The Willoughby Captains Page 6

  With this gratifying salute the boat darted out of sight round the bend, leaving the juniors once more to continue on their festive way.

  “Isn’t old Bloomfield a stunner?” said Lawkins. “He’s the sort of fellow for captain! Not that schoolhouse idiot, Riddell.”

  “Easy all there about the schoolhouse,” shouted down Telson from his place at stroke. “I’ll fight you if you say it again.”

  “Hurrah! let’s land and have a mill!” cried King. “I back you, Telson, old man.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to cheek you, Telson,” said Lawkins, humbly. “I’ll apologise, you know.”

  “Jolly good job,” said Telson, grandly, “or I’d have licked you.”

  “All the same,” said Lawkins, “old Bloomfield’s—”

  “Look out now!” suddenly broke in Parson, who had been gradually getting excited where he stood; “there’s the Welchers coming! Pull hard, you fellows, or they’ll cut us out. Now then! Row, Bosher, can’t you, you old cow? Yah! hoo! Welchers ahoy!” he cried, raising his voice in tones of derisive defiance. “Yah! boo! herrings and dough-nuts, jolly cowards, daren’t wait for us! Booh, funk-its!”

  With such taunts the Hector of Parrett’s endeavoured to incite the enemy to battle. And the enemy, if truth must be told, needed very little persuasion, especially as the crew in question consisted of Cusack, Pilbury, and the three other ill-starred victim of the raid of two days ago.

  They lay on their oars and waited for the foe to come up, Cusack shouting meanwhile, “Who’d be afraid of a pack of thieves like you! I wouldn’t! I dare you to land and fight us! Dare you to run into us! Dare you to stand still till we lick you! Dare you to do anything but steal other fellows’ grub! Ye-ow!”

  “Now, you fellows,” cried Parson, “put it on.”

  A few strokes brought the two boats level, and then, as they lay side by side at oar’s distance, ensued a notable and tremendous splashing match, which was kept up with terrific vigour on both sides, until not only was every combatant splashed through, but the two boats themselves were nearly swamped.

  Then, after either side had insultingly claimed the victory, the boats separated, and the dripping warriors parted with a final broadside.

  “There you are, take that, and go and tell the captain!” shouted Parson.

  “You wouldn’t dare do it if Bloomfield was captain,” retorted the Welchers. “We’ll have him captain, then see how you’ll smile! Yah! bah!”

  And, amid terrific cat-calling on either side, the crews parted.

  This last taunt was a sore one for the young Parretts. It had never occurred to them that Bloomfield, if he were captain, might perhaps spoil their sport more than Riddell. But it was only a passing annoyance. After all they were Parretts, and Bloomfield was their man, whether he spoiled their sport or not. Telson had no objection to this sentiment as long as no one presumed “to cheek the schoolhouse” in uttering it. Whenever that was done he insisted on his unalterable determination to fight the offender unless he swallowed his words, which the offender usually did.

  The tide was getting slack, and it was time for them to turn if they were to be in for “call-over.” Just, however, as they were about to do so, a shout behind attracted them, and they became aware of another four-oared boat approaching with the schoolhouse flag in the prow. It came along at a fair pace, but with nothing like the style which had marked the Parretts’ boat.

  The crew consisted of Fairbairn, Porter, Coates, and Gilks, with Crossfield steering: the first time a complete schoolhouse crew had appeared on the river this year.

  The blood of the young Parretts was up, and the credit of their house was in question.

  “Put it on now,” said Parson to his men, as the schoolhouse boat came up. “Show ’em what you can do! Now then, slide into it! Race ’em!”

  And the young heroes laid into their work and made Noah’s Ark forge along at an unwonted pace. Parson busily encouraged them, varying his exhortations by occasional taunts addressed to the other boat.

  “Now then,” he shouted, “two to one on us. Come on, you there, jolly schoolhouse louts—”

  “Parson, I’ll fight you if you say it again,” interposed Telson by way of parenthesis.

  “Oh, beg pardon, old man. Pull away, you fellows! Parretts for ever! No Riddell for us! Three cheers for Bloomfield! You’re gaining, you fellows. Oh, well pulled indeed our boat!”

  The schoolhouse boat had slackened speed, and paddling gently alongside, was taking careful note of these audacious youngsters, who, puffing and plunging along, fully believed they were beating the picked four of the rival house by their own prowess.

  The big boys seemed amused on the whole, and good-humouredly kept up the semblance of a race for about half a mile, taking care to give the challenging crew a wide berth.

  At last, after about ten minutes had been spent in this way, and when the young champions were all, except Parson, fairly exhausted, Crossfield took out his watch and said to his crew, winking as he did so, “Time we turned, you fellows; it’s five o’clock. Easy all, pull bow side! back water, stroke!”

  And so saying, the schoolhouse boat suddenly turned round and started off at a smart pace down stream, where it was soon out of reach of the parting taunts and opprobrious noises which Parson, for the credit of his house, continued to hurl at its crew till they were beyond earshot.

  Then it suddenly began to occur to these elated young navigators that if it had been time for the four-oar to turn three minutes ago it was possibly time for them to turn also.

  “What did he say the time was?” asked King.

  “Five o’clock!” said Lawkins.

  “Five o’clock! and call-over is at 5:20! We can’t do it in the time!” exclaimed Parson, aghast.

  “My eye, what a row there’ll be,” groaned Telson. “I’ve been late for call-over twice this week already, and I’m certain to get reported now!”

  “So shall I be,” said Bosher.

  “It’s all a vile dodge of those schoolhouse cads,” exclaimed King. “I mean,” said he (perceiving that Telson was about to make a remark), “of those cads. They did it on purpose to make us late. I see it all now. And then they’ll report us. Ugh! did you ever know such blackguards?”

  The discovery was too late to be any good — that is, as far as the hope of reaching Willoughby before call-over was concerned. However, it warned them the sooner they turned now the sooner they would get back at all. So they turned viciously and started homewards.

  The rowers were all too tired and enraged to talk much, and the journey down stream was silent and gloomy. They heard, about a mile from home, the school bell ringing for call-over, and groaned inwardly when presently it ceased, and they knew their names were being called over and not one of them there to answer. Parson alone made any attempt to keep up the drooping spirits of his crew.

  “Never fear. We’ll pay them out, you see. And if they do report us we’ll only get impots. The beasts! I wish we’d run into them and drowned them all! so I do.”

  At this point the speaker became aware of an outrigger skiff rapidly approaching them. The rower of course had his back turned, and evidently not expecting anything ahead, was steering himself “over his toes,” as the term is — that is by some landmark behind the boat. Who he was Parson could not make out, but he wore a light-blue ribbon on his straw, and that was enough. Light-blue was the schoolhouse colour. Here was a chance of paying out of the enemy, anyhow!

  So he ordered his men to “easy all” and allow the unconscious sculler to come close up. Then when he was within a few yards he started up, and with a wild shout of, “Yah booh, cad!” gave the signal to his crew to pull on, and brought his boat close alongside the skiff. The rower, startled by the sudden shout, turned quickly round.

  Horror of horrors! It was Mr Parrett himself!

  There was no time to do anything. At the instant he turned, his left scull came into violent contact with the oars of the Noah’s
Ark, and was jerked from his hand, and at the same time the light boat gave a violent lurch over and capsized, sending her occupant headlong into the river!

  The small boys, pale with fright and dazed by the suddenness of the accident, sat for a moment unable to move or cry out. Then by a sudden wild impulse Parson sprang boldly into the water, followed in a second or two first by Telson, then by Lawkins. The other three held to the oars and waited where they were.

  The tide was running down at a good pace, and the river was fairly wide, but there was not much danger to any of the immersed ones. All Willoughby boys could swim, and as Mr Parrett had taught most of them to do so himself, he hardly stood in need of the help of his three pupils. A few strokes brought them all to the bank in safety.

  An uncomfortable moment ensued. Mr Parrett said nothing to the three dripping boys who stood before him, but called to the boys in the boat to row in, bringing the skiff with them.

  All the while this was being done, Telson and Parson looked despairingly at one another, and darted scared looks at Mr Parrett. He appeared not to notice them, but stood impatiently waiting for the boats.

  “Is the scull broken?” he called out as they approached.

  “No, sir,” said Wakefield.

  The skiff was put in close to the bank, and a brief examination showed that it was not damaged. Mr Parrett got into it, and without saying a word began to push off.

  “Please, sir,” cried Parson at this point, feeling that his last chance was going, “I’m so sorry. We didn’t know it was you, sir. It was all my fault.”

  “No, sir,” shouted Telson, “it was all my fault. We’re awfully sorry, sir.”

  Mr Parrett took no notice of these protestations, but said, quietly, “You’d better get home quickly and change your things.”

  So saying he sculled off, with a face hardly less puzzled than the small scared faces which, after watching him go, turned dismally to their own unlucky Noah’s Ark.

  On their arrival at the school some half-hour later, Parson, Telson, Bosher, King, and Lawkins were informed that, having been reported for being absent at call-over, the captain wished to see them in his study after breakfast the next morning.

  Later on that same evening another notice reached them that they were wanted in Mr Parrett’s room at once.

  Chapter Six

  Breakers ahead

  Mr Parrett was a popular master at Willoughby. He was an old Cambridge “blue,” and it was to his influence and example that the school in general, and Parrett’s house in particular, were chiefly indebted for their excellence in all manly sports. He was the most patient of trainers, and the most long-suffering of “coaches.” Nearly all his spare time was given up to the public service. Every afternoon you would be sure to find him in his flannels running along the bank beside some boat, or standing to be bowled at by aspiring young cricketers in the meadow, or superintending a swimming party up at the Willows.

  Boys didn’t give Mr Parrett credit for all the self-denial he really underwent; for he had a way of seeming to enjoy even the drudgery of his self-imposed work, and it rarely occurred even to the most hopeless of “duffers” to imagine that all the trouble spent over him was anything but a pleasure to the master who spent it.

  Mr Parrett had his reward, however, in the good will of the boys generally, which he prized highly, and nowhere was he more popular than among the juniors of his own house.

  What was their dismay, therefore, at the accident of that unlucky afternoon, and with what doleful faces did they present themselves in a melancholy procession at the door of his room at the appointed hour!

  “Come in,” said Mr Parrett, who was still in his flannels, and had not quite done tea. “Oh, you are the boys that I met on the river this afternoon. All except one belonging to my house, I see.”

  “Yes, sir,” exclaimed Telson, who was the distinguished exception, “they’re all Parretts except me, and it was all my fault, sir, and I’m—”

  “No,” interrupted Parson, “it was all my fault; I was steering.”

  “It was all our faults,” said Lawkins.

  “Oh,” said Mr Parrett, who could not help looking a little amused at the eager faces of the young culprits. “Perhaps it was my fault for not looking where I was coming to.”

  “Oh, sir,” said Parson, “that wouldn’t have been any good. We ran you down on purpose.”

  “Eh?” said Mr Parrett, not quite sure whether he had heard correctly.

  “That is, we didn’t know it was you, sir; we thought it was a schoolhouse—” (here Telson looked threatening)—“I mean we thought it was some one else. We wouldn’t have done it if we thought it was you, sir — indeed we wouldn’t.”

  “No, sir, that we wouldn’t,” chimed in the chorus.

  “And who did you think it was, pray?” inquired Mr Parrett.

  “A schoolhouse fellow,” replied Parson, avoiding Telson’s glances.

  “Which schoolhouse boy?” asked the master.

  “Any one, sir. It didn’t matter much which.”

  “Indeed. And what has the schoolhouse done to you?” said Mr Parrett, leaning back in his chair and pushing his plate away.

  It wasn’t an easy question, but Parson felt something ought to be said.

  “Some of them are rather cads, sir,” he said.

  (“Parson,” whispered Telson. “I’ll fight you when you get outside.”)

  “I mean, sir,” said Parson, hurriedly, “that is — (I beg pardon, Telson, old man, I didn’t mean) — they don’t like us, and—”

  “And we don’t like them,” said Lawkins.

  “And you think they ought to like you?” asked Mr Parrett, severely.

  This was a poser. The Parrett juniors had never asked themselves the question before.

  “Now listen to me,” said Mr Parrett. “I’m angry with you, and I’m going to punish you. I am not angry with you for capsizing me this afternoon. You did it by mistake, you say, and no harm was done. And I’m not going to punish you for being out late, for that the captain will do. But boys who make nuisances of themselves and then complain that other boys don’t like them are not to be put up with in Willoughby. You five have had a lesson already. You might have caused a much worse accident than you did by your folly. You may be thankful you did not. For a week neither of you is to go on to the river at all, and after that till the end of the term you will only be allowed to go with the captain’s permission, or in the company of a senior. You can go.”

  The party turned to obey, when Mr Parrett added, “Three of you, Telson, Parson, and Lawkins, remain a moment.”

  The other two went off, leaving their three comrades standing at the end of the table, wondering what on earth was coming next.

  Mr Parrett’s manner changed as he turned to them. He became embarrassed, and spoke almost nervously.

  “You three,” he said, “jumped in after me this afternoon, did you not?”

  “Yes, please, sir,” said Telson; “Parson was first, sir.”

  Mr Parrett rose from his seat, and, without saying a word, shook hands with each one of them, greatly to their astonishment and confusion.

  “You can go now,” said the master, when the ceremony was concluded; “good-night, boys.”

  “Good-night, sir,” said they, and filed out of the room.

  It was some time before Parson and Telson, as they walked slowly back along the passage, could find words suitable to the occasion. Then Telson said, “Well, that was a rum thing of him to do!”

  “What did he mean?” asked Parson.

  “Goodness knows. But, I say, it’s a jolly soak being stopped the river, though.”

  “Yes, and having to get a ‘permit’ when the time is up. I’d sooner not go on than beg a ‘permit’ of the captain.”

  “I wonder what he’ll say to us to-morrow,” said Telson. “He won’t lick us, eh?”

  “He’d better not,” said Parson. “You and I could lick him easy.”

&nbs
p; “I suppose he’ll give us a howling impot. I say I’m getting fagged of impots. I’ve had four this week.”

  “I’ve had three,” sighed Telson. “Heigho! Willoughby’s going to the dogs. I’ve a good mind to cut the whole concern.”

  And so in rather desponding mood the two friends separated, and Telson had an exciting chase across the quadrangle to avoid two monitors who were prowling about there (as he concluded) for the express purpose of “potting” him.

  In this, however, he was mistaken. The two monitors were Gilks of the schoolhouse and Silk of Welch’s, who were taking the air this hot summer evening, and thinking and talking of anything but Master Telson.

  “I tell you,” said Gilks, “I detest the fellow.”

  “You detest such a lot of fellows, Gilks,” said Silk.

  “I know I do,” said Gilks, “but I hate Riddell more than the lot put together.”

  “I should have thought he was rather an inoffensive duffer,” suggested Silk.

  “That’s just the worst of it. I’d give anything to catch him out in anything that wasn’t quite square, just to pay him out for his sickening priggishness. Why,” he exclaimed, with increasing anger in his tone, “what do you think he did the other day, long before he was captain, or had any pretence to give himself airs? He pulled me up before all the fellows for — well, for using—”

  “For swearing?” said Silk.

  “Yes, if you like. For swearing. What business is it of his what I say? I should like to know.”

  “Usen’t Wyndham to be down on fellows for swearing too?” asked Silk.

  “Yes, he was,” said Gilks (who had good reason to know); “but he had a right to do it. This cub hasn’t.”

  “What did Riddell say?”

  “What did he say? He said it didn’t make what I said any better worth hearing for sticking in an oath, and that— Oh, I don’t know what precious impudence he didn’t give me.”

  “Ha, ha,” said Silk, “it wasn’t bad. But I agree with you, the fellow is a prig—”

  “I know I mean to make a stand now,” said Gilks. “He shan’t stick up his sanctimonious nose over us all, now he’s captain, if I can help it.”