CHAPTER
VI—AFTER THE MATCH.
“Some food we had.”—Shakespeare.
Ἧς πότος ἁδύς.—Theocritus.
As the boys scattered away from the ground, and
East, leaning on Tom's arm, and limping along, was beginning to consider what
luxury they should go and buy for tea to celebrate that glorious victory, the
two Brookes came striding by. Old Brooke caught sight of East, and stopped; put
his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said, “Bravo, youngster; you played
famously. Not much the matter, I hope?”
“No, nothing at all,” said East—“only a little
twist from that charge.”
“Well, mind and get all right for next Saturday.”
And the leader passed on, leaving East better for those few words than all the
opodeldoc in England would have made him, and Tom ready to give one of his ears
for as much notice. Ah! light words of those whom we love and honour, what a
power ye are, and how carelessly wielded by those who can use you! Surely for
these things also God will ask an account.
“Tea's directly after locking-up, you see,” said
East, hobbling along as fast as he could, “so you come along down to Sally
Harrowell's; that's our School-house tuck-shop. She bakes such stunning
murphies, we'll have a penn'orth each for tea. Come along, or they'll all be
gone.”
Tom's new purse and money burnt in his pocket; he
wondered, as they toddled through the quadrangle and along the street, whether
East would be insulted if he suggested further extravagance, as he had not
sufficient faith in a pennyworth of potatoes. At last he blurted out,—
“I say, East, can't we get something else besides
potatoes? I've got lots of money, you know.”
“Bless us, yes; I forgot,” said East, “you've only
just come. You see all my tin's been gone this twelve weeks—it hardly ever
lasts beyond the first fortnight; and our allowances were all stopped this
morning for broken windows, so I haven't got a penny. I've got a tick at
Sally's, of course; but then I hate running it high, you see, towards the end
of the half, 'cause one has to shell out for it all directly one comes back,
and that's a bore.”
Tom didn't understand much of this talk, but
seized on the fact that East had no money, and was denying himself some little
pet luxury in consequence. “Well, what shall I buy?” said he, “I'm uncommon
hungry.”
“I say,” said East, stopping to look at him and
rest his leg, “you're a trump, Brown. I'll do the same by you next half. Let's
have a pound of sausages then. That's the best grub for tea I know of.”
“Very well,” said Tom, as pleased as possible;
“where do they sell them?”
“Oh, over here, just opposite.” And they crossed
the street and walked into the cleanest little front room of a small house,
half parlour, half shop, and bought a pound of most particular sausages, East
talking pleasantly to Mrs. Porter while she put them in paper, and Tom doing
the paying part.
From Porter's they adjourned to Sally Harrowell's,
where they found a lot of School-house boys waiting for the roast potatoes, and
relating their own exploits in the day's match at the top of their voices. The
street opened at once into Sally's kitchen, a low brick-floored room, with
large recess for fire, and chimney-corner seats. Poor little Sally, the most
good-natured and much-enduring of womankind, was bustling about, with a napkin
in her hand, from her own oven to those of the neighbours' cottages up the yard
at the back of the house. Stumps, her husband, a short, easy-going shoemaker, with
a beery, humorous eye and ponderous calves, who lived mostly on his wife's
earnings, stood in a corner of the room, exchanging shots of the roughest
description of repartee with every boy in turn. “Stumps, you lout, you've had
too much beer again to-day.” “'Twasn't of your paying for, then.” “Stumps's
calves are running down into his ankles; they want to get to grass.” “Better be
doing that than gone altogether like yours,” etc. Very poor stuff it was, but
it served to make time pass; and every now and then Sally arrived in the middle
with a smoking tin of potatoes, which was cleared off in a few seconds, each
boy as he seized his lot running off to the house with “Put me down
two-penn'orth, Sally;” “Put down three-penn'orth between me and Davis,” etc. How
she ever kept the accounts so straight as she did, in her head and on her
slate, was a perfect wonder.
East and Tom got served at last, and started back
for the School-house, just as the locking-up bell began to ring, East on the
way recounting the life and adventures of Stumps, who was a character. Amongst
his other small avocations, he was the hind carrier of a sedan-chair, the last
of its race, in which the Rugby ladies still went out to tea, and in which,
when he was fairly harnessed and carrying a load, it was the delight of small
and mischievous boys to follow him and whip his calves. This was too much for
the temper even of Stumps, and he would pursue his tormentors in a vindictive
and apoplectic manner when released, but was easily pacified by twopence to buy
beer with.
The lower-school boys of the School-house, some
fifteen in number, had tea in the lower-fifth school, and were presided over by
the old verger or head-porter. Each boy had a quarter of a loaf of bread and
pat of butter, and as much tea as he pleased; and there was scarcely one who
didn't add to this some further luxury, such as baked potatoes, a herring,
sprats, or something of the sort. But few at this period of the half-year could
live up to a pound of Porter's sausages, and East was in great magnificence
upon the strength of theirs. He had produced a toasting-fork from his study,
and set Tom to toast the sausages, while he mounted guard over their butter and
potatoes. “'Cause,” as he explained, “you're a new boy, and they'll play you
some trick and get our butter; but you can toast just as well as I.” So Tom, in
the midst of three or four more urchins similarly employed, toasted his face
and the sausages at the same time before the huge fire, till the latter
cracked; when East from his watch-tower shouted that they were done, and then
the feast proceeded, and the festive cups of tea were filled and emptied, and
Tom imparted of the sausages in small bits to many neighbours, and thought he
had never tasted such good potatoes or seen such jolly boys. They on their
parts waived all ceremony, and pegged away at the sausages and potatoes, and
remembering Tom's performance in goal, voted East's new crony a brick. After
tea, and while the things were being cleared away, they gathered round the
fire, and the talk on the match still went on; and those who had them to show
pulled up their trousers and showed the hacks they had received in the good
cause.
They were soon, however, all turned out of the
school; and East conducted Tom up to his bedroom, that he might get on clean
things, and wash himself before singing.
“What's singing?” said Tom, taking his head out of
his basin, where he had been plunging it in cold water.
“Well, you are jolly green,” answered his friend,
from a neighbouring basin. “Why, the last six Saturdays of every half we sing
of course; and this is the first of them. No first lesson to do, you know, and
lie in bed to-morrow morning.”
“But who sings?”
“Why, everybody, of course; you'll see soon
enough. We begin directly after supper, and sing till bed-time. It ain't such
good fun now, though, as in the summer half; 'cause then we sing in the little
fives court, under the library, you know. We take out tables, and the big boys
sit round and drink beer—double allowance on Saturday nights; and we cut about
the quadrangle between the songs, and it looks like a lot of robbers in a cave.
And the louts come and pound at the great gates, and we pound back again, and
shout at them. But this half we only sing in the hall. Come along down to my
study.”
Their principal employment in the study was to
clear out East's table; removing the drawers and ornaments and tablecloth; for
he lived in the bottom passage, and his table was in requisition for the
singing.
Supper came in due course at seven o'clock,
consisting of bread and cheese and beer, which was all saved for the singing;
and directly afterwards the fags went to work to prepare the hall. The
School-house hall, as has been said, is a great long high room, with two large
fires on one side, and two large iron-bound tables, one running down the
middle, and the other along the wall opposite the fireplaces. Around the upper
fire the fags placed the tables in the form of a horse-shoe, and upon them the
jugs with the Saturday night's allowance of beer. Then the big boys used to
drop in and take their seats, bringing with them bottled beer and song books;
for although they all knew the songs by heart, it was the thing to have an old
manuscript book descended from some departed hero, in which they were all
carefully written out.
The sixth-form boys had not yet appeared; so, to
fill up the gap, an interesting and time-honoured ceremony was gone through.
Each new boy was placed on the table in turn, and made to sing a solo, under
the penalty of drinking a large mug of salt and water if he resisted or broke
down. However, the new boys all sing like nightingales to-night, and the salt
water is not in requisition—Tom, as his part, performing the old west-country
song of “The Leather Bottel” with considerable applause. And at the half-hour
down come the sixth and fifth form boys, and take their places at the tables,
which are filled up by the next biggest boys, the rest, for whom there is no
room at the table, standing round outside.
The glasses and mugs are filled, and then the
fugleman strikes up the old sea-song,
“A wet
sheet and a flowing sea,
And a
wind that follows fast,” etc.,
which is the invariable first song in the
School-house; and all the seventy voices join in, not mindful of harmony, but
bent on noise, which they attain decidedly, but the general effect isn't bad.
And then follow “The British Grenadiers,” “Billy Taylor,” “The Siege of
Seringapatam,” “Three Jolly Postboys,” and other vociferous songs in rapid
succession, including “The Chesapeake and Shannon,” a song lately introduced in
honour of old Brooke; and when they come to the words,
“Brave
Broke he waved his sword, crying, Now, my lads, aboard,
And
we'll stop their playing Yankee-doodle-dandy oh!”
you expect the roof to come down. The sixth and
fifth know that “brave Broke” of the Shannon was no sort of relation to our old
Brooke. The fourth form are uncertain in their belief, but for the most part
hold that old Brooke was a midshipman then on board his uncle's ship. And the
lower school never doubt for a moment that it was our old Brooke who led the
boarders, in what capacity they care not a straw. During the pauses the
bottled-beer corks fly rapidly, and the talk is fast and merry, and the big
boys—at least all of them who have a fellow-feeling for dry throats—hand their
mugs over their shoulders to be emptied by the small ones who stand round
behind.
Then Warner, the head of the house, gets up and
wants to speak; but he can't, for every boy knows what's coming. And the big
boys who sit at the tables pound them and cheer; and the small boys who stand
behind pound one another, and cheer, and rush about the hall cheering. Then
silence being made, Warner reminds them of the old School-house custom of
drinking the healths, on the first night of singing, of those who are going to
leave at the end of the half. “He sees that they know what he is going to say already”
(loud cheers), “and so won't keep them, but only ask them to treat the toast as
it deserves. It is the head of the eleven, the head of big-side football, their
leader on this glorious day—Pater Brooke!”
And away goes the pounding and cheering again,
becoming deafening when old Brooke gets on his legs; till, a table having
broken down, and a gallon or so of beer been upset, and all throats getting
dry, silence ensues, and the hero speaks, leaning his hands on the table, and
bending a little forwards. No action, no tricks of oratory—plain, strong, and
straight, like his play.
“Gentlemen of the School-house! I am very proud of
the way in which you have received my name, and I wish I could say all I should
like in return. But I know I shan't. However, I'll do the best I can to say
what seems to me ought to be said by a fellow who's just going to leave, and
who has spent a good slice of his life here. Eight years it is, and eight such
years as I can never hope to have again. So now I hope you'll all listen to me”
(loud cheers of “That we will”), “for I'm going to talk seriously. You're bound
to listen to me for what's the use of calling me 'pater,' and all that, if you
don't mind what I say? And I'm going to talk seriously, because I feel so. It's
a jolly time, too, getting to the end of the half, and a goal kicked by us
first day” (tremendous applause), “after one of the hardest and fiercest day's
play I can remember in eight years.” (Frantic shoutings.) “The School played
splendidly, too, I will say, and kept it up to the last. That last charge of
theirs would have carried away a house. I never thought to see anything again
of old Crab there, except little pieces, when I saw him tumbled over by it.”
(Laughter and shouting, and great slapping on the back of Jones by the boys
nearest him.) “Well, but we beat 'em.” (Cheers.) “Ay, but why did we beat 'em?
Answer me that.” (Shouts of “Your play.”) “Nonsense! 'Twasn't the wind and
kick-off either—that wouldn't do it. 'Twasn't because we've half a dozen of the
best players in the school, as we have. I wouldn't change Warner, and Hedge,
and Crab, and the young un, for any six on their side.” (Violent cheers.) “But
half a dozen fellows can't keep it up for two hours against two hundred. Why is
it, then? I'll tell you what I think. It's because we've more reliance on one
another, more of a house feeling, more fellowship than the School can have.
Each of us knows and can depend on his next-hand man better. That's why we beat
'em to-day. We've union, they've division—there's the secret.” (Cheers.) “But
how's this to be kept up? How's it to be improved? That's the question. For I
take it we're all in earnest about beating the School, whatever else we care
about. I know I'd sooner win two School-house matches running than get the
Balliol scholarship any day.” (Frantic cheers.)
“Now, I'm as proud of the house as any one. I
believe it's the best house in the school, out and out.” (Cheers.) “But it's a
long way from what I want to see it. First, there's a deal of bullying going
on. I know it well. I don't pry about and interfere; that only makes it more
underhand, and encourages the small boys to come to us with their fingers in
their eyes telling tales, and so we should be worse off than ever. It's very
little kindness for the sixth to meddle generally—you youngsters mind that.
You'll be all the better football players for learning to stand it, and to take
your own parts, and fight it through. But depend on it, there's nothing breaks
up a house like bullying. Bullies are cowards, and one coward makes many; so
good-bye to the School-house match if bullying gets ahead here.” (Loud applause
from the small boys, who look meaningly at Flashman and other boys at the
tables.) “Then there's fuddling about in the public-house, and drinking bad
spirits, and punch, and such rot-gut stuff. That won't make good drop-kicks or
chargers of you, take my word for it. You get plenty of good beer here, and
that's enough for you; and drinking isn't fine or manly, whatever some of you
may think of it.
“One other thing I must have a word about. A lot
of you think and say, for I've heard you, 'There's this new Doctor hasn't been
here so long as some of us, and he's changing all the old customs. Rugby, and
the Schoolhouse especially, are going to the dogs. Stand up for the good old
ways, and down with the Doctor!' Now I'm as fond of old Rugby customs and ways
as any of you, and I've been here longer than any of you, and I'll give you a
word of advice in time, for I shouldn't like to see any of you getting sacked.
'Down with the Doctor's' easier said than done. You'll find him pretty tight on
his perch, I take it, and an awkwardish customer to handle in that line.
Besides now, what customs has he put down? There was the good old custom of
taking the linchpins out of the farmers' and bagmen's gigs at the fairs, and a
cowardly, blackguard custom it was. We all know what came of it, and no wonder
the Doctor objected to it. But come now, any of you, name a custom that he has
put down.”
“The hounds,” calls out a fifth-form boy, clad in
a green cutaway with brass buttons and cord trousers, the leader of the
sporting interest, and reputed a great rider and keen hand generally.
“Well, we had six or seven mangy harriers and
beagles belonging to the house, I'll allow, and had had them for years, and
that the Doctor put them down. But what good ever came of them? Only rows with
all the keepers for ten miles round; and big-side hare-and-hounds is better fun
ten times over. What else?”
No answer.
“Well, I won't go on. Think it over for
yourselves. You'll find, I believe, that he don't meddle with any one that's
worth keeping. And mind now, I say again, look out for squalls if you will go
your own way, and that way ain't the Doctor's, for it'll lead to grief. You all
know that I'm not the fellow to back a master through thick and thin. If I saw
him stopping football, or cricket, or bathing, or sparring, I'd be as ready as
any fellow to stand up about it. But he don't; he encourages them. Didn't you
see him out to-day for half an hour watching us?” (loud cheers for the Doctor);
“and he's a strong, true man, and a wise one too, and a public-school man too”
(cheers), “and so let's stick to him, and talk no more rot, and drink his
health as the head of the house.” (Loud cheers.) “And now I've done blowing up,
and very glad I am to have done. But it's a solemn thing to be thinking of
leaving a place which one has lived in and loved for eight years; and if one
can say a word for the good of the old house at such a time, why, it should be
said, whether bitter or sweet. If I hadn't been proud of the house and you—ay,
no one knows how proud—I shouldn't be blowing you up. And now let's get to
singing. But before I sit down I must give you a toast to be drunk with
three-times-three and all the honours. It's a toast which I hope every one of
us, wherever he may go hereafter, will never fail to drink when he thinks of
the brave, bright days of his boyhood. It's a toast which should bind us all
together, and to those who've gone before and who'll come after us here. It is
the dear old School-house—the best house of the best school in England!”
My dear boys, old and young, you who have
belonged, or do belong, to other schools and other houses, don't begin throwing
my poor little book about the room, and abusing me and it, and vowing you'll
read no more when you get to this point. I allow you've provocation for it. But
come now—would you, any of you, give a fig for a fellow who didn't believe in
and stand up for his own house and his own school? You know you wouldn't. Then
don't object to me cracking up the old School house, Rugby. Haven't I a right
to do it, when I'm taking all the trouble of writing this true history for all
of your benefits? If you ain't satisfied, go and write the history of your own
houses in your own times, and say all you know for your own schools and houses,
provided it's true, and I'll read it without abusing you.
The last few words hit the audience in their
weakest place. They had been not altogether enthusiastic at several parts of
old Brooke's speech; but “the best house of the best school in England” was too
much for them all, and carried even the sporting and drinking interests off
their legs into rapturous applause, and (it is to be hoped) resolutions to lead
a new life and remember old Brooke's words—which, however, they didn't
altogether do, as will appear hereafter.
But it required all old Brooke's popularity to
carry down parts of his speech—especially that relating to the Doctor. For
there are no such bigoted holders by established forms and customs, be they
never so foolish or meaningless, as English school-boys—at least, as the
school-boys of our generation. We magnified into heroes every boy who had left,
and looked upon him with awe and reverence when he revisited the place a year
or so afterwards, on his way to or from Oxford or Cambridge; and happy was the
boy who remembered him, and sure of an audience as he expounded what he used to
do and say, though it were sad enough stuff to make angels, not to say
head-masters, weep.
We looked upon every trumpery little custom and
habit which had obtained in the School as though it had been a law of the Medes
and Persians, and regarded the infringement or variation of it as a sort of
sacrilege. And the Doctor, than whom no man or boy had a stronger liking for
old school customs which were good and sensible, had, as has already been
hinted, come into most decided collision with several which were neither the
one nor the other. And as old Brooke had said, when he came into collision with
boys or customs, there was nothing for them but to give in or take themselves
off; because what he said had to be done, and no mistake about it. And this was
beginning to be pretty clearly understood. The boys felt that there was a strong
man over them, who would have things his own way, and hadn't yet learnt that he
was a wise and loving man also. His personal character and influence had not
had time to make itself felt, except by a very few of the bigger boys with whom
he came more directly into contact; and he was looked upon with great fear and
dislike by the great majority even of his own house. For he had found School
and School-house in a state of monstrous license and misrule, and was still
employed in the necessary but unpopular work of setting up order with a strong
hand.
However, as has been said, old Brooke triumphed,
and the boys cheered him and then the Doctor. And then more songs came, and the
healths of the other boys about to leave, who each made a speech, one flowery,
another maudlin, a third prosy, and so on, which are not necessary to be here
recorded.
Half-past nine struck in the middle of the
performance of “Auld Lang Syne,” a most obstreperous proceeding, during which
there was an immense amount of standing with one foot on the table, knocking
mugs together and shaking hands, without which accompaniments it seems
impossible for the youths of Britain to take part in that famous old song. The
under-porter of the School-house entered during the performance, bearing five
or six long wooden candlesticks with lighted dips in them, which he proceeded
to stick into their holes in such part of the great tables as he could get at;
and then stood outside the ring till the end of the song, when he was hailed
with shouts.
“Bill you old muff, the half-hour hasn't struck.”
“Here, Bill, drink some cocktail.” “Sing us a song, old boy.” “Don't you wish
you may get the table?” Bill drank the proffered cocktail not unwillingly, and
putting down the empty glass, remonstrated. “Now gentlemen, there's only ten
minutes to prayers, and we must get the hall straight.”
Shouts of “No, no!” and a violent effort to strike
up “Billy Taylor” for the third time. Bill looked appealingly to old Brooke,
who got up and stopped the noise. “Now then, lend a hand, you youngsters, and
get the tables back; clear away the jugs and glasses. Bill's right. Open the
windows, Warner.” The boy addressed, who sat by the long ropes, proceeded to
pull up the great windows, and let in a clear, fresh rush of night air, which
made the candles flicker and gutter, and the fires roar. The circle broke up,
each collaring his own jug, glass, and song-book; Bill pounced on the big
table, and began to rattle it away to its place outside the buttery door. The
lower-passage boys carried off their small tables, aided by their friends;
while above all, standing on the great hall-table, a knot of untiring sons of
harmony made night doleful by a prolonged performance of “God Save the King.”
His Majesty King William the Fourth then reigned over us, a monarch deservedly
popular amongst the boys addicted to melody, to whom he was chiefly known from
the beginning of that excellent if slightly vulgar song in which they much
delighted,—
“Come,
neighbours all, both great and small,
Perform your duties here,
And
loudly sing, 'Live Billy, our king,'
For
bating the tax upon beer.”
Others of the more learned in songs also
celebrated his praises in a sort of ballad, which I take to have been written
by some Irish loyalist. I have forgotten all but the chorus, which ran,—
“God
save our good King William,
Be his
name for ever blest;
He's
the father of all his people,
And the
guardian of all the rest.”
In troth we were loyal subjects in those days, in
a rough way. I trust that our successors make as much of her present Majesty,
and, having regard to the greater refinement of the times, have adopted or
written other songs equally hearty, but more civilized, in her honour.
Then the quarter to ten struck, and the
prayer-bell rang. The sixth and fifth form boys ranged themselves in their
school order along the wall, on either side of the great fires, the
middle-fifth and upper-school boys round the long table in the middle of the
hall, and the lower-school boys round the upper part of the second long table,
which ran down the side of the hall farthest from the fires. Here Tom found
himself at the bottom of all, in a state of mind and body not at all fit for
prayers, as he thought; and so tried hard to make himself serious, but
couldn't, for the life of him, do anything but repeat in his head the choruses
of some of the songs, and stare at all the boys opposite, wondering at the
brilliancy of their waistcoats, and speculating what sort of fellows they were.
The steps of the head-porter are heard on the stairs, and a light gleams at the
door. “Hush!” from the fifth-form boys who stand there, and then in strides the
Doctor, cap on head, book in one hand, and gathering up his gown in the other.
He walks up the middle, and takes his post by Warner, who begins calling over
the names. The Doctor takes no notice of anything, but quietly turns over his
book and finds the place, and then stands, cap in hand and finger in book,
looking straight before his nose. He knows better than any one when to look,
and when to see nothing. To-night is singing night, and there's been lots of
noise and no harm done—nothing but beer drunk, and nobody the worse for it,
though some of them do look hot and excited. So the Doctor sees nothing, but
fascinates Tom in a horrible manner as he stands there, and reads out the
psalm, in that deep, ringing, searching voice of his. Prayers are over, and Tom
still stares open-mouthed after the Doctor's retiring figure, when he feels a
pull at his sleeve, and turning round, sees East.
“I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket?”
“No,” said Tom; “why?”
“'Cause there'll be tossing to-night, most likely,
before the sixth come up to bed. So if you funk, you just come along and hide,
or else they'll catch you and toss you.”
“Were you ever tossed? Does it hurt?” inquired
Tom.
“Oh yes, bless you, a dozen times,” said East, as
he hobbled along by Tom's side upstairs. “It don't hurt unless you fall on the
floor. But most fellows don't like it.”
They stopped at the fireplace in the top passage,
where were a crowd of small boys whispering together, and evidently unwilling
to go up into the bedrooms. In a minute, however, a study door opened, and a
sixth-form boy came out, and off they all scuttled up the stairs, and then
noiselessly dispersed to their different rooms. Tom's heart beat rather quick
as he and East reached their room, but he had made up his mind. “I shan't hide,
East,” said he.
“Very well, old fellow,” replied East, evidently
pleased; “no more shall I. They'll be here for us directly.”
The room was a great big one, with a dozen beds in
it, but not a boy that Tom could see except East and himself. East pulled off
his coat and waistcoat, and then sat on the bottom of his bed whistling and
pulling off his boots. Tom followed his example.
A noise and steps are heard in the passage, the
door opens, and in rush four or five great fifth-form boys, headed by Flashman
in his glory.
Tom and East slept in the farther corner of the
room, and were not seen at first.
“Gone to ground, eh?” roared Flashman. “Push 'em
out then, boys; look under the beds.” And he pulled up the little white curtain
of the one nearest him. “Who-o-op!” he roared, pulling away at the leg of a
small boy, who held on tight to the leg of the bed, and sang out lustily for
mercy.
“Here, lend a hand, one of you, and help me pull
out this young howling brute.—Hold your tongue, sir, or I'll kill you.”
“Oh, please, Flashman, please, Walker, don't toss
me! I'll fag for you—I'll do anything—only don't toss me.”
“You be hanged,” said Flashman, lugging the
wretched boy along; “'twon't hurt you,—you!—Come along, boys; here he is.”
“I say, Flashey,” sang out another of the big
boys; “drop that; you heard what old Pater Brooke said to-night. I'll be hanged
if we'll toss any one against their will. No more bullying. Let him go, I say.”
Flashman, with an oath and a kick, released his
prey, who rushed headlong under his bed again, for fear they should change
their minds, and crept along underneath the other beds, till he got under that
of the sixth-form boy, which he knew they daren't disturb.
“There's plenty of youngsters don't care about
it,” said Walker. “Here, here's Scud East—you'll be tossed, won't you, young
un?” Scud was East's nickname, or Black, as we called it, gained by his
fleetness of foot.
“Yes,” said East, “if you like, only mind my
foot.”
“And here's another who didn't hide.—Hullo! new
boy; what's your name, sir?”
“Brown.”
“Well, Whitey Brown, you don't mind being tossed?”
“No,” said Tom, setting his teeth.
“Come along then, boys,” sang out Walker; and away
they all went, carrying along Tom and East, to the intense relief of four or
five other small boys, who crept out from under the beds and behind them.
“What a trump Scud is!” said one. “They won't come
back here now.”
“And that new boy, too; he must be a good-plucked
one.”
“Ah! wait till he has been tossed on to the floor;
see how he'll like it then!”
Meantime the procession went down the passage to
Number 7, the largest room, and the scene of the tossing, in the middle of
which was a great open space. Here they joined other parties of the bigger
boys, each with a captive or two, some willing to be tossed, some sullen, and
some frightened to death. At Walker's suggestion all who were afraid were let
off, in honour of Pater Brooke's speech.
Then a dozen big boys seized hold of a blanket,
dragged from one of the beds. “In with Scud; quick! there's no time to lose.”
East was chucked into the blanket. “Once, twice, thrice, and away!” Up he went
like a shuttlecock, but not quite up to the ceiling.
“Now, boys, with a will,” cried Walker; “once,
twice, thrice, and away!” This time he went clean up, and kept himself from
touching the ceiling with his hand, and so again a third time, when he was
turned out, and up went another boy. And then came Tom's turn. He lay quite
still, by East's advice, and didn't dislike the “once, twice, thrice;” but the
“away” wasn't so pleasant. They were in good wind now, and sent him slap up to
the ceiling first time, against which his knees came rather sharply. But the
moment's pause before descending was the rub—the feeling of utter helplessness
and of leaving his whole inside behind him sticking to the ceiling. Tom was
very near shouting to be set down when he found himself back in the blanket,
but thought of East, and didn't; and so took his three tosses without a kick or
a cry, and was called a young trump for his pains.
He and East, having earned it, stood now looking
on. No catastrophe happened, as all the captives were cool hands, and didn't
struggle. This didn't suit Flashman. What your real bully likes in tossing is
when the boys kick and struggle, or hold on to one side of the blanket, and so
get pitched bodily on to the floor; it's no fun to him when no one is hurt or
frightened.
“Let's toss two of them together, Walker,”
suggested he.
“What a cursed bully you are, Flashey!” rejoined
the other. “Up with another one.”
And so now two boys were tossed together, the
peculiar hardship of which is, that it's too much for human nature to lie still
then and share troubles; and so the wretched pair of small boys struggle in the
air which shall fall a-top in the descent, to the no small risk of both falling
out of the blanket, and the huge delight of brutes like Flashman.
But now there's a cry that the praepostor of the
room is coming; so the tossing stops, and all scatter to their different rooms;
and Tom is left to turn in, with the first day's experience of a public school
to meditate upon.
