Chapter Three.

New Boys.

Parolles.—I find my tongue is too foolhardy.

All’s Well that Ends Well, Act four, scene 1.

The Famulus—“familiar”—as the boys called him, directed Walter across the court to the rooms of his housekeeper, who informed him about the places where his clothes and his play-boxes would be kept, and the dormitory where he was to sleep. She also gave him a key of the desk in the great schoolroom, in which he might, if he chose, keep his portable property. She moreover announced, with some significance, that she should be glad to do anything for him which lay in her humble power, and that the day after to-morrow was her birthday. Walter was a little puzzled as to the relevancy of the latter piece of information. He learnt it at a subsequent period, when he also discovered that Mrs Higgins found it to her interest to have periodical birthdays, recurring two or three times at least every half-year. The years which must have passed over that good lady’s head during Walter’s stay at Saint Winifred’s—the premature rapidity with which old age must have subsequently overtaken her, and the vigour which she displayed at so advanced a period of life—were something quite extraordinary of their kind.

Towards the great schoolroom Walter accordingly directed his steps. The key turned out to be quite superfluous, for the hasp of the lock had been broken by Walter’s predecessor, who had also left the trace of his name, his likeness, and many interesting though inexplicable designs and hieroglyphics, with a red-hot poker, on the lid. The same gentleman, to judge by appearances, must have had a curious entomological collection of spiders and earwigs under his protection, and had bequeathed to Walter a highly miscellaneous legacy of rubbish. Walter contemplated his bequest with some dismay, and began busily to dust the interior of the desk, and make it as fit a receptacle as he could for his writing materials and other personal possessions.

While thus engaged he could not help being secretly tickled by the proceedings of a group of boys standing round the large unlighted stove, and amusing themselves, harmlessly for the most part, with the inexperience and idiosyncrasies of various newcomers. After tiring themselves with the freaks of a mad Irish boy who had entered into the spirit of his own cross-examination with a high sense of buffoonery which refused to grow ill-tempered, they were now playing on the extreme gullibility of a heavy, open-mouthed, bullet-headed fellow, named Plumber, from whom the most astounding information could extract no greater evidence of sensation than a little wider stare of the eyes, and an unexcited drawl of “Really though?” One of the group, named Henderson, a merry-looking boy with a ceaseless pleasant twinkle of the eyes, had been taxing his own invention to the uttermost without in the least exciting Plumber’s credulity.

“You saw the fellow who let you in at the school gates, Plumber?” said Henderson. “Yes; I saw someone or other.”

“But did you notice him particularly?”

“No, I didn’t notice him.”

“Well, you should have done. That man’s called ‘the Familiar.’ Ask anyone if he isn’t? But do you know why?”

“No,” said Plumber.

“It’s because he’s got a familiar spirit which waits on him,” said Henderson mysteriously.

“Really though,” said Plumber, and this time he looked so frightened that it was impossible for the rest to avoid bursting into a fit of laughter, during which Plumber, vaguely comprehending that he was considered a very good joke, retired with discomfiture.

“You fools,” said Henderson; “if you’d only given me a little more time I’d have made him believe that Lane had a tail, and wore his gown to conceal it, except when he used it to flog with; and that before being entered he would have to sing a song standing on his head. You’ve quite spoilt my game by bursting out laughing.”

“There’s another new fellow,” said Kenrick, one of the group. “Come here, you new fellow!” called two or three of them.

Walter looked up, thinking that he was addressed, but found that the summons was meant for a boy, rather good-looking but very slender, whose self-important attitude and supercilious look betrayed no slight amount of vanity, and who, to the apparent astonishment of the rest, was surveying the room and its appurtenances with a look of great affectation and disdain.

“So you don’t much seem to like the look of Saint Winifred’s,” said Kenrick to him, as the boy walked up with a delicate air. “Not much,” lisped the new boy; “everything looks so very common.”

“Common and unclean to the last degree,” said Henderson, imitating his manner.

“And is this the only place you have to sit in?”

“O, by no means,” said Henderson; “each of us has a private apartment furnished in crimson and gold, according to the simple yet elegant taste of the owner. Our meals are there served to us by kneeling domestics on little dishes of silver.”

“I suppose you intend that for wit,” said the new boy languidly.

“Yes; to do you, to wit,” answered Henderson; “but seriously though, that would be a great deal more like what you have been accustomed to, wouldn’t it, my friend?”

“Very much more,” said the boy.

“And would you politely favour this company,” said Henderson, with obsequious courtesy, “by revealing to us your name?”

“My name is Howard Tracy.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Henderson, with an air of great satisfaction, and making a low bow.

“I am called Howard Tracy because I am descended lineally from both those noble families.”

“My goodness! are you really!” said Henderson, clasping his hands in mock transport. “My dear sir, you are an honour to your race and country! you are an honour to this school. By Jove, we are proud, sir, to have you among us!”

“Perhaps you may not know that my uncle is the Viscount Saint George,” said Tracy patronisingly.

“Is he, though, by George!” said Henderson yawning. “Is that Saint George who—

“‘Swinged the dragon, and e’er since
Sits on his horseback at mine hostess’ door?’”

But finding that the boy’s vanity was too obtuse to be amusing any longer, he was about to leave him to the rest, when Jones caught sight of Walter, and called out:—

“Halloa, here’s a new fellow grinning at the follies of his kind. Come here, you dark-haired chap. What’s your name?”

“Evson,” said Walter, quietly approaching them. Before getting any fun out of him it was necessary to see what kind of boy he was; and as Jones hardly knew what line to take, he began on the commonest and most vulgar tack of catechising him about his family and relations. “What’s your father?”

“My father is a gentleman,” said Walter, rather surprised at the rudeness of the question.

“And where do you live?”

“At Semlyn.”

“And how old are you?”

“Just thirteen.”

“And how many sisters have you?”

Walter rather thought of asking, “What’s that to you?” but as he saw no particular harm in answering the question, and did not want to seem too stiff-backed, he answered, “Three.”

“And are they very beautiful?”

“I don’t know; I never asked them. Are yours?” This last question was so perfectly quiet and unexpected, and Jones was so evidently discomfited by it, that the rest burst into a roar of laughter, and Henderson said, “You’ve caught a tartar, Jones. You can’t drop salt on this bird’s tail. You had better return to Plumber, or Saint George and the dragon. Here, my noble Viscount, what do you think of your coeval? Is he as common as the rest of us?”

“I don’t think anything about him, if you mean me by Viscount,” said Tracy peevishly, beginning at last to understand that they had been making a fool of him.

“Quite right, Saint George; he’s beneath your notice.” Tracy ran his hand through his scented hair, as if he rather Implied that he was; and being mortified at the contrast between his own credulous vanity and Walter’s manly simplicity, and anxious if possible to regain his position, he said angrily to Walter, “What are you looking at me for?”

Not wishing to be rude, Walter turned away, while someone observed, “A cat may look at a king.”

“Ay, a cat at a king, I grant you,” answered Henderson; “but not a mere son of Eve at any Howard Tracy.”

“You are laughing at me,” said Tracy to Walter again, in a still angrier tone, seeing Walter smile at Henderson’s remark.

“I’ve not the slightest wish to laugh at you,” said Walter.

“Yes he has. Shy this at him,” said Jones, putting a great bit of orange peel into Tracy’s hand.

Tracy threw it at Walter, and he without hesitation picked it up, and flung it back in Tracy’s face.

“A fight! a fight!” shouted the mischief-making group, as Tracy made a blind blow at Walter, which his antagonist easily parried.

“Make him fight you. Challenge him,” said Jones. “Invite him to the milling-ground behind the chapel after first school to-morrow morning.”

“Pistols for two, coffee for four, at eight to-morrow,” said Henderson. “Trample on the Dragon’s tail, someone, and rouse him to the occasion. What! he won’t come to the scratch? Alack! alack!

“‘What can ennoble fools or cowards
Not all the blood of all the Tracys, Dragons, and Howards!’”

He continued mischievously, as he saw that Tracy, on taking note of Walter’s compact figure, showed signs of declining the combat.

“Hush, Henderson,” said Kenrick, one of the group who had taken no part in the talk; “it’s a shame to be setting two new fellows fighting their first evening.”

But Henderson’s last remark had been too much for Tracy. “Will you fight?” he said, walking up to Walter with reddening cheeks. For Tracy had been to school before, and was no novice in the ways of boys.

“Certainly not,” said Walter coolly, to everybody’s great surprise.

“What! the other chap showing the white feather, too. All the new fellows are cowards it seems this time,” said Jones. “This’ll never do. Pitch into him, Tracy.”

“Stop,” said Kenrick; “let’s hear first why he won’t fight?”

“Because I see no occasion to,” said Walter; “and because, in the second place, I never could fight in cold blood; and because, in the third place—”

“Well, what in the third place?” said Kenrick, interested to observe Walter’s hesitation.

“In the third place,” said Walter, “I don’t say it from conceit—but that boy’s no match for me.”

To anyone who glanced at the figures of the two boys this was obvious enough, although Walter was a year the younger of the two. The rest began to respect Walter accordingly as a sensible little man, but Tracy was greatly offended by the last remark, and Jones, who was a bully and had a grudge against Walter for baffling his impertinence, exclaimed, “Don’t you be afraid, Tracy. I’ll back you. Give him something to heat his cold blood.”

Fired at once by taunts and encouragements, Tracy did as he was bid, and struck Walter on the face. The boy started angrily, and at first seemed as if he meant to return the blow with compound interest, but suddenly changing his intention, he seized Tracy round the waist, and in spite of all kicking and struggling, fairly carried the humiliated descendant of the Howards and Tracys to a far corner of the room, where, amid a shout of laughter, he deposited him with the laconic suggestion, “Don’t you be a fool.”

Walter’s blood was now up, and thinking that he might as well show, from the very first, that he was not to be bullied, or made a butt with impunity, he walked straight to the stove, and looking full at Jones (who had inspired him already with strong disgust), he said, “You called me a coward just now; I’m not a coward, though I don’t like fighting for nothing. I’m not a bit afraid of you, though you forced that fellow to hit me just now.”

“Aren’t you? Saucy young cub! Then take that,” said Jones, enforcing the remark with a box on the ear.

“And you take that,” said Walter, returning the compliment with as much energy as if he had been playing at the game of Gif es wetter.

Jones, astonished beyond measure, sprang forward, clenched his two fists, squared, and blustered with great demonstrativeness. He was much Walter’s senior, and was utterly taken by surprise at his audacity; but he seemed in no hurry to avenge the insult.

“Well,” said Walter, heaving with indignation, “why don’t you hit me again?”

Jones looked at his firm and determined little assailant with some alarm, slowly tucked up the sleeves of his coat, turned white and red, and—didn’t return the blow. The tea-bell beginning to ring at that moment gave him a convenient excuse for breaking off the altercation. He told his friends that he was on the point of thrashing Walter when the bell rang, but that he thought it a shame to fight a new fellow—“and in cold blood, too,” he added, adopting Walter’s language, but not his sincerity.

“Don’t call me a coward again then,” said Walter to him as he turned away.

“I say, Evson, you’re a regular brick, a regular stunner,” said young Kenrick, delighted, as he showed Walter the way to the Hall where the boys had tea. “That fellow Jones is no end of a bully, and he won’t be quite so big in future. You’ve taken him down a great many pegs.”

“I say, Kenrick,” shouted Henderson after them, “I bet you five to one I know what you’re saying to the new fellow.”

“I bet you don’t,” said Kenrick, laughing.

“You’re saying—it’s a quotation, you know, but never mind—you’re saying to him, ‘A sudden thought strikes me: let’s swear an eternal friendship.’”

“Then you’re quite out,” answered Kenrick. “I was saying come and sit next me at tea.”

“And go shares in jam,” added Henderson: “exactly what I said, only in other words.”