Читать книгу A Gallant Grenadier: A Tale of the Crimean War - Brereton Frederick Sadleir - Страница 2

Mr Western was as good as his word, and within a week of his last escapade Phil was despatched to a certain school, situated in the outskirts of London, where only backward and incorrigible lads were received.

“I am thoroughly displeased and disappointed with you,” said the vicar severely, as he lectured Phil just before his departure. “I lifted you from poverty, provided you with a home, and for years have devoted all my spare hours to you. You know what my wishes and hopes were. They are still the same. Disappoint me again, get into further disgrace, and I will disown you.”

“I’ll do my best to keep out of trouble,” Phil answered, with a catch in his voice, for the lad was at heart fond of his home and of his guardians. “I will not promise to follow your wishes though. I don’t know why it is, but I loathe the thought of being a clergyman. I love a free and open life; and besides, a clever man is required for the Church, and I am scarcely that. Still, father, I will try my best, and should I do anything wrong, it shall not be such as to cause you to feel any shame.”

“Then we shall see, Philip. But remember my warning,” answered the vicar.

That evening a cab stopped outside a big stone building in Highgate and deposited Phil and his baggage on the pavement.

For a moment he looked round in bewilderment, for this was the first time he had been in the neighbourhood of, or in fact, anywhere near, the great city; but a gruff “Five bob fare, please”, and “that there’s Ebden’s School”, recalled his wandering wits.

Phil paid the money, and then, remembering that he would require someone to help him with his baggage, asked the surly driver to get off his seat.

“Not if I knows it, young un,” was the answer. “I’ve got me fare, and you’ve got to yer journey’s end. So good-day to yer! Hope yer won’t find it too precious warm in there. I passes by most every day and hears horrid yells a-coming from the ’ouse. Get up, won’t yer!” and with a tug and a spiteful lash at his horse, this cheerful Jehu drove off with such a jerk that the dilapidated top hat he wore started backward, and, bounding from the box, was crushed beneath the wheels.

Phil, who had for the moment been somewhat taken aback by the man’s ominous words, roared at the cabman’s discomfiture and at the rage into which he promptly worked himself. Then, taking no notice of his growling, and seeing no one at hand to help him, he shouldered his box, pushed open the iron gate which formed the entrance of his new home, and mounted the steps. A double knock, sounding hollow and rumbling, was answered quickly by an individual who performed at once the duties of butler and general fatigue man of the school.

“Name, sir?” he asked politely.

“Western,” answered Phil.

“Ah! you’re the new boy, sir! Glad to see you. Let me help you with the box;” and in a twinkling Phil was relieved of his baggage.

Then he was ushered into a big room, where he waited, not without some feelings of uneasiness, for the appearance of the master.

“I wonder what he’ll be like!” he thought. “I’ve heard of masters of his sort before. I wonder whether that cabby was rotting! Perhaps he wasn’t, and perhaps I shall really be catching it hot. Never mind. I was happy at Haddington, and will be here too.”

Phil was in the act of sketching for himself a big, heavy-looking man, with a hard unrelenting face, as his master, when there was a quick step outside, the door burst open, and a clean-shaven little gentleman, with a smiling, pleasant face, entered the room.

“By Jove! He’s awfully like Uncle Joe, and would be just his image if he were a little fatter,” Phil thought in an instant.

“Ah, Philip Western, the boy who has been in difficulties, I believe!” said the stranger, extending a hand and shaking Phil’s heartily. “Glad to see you, my lad. Let me look at you. Yes – we shall be good friends, I hope.” Then, murmuring to himself, he continued, “Larky – high-spirited – full of go, but no vice – no vice, I will swear. Yes, we shall be good friends.”

Mr Ebden – for he it was – pushed Phil into the light and rapidly surveyed him, muttering audibly all the while.

“So you are a disappointment to your father!” he continued. “Come, tell me all about it, my lad. Let there be no secrets between us. Tell me the whole trouble; why you have come here, and in what manner you have proved such a deep worry to your people.”

“I can’t help it, sir,” Phil blurted out. “I’ve done my level best to act as father wished, but somehow or other I am always in trouble. They said I was upsetting the discipline of the school, and that is one of the reasons for which I was sent away.” Then he proceeded to describe what had happened, and how he had laid a booby-trap for the mayor, and afterwards played a prank with the town barge.

Mr Ebden listened, and, much to Phil’s relief, laughed heartily when he heard how he and his friends had afforded the townspeople of Riddington one more glance at an old-fashioned relic.

“That was a piece of pure, boyish mischief,” he exclaimed, “and only deserved a lecture; but the other was bad. You ought to have been caned. You would have caught it severely here. However, from this day we start a new book. Turn over that fresh leaf which one so often hears about. I am your friend – remember that, Phil Western. You will meet with no harshness here. A piece of pure frolic I can enjoy; but anything else, any breach of discipline, shall meet with the punishment it deserves. But we will not talk of that. We shall be excellent friends, I feel sure. Now come with me and I will introduce you to your new school-fellows.”

Mr Ebden led Phil along a passage and through another room into a garden, in which were some twenty boys.

“There they are,” he said, giving him a push. “Go and make friends with them too.”

Somewhat bewildered with the very pleasant greeting he had already received, and more than pleased with the difference between his forebodings and the reality, Phil walked forward and looked at the lads before him, wondering which one he should address first.

And they too stared hard at Phil, and summed him up in a moment. Here was a boy with a big loose frame that wanted some filling out, long legs and arms that looked as though a little exertion would push them far through his clothing, and a well-tanned and freckled face; not exactly good-looking, but distinctly pleasing, and possessing eyes which looked straight at you, and a mouth with a queer little line beneath it, which told that, though smiling now, it could become hard and stem on occasion. The whole, capped by close-cropped, almost reddish hair, made up an appearance which was taking.

“A decent chap. He must be a good fellow,” was the half-muttered thought of the boys, the tallest of whom advanced and at once entered into conversation with Phil. The others joined in, and in a few minutes he was quite at his ease, and feeling more certain than ever that the change of schools was decidedly not for the worst.

Time proved that he was right, for there was no doubt that Mr Ebden had a wonderful power over his scholars. From the first he made friends of them, and endeavoured to keep them so. Indeed he seldom failed. A lad who had elsewhere been sullen and morose, and in many cases unmanageable, became under the new regime bright and laughing, and ready at all times to do his best to master his lessons. It was just the difference between the careless neglect and misunderstanding that had been his lot before, and the keen interest in all that concerned him that was shown in every word and act of his new ruler. A little kindness goes a long way with many an awkward, nervous boy, and Mr Ebden had proved this.

“Make a friend of him,” he would say cheerily. “Forget sometimes that you are the master and he the boy. Coax him into trying by taking an interest in all he does, and you can make a convert anywhere.”

He was right, as has been proved over and over again, for nowadays there is scarcely a school where the masters do not join heart and soul with the boys in their games, ay, and feel themselves the happier and the younger for it too?

Thus did Mr Ebden conquer the lads sent to him as a last resource.

Before a week had passed, Phil had become quite popular in the school, and his love of athletics helped him not a little. To these a fair proportion of the day was allotted, and as the school enclosure opened into a large and well-kept garden, which was the common property of the row of houses in which Mr Ebden’s stood, there was plenty of opportunity for cricket. In the centre was a smooth stretch of lawn, with a carefully-laid pitch, and here Ebden’s did battle with sundry neighbouring teams.

But it is not to be supposed that Phil and his comrades were always out of mischief. They were a high-spirited lot, and ever eager for adventure. Indeed, our hero had only been a year at his new home when he was once more in the deepest trouble. It happened in this way. The Highgate Wanderers had taken their departure in high dudgeon at the easy victory that Ebden’s had scored over them, and Phil and his friends lay on the grass, full length, beneath the shade of a pleasant oak-tree. They were lolling idly and merely waiting for the hour to strike to go in and prepare for tea. Suddenly one of the number, a lad named Fat Bowen, pointed towards the farther end of the garden and exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, “Look, you chaps, there’s old Bumble inspecting his statues again!”

All looked in the direction indicated, to see a stout old gentleman waddling slowly round an artificial lake, and halting at every other step to inspect and admire two statues which stood on pedestals placed in the centre of the water.

“Good Old Bumble!” cried Phil, with a laugh; “he spends his days in admiring that plaster Hercules. If you were close to him you would hear him muttering, ‘Beautiful! Grand! Masterpieces! I will have two like these in my own garden’. Poor old boy! he’s quite cracked on the subject. What would happen if they were to disappear?”

“There’d be a row, that’s certain,” answered Fred Wheeler, a particular friend of Phil’s. “Yes, there’d be ructions, I expect. But what a joke it would be to take them away for a time!”

“Couldn’t be done. Too heavy to move,” answered Phil promptly. “But we might do something else,” he added, nothing loth for a piece of mischief. “Now what could we do, you fellows?”

Various suggestions were offered, but none of them was practicable, and the hour striking a few moments later, the boys departed to the school and left the stout gentleman still gazing lovingly at his statues.

“Old Bumble”, as he was generally, known to Ebden’s boys, was a gentleman of the name of Workman, Mr Julius Workman, a wealthy merchant of the city of London, who owned vast property in the neighbourhood of Highgate, and, indeed, was landlord of the houses which formed the terrace in which the school stood. Consequently he was a man of some position; in fact in Mr Ebden’s eyes he was one with whom it was well to be on the best of terms, and to treat with that amount of deference due to a man of consequence who holds one’s fortune in his hands. To tell the truth, Mr Julius Workman was not altogether an agreeable person. Fat and ungainly, he was far from being the good-natured individual one might have expected. Increasing riches had not softened his nature, for he was grumpy and fussy, and apt to ride the high horse on every occasion. His tenants stood in awe of him, and, strange as it may seem, Mr Ebden, the strong-minded man, who could successfully rule a number of high-spirited boys, feared him more than all the rest. But there was good reason for this. For fifteen years Ebden’s School had been in existence, and its increasing popularity had been a source of satisfaction to its head. Now to change the locality of the school and alter that paragraph in the advertisement which ran “at a charmingly-situated building, in the salubrious neighbourhood of Highgate” might have been to diminish the popularity of the school. Highgate was thought much of by fond parents, and more than one pupil had been sent to Ebden’s in order that he might be in that part of London. Therefore it was of paramount importance that Mr Julius Workman should be kept in good-humour.

“Boys are nuisances, terrible nuisances,” he had often remarked testily to Mr Ebden, “and ’pon my word those you have nearly worry me out of my life. There is no peace in the terrace. All day one can hear their chatter, and, out in the gardens behind, their shouts are simply unbearable. Be good enough to see that they are less noisy in future, please, for not only do they annoy me, but the neighbours complain, and I have no intention of allowing Silverdale Terrace to be depopulated on their account.”

There was always a scarcely-veiled threat about the man’s words. If he had put them into plainer sentences they would have run: “Your boys are nuisances, and if I am worried again, I will give you notice to leave.”

“Bother the surly old chap!” Mr Ebden would exclaim under his breath, “he has me fairly on the hip. I am a good tenant and he knows it, but for all that I can never have a long lease of the house. Two years is as much as he will allow; if he were to give me notice to quit, I should have precious little time to look about me, and then – supposing I had to go elsewhere – what would become of the school? I should lose half my pupils and half my income at one blow.”

Consequently Mr Ebden took care to conciliate the old man; but not so his pupils. Amongst those mischievous lads Mr Julius Workman was known as “old Bumble.”

“Old Bumble” was voted a bore and a cantankerous Johnny, and each lad, finding that a shout annoyed him, took particular pains to lift his voice to the highest pitch whenever “Bumble” was in the vicinity.

Now the old gentleman was inordinately proud of the two plaster statues in the centre of the lake, and the lads at Ebden’s knew it well. Often before had they thought of playing some practical joke at “Bumble’s” expense, but never had they given it such deep consideration as upon this night. As they filed in to tea each was bothering his brains as to how a joke could be played upon him, and afterwards, as they sat at “prep.” with their books in front of them, the glorious life and deeds of Caesar were forgotten in a vision of “Bumble” surveying his statues.

“Wheeler, what are you gazing at? Go on with your work, sir,” Mr Ebden’s voice suddenly rapped out.

Wheeler buried his head in his hands, and pretended to be very deep in his book. There was silence in the big room for a few minutes, and Mr Ebden once more bent over the letter with which he was occupied. A faint rustle in a far-off corner then attracted the attention of the boys, and, looking up, Phil watched a lad named Carrol spell off some words on his fingers.

“I’ve got it,” they ran. “It’s about Old Bumble’s statues.”

Then, as the lad’s excitement increased, the message became unintelligible, and Phil sent back, “Can’t make it out. Start again.”

By this time all the boys were on the qui vive and staring hard at Carrol. But a sudden movement on Mr Ebden’s part and a sharp “Go on with your work, boys!” disturbed them. Another attempt failed for the same reason, and then Carrol seemed to give it up altogether. But a few minutes later, keeping a wary eye upon the master, who was sitting at his desk in the centre of the room, Carrol held up a slate upon which was written in large letters, “We’ll tar and feather Old B.’s statues.”

Instantly a suppressed giggle went round the room, and the lads looked at one another with eyes which clearly said: “By Jove! he’s got it. What a joke it will be!”

That night, when Ebden’s was supposed to be buried in profound sleep, a council of war was held in Phil’s cubicle, at which the details of the plot were worked out.

“We’re certain to catch it hot,” Phil remarked, with a smile, as, dressed in a flimsy night-gown, he sat on the edge of his bed, and surveyed the three lads squatting on the floor in front of him. “Old Bumble will suspect us at once, and will do his best to find out which of us played the joke. But we’ll do it, if only to show that we can. By Jove, I wonder what the old boy will do when he sees Hercules dressed like a hen? He’ll simply blow up with rage, and I wouldn’t miss the sight for worlds.”

“There’s safe to be a ruction,” Wheeler broke in complacently, “and some of us will get a licking. But what does it matter? Ebden will talk at us till we feel as limp as rags, and then he’ll cane us till we go as stiff as any poker. Then it will all be over, and we’ll be as good friends as ever. It’ll be a fine spree, and I vote we see about it to-morrow.”

“I take a share in it at any rate,” cried Carrol, looking round at the others to see if they agreed, for he was usually left in the background. “I invented the joke, remember that, you chaps.”

“We’re all four of us in it,” Phil answered gaily; “and now how about the stuff? The feathers and the tar, I mean. Then we shall want a raft. I know we can buy some tar at Streaker’s, and a call at the poultry shop will get us heaps of feathers. We’ll manage that to-morrow, and dress our statue in the evening, between tea and prep.”

The details of the prank to be played were quickly arranged, and soon Phil’s companions slipped off like ghosts, and he tumbled into bed and fell into a deep sleep.

The following evening, after dusk had fallen, four figures, each carrying a long school-form, slipped out through the back gate of Ebden’s, and stole down to the lake.

“Now for the raft,” whispered Phil. “Place them alongside one another and lash them with the rope.”

In a few minutes a raft was constructed, but to the disgust of all the lads it was so light and frail that it was not even sufficient to support one of them.

“We’re done. Bother it!” exclaimed Carrol.

The others stood without a word, and stared at the raft in deep vexation.

“It’s all right. I’ve got it, you chaps,” Phil suddenly cried in tones of excitement and pleasure. “The lake’s only a foot deep. We’ll shove one form out, and then put another in front of it, and so on till we reach the statue. The bottom is made of stone, so there’s no fear of toppling over or sinking in mud.”

A half-suppressed shout of joy answered him, and all at once set to work to make the bridge. It was easier than they had hoped, and before very long, by means of two extra forms, Hercules was reached. Then began the work of tar-and-feathering, an act of vandalism for which each and every one of them deserved a good thrashing, done though it was as a piece of pure boyish mischief, and in all thoughtlessness.

At length it was finished, and with hands and faces smeared with tar, and feathers sticking to their clothes, Phil and his boon companions returned silently to the house, and having hastily washed themselves took their places in “prep.” as though nothing had happened. But a scarcely-suppressed bubble of excitement and huge grins of amusement showed that all at Ebden’s were conscious of the prank, save the worthy head himself, who, if he had only known, would there and then have gone out and done his best to clean the statue before the light of day disclosed it to Mr Julius Workman.

On the following afternoon a game of cricket was in progress, when a cry of “Here’s old Bumble!” put a sudden stop to it, and the boys at once selected the nearest and best hiding-places from which to look on safely and observe all that happened.

Stalking pompously down the path leading from his own residence, Mr Julius Workman scarcely deigned to acknowledge the polite salute which two of the lads gave him. He walked – or rather waddled – along towards the lake, and, arrived there, sniffed, drew his snuff-box from a pocket in the tail of his coat, and helped himself to a liberal pinch. Then he drew out a highly-coloured silk handkerchief, and, holding it in one hand, was in the act of patting it to his nose, when his eye lit upon the statue. Unable to believe that what he saw was real, he wiped his glasses and stared again. Then his face assumed a livid hue, his cheeks puffed out, and for the moment he looked as though he were on the point of exploding, or of having an apoplectic fit.

“Tarred and feathered, as I live!” he shouted, dancing from foot to foot in his rage, and shaking his stick threateningly. “Some wretch has destroyed my statue, the most beautiful I ever saw. It is a piece of wickedness; yes, wickedness! and I will search Highgate – ay, and even the whole of London – to find the culprit.”

For a moment he stopped for lack of breath, and behind their shelters Phil and his friends enjoyed the scene to their hearts’ content.

“Ah, I know!” the old gentleman suddenly shouted; “it’s one of those rascally boys. I know it. It must be their work. They shall pay for it, the young scamps, and so shall Ebden!” and, still shaking his stick, and in a towering rage, he went off to the school to interview its head.

“By George, the fat’s in the fire now!” cried Wheeler, with a laugh which was not altogether cheerful. “Phil, there’ll be an awful row. What shall we do?”

“Wait and see,” answered Phil easily. “We’ve had our joke, and a good one it was, and perhaps we shall have to pay for it.”

Meanwhile Mr Julius Workman had reached the school, and had asked for Mr Ebden. He was shown into the library, and there, as he waited and thought over the matter, his rage, instead of decreasing, grew even more violent, so that when the pleasant-faced little master entered, and in his cheery voice said, “Ah, Mr Workman! this is a pleasure I had not expected,” the stout old gentleman was beyond himself, and could scarcely speak.

“Pleasure, sir! Pleasure!” he spluttered at last. “It’s no pleasure to me, sir; let me tell you that. I have a serious complaint to make. What have you to say, sir?”

He stared at Mr Ebden as though the latter had had a hand in the prank.

“A complaint, Mr Workman? I don’t understand,” said Mr Ebden with astonishment.

“Yes, you do, sir; yes, you do,” the irate old gentleman shouted rudely. “Why don’t you look after your boys? I told you they were a nuisance, and now they’ve played a trick on me and ruined my statue of Hercules.”

When Mr Ebden had heard the full details of the prank he too was extremely angry, or pretended to be so, and at once accompanied Mr Workman to inspect the ruined statue. Then, with a heavy frown on his usually pleasant face, he returned and summoned all the boys before him. Mr Julius Workman was also present, and glowered round at them as though he would like to do everyone some mischief.

“You’ve got to find out who did it, or there’ll be trouble,” he remarked significantly to Mr Ebden, as the latter was about to speak.

Now, the boys at Ebden’s were, naturally, unaware of the peculiar reason their master had for keeping on good terms with “Old Bumble”, but this remark struck them as peculiar, and Phil, thinking it over, and being a quick-witted lad, grasped its meaning, and determined at once to give himself up.

“I’m the biggest fellow here,” he thought, looking round at his companions, “and though I’m not the eldest by some months, I’m usually the leader in these scrapes.”

“Boys,” said Mr Ebden severely, scrutinising each one of them in turn, and speaking slowly and distinctly, “a foolish and most objectionable prank has been played upon one of the statues in the gardens. Mr Workman declares that one of you is guilty. Is this so?”

“Of course it is,” grunted “Old Bumble” angrily. “What’s the good of asking if they did it? Of course they did!”

Mr Ebden took no notice of the interruption, but looked at his pupils, who stared guiltily at one another, knowing well that each had been a party to the plot, and yet waiting for one to give the lead before the others acknowledged.

Phil stepped forward in front of his comrades, and with upright head, and eyes fixed straight on Mr Ebden’s, said:

“Yes, sir, it is so. I tarred and feathered the statue, and I’m sorry Old B – Mr Workman – is so angry.”

“Old B! What did the scamp almost call me?” shouted Mr Workman, working himself into another rage. “You are a scamp, sir, and a disgrace to the school!”

“I am sorry, sir,” Phil said again. “I did it for a joke only, and now I’ll clean the statue if Mr Ebden will allow me.”

But this was out of the question. The boys were dismissed, and a long conversation ensued between Mr Ebden and the irate old gentleman. After that work proceeded as usual, but, knowing that it was Mr Ebden’s invariable rule to allow twenty-four hours to elapse before deciding upon the punishment for any serious offence, Phil did not permit his hopes to rise, or imagine that he was to get off easily.

And, as it turned out, he was right. After mature consideration Mr Ebden summoned the boys, and having read them a lecture, gave Phil the severest caning he had ever experienced in his life, all of which that high-spirited lad bore without so much as a whimper. Then he punished somewhat more mildly the three others who had helped in the prank, and who, not to be behindhand or allow one to suffer for the fault of all, had addressed a note to the headmaster the previous evening confessing their guilt.

“I cannot tell you how annoyed I am,” said Mr Ebden in cold tones, which hurt his pupils far more than the cane. “You have aided and abetted one another in destroying a work of art, and you have deeply offended one with whom it was a matter of policy for me to be on good terms. Those four who did the actual tarring will have to pay for another statue out of their own pockets, and I shall communicate with their parents. Now you may go, and let there be no more of this foolishness.”