Читать книгу The Exploits of Peter - Sydney Horler - Страница 3
ОглавлениеCHAPTER I
Some of you, with such very old heads on such very young shoulders, may scoff at this and say that I do not know the things of which I write. To all of which I would fire a volcanic counter-volley from my typewriter and say: But you did not know McTavity!
In those words lies the essence of my tale. Those who were fortunate enough to have met that amazing prodigy during the four years he was at St. Colston’s, before passing to another place, came to discredit the ordinary, and believe the frankly impossible, the bizarre, and the weirdly humorous in connection with this shock-headed youth in whose head burned the lamp of genius.
I find it difficult to describe Peter McTavity, as splendid a character as ever author wove fictional romances about, in a few words. If I had to sum him up in a single line, I should call him a boy with a man’s brain.
There could be no question about his being abnormal; every one admitted that, none more sorrowingly than the Rev. Joseph Baxter, the benign Head of the famous school, which he ruled with a Bible in one hand, and a birch-rod in the other.
McTavity’s father was the most phenomenally successful newspaper proprietor in the country, and to those sage souls who believe in the strain of heredity, the fact may be worthy of note. But the historic “stunts,” by means of which Sir Robert Angus McTavity had built up the colossal circulation of the Daily Miracle, glowed wanly when compared with the superb eccentricities which his only son “put over” from time to time, and when the fancy seized him.
*****
The Big Hall was crowded. There was a tense air of expectancy, and the whole school, which had been summoned from the morning classes at the Head’s decree, was on the tiptoe of excitement. A suppressed buzz of sensation, like the humming of a thousand bees, piano, filled the building. The Rev. Joseph Baxter was a martinet so far as erudition went; it was only on the gravest and most serious occasions that he forced studies to be wasted by calling the whole school together in Big Hall.
Of course, the wildest yarns were going round. Some said that a couple of kids had been discovered breaking out of “Dom.”; another theory was that some one had caught measles or the mumps and the whole crowd would be sent home. (This was received with a certain reserve, it being felt that it was far too good to be true). Yet a third supposition was that, for some highly mysterious reason, the Head was going to declare the town of Stapleford out of bounds.
When the revelation came, it proved to be a shock equal in intensity to any of these dire forebodings.
“I always said the young blighters would get caught sooner or later!” commented Bridges, the footer captain, to Jenkins, his crony and fellow Sixth Former.
Loudly and menacingly the Head’s voice rang out. The chilled tones sent a dreadful shudder down the entire backbone of St. Colston’s; while the plight of the two boys who were occupying the empty space in front of the Rev. Baxter’s desk was pitiable to witness. They were the Awful Warnings, and indeed they looked awful enough to warn the most valiant.
“I had always considered St. Colston’s, unlike some of its contemporaries, to be an establishment of young gentlemen; to my regret I discover it is the home of young blackguards!”
That was the opening spasm of the Head’s thunder, and there were many to agree with Mike Beavis, McTavity’s aide-de-camp, that it was “some snort.” Certainly, it promised interesting developments. When the Rev. Joseph Baxter once got the bit between his teeth, as he appeared to have now, there was no saying to what length he would not go in his mad gallop. Of course, he wasn’t to be taken seriously; at least, that was the considered consensus of opinion at St. Colston’s. Once he had got the bad air out of his system he wasn’t intolerable; but until he had he was frankly impossible. I quote again the weighed and pondered view of St. Colston’s.
After such a start, it was not surprising that every eye was bent on the Head and the luckless wights who were even now trembling under his spiritual wrath, as they were destined shortly to bend beneath the physical tornado which was the Rev. Joseph Baxter when he had a swishing cane in his hand.
“I am informed—and I am afraid there can be no question about it, seeing that the culprits have themselves confessed to the crime—that these two boys, Johnson Minor and Davey, were yesterday afternoon seen coming out of a public-house in Stapleford!” He waited for the dramatic announcement to have its full weight before repeating “public-house” in much the same tone as the Devil is supposed to say “Holy Water.”
“It does not concern me minutely why they went to this place, abusing alike the pass, which I had given them for an afternoon’s enjoyment of the fresh air, and my confidence; it is sufficient for the purpose I have in hand to know that they did go, setting my authority at naught and bringing a terrible disgrace upon the school. In case there is any one present this morning who desires to follow the example set by these two misguided youths, I would ask him to note the measures I shall take to put a stop to this scandal!”
It is true enough to say that the inclination to visit public-houses, either at Stapleford or any other place, showed a marked decrease in popular favour after the despairing wails of the flogged boys died away.
“Smite the heathen!
Smite them hip and thigh!”
was the motto which carried the Rev. Joseph Baxter through life, and the vigour with which he now carried out its teachings filled the Big Hall with dreadful sound.
When the quivering forms of his victims had been led away, and he had resumed his official composure once more, the Head spoke again. And it was this wise: “This has been a very regrettable incident, but I was forced to take strong measures. It is to be deplored—I have thought so before to-day—in some ways that there isn’t an outlet in Stapleford for legitimate amusement. In such a day of progressive competition as this, it is to my mind surprising, to say the least, that some enterprising individual has not erected the ubiquitous ‘picture palace.’ Perhaps if something of the sort existed, we should not have the degrading spectacle of ill-balanced youths wandering into dens of vice and iniquity in search of amusement. Ah, well! it doesn’t rest with me. I need only add that, if another case of this description is brought to my notice, the punishment I shall inflict will be—expulsion! The School will now dismiss!”
“And that’s that!” murmured Peter McTavity, as he rode in solemn state to the dining-room on the shoulders of his admiring disciple, Mike Beavis, who beamed with as much pride as he would have done if the King of England had expressed a fervent desire to look through his collection of postage-stamps.
There was no other topic of discussion throughout the day. Crowds that rivalled each other in size gathered round both Johnson Minor and Davey, who were besieged with questions varying from “What would the Pater say?” to “Do they hurt now?”
It appeared from the statements of both delinquents that they had gone into the Spotted Cow to play, or rather, to essay to play a game of billiards.
That evening Mike Beavis, hearing McTavity thoughtfully but loudly playing his banjo, and knowing that this was a sign of spiritual exaltation on the part of the genius of St. Colston’s, burst open the door. Sitting on the table, McTavity was enrapturedly composing a march of triumph in praise of one of his own ideas!
On account of an auriflame of luxuriant growth, which was of a nicely burnished copper tinge, a few of his intimates styled McTavity “Ginger,” and it was by the affectionate abbreviation of this that Beavis now called upon him.
“I say!” he declared in wondering awe; “you make it noisier every day, Ging.; is that a new thing you’re playing?”
“Quite new—brand new! Never been out of my shop, sir! This is the best article at the price that can be bought!”
“What’s all the excitement?” cut in Mike, and reading with a shrewd eye the mood of the boy he knew so well.
“And why shouldn’t I be excited?” cried the other, flinging the banjo on the table, and jumping down to catch Beavis by the shoulders. “Have I not suddenly resolved to save the school we love and upon whose playing-fields the battle of Trafalgar was won?”
“What on earth are you rottin’ about?” cried Beavis, puzzled out of his depth, used as he was to the other’s eccentricities.
McTavity frowned so realistically that Mike started back alarmed.
“Your greatest fault to my mind has always been your ill-timed levity in moments of the gravest national importance,” was the rebuke that was hurled at his defenceless head. “How can you laugh when I was about to save St. Colston’s from the awful degradation which threatens to engulf it?”
“I wasn’t laughing, Ging.; but what do you mean?”
“Can you have so soon forgotten the burning words of your head master? Did he not tell you only this morning that the school is faced with moral degeneration unless some public-spirited man can come forward and provide legitimate and healthful amusement at our doors? And lo! the need brings forth the hour, and the hour the man. Behold! the man!”
So saying, McTavity thrust his hand inside his waistcoat, à la Napoleon Bonaparte, and beamed as though he had just been presented with the freedom of the city.
The look of blank amazement still persisting on Beavis’s face, he pushed Mike gravely and sadly into a chair, and talked animatedly to him for several minutes. During the recital, Mike struggled convulsively with the merriment that threatened to choke him, and when at length McTavity finished, he gave one long, piercing howl of delight that threatened to burst his lungs.
