The Willoughby Captains Read online

  Perhaps the person least excited by the entire day’s events was the hero of the day himself. Wyndham, the old captain, as he now was — for this was his last appearance at the old school — was not the sort of fellow to get his head turned by anything if he could help it. He hated scenes of any sort, and therefore took a specially long time over his bath, which his fag had prepared for him with the most lavish care. Boys waylaid his door and the schoolhouse gate for a full hour ready to cheer him when he came out; but he knew better than to gratify them and finally they went off and lionised Bloomfield instead, who bore his laurels with rather less indifference.

  The old captain, however, could not wholly elude the honours destined for him. Dinner in the big hall that afternoon was crowded to overflowing. And when at its close the doctor stood up and, in accordance with immemorial custom, proposed the health of the old captain, who, he said, was not only head classic, but facile princeps in all the manly sports for which Willoughby was famed, you would have thought the old roof was coming down with the applause. Poor Wyndham would fain have shirked his duty, had he been allowed to do it. But Willoughby would as soon have given up a week of the summer holiday as have gone without the captain’s speech.

  As he rose to his feet deafening cries of “Well run, sir; well run!” drowned any effort he could have made at speaking; and he had to stand till, by dint of sheer threats of violence, the monitors had reduced the company to order. Then he said, cheers interrupting him at every third word, “I’m much obliged to the doctor for speaking so kindly about me. You fellows know the old school will get on very well after I’ve gone. (No! no!) Willoughby always does get on, and any one who says, ‘No! no!’ ought to know better.”

  The applause at this point was overpowering; and the few guilty ones tried hard, by joining in it, to cover their shame.

  “I’ve had a jolly time here, and am proud of being a Willoughby captain. I shouldn’t be a bit proud if I didn’t think it was the finest school going. And the reason it’s the finest school is because the fellows think first of the school and next of themselves. As long as they do that Willoughby will be what she is now. Thank you, doctor, and you, fellows.”

  These were the last words of the old captain. He left Willoughby next day, and few of the boys knew what they had lost till he had gone.

  How he was missed, and how these parting words of his came often to ring in the ears of the old school during the months that were to follow, this story will show.

  Chapter Two

  Four Hours in a Fag’s Life

  Willoughby wore its ordinary work-a-day look on the morning following the eventful May races. And yet any one who had seen the old school just then would have admitted that a more picturesque place could hardly have been found. It was one of those lovely early summer days when everything looks beautiful, and when only schoolboys can have the heart to lie in bed. The fresh scent of the sea came up with the morning air across the cliff-bound uplands; and far away, from headland to headland of Craydle Bay, the waters glowed and sparkled in the sunlight. Inland, too, along by the river, the woods were musical with newly-awakened birds, and the downs waved softly with early hay. And towering above all, amid its stately elms, and clad from end to end with ivy, stood the old school itself, glowing in morning brightness, as it had stood for two centuries past, and as those who know and love it hope it may yet stand for centuries to come.

  But though any one else could hardly have failed to be impressed with the loveliness of such a morning in such a spot, on Master Frederick Parson, head monitor’s fag of Parrett’s House, as he kicked the bedclothes pensively off his person, and looked at the watch under his pillow, the beauties of nature were completely lost. Parson was in a bad frame of mind that morning. Everything seemed against him. He’d been beaten in the junior hundred yards yesterday, so had Telson. Just their luck. They’d run in every race for the last two years, and never won so much as a shilling penknife yet. More than that; just because he had walked across the quadrangle to see Telson home after supper last night (Telson belonged to the SchoolHouse) he had been caught by a monitor and given eight French verbs to write out for being out-of-doors, after lock-up. What harm, Parson would like to know, was there in seeing a friend across the quad? Coates, the monitor, probably had no friend — he didn’t deserve to have one — or he wouldn’t have been down on Parson for a thing like that.

  Then, further than that, he (Parson) had not looked at his Caesar, and Warton had promised to report him to the doctor next time he showed up without preparation. Bother Warton! bother the doctor! bother Caesar! what did they all want to conspire together for against a wretched junior’s peace? He’d have to cram up the Caesar from Telson’s crib somehow, only the nuisance was Bloomfield had fixed on this particular morning for a turn on the river with Game, and Parson would of course have to steer for them. Just his luck again! He didn’t mind steering for Bloomfield, of course, and if he must fag he’d as soon fag for him as anybody, especially now that he would be captain of the eleven and of the boats; but how, Parson wanted to know, was he to do his Caesar and his French verbs, and steer Bloomfield and Game up the river at one and the same time? He couldn’t take the books in the boat.

  Well, he supposed he’d have to get reported; and probably “Paddy” would give it him on the hands. He was always getting it on the hands, far oftener than Telson, who was Riddell’s fag, and never had to go and steer boats up the river. In fact, Riddell, he knew, looked over Telson’s lessons for him — catch Bloomfield doing as much for Parson!

  All these considerations tended greatly to impair the temper of Master Parson this beautiful morning. But the worst grievance of all was that he had to get up that moment and call Bloomfield, or else he’d get a licking. That would be worse any day than getting it on the hands from the doctor.

  So he kicked off the clothes surlily, and put one foot out of bed. But the other was a long time following. For Parson was fagged. He’d dreamt all night of that wretched hundred yards, and wasn’t a bit refreshed; and if he had been refreshed, he’d got those eight French verbs and the Caesar on his mind, and he could have done them comfortably in bed. But—

  A sudden glance at the watch in his hand cut short all further meditation. Parson is out of his bed and into his flannels in the twinkling of an eye, and scuttling down the passage to his senior’s room as if the avenger of blood was at his heels.

  Bloomfield, if truth must be told, is as disinclined to get up as his fag has been; and Parson has almost to use personal violence before he can create an impression on his lord and master.

  “What’s the time?” demands the senior.

  “Six — that is, a second or two past,” replies Parson.

  “Why didn’t you call me punctually?” asks Bloomfield, digging his nose comfortably into the pillow. “What do you mean by a second or two?”

  “It’s only seven past,” says Parson, in an injured tone.

  “Very well; go and see if Game’s up.”

  Parson skulks off to rouse Game, knowing perfectly well that Bloomfield will be sound asleep again before he is out of the door, which turns out to be the case. After super-human efforts to extract from Game an assurance that he’s getting up that moment, and Parson needn’t wait, the luckless fag returns to find his master snoring like one of the seven sleepers. The same process has to be repeated. Shouts and shakes, and an occasional sly pinch, have no effect. Parson is tempted to leave his graceless lord to his fate, and betake himself to his French verbs; but a dim surmise as to the consequences prevents him. At last he braces himself up for one desperate effort. With a mighty tug he snatches the clothes off the bed, and, dragging with all his might at the arm of the obstinate hero, yells out, “I say, Bloomfield, it’s half-past six, and you wanted to be up at six. Get up!”

  The effect of these combined efforts is that Bloomfield sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes, and demands, “Half-past six! Why didn’t you call me at six, you young cad, eh?”


  “So I did.”

  “Don’t tell crams. If you’d called me at six I should have been up, shouldn’t I?” exclaimed Bloomfield. “I tell you I did call you,” retorts the fag.

  “Look here,” says Bloomfield, becoming alarmingly wide-awake, “I don’t want any of your cheek. Go and see if Game’s up, and then see if the boat’s ready. The tub-pair, mind; look sharp!”

  “Please, Bloomfield,” says Parson, meekly, “do you mind if I get Parks to cox you? I’ve not looked at my Caesar yet, and I’ve got eight French verbs to do besides for Coates.”

  “Do you hear me? Go and see if Game’s up,” replies Bloomfield. “If you choose not to do your work overnight, and get impositions for breaking rules into the bargain, it’s not my lookout, is it?”

  “But I only went—” begins the unfortunate Parson.

  “I’ll went you with the flat of a bat if you don’t cut,” shouts Bloomfield. Whereat his fag vanishes.

  Game, of course, is fast asleep, but on him Parson has no notion of bestowing the pains he had devoted to Bloomfield. Finding the sleeper deaf to all his calls, he adopts the simple expedient of dipping the end of a towel in water and laying it neatly across the victim’s face, shouting in his ear at the same time, “Game, I say, Bloomfield’s waiting for you down at the boats.” Having delivered himself of which, he retreats rather hastily, and only just in time.

  The row up the river that morning was rather pleasant than otherwise. When once they were awake the morning had its effect on the spirits of all three boys. Even Parson, sitting lazily in the stern, listening to the Sixth Form gossip of the two rowers, forgot about his Caesar and French verbs, and felt rather glad he had turned out after all.

  The chief object of the present expedition was not pleasure by any means as far as Bloomfield and Game were concerned. It was one of a series of training practices in anticipation of the school regatta, which was to come off on the second of June, in which the rival four-oars of the three houses were to compete for the championship of the river. The second of June was far enough ahead at present, but an old hand like Bloomfield knew well that the time was all too short to lick his crew into shape. Parrett’s boat, by all ordinary calculation, ought to win, for they had a specially good lot of men this year; and now Wyndham had left, the schoolhouse boat would be quite an orphan. Bloomfield himself was far away the best oar left in Willoughby, and if he could only get Game to work off a little of his extra fat, and bully Tipper into reaching better forward, and break Ashley of his trick of feathering under water, he had a crew at his back which it would be hard indeed to beat. This morning he was taking Game in hand, and that substantial athlete was beginning to find out that “working off one’s extra fat” in a tub-pair on a warm summer morning is not all sport.

  “I wonder if Tipper and Ashley will show, up,” said Bloomfield, who was rowing bow for the sake of keeping a better watch on his pupil. “They promised they would. Ashley, you know — (do keep it up, Game, you’re surely not blowed yet) — Ashley’s about as much too light as you are too fat — (try a little burst round the corner now; keep us well out, young ’un) — but if he’ll only keep his blade square till he’s out of the water — (there you go again! Of course you’re hot; that’s what I brought you out for. How do you suppose you’re to boil down to the proper weight unless you do perspire a bit?) — he’ll make a very decent bow. Ah, there are Porter and Fairbairn in the schoolhouse tub — (you needn’t stop rowing, Game; keep it up, man; show them how you can spurt). I never thought they’d try Porter in their boat. They might as well try Riddell. Just shows how hard-up they must be for men. How are you?” he cried, as the schoolhouse tub went clumsily past, both rowers looking decidedly nervous under the critical eye of the captain of Parrett’s.

  Poor Game, who had been kept hard at it for nearly a mile, now fairly struck, and declared he couldn’t keep it up any longer, and as he had really done a very good spell of work, Bloomfield consented to land at the Willows and bathe; after which he and Game would run back, and young Parson might scull home the tub.

  Which delightful plan Master Parson by no means jumped at. He had calculated on getting at least a quarter of an hour for his Caesar before morning chapel if they returned as they had come. But now, if he was expected to lug that great heavy boat back by himself, not only would he not get that, but the chances were he would get locked out for chapel altogether, and it would be no excuse that he had had to act as galley-slave for Bloomfield or anybody else.

  “Look alive!” cries Bloomfield from the bank, where he is already stripped for his header. “And, by the way, on your way up go round to Chalker’s and tell him only to stick up one set of cricket nets in our court; don’t forget, now. Be quick; you’ve not too much time before chapel.”

  Saying which, he takes a running dive from the bank and leaves the luckless Parson to boil over inwardly as he digs his sculls spitefully into the water and begins his homeward journey.

  Was life worth living at this rate? If he didn’t tell Chalker about the nets that imbecile old groundsman would be certain to stick up half a dozen sets, and there’d be no end of a row. That was 7:30 striking now, and he had to be in the chapel at five minutes to eight, and Chalker’s hut was a long five minutes from the boat-house. And then those eight French verbs and that Caesar—

  It was no use thinking about them, and Parson lashed out with his sculls, caring little if that hulking tub went to the bottom. He’d rather like it, in fact, for he wanted a swim. He hadn’t even had time to tub that morning, and it was certain there’d be no time now till goodness knew when — not till after second school, and then probably he’d be spending a pleasant half-hour in the doctor’s study.

  At this point he became aware of another boat making down on him, manned by three juniors, who were making up in noise and splashing what they lacked in style and oarsmanship.

  Parson knew them yards away. They were rowdies of Welch’s house, and he groaned inwardly at the prospect before him. The boy steering was our old acquaintance Pilbury, and as his boat approached he shouted out cheerily, “Hullo, there, Parson! mind your eye! We’ll race you in — give you ten yards and bump you in twenty! Pull away, you fellows! One, two, three, gun! Off you go! Oh, well rowed, my boat! Now you’ve got him! Wire in, now! Smash him up! scrunch him into the bank! Hooroo! two to one on us! Lay on to it, you fellows; he can’t go straight! Six more strokes and you’re into him! One, two, three — ha, ha! he’s funking it! — four, five — now a good one for the last — six! Hooroo! bump to us! Welch’s for ever!”

  So saying, the hostile boat came full tilt on to the stern of the Parrett’s tub, and the outraged Parson found himself next moment sprawling on his back, with the nose of his boat firmly wedged into the clay bank of the river, while his insulting adversaries sped gaily away down stream, making the morning hideous with their shouts and laughter.

  This little incident, as may be supposed, did not tend to compose the fluttered spirits of the unhappy Frederick. To say nothing of the indignity of being deliberately run down and screwed into the bank by a crew of young “Welchers,” the loss of time involved in extricating his boat from the muddy obstacle which held her by the nose, put all chance of getting in in time to go round to Chalker’s before chapel out of the question. Indeed, it looked very like a shut-out from chapel too, and that meant no end of a row.

  By a super-human effort he got his boat clear, and sculled down hard all, reaching the boat-house at seven minutes to eight. He had just presence of mind enough to shout the message for Chalker to the boat-boy, with a promise of twopence if he delivered it at once; and then with a desperate rush he just succeeded in reaching the chapel and squeezing himself in at the door as the bell ceased ringing.

  Chapel was not, under the circumstances, a very edifying service to Parson that morning. His frame of mind was not devotional, and his feelings of bottled-up wrath at what was past, and dejected anticipation of what was to come, left between t
hem no room for interest in or meaning for the words in which his schoolfellows were joining. The only satisfaction morning prayers brought to him was that, for ten minutes at least, no one could harry him; and that at least was something to be grateful for.

  Morning chapel at Willoughby was supposed to be at 7:15, and was at 7:15 all the months of the year except May, June, and July, when, in consideration of the early-morning rowing and bathing, it was postponed for three-quarters of an hour — a concession made up for by the sacrifice of the usual half-hour’s interval between breakfast and first lesson.

  This arrangement was all against Parson, who, if the half-hour had been still available, could at least have skimmed through his Caesar, and perhaps have begged a friend to help him with the French verbs, and possibly even have had it out with Pilbury for his morning’s diversion. As it was, there was no opportunity for the performance of any one of these duties, and at the sound of the pitiless bell he slunk into first lesson, feeling himself a doomed man.

  His one hope was Telson. Telson sat next him in class, and, he knew well, would help him if he could.

  “Telson,” he groaned, directly he found himself beside his faithful ally, “I’ve not looked at it!”

  Telson whistled. “There’ll be a row,” he muttered, consolingly; “it’s a jolly hard bit.”

  “Haven’t you got the crib?”

  Telson looked uncomfortable. “Riddell caught me with it and made me give it up.”