“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.
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.
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.