The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's/Chapter VIII
The first number of the Dominican had undoubtedly caused a sensation; and it would have created far more sensation but for the fact that the Alphabet Match was to be played on the following day. But even this counter-attraction could not wholly divert the mind of Saint Dominic’s from this new literary marvel; and a skirmish took place on the very afternoon of its appearance.
Pembury and his friends had quite expected that the Sixth would attempt a high-handed blow at their paper, and they were not disappointed. For no sooner had Loman and his peers stalked away from the scene of their indignation, and found themselves in the retirement of their own room, than they fell to talking in terms the reverse of pleasant about the event of the morning. The least important of their number was specially wroth.
“There’s a great row out in the passage to-day,” said Raleigh, who was blissfully ignorant of the whole matter; “why can’t some of you monitors keep a little better order? The Doctor will be wanting to know what it’s all about!”
“All very well,” said Raikes, one of the monitors; “but if the Fifth will stick their tom-foolery out in the passage, there’s sure to be a row.”
“What tom-foolery? Some of you are for ever grumbling at the Fifth.”
“And so would you if you saw the complimentary remarks they make about you in this precious newspaper of theirs.”
“Oh, the Dominican? I must have a look at it by and by; but meanwhile something had better be done to stop that row, or we shall catch it ourselves.”
And so saying, the captain left these injured youths to their own counsels, which it is to be feared were moved more by dislike for the Dominican than by a burning desire for the good order of the school.
However, they must do something; and there would be nothing inconsistent with their dignity in demanding the withdrawal of the obnoxious broadside on account of the noise it caused. This would be a safe move, and might be checkmate. Loman was deputed to wait upon the Fifth with the demand of the monitors, and lost no time in carrying out this welcome task. Class was just over, and the Fifth were just about to clear out of their room when Loman entered. It was not often that a Sixth Form fellow penetrated into their camp, and had they not guessed his mission they might have resented the intrusion.
“Oh, you fellows,” began Loman, feeling not quite so confident now as he had felt five minutes ago, “we can’t have that thing of yours hanging out in the passage like that. It makes a crowd—too much row. Whose is it?”
“Not mine,” said Wraysford, laughing; “ask Bully—perhaps it’s his.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Bullinger; “it’s yours, isn’t it, Simon?”
“Only part,” said the poet of the “Love-Ballad,” “and I presented that to the paper.”
“Suppose it was mine?” said Oliver, with a drawl.
“Then,” said Loman, losing his temper, “all I can say is, the sooner you clear it away the better.”
“Oh! all right; only it’s not mine.”
“Look here,” said Loman, “I’m not going to fool about with you. You may think it all very funny, but I’ll report it to the Doctor, and then you’ll look foolish.”
“How nice! So pleasant it will be to look for once like what you look always,” observed Pembury, gnawing the top of his crutch.
At that moment there was a loud shout of laughter in the passage outside, confirming the monitor’s complaint. Wraysford walked hastily to the door.
“The next time there’s a row like that outside our door,” called he to the group outside, “we’ll—what do you mean by it, you young blackguard?”
So saying, he caught Master Bramble, who happened to be the nearest offender within reach, by the collar of his coat, and lugged him bodily into the class-room.
“There, now! Do you know this gentleman? He’s a monitor. Have a good look at him. He’s been complaining of the row you are making, and quite rightly. Take that, and tell all the little Pigs outside that if they don’t hold their noise they will find themselves, every man jack of them, mentioned by name in the next number!”
So saying, with a gentle cuff he handed the ill-starred Master Bramble out again to his fellows, and from that time there was scarcely a sound audible from the passage.
“Good-bye,” said Pembury, kissing his hand to Loman, who all this time had been standing in the middle of the room, in a white heat, and perplexed what to do or say next.
“You aren’t going to live here, are you?” asked Bullinger.
“Any one got a toffee-drop?” drily inquired Oliver.
To his surprise, and to the surprise of every one, Loman wheeled round towards the last speaker, and without a word struck him a blow on the mouth with his hand.
He saw he had made a mistake, and looked ashamed the moment the deed was done. All eyes turned to Oliver, whose face was crimson, with a sudden flush of pain and anger. He sprang to his feet, and Braddy, the bully, was already beginning to gloat over the prospect of a fight, when to every one’s amazement, Oliver coolly put his hands back into his pockets, and walking up to Loman said, quietly—
“Hadn’t you better go?”
Loman stared at him in astonishment. He had at least expected to be knocked down, and this behaviour was quite incomprehensible.
He turned on his heel and quitted the room without a word; and somehow or other from that time the Fifth heard no more protests from the monitors on the subject of the Dominican.
But Oliver’s conduct, much as it had astonished the person chiefly concerned, had astonished the Fifth still more. For the first time in the history of their class, as far as they could recollect, a blow struck had not been returned, and they could not tell what to make of it.
The blow had been a cowardly one, and certainly unmerited, and by all schoolboy tradition one fairly demanding a return. Could it be possible their man was lacking in courage? The idea was a shock to most present, who, although Oliver was never very popular among them, as has been said, had never before suspected his pluck. In fact, it was an awkward moment for all, and it was quite a relief when Simon broke silence by asking Oliver—
“Why didn’t you knock him down, I say?”
“Because I did not choose, if you want to know,” replied Oliver, shortly.
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” replied Simon, rather taken aback by this brusque answer.
This was not satisfactory. Had the offender been a Guinea-pig, one could have understood the thing; but when it was a Sixth Form fellow—a good match in every respect, as well as a rival—the Fifth were offended at their man for drawing back as he had done.
“I suppose you will fight him?” said Ricketts, in a voice which implied that there was no doubt about it.
“Do you?” replied Oliver, briefly.
The boy’s manner was certainly not winsome, and, when once put out, it was evident he took no trouble to conceal the fact. He refused to answer any further questions on the subject, and presently quitted the room, leaving more than half his class-fellows convinced that, after all, he was a coward.
An angry discussion followed his departure.
“He ought to be made to fight, whether he likes or not,” said Braddy the bully.
“Some one ought to pay Loman out,” suggested Ricketts, “if Greenfield doesn’t.”
“A nice name we shall get, all of us,” said Bullinger, “when it gets abroad all over the school.”
“It’s a shame, because one fellow funks, for the whole Form to be disgraced; that’s what I say,” said some one else.
There were, however, two boys who did not join in this general cry of indignation against Oliver, and they were Wraysford and Pembury. The latter was always whimsical in his opinions, and no one was surprised to see him come out on the wrong side. As for Wraysford, he always backed his friend up, whether others thought him right or wrong. These two scouted the idea of Oliver being a coward; the one with his usual weapon of ridicule, the other with all the warmth of friendship.
“Who calls him a coward?” exclaimed Wraysford, glaring at the last speaker.
Wraysford was not a coward, and looked so ready to avenge his friend by hard knocks, that the boy who had insinuated that Greenfield was afraid withdrew his charge as mildly as he could. “I only meant, it looks as if he didn’t like to fight,” he said.
“And what business of yours is it what it looks like?” demanded Wraysford.
“Come, old man,” said Pembury; “don’t eat him up! I fancy Greenfield might screw up courage to pull his nose, whoever else he lets off, eh? It’s my private opinion, though, Oliver knew what he was about.”
“Of course he did,” sneered Braddy; “he knew jolly well what he was about.”
“Dear me! Is that you, Mr. Braddy? I had not noticed you here, or I should not have ventured to speak on a matter having to do with pluck and heroism. I’m glad you agree with me, though, although I didn’t say he knew jolly well what he was about. That is an expression of your own.”
Braddy, who as usual felt and looked extinguished when Pembury made fun of him, retired sulkily, and the editor of the Dominican thereupon turned his attack on another quarter. And so the dispute went on, neither party being convinced, and all satisfied only on one point—that a cloud had arisen to mar the hitherto peaceful horizon of Fifth Form existence.
The cricket match of the following day, however, served to divert the thoughts of all parties for a time.
As it was only the prelude to a much more important match shortly to follow, I shall not attempt to describe it fully here, as the reader will probably be far more interested in the incidents of Sixth versus School Match when it comes off.
The Alphabet Match was, to tell the truth, not nearly as interesting an affair as it promised to be, for from the very first the N’s to Z’s had the best of it. Stephen, who with a company of fellow-Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs was perched on the palings, looking on, felt his heart sink within him as first one and then another of his brother’s side lost their wickets without runs. For once he and Bramble were in sympathy, and he and Paul were at difference. The row these small boys kicked up, by the way, was one of the most notable features of the whole match. Every one of them yelled for his own side. There had, indeed, been a question whether every Guinea-pig, whatever his private initial, ought not to yell for the G’s, and every Tadpole for the T’s; but it was eventually decided that each should yell “on his own hook,” and the effect was certainly far more diverting.
The first four men of the A to M went out for two runs between them, and Stephen and Bramble sat in gloomy despair. The next man in knocked down his wicket before he had played a single ball. It was frightful, and the jeers of the Z’s were hateful to hear.
But Stephen brightened as he perceived that the next batsman was his brother. “Now they’ll pick up!” said he.
“No, they won’t! Greenfield senior skies his balls too much for my taste,” cheeringly replied the small Bramble.
But Stephen was right. For the first time that afternoon the A’s made a stand. Oliver’s partner at the wickets was Callonby, of the Sixth, a steady, plodding player, who hardly ever hit out, and got all his runs (if he got any) from the slips. This afternoon he hardly scored at all, but kept his wicket carefully while Oliver did the hitting.
Things were looking up. The telegraph went up from 2 to 20. Wraysford, who had hitherto been bowling with Ricketts against his friend, gave up the ball to Raikes, and the field generally woke up to the importance of getting rid of this daring player.
Stephen’s throat was too hoarse to roar any more, so he resigned that duty to Bramble, and looked on in delighted silence. The score crept up, till suddenly Callonby tipped a ball into cover-slip’s hand and was caught, to the great delight of the Z’s, who guessed that, once a separation had been effected, the survivor would soon be disposed of.
The next man in was Loman. He was better as a bowler than a batsman; but he followed Callonby’s tactics and played a steady block, leaving the boy he had struck yesterday to do the hitting.
Oliver was certainly playing in fine form, and for a moment his class-fellows forgot their resentment against him in applauding his play. The score was at 35, and the new coalition promised to be as formidable as the last, when Oliver cut a ball past point.
“Run! no! yes, run!” he shouted. Loman started, then hesitated, then started again—but it was too late. Before he could get across, the ball was up and he was run out. He was furious, and it certainly was hard lines for him, although there would have been time enough for the run had he not pulled up in the middle. Forgetful of all the rules of cricket, he turned round to Oliver and shouted, “You are a fool!” as he left the wicket.
Stephen luckily was too much engrossed in watching the telegraph to hear or notice this remark; which, however, was not lost on the Fifth generally, who experienced a return of their former discontent when they observed that Oliver (though he must have heard it) took not the slightest notice of the offensive expression.
The match passed off without further incident. The Z’s won in the end by two wickets, after a closer match than it had promised to be at first, and Stephen was comforted for the reverse by feeling sure that his brother at any rate had played his best, and would certainly get his place in the School Eleven.