Bloomfield, gaining sudden courage by the example of his comrade, “that’s just where Rockshire were weak. They were always shifting about their field and bowlers. I’m certain they had scarcely played together once.”
“And,” added Riddell, also taking heart of grace, and entering into the humour of the situation—“and they seemed to save up their good bowlers for the end, instead of beginning with them. All our hitting men got the easy bowling, and the others, who wer
e never expected to score in any case, were put out by the good.”
“In this respect, you see,” continued Fairbairn, addressing Miss Stringer, “a school eleven always get the pull of a scratch team.”
Miss Stringer, who during this conversation had been growing manifestly uncomfortable, vouchsafed no reply, but, turning to her sister, said, with marked formality, “My dear, were the Browns at home when you called this afternoon?”
“I regret to say they were out,” replied Mrs Patrick, with a withering glance round the table.
“Of course, it depends, too,” said Bloomfield, replying to Fairbairn’s last question and giving him an imperceptible sly kick under the table, “on whether it’s early or late in the season. If we were to play them in August they would know their own play as well as we know ours.”
“Only,” chimed in Riddell, “these county teams don’t stick to the same elevens as regularly as a school does.”
“My dear, have you done your tea?” inquired Mrs Patrick’s voice across the table.
“Yes. Shall I ring?” said the doctor.
“Allow me,” said Fairbairn, rising hastily, and nearly knocking over Miss Stringer in his eagerness.
The spinster, who had already received in her own opinion sufficient affront for one evening, put the worst construction possible on this accident, and answered with evident ill-temper, “You are very clumsy, sir!”
“I beg your pardon, indeed!” said Fairbairn. “I hope you are not hurt?”
“Be silent, sir!”
Fairbairn, quite taken aback by this unexpected exclamation, did not know what to say, and looked round inquiringly at the doctor, as much as to ask if the lady was often taken this way.
The doctor, however, volunteered no explanation, but looked uncomfortable and coughed.
“If you will excuse me,” said Miss Stringer to her sister, with a forced severity of tone, “I will go to my room.”
“You are not well, I fear,” said Mrs Patrick. “I will go with you”; and next moment the enemy was gone, and the doctor and his boys were together.
The Willoughby Captains Page 32