The Willoughby Captains Read online

  The Willoughby Captains

  Talbot Baines Reed

  This is one of this author's famous school stories. Like a new boy or girl at a school, you will be faced with learning the names of a great many youngsters, and to an extent, their characters. However, by the time you get half-way through the book you will be familiar enough with the principal characters.

  Of course, there are numerous small dramas being acted out as the book proceeds, but the main one concerns a boat-race between two of the Houses. Along the course there is a very tight bend. The boat on the outside of the bend is slightly in the lead but will probably lose this due to the inside boat having less far to travel to the next straight.

  At a most crucial moment, when maximum power is being exerted by the cox on the rudder-lines, one of them snaps, and the boat goes out of control. The cox shouts the instructions for an emergency stop, and to back water. The other boat proceeds to the end of the course. It can now be seen that the rudder-line had been deliberately half cut through, so that it would snap at that tight bend on the river.

  For the rest of the book people are trying to work out who had done this deed. At one stage we think we know the answer. We become quite convinced we know the answer, in fact. But we are wrong, and we do not find out till almost the end of the book. And it is to be hoped that at that point the promised re-row takes place.

  There is some confusion with names in respect of Merrison and Morrison, but I suspect that to be a printer's error. It is not of great importance, since he is (or they are) not front-line characters in the action.

  The punctuation becomes very difficult in the reporting of the proceedings of the school parliament, because not only do you have the current speaker, but interspersed with it are comments by the raconteur and by the noisier of the boys. The printed book settled for a simplified version here, but we have done our best to give you a version that is more according to rule.

  Talbot Baines Reed

  The Willoughby Captains

  Chapter One

  The last of the old Captain

  Something unusual is happening at Willoughby. The Union Jack floats proudly over the old ivy-covered tower of the school, the schoolrooms are deserted, there is a band playing somewhere, a double row of carriages is drawn up round the large meadow (familiarly called “The Big”), old Mrs Gallop, the orange and sherbert woman, is almost beside herself with business flurry, and boys are going hither and thither, some of them in white ducks with favours on their sleeves, and others in their Sunday “tiles,” with sisters and cousins and aunts in tow, whose presence adds greatly to the brightness of the scene.

  Among these last-named holiday-making young Willoughbites no one parades more triumphantly to-day than Master Cusack, of Welch’s House, by the side of his father, Captain Cusack, R.N. Cusack, ever since he came to Willoughby, has bored friend and foe with endless references to “the gov., captain in the R.N., you know,” and now that he really has a chance of showing off his parent in the flesh his small head is nearly turned. He puffs along like a small steam-tug with a glorious man-of-war in tow, and is too anxious to exhibit his prize in “The Big” to do even the ordinary honours of the place to his relative.

  Captain Cusack, R.N., the meekest and most amiable of men, resigns himself pleasantly to the will of his dutiful conductor, only too pleased to see the boy so happy, and pardonably gratified to know that he himself is the special object of that young gentleman’s jubilation. He had come down, hoping for a quiet hour or two to see his boy and inspect Willoughby, but he finds that, instead, he is to be inspected himself, and, though he wouldn’t thwart the lad for the world, he would just as soon have dropped in at Willoughby on a rather less public occasion.

  Young Cusack, as is the manner of small tugs, assumes complete control of his parent and rattles away incessantly as he conducts him through the grounds, past the school, towards the all-attracting “Big.”

  “That’s Welch’s,” he says, pointing to the right wing of the long Tudor building before them—“that’s Welch’s on the right, and Parrett’s in the middle, and the schoolhouse on the left. Jolly rooks’ nests in the schoolhouse elms, only Paddy won’t let us go after them.”

  “Who is Paddy?” inquires the father.

  “Oh, the doctor, you know — Dr Patrick. You’ll see him down in ‘The Big,’ and his dame, and—”

  “And what’s written up over the door there?” inquires Captain Cusack, pointing up to the coat-of-arms above the great doorway.

  “Oh, some Latin bosh! I don’t know. I say, we’d better look sharp, father, or they’ll have started the open hurdles.”

  “What are the open hurdles?” mildly inquires the somewhat perplexed captain, who has been at sea so long that he is really not up to all the modern phrases.

  “Why, you know, it’s the sports, and there are two open events, the hurdles and the mile, and we’ve got Rawson, of the London Athletic, down against us in both; but I rather back Wyndham. He made stunning time in the March gallops, and he’s in prime form now.”

  “Is Wyndham a Willoughby boy?”

  “Rather. He’s our cock, you know, and this will be his last show-up. Hullo! you fellows,” he cries, as two other small boys approach at a trot; “what’s on? Have the hurdles started? By the way, this is my father, you know; he came down.”

  The two small boys, who are arrayed in ducks and running-shoes, shake hands rather sheepishly with the imposing visitor and look shyly up and down.

  “And are you running in any of the races, my men?” says Captain Cusack, kindly.

  He couldn’t have hit on a happier topic. The two are at their ease at once.

  “Yes, sir, the junior hundred yards. I say, Cusack, your gov — your father’s just in time for the final heat. In the first I had a dead heat with Watkins, you know,” continues he, addressing the captain. “Watkins was scratch, and I had five yards, and the ruck got ten. It was a beastly shame giving Filbert ten, though — wasn’t it, Telson? — after his running second to me in the March gallops; they ought to have stuck him where I was. But I ran him down all the same, and dead-heated it with Watkins, and Telson here was a good second in his heat.”

  “I was sure of a first, but that young ass Wace fouled me,” puts in Telson.

  “And now it’s dead-even which of us two wins. We both get five yards on Watkins, and he’ll be pumped with the long jump, and none of the others are hot men, so it’s pretty well between us two, isn’t it, Telson?”

  “Rather, and I think I back you to do it, Parson, old man,” rejoins the generous Telson.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” says Parson, dubiously; “you’re a better man on the finish, I fancy.”

  “All depends on how I take off. Gully’s such a boshy starter, you know; always puts me out. Why can’t they let Parrett do it?”

  And off they rattle, forgetting all about Cusack and his gallant father, and evidently convinced in their own minds that the flags and the carriages and the rosettes and all the festivities are solely in honour of the final heat of the junior hundred yards, in which they two are to take part.

  Captain Cusack, with a smile on his face, watches them trot off, and asks his son, “Who are those two nice young fellows?”

  “Oh, a couple of kids — not in our house,” replies Master Cusack, by no means cordially. “Jolly cheek of them talking to you like that, though!”

  “Not at all,” says the captain. “I’d like to see their race, Harry.”

  But Harry has no notion of throwing his father away upon the “junior hundred yards,” and as they are now in “The Big,” in the midst of the festive assembly there congregated, he is easily able to shirk the question.

 
; An important event is evidently just over. The company has crowded into the enclosure, and boys, ladies, gentlemen, masters are all mixed up in one great throng through which it is almost impossible for even so dexterous a tug as young Cusack to pilot his worthy relative.

  The band is playing in the pavilion, distant cheers are audible in the direction of the tents, a shrill uproar is going on in the corner where the junior hundred yards is about to begin, and all around them is such a buzz of talking and laughing that Captain Cusack is fairly bewildered.

  He would like to be allowed to pay his respects to the Doctor and Mrs Patrick, and to his boy’s master, and would very much like to witness the exploits of those two redoubtable chums Telson and Parson; but he is not his own master, and has to do what he is told. Young Cusack is shouting every minute to acquaintances in the crowd that he has got his father here. But every one is so wedged up that the introductions chiefly consist of a friendly nodding and waving of the hand at the crowd indefinitely from the gallant father, who would not for the world be anything but gracious to his son’s friends, but who cannot for the life of him tell which of the score of youthful faces darting sidelong glances in their direction is the particular one he is meant to be saluting. At last in the press they stumble upon one boy at close quarters, whom Cusack the younger captures forthwith.

  “Ah, Pil, I was looking for you. Here’s the — my father, I mean — R.N., you know.”

  “How are you, captain?” says the newcomer. He had heard Captain Cusack was coming over, and had mentally rehearsed several times what it seemed to him would be the most appropriate salutation under the circumstances.

  The captain says he is very well, and likes the look of Mr “Pil” (whose real name is Pilbury), and looks forward to a little pleasant chat with his son’s friend. But this hope is doomed to be a disappointment, for Pil is in a hurry.

  “Just going to get the house tubs ready,” he says; “I’ll be back in time for the mile.”

  “Then is the hurdles over?”

  “Rather!” exclaims Pil, in astonishment. “Why, where have you been? Of course you know who won?”

  “No,” says Cusack, eagerly—“who?”

  “Why, Wyndham! You never saw such a race! At the fourth hurdle from home Wyndham, Bloomfield, Game, Tipper, and Rawson were the only ones left in. Game and Tipper muffed the jump, and it was left to the other three. Bloomfield had cut out grandly. He was a yard or two ahead, then Wyndham, and the London man lying out, ten yards behind. He had been going pretty easily, but he lammed it on for the next hurdle, and pulled up close. The three went over almost even, and then Bloomfield was out of it. My eye, Cusack! you should have seen the finish after that! The London fellow fancied he was going to win in a canter, but old Wyndham stuck to him like a leech, and after the last fence ran him clean down — the finest thing you ever saw — and won by a yard. Wasn’t it prime? Ta, ta! I’m off now; see you again at the mile;” and off he goes.

  The glorious victory of Willoughby at the hurdles has evidently been as much of a surprise as it has been a triumph, and everyone is full of hope now that the result of the “mile” may be equally satisfactory. In the midst of all the excitement and enthusiasm it suddenly occurs to the business-like Master Cusack that he had better secure a good position for the great race without delay, and accordingly he pilots his father out of the crush, and makes for a spot near the winning-post, where the crowd at the cords has a few gaps; and here, by a little unscrupulous shoving, he contrives to wedge himself in, with his father close behind, at about the very best spot on the course, with a full view of the last two hundred yards, and only a few feet from the finish.

  It is half an hour before the race is due, and, by way of beguiling the time, Cusack shouts to one and another of his acquaintances opposite, and introduces his father to the crowd generally. The course has not yet been cleared, so there is plenty of variety as the stream of passers-by drifts along. Among the last, looking about anxiously for a place to stand and watch the big race, are Telson and Parson, arm-in-arm.

  Captain Cusack hails them cheerily.

  “Well, who won, my boys? who won?”

  The dejected countenances of the two heroes is answer enough.

  “Watkins won,” says Parson, speaking in a subdued voice. “The fact is, my shoe-lace came undone just when I was putting it on at the end.”

  “And the swindle is,” puts in Telson, “that just as I was spurting for the last twenty yards Watkins took my water. I could have fouled him, you know, but I didn’t care to.”

  “Fact is,” says Parson, insinuating himself under the cords, greatly to the indignation of some other small boys near, “it’s a chowse letting Watkins enter for the juniors. I’m certain he’s not under thirteen — is he, Telson?”

  “Not a bit of him!” says Telson, who has also artfully squeezed himself into the front rank hard by; “besides, he’s a Limpet, and Limpets have no right to run as juniors.”

  “What is a Limpet?” asks Captain Cusack of his son.

  “I don’t know what else you call him,” says young Cusack, rather surlily, for he is very wroth at the way Telson has sneaked himself into a rather better position than his own; “he’s — he’s a Limpet, you know.”

  “Limpets,” says a gentleman near, “are the boys in the middle school.”

  “Rather a peculiar name,” suggests the captain.

  “Yes; it means an inhabitant of Limbo, the Willoughby name for the middle school, because the boys there are supposed to be too old to have to fag, and too young to be allowed to have fags.”

  “Ha, ha!” laughs Captain Cusack, “a capital name;” and he and the gentleman get up a conversation about their own school days which beguiles the time till the bell sounds for the great race of the day.

  The starting-point is a little below where our friends are standing, and the race is just three times round the course and a few yards at the end up to the winning-post. Only four runners are starting, three of whom have already distinguished themselves in the hurdle-race. Wyndham, the school captain, is that tall, handsome fellow with the red stripe in front of his jersey, who occupies the inside “berth” on the starting-line. Next to him is Ashley; also wearing the school stripe; and between Ashley and the other schoolboy, Bloomfield, is Rawson, the dreaded Londoner, a practised athlete, whose whiskered face contrasts strangely with the smooth, youthful countenances of his competitors.

  “Ashley’s to cut out the running for Willoughby this time,” says Telson, “and he’ll do it too; he’s fresh.”

  So he is. At the signal to start he rushes off as if the race was a quarter of a mile instead of a mile, and the Londoner, perplexed by his tactics, starts hard also, intending to keep him in hand. Bloomfield and Wyndham, one on each side of the track, began rather more easily, and during the first lap allow themselves to drop twelve or fifteen yards behind. The Londoner quickly takes in the situation, but evidently doesn’t quite know whether to keep up to Ashley or lie up like the others. If he does the latter, the chances are the fresh man may get ahead beyond catching, and possibly win the race; and if he does the former — well, has he the wind to hold out when the other two begin to “put it on”? He thinks he has, so he keeps close up to Ashley.

  The cheers, of course, all round the field are tremendous, and nowhere more exciting than where Telson and Parson are located. As the runners pass them at the end of the first lap the excitement of these youths breaks forth into terrific shouts.

  “Well run, Ashley; keep it up! He’s blowing! Put it on there, Wyndham; now’s your time, Bloomfield!” And before the cries have left their lips the procession has passed, and the second lap has begun.

  Towards the end of the second lap Ashley shows signs of flagging, and Bloomfield is quickening his pace.

  “Huzza!” yells Parson; “Bloomfield’s going to take it up now. Jolly well-planned cut-out, eh, Telson?”

  “Rather!” shrieks Telson. “Here they come! Whiskers is ahead
. Now, Willoughby — well run indeed! Lam it on, Bloomfield, you’re gaining. Keep it up, Ashley. Now, Wyndham; now!”

  Ashley drops gradually to the rear, and before the final lap is half over has retired from the race, covered with glory for his useful piece of work. But anxious eyes are turned to the other three. The Londoner holds his own, and Bloomfield’s rush up seems to have come to nothing. About a quarter of a mile from home an ominous silence drops upon the crowd, and for a few moments Willoughby is too disheartened to cheer. Then at last there rises a single wild cheer somewhere. What is it? The positions are still the same, and— No! Both Wyndham and Bloomfield are gaining; and as the discovery is made there goes up such a shout that the rooks in the elms start away from their nests in a panic.

  Never was seen such a gallant spurt in that old meadow. Foot by foot the two Willoughby boys pull up and lessen the hateful distance which divides them from the leader. He of course sees his danger, and answers spurt for spurt. For a few yards he neither gains nor loses, then, joyful sight, he loses!

  “Look at them now!” cries Telson, as they approach—“look at them both. They’re both going to win! Ah, well run, Willoughby — splendidly run; you’re going like mad — keep it up! Huzzah! level. Keep it up! Wyndham’s ahead; so’s Bloomfield. Both ahead! Well run both. Keep it up now. Hurrah!”

  Amid such shouts the race ends. Wyndham first, Bloomfield a yard behind, and the Londoner, dead beat, a yard behind Bloomfield.

  What wonder if the old school goes mad as it swarms over the cords and dashes towards the winner? Telson actually forgets Parson, Cusack deserts even his own father in the jubilation of the moment, each striving to get within cheering distance of the heroes of the day as they are carried shoulder-high round the ground amid the shouts and applause of the whole multitude.

  So ended, in a victory unparalleled in its glorious annals, the May Day races of 19— at Willoughby; and there was not a fellow in the school, whether athlete or not, whose bosom did not glow with pride at the result. That the school would not disgrace herself everyone had been perfectly certain, for was not Willoughby one of the crack athletic schools of the country, boasting of an endless succession of fine runners, and rowers, and cricketers? But to score thus off a picked London athlete, beating him in two events, and in one of them doubly beating him, was a triumph only a very few had dared to anticipate, and even they were considerably astonished to find their prophecy come true.