It offended him not at all to hear this good result attributed generally to Mr Parrett’s instructions. He knew it was true. Mr Parrett himself took care to disclaim any but a small amount of merit in the matter.
“It’s a wonder to me,” said he to Fairbairn, in the hearing of a good many seniors, who were wont to treat anything he had to say on athletic matters as authoritative—“it’s a wonder to me how Riddell, who is only a moderate player himself, has turned out such a first-rate eleven. He’s about the best cricket coach we have had, and I have seen several in my time. He has worked on their enthusiasm without stint, and next best to that, he has not so much hammered into them what they ought to do, as he has hammered out of them what they ought not to do. Three fellows out of five never think of that.”
“I’m sure they don’t,” said Fairbairn.
“See how steady they were all the innings, too!” continued Mr Parrett. “Three coaches out of five wouldn’t lay that down as the first rule of cricket; but it is, especially with youngsters. Be steady first, and be expert next. That’s the right order, and Riddell has discovered it. I would even back a steady eleven of moderate players against a rickety eleven of good ones. In fact, a boy can’t be a cricketer at all, or anything else, unless he’s steady. Now, you see, unless I am mistaken, they will give quite as good an account of themselves at the wickets as they did on the field.”
And off strolled the honest Mr Parrett, bat in hand, to umpire, leaving his hearers not a little impressed with the force of his views on the first principles of cricket.
The master’s prophecy was correct. The Welchers, notwithstanding the fact that they had only twenty-five runs to get to equal their rivals’ first innings, played a steady and careful innings, in which they just trebled the Parretts’ score. The bowling against them was not strong certainly, but they took no liberties with it. Indeed, both the captain and Mr Parrett had so ruthlessly denounced and snubbed anything like “fancy hitting,” that their batting was inclined to err on the side of the over-cautious, and more runs might doubtless have been made by a little freer swing of the bats. However, the authorities were well satisfied. Cusack carried his bat for eighteen, much to his own gratification; and of his companions, Pilbury, Philpot, and Walker each made double figures.
It required all Riddell’s authority, in the face of this splendid achievement, to keep his men from jeopardising their second innings in the field by yielding prematurely to elation.
“For goodness’ sake don’t hulloa till you’re out of the wood!” he said; “they may catch up on you yet. Seventy-five isn’t such a big score after all. If you don’t look out you’ll muddle your chance away, and then how small you’ll look!”
With such advice to hold them in check, they went out as soberly as before to field, and devoted their whole energies to the task of disposing of their enemies’ wickets for the fewest possible runs.
And they succeeded quite as well as before. Indeed, the second innings of the Parretts was a feeble imitation of their first melancholy performance. Parson, King, and Wakefield were the only three who made any stand, and even they fared worse than before. All the side could put together was twenty-one runs, and about this, even, they had great trouble.
When it became known that the Welchers had won the match by an innings and twenty-nine runs, great was the amazement of all Willoughby, and greater still was the mortification of the unlucky Parretts. No more was said about the grand concert in which they intended to celebrate their triumph. They evidently felt they had not much to be proud of, and, consequently, avoiding a public entry into their house, they slunk in quietly, and, shutting out the distant sounds of revelry and rejoicing in the victorious house, mingled their tears over a sympathetic pot of tea, to which even Telson was not invited.
Chapter Thirty Two
A Climax to Everything
Among the few Willoughbites who took no interest at all in the juniors’ match was Gilks.
It was hardly to be wondered at that he, a schoolhouse boy, should not concern himself much about a contest between the fags of Welch’s and Parrett’s. And yet, if truth were known, it would have been just the same had the match been the greatest event of the season, for Gilks, from some cause or other, was in no condition to care about anything.
He wandered about listlessly that afternoon, avoiding the crowded Big, and bending his steps rather to the unfrequented meadows by the river. What he was thinking about as he paced along none of the very few boys who met him that afternoon could guess, but that it was nothing pleasant was very evident.
At the beginning of this very term Gilks had been one of the noisiest and liveliest fellows in Willoughby. Although his principles had never been lofty, his spirits always used to be excellent, and those who knew him best could scarcely recognise now in the anxious, spiritless monitor the companion whose shout and laugh had been so familiar only a few months ago.
Among those who met him this afternoon was Wibberly. Wibberly, like Gilks, felt very little interest in the juniors’ match. He was one of the small party who yesterday had come in for such a smart snubbing from Bloomfield, and the only way to show his sense of the ingratitude of such treatment, especially towards an old toady like himself, was to profess no interest in an event which was notoriously interesting the Parretts’ captain.
So Wibberly strolled down that afternoon to the river, and naturally met Gilks.
The two were not by any means chums — indeed, they were scarcely to be called friends. But they had one considerable bond of sympathy in a common dislike for the schoolhouse, and still more for Riddell. Gilks, as the reader knows, was anything but a loyal schoolhouse man, and ever since he became a monitor had cast in his lot with the rival house. So that he was generally considered, and considered himself to be, quite as much of a Parrett as a “schoolhouser.”
“So you are not down looking at the little boys?” said Wibberly.
“No,” said Gilks.
“Awful rot,” said Wibberly, “making all that fuss about them!”
“Pleases them and doesn’t hurt us,” replied Gilks.
“In my opinion it’s all a bit of vanity on the part of Riddell. He’d like to make every one think he has been coaching his kids, and this is just a show-off.”
“Well, let him show off; who cares?” growled Gilks.
“All very well. He ought to be hooted round the school instead of flashing it there in the Big, the hypocritical cad!”
“Well, why don’t you go and do it?” said Gilks; “you’d get plenty to join you.”
“Would I? No, I wouldn’t. Even Bloomfield’s taking his part — he’s gammoned him somehow.”
“Well, that doesn’t prevent your going and hooting him, does it?” said Gilks, with a sneer. “You’ve a right to enjoy yourself as well as any one else.”
“What! have you come round to worship his holiness too?” asked Wibberly, who had at least expected some sympathy from Gilks.
“Not exactly!” said Gilks, bitterly; “but I’ve come round to letting the cad alone. What’s the good of bothering?”
“And you mean to say you’d let him go on knowing who the fellow is who cut the rudder-lines of our boat, and not make him say who it is?”
“I expect that’s all stuff about his knowing at all,” said Gilks.
“Not it! Between you and me, I fancy he’s had a tip from somewhere.”
“He has? Bah! don’t you believe it. He’d like to make believe he knows all about it. It would pay, you know.”
“But every one thinks he knows.”
“Not he! He would have told the fellow’s name long ago. Whatever object would he have in keeping it back?”
“Oh! I don’t know. He says some gammon about not being quite sure. But he’s had time enough to be sure by now.”
Gilks walked on in silence for a little, and then inquired, “And suppose you did get to know who it was, what would be the use?”
“The use!” exclaime
d Wibberly, in amazement. “Why, what do you mean? By Jove, I’m sorry for the fellow when he turns up. He’ll soon find out the use of it.”
Gilks said nothing, but walked on evidently out of humour, and Wibberly having nothing better to do accompanied him.
“By the way,” said the latter, presently, seeing his companion was not disposed to continue the former conversation, “what’s up between you and Silk? Is it true you’ve had a row?”
Gilks growled out something which sounded very like an oath, and replied, “Yes.”
“What about?” inquired the inquisitive Wibberly, who seemed to have the knack of hitting upon unwelcome topics.
“It wouldn’t do you any good to know,” growled Gilks.
“I heard it was some betting row, or something of that sort,” said Wibberly.
“Eh? — yes — something of that sort,” said Gilks.
“Well,” said Wibberly, “I never cared much for Silk. He always seemed to know a little too much for me. I wouldn’t break my heart if I were you.”
“I don’t mean to,” said Gilks, but in a tone which belied the words, and even struck Wibberly by its wretchedness.
“I say,” said he, “you’re awfully down in the mouth these times. What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think anything’s wrong? I’m all right, I tell you,” said Gilks, half angrily.
Wibberly was half inclined to say that he would not have thought it if he had not been told so, but judging from his companion’s looks that this little pleasantry would not be appreciated, he forbore and walked on in silence.
It was a relief when Wibberly at length discovered that it was time for him to be going back. Gilks wanted nobody’s company, and was glad to be left alone.
And yet he would gladly have escaped even from his own company, which to judge by his miserable looks as he walked on alone was less pleasant than any.
He was sorry now he had not gone to watch the juniors, where at least he would have heard something less hateful than his own thoughts, and seen something less hateful than the dreary creations of his own troubled imagination.
“What’s the use of keeping it up?” said he, bitterly, to himself. “I don’t care! Things can’t be worse than they are. Down in the mouth! He’d be down in the mouth if he were! — the fool! I’ve a good mind to— And yet I daren’t face it. What’s the use of trusting to a fellow like Silk! Bah! how I hate him. He’ll betray me as soon as ever it suits him, and — and — oh, I don’t care. Let him!”
Gilks had reached this dismal climax in his reflections, when he suddenly became aware that the object of his meditations was approaching him.
Silk had his own reasons for not joining the throng that was looking on at the juniors’ match. It may have been mere lack of interest, or it may have been a special desire to take this walk. Whichever it was, his presence now was about as unwelcome an apparition as Gilks could have encountered, and the smile on the intruder’s face showed pretty clearly that he was aware of the fact.
“What are you prowling about here for?” said he as he came up, with all the insolence of a warder addressing a convict.
“I’ve a right to walk here if I choose,” replied Gilks, sulkily; “what are you here for?”
“To find you. I want to speak to you,” replied Silk.
“I don’t want to speak to you,” replied Gilks, moving on.
“Don’t you?” replied Silk, with a sneer. “You’ll have to do it whether you want or not, my boy.”
There was something about the Welcher which had the effect of cowing his companion, and Gilks, fuming inwardly, and with a face as black as thunder, said, “Well — say what you’ve got to say, and be done with it.”
Silk laughed.
“Thank you. I’ll take my time, not yours. Which way are you going?”
“No way at all,” said Gilks, standing still.
“Very well. I’m going this way. Come with me.”
And he began to walk on, Gilks sullenly following.
“You saw Wyndham the other day?” said Silk.
“Suppose I did?”
“What did he want?”
“I don’t know — some foolery or other. I didn’t listen to him.”
“You needn’t tell lies. What did he want, I say?”
“How should I know?” retorted Gilks.
“What did he want? do you hear?” repeated the other.
“He wanted me to let him blab about something — about Beamish’s it was.”
“And did you tell him he might?”
“Yes. I said he might blab about me too for all I cared. And so he may. I wish to goodness he would.”
“And whatever business had you to tell him he might say a word about it?” demanded Silk, angrily.
“What business? A good deal more business than you’ve got to ask me questions.”
“Do you know what he’s done?”
“No, I don’t; and I don’t care.”
“Don’t you care?” snarled Silk, fast losing his temper; “that foolery of yours has spoiled everything.”
“So much the better. I don’t care.”
“But I care!” exclaimed Silk, furiously, “and I’ll see you care too, you fool!”
“What’s happened, then?” asked Gilks.
“Why, Riddell—”
“For goodness’ sake don’t start on him!” cried Gilks, viciously; “he’s nothing to do with it.”
“Hasn’t he? That’s all you know, you blockhead! He suspected Wyndham of that boat-race business. I can’t make out how, but he did. And the young fool all along thought it was Beamish’s he was in a row about. But Riddell wouldn’t have known it to this day if you hadn’t given the young idiot leave to go and blab, and so clear it up.”
“Let him blab. I wish he’d clear up everything,” growled, or rather groaned, Gilks.
“Look here!” said Silk, stopping short in his walk and rounding on his victim. “I’ve had quite enough of this, and you’d better shut up. You know I could make you sorry for it if I chose.”
Gilks said nothing, but walked on sullenly.
“And the worse thing about it,” continued Silk, “is that now Wyndham and Riddell are as thick as brothers, and the young toady’s sure to tell him everything.”
“And suppose he does?”
“There’s no suppose about it. I don’t choose to have it, I tell you.”
“How can you help it?” said Gilks.
“We must get hold of the young ’un again,” said Silk, “and you’ll have to manage it.”
“Who? — I?” said Gilks, with a bitter laugh.
“Yes, you. And don’t talk so loud, do you hear? You’ll have to manage it, and I think I can put you up to a way for getting hold of him.”
“You can spare yourself the trouble,” said Gilks, stopping short and folding his arms doggedly. “I won’t do it.”
“What!” cried Silk, in a passion.
It was the second time in one week that Silk had been thus defied — each time by a boy whom he had imagined to be completely in his power. Wyndham’s mutiny had not wholly surprised him, but from Gilks he had never expected it.
“I won’t do it, there!” said Gilks, now fairly at bay and determined enough.
Silk glared at him for a moment, then laughed scornfully.
“You won’t? You know what you are saying?”
“Yes, I know,” said Gilks.
“And you know what I shall do?”
“Yes, you’ll tell—”
Silk’s face fell. He was beginning to discover that once more he had overdone his part, and that the ground was taken from under him. But he made one last effort to recover himself.
“I say, Gilks,” said he, half coaxing, half warning, “don’t be a fool. Don’t ruin yourself. I didn’t mean to be offensive. You know it’s as much in your interest as mine. If we can get hold of young Wyndham again—”
“If you want him, get him yourself, I’m not
going to do it,” once more said Gilks, with pale face and clenched teeth.
Silk’s manner changed once more. His face became livid, and his eyes flashed, as he sprang at Gilks, and with a sudden blow, exclaimed, “Take that, then!”
It was as good as proclaiming that the game was over. As Gilks’s guilty confidant he had retained to the last some sort of influence; but now, with that blow, the last shred of his superiority had gone, and he stood there beaten before ever the fight began.
Gilks had expected the blow, but had not been prepared for its suddenness. It struck him full on the cheek, and for a moment staggered him — but only for a moment. Wasting no words, he returned it vehemently, and next moment the fight had begun.
That fight was not the growth of a day or a week. For many weeks it had been getting nearer and nearer, sometimes by rapid strides, sometimes by imperceptible steps; but always getting nearer, until now it had suddenly reached its climax; and the cry, “A fight — Gilks and Silk!” spread like wildfire over Willoughby.
The Welchers, in the heyday of their triumph, heard it above even the chorus of the glorious Bouncer; and hearing it, forsook their revelry and hurried towards it. The Parretts quitted their melancholy teapot, and rushed with one accord to the spot. And ere they reached it Telson was there, and many a schoolhouse Limpet, and Game, and Ashley, and Wibberly, from Parrett’s; and Tucker, and I know not what crowds from Welch’s. And they crowded round, and took sides, and speculated on the result, and cheered impartially every hit.
Far be it from me to describe that fight. It was no different from twenty other fights that same term, except from the one fact that the combatants were seniors. No one cared an atom about the quarrels or its merits. It was quite enough that it was an even match — that there was plenty of straight hitting and smart parrying, and that it lasted over a quarter of an hour.
It was a wonder it lasted so long. Not that the men could not stay, but because no monitor with power to stop it appeared on the scene. Indeed, the only monitor present was Gilks himself, and he took no steps to end the conflict.
The Willoughby Captains Page 35