← catalogue

My Friend Smith: A Story of School and City Life

by Talbot Baines Reed · English · Gutenberg #21036 · 737,783 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of My Friend Smith: A Story of School and City Life
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: My Friend Smith: A Story of School and City Life

Author: Talbot Baines Reed


        
Release date: April 11, 2007 [eBook #21036]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21036

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY FRIEND SMITH: A STORY OF SCHOOL AND CITY LIFE ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




My Friend Smith
A Story of School and City Life

By Talbot Baines Reed
________________________________________________________________________
This is a curious book by the author.  It does not surprise us, because
it has a long school-life section, but then it goes on to describe in
rather frightening detail the life of a young clerk in London, trying to
survive on a miserable pittance, living in a cheap lodging-house, and
trying to keep up socially with his contemporaries.  He is loyal to his
friends, and in particular to his friend Smith, whom he had met at
school, which had been a school for troublesome and backward boys.

I think it rings very true.  There is a foreword which is as
enthusiastic as I am about the book.  It still gives you a lot to think
about.  It was quite a true image even when I was young myself and
trying to make my way in London, and from what I hear of the
tribulations of the young, it is probably not far from the truth today.

Read the book yourself and see what you think.  NH.
________________________________________________________________________
MY FRIEND SMITH
A STORY OF SCHOOL AND CITY LIFE

BY TALBOT BAINES REED



CHAPTER ONE.

HOW I CAME TO BE SENT TO STONEBRIDGE HOUSE.

"It was perfectly plain, Hudson, the boy could not be allowed to remain
any longer a disgrace to the neighbourhood," said my uncle.

"But, sir," began my poor old nurse.

"That will do, Hudson," said my uncle, decisively; "the matter is
settled--Frederick is going to Stonebridge House on Monday."

And my uncle stood up, and taking a coat-tail under each arm,
established himself upon the hearthrug, with his back to Mrs Hudson.
That was always a sign there was no more to be said; and off I was
trotted out of the dreaded presence, not very sure whether to be elated
or depressed by the conversation I had overheard.

And indeed I never was quite clear as to why, at the tender and
guileless age of twelve, I was abruptly sent away from my native village
of Brownstroke, to that select and popular "Academy for Backward and
Troublesome Young Gentlemen," (so the advertisement ran), known as
Stonebridge House, in the neighbourhood of Cliffshire.

Other people appeared to divine the reason, and Mrs Hudson shook her
head and wiped her eyes when I consulted her on the subject.  It was
queer.  "I must be a very backward boy," thought I to myself, "for try
as I will, I don't see it."

You must know I was an orphan.  I never could recollect my mother--nor
could Mrs Hudson.  As to my father, all I could recall of him was that
he had bushy eyebrows, and used to tell me some most wonderful stories
about lions and tigers and other beasts of prey, and used now and then
to show me my mother's likeness in a locket that hung on his watch-
chain.  They were both dead, and so I came to live with my uncle.  Now,
I could hardly tell why, but it never seemed to me as if my uncle
appeared to regard it as a privilege to have me to take care of.  He
didn't whack me as some fellows' uncles do, nor did he particularly
interfere with my concerns, as the manner of other uncles (so I am
told), is.  He just took as little notice as possible of me, and as long
as I went regularly to Mrs Wren's grammar-school in the village, and as
long as Mrs Hudson kept my garments in proper order, and as long as I
showed up duly on state occasions, and didn't bring more than a square
inch of clay on each heel (there was a natural affinity between clay and
my heels), into his drawing-room, he scarcely seemed to be aware that
his house possessed such a treasure as an only nephew.

The part of my life I liked least was the grammar-school.  That was a
horrid place.  Mrs Wren was a good old soul, who spent one half of her
time looking over her spectacles, and the other half under them, for
something she never found.  We big boys--for twelve is a good age for a
dame's grammar-school--we didn't exactly get on at old Jenny Wren's, as
she was called.  For we gradually discovered we knew almost as much as
she did herself, and it dawned on us by degrees that somehow she didn't
know how to keep us in order.  The consequence was, one or two boys,
especially Jimmy Bates, the parish clerk's son, and Joe Bobbins, the
Italian oil and colourman's son, didn't behave very well.  I was sorry
to see it, and always told them so.

They got us other boys into all sorts of scrapes and trouble.  One day
they would hide poor Jenny's spectacles, and then when search was made
the lost treasure would be found in some one else's desk.  Or they would
tie cotton reels on the four feet and tail of the old tabby cat, and
launch her, with a horrid clatter, right into the middle of the room,
just as I or one of the others happened to be scampering out.  Or they
would turn the little boys' forms upside down, and compel them with
terrible threats to sit on the iron feet, and then in the middle of the
class "sneak" about them.

Poor Jenny couldn't manage the school at all, with such boys as Jimmy
Bates and Joe Bobbins in it.  Up to boys of ten she was all right; but
over ten she was all at sea.

However, she worked patiently on, and taught us all she could, and once
or twice gave us a horrible fright by calling up at our houses, and
reporting progress there (Mrs Hudson always received her when she came
up to my uncle's).  And for all I know I might be at Jenny Wren's school
still if a tremendous event hadn't happened in our village, which
utterly upset the oldest established customs of Brownstroke.

We grammar-school boys never "hit" it exactly with the other town boys.
Either they were jealous of us or we were jealous of them.  I don't
know, but we hated the town boys, and they hated us.

Once or twice we had come into collision, though they always got the
best of it.  One winter they snowballed us to such a pitch that as long
as the snow was on the ground a lot of the little kids would no more
venture to school alone than a sane man would step over the side of a
balloon.

Another time they lined the street down both sides, and laughed and
pointed at us as we walked to school.  That was far worse than
snowballs, even with stones in them.  You should have seen us, with pale
faces and hurried steps, making our way amid the jeers and gibes of our
tormentors--some of the little ones blubbering, one or two of the bigger
ones looking hardly comfortable, and a few of the biggest inwardly
ruminating when and how it would best be possible to kill that Runnit
the news-boy, or Hodge the cow-boy!

These and many other torments and terrors we "Jenny Wrenites" had
endured at the hands of our enemies the town boys, on the whole
patiently.  In process of time they got tired of one sort of torment,
and before their learned heads had had time to invent a new one, we had
had time to muster up courage and tell one another we didn't care what
they did.

Such a period had occurred just before my story opens.  It was a whole
month since the town boys had made our lives unhappy by calling, and
howling, and yelling, and squeaking on every occasion they met us the
following apparently inoffensive couplet:--

"A, B, C, Look at the baby!"

How we hated that cry, and quailed when we heard it!  However, after
about a fortnight's diligent use of this terrible weapon the town boys
subsided for a season, and we plucked up heart again.  Four whole weeks
passed, and we were never once molested!  Something must be wrong in the
village!  Of course we all came to the conclusion that the town boys had
at last seen the error of their ways, and were turning over new leaves.

Rash dream!  One day when we were least expecting it, the "Philistines
were upon us" again, and this time their device was to snatch off our
caps!  It was too terrible to think of!  We could endure to be hooted
at, and pelted, and said "A, B, C" to, but to have our little Scotch
caps snatched off our heads and tossed over pailings and into puddles,
was too much even for the meek disciples of Jenny Wren.  The poor little
boys got their mothers to fasten elastics to go under their chins, and
even so walked nearly half a mile round to avoid the market cross.  It
was no use, the manoeuvre was discovered, and not only did the
youngsters have their caps taken, but were flipped violently by the
elastics in the face and about the ears in doing so.  As for us older
ones, some ran, other walked with their caps under their tunics, others
held them on with both hands.  The result was the same; our caps were
captured!

Then did Jimmy Bates, and Joe Bobbins, and Harry Rasper, and I, meet one
day, and declare to one another, that this sort of thing was not to be
stood.

"Let's tell Mother Wren," said one.

"Or the policeman," said another.

"Let's write and tell Fred Batchelor's uncle," said another.  That
referred to my relative, who was always counted a "nob" in the village.

"I say, don't do any," said the redoubtable Bobbins.  "The next time
they do it to me _I_ mean to kick!"

The sentiment was loudly applauded, and a regular council of war was
held, with the following decision.  We four were to go home together
that afternoon, and without waiting to be chased, would ourselves give
chase to the first bully we saw, and take _his_ cap!  The consequences
of course might be fearful--fatal; but the blood of the "Jenny Wrenites"
was up.  Do it we would, or perish in the attempt.

I think we all got a little nervous as the afternoon school wore on and
the hour for departing approached.  Indeed, when we were about to start,
Bates looked very like deserting straight away.

"Oh, you three go on," he said, "I'll catch you up; I just want to speak
to Jenny."

"No we don't," we all protested; "we'll wait here, if it takes you till
midnight to say what you've got to say to Jenny."

This valiant determination put an end to Bates's wavering, and with a
rueful face he joined us.

"Now, mind," said Rasper, "the first you see!"

"Well," exclaimed I, starting suddenly to run, "that's Cad Prog, the
butcher-boy, there; come along."

So it was!  Of all our enemies Cad Prog was the most truculent, and most
feared.  The sight of his red head coming round the corner was always
enough to strike panic into a score of youngsters, and even we bigger
boys always looked meek when Prog came out to defy us.

He was strolling guilelessly along, and didn't see us at first.  Then
suddenly he caught sight of us approaching, and next moment the blue
apron and red head disappeared with a bolt round the corner.

"Come on!" shouted Rasper, who led.

"So we are!" cried we, and hue and cry was made for Cad Prog forthwith.

We sighted him as we turned the corner.  He was making straight for the
market.  Perhaps to get an axe, I thought, or to hide, or to tell my
uncle!

"Come on!" was the shout.

It's wonderful how a short sharp chase warms up the blood even of a
small boy of twelve.  Before we were half down the street, even Bates
had no thought left of deserting, and we all four pressed on, each
determined not to be last.

The fugitive Prog kept his course to the market, but there doubled
suddenly and bolted down Side Street.  That was where he lived; he was
going to run into his hole then, like a rabbit.

We gained no end on him in the turn, and were nearly up to him as he
reached the door of his humble home.

He bolted in--so did we.  He bolted up stairs--so did we.  He plunged
headlong into a room where was a little girl rocking a cradle--so did
we.  Then began a wild scuffle.

"Catch him!  Take his cap off!" cried Bobbins.

"He hasn't got a cap!" cried Rasper--"butcher-boys never have!"

"Then pull off his apron!" was the cry.

In the scuffle the little girl was trodden on, and the cradle clean
upset.  A crowd collected in the street.  Cad Prog roared as loud as he
could, so did his little sister, so did the baby, so did Jimmy Bates, so
did Joe Bobbins, so did Harry Rasper, so did I.  _I_ did not care what
happened; I went for Cad Prog, and have a vague idea of my hand and his
nose being near together, and louder yells still.

Then all of a sudden there was a tramp of heavy footsteps on the stairs,
and all I can remember after that was receiving a heavy cuff on my head,
being dragged down into the street, where--so it seemed to me for the
moment--at least a million people must have been congregated; and,
finally, I know not how, I was standing in the middle of my uncle's
study floor, with my coat gone, my mouth bleeding, and my cap, after
all, clean vanished!

It was a queer plight to be in.  I heard a dinning in my ears of loud
voices, and when I looked at the bust on the top of the bookcase it
seemed to be toppling about anyhow.  Some people were talking in the
room, but the only voice I could recognise was my uncle's.  He was
saying something about "not wanting to shield me," and "locking-up," the
drift of which I afterwards slowly gathered, when the village
policeman--we only had one at Brownstroke--addressing my uncle as "your
honour," said he would look in in the morning for further orders.

At this interesting juncture the bust began to wobble about again, and I
saw and heard no more till I woke next morning, and found Mrs Hudson
mopping my forehead with something, and saying, "There now, Master
Freddy, lie quite still, there's a good boy."

"What's the matter?" said I, putting up my hand to the place she was
washing.

It was something like a bump!

"It's only a bruise, Master Freddy--no bones broken, thank God!" said
she, motioning me to be silent.

But I was in no mood to be silent.  Slowly the recollection of
yesterday's events dawned on me.

"Did they get off Cad Prog's apron," I inquired, "after all?"

Of course, the good old soul thought this was sheer wandering of the
mind, and she looked very frightened, and implored me to lie still.

It was a long time before I perceived any connection between our chase
of the redoubtable Cad Prog up Side Street yesterday and my lying here
bruised and in a darkened room to-day.  At last I supposed Mr Prog must
have conquered me; whereat I fired up again, and said, "Did the other
fellows finish him up?"

"Oh, dear me, yes," said the terrified nurse; "all up, every bit--there
now--and asked for more!"

This consoled me.  Presently a doctor came and looked at my forehead,
and left some powders, which I heard him say I was to take in jam three
times a day.  I felt still more consoled.

In fact, reader, as you will have judged, I was a little damaged by the
adventure in Side Street, and the noble exploit of my companions and
myself had not ended all in glory.

A day or two after, when I got better, I found out more about it, and
rather painfully too, because my uncle landed one day in my bedroom and
commenced strongly to arraign me before him.

He bade me tell him what had happened, which I did as well as I could.
At the end of it he said, "I suppose you are not aware that for a day or
two it was uncertain whether you had not killed that child that was in
the room?"

"I?"  I exclaimed.  "I never touched her!  Indeed I didn't, uncle!"

"You knocked over the cradle," said my uncle, "and that's much the same
thing."

I was silent.  My uncle proceeded.

"And I suppose you are not aware that the barber who tried to take you
down the stairs is now in the hospital with an abscess on his leg, the
result of the kick you gave him?"

"Oh, I can't have done it, uncle--oh, uncle!"

And here I was so overwhelmed with the vision of my enormities and their
possible consequences that I became hysterical, and Mrs Hudson was
summoned to the rescue.

The fact was, in the account of the fray I appear to have got credit for
all the terrible deeds that were there done; and I, Master Freddy
Batchelor, was, it appeared, notorious in the village as having been
guilty of a savage and felonious assault upon one C.  Prog, of having
also assaulted and almost "manslaughtered" Miss Prog the younger, and
further of having dealt with my feet against the shin of one Moppleton,
a barber, in such manner as to render him incapable of pursuing his
ordinary avocations, and being chargeable on the parish infirmary;
besides sundry and divers damage to carpets, crockery, glass, doorposts,
kerb-stones, and the jacket of the aforesaid C.  Prog.  On the whole,
when I arose from my bed and stepped once more into the outer world, I
found myself a very atrocious character indeed.

At home I was in disgrace, and abroad I was not allowed to wander beyond
my uncle's garden, except to church on Sunday under a heavy escort.  So
on the whole I had not a very good time of it.  My uncle was
terrifically glum, and appeared to think it most audacious if ever I
chanced to laugh or sing or express any sentiment but deep grief and
contrition in his presence.  Mrs Hudson read me long lectures about the
evil of slaying small children and laming barbers, and I was
occasionally moved to tears at the thought of my own iniquities.  But at
the age of twelve it is hard to take upon oneself the settled gloom of
an habitual criminal, and I was forced to let out at times and think of
other things besides my wicked ways.  I got let off school--that was one
alleviation to my woe--and being free of the garden I had plenty of
opportunity of letting off the steam.  But it was slow work, as I have
said; and I was really relieved when, a week or two afterwards, my uncle
made the announcement with which this chapter begins.

How I fared, first at Stonebridge House, and subsequently in the City
Life for which it was meant to train me, will be the theme of this
particular veracious history.



CHAPTER TWO.

HOW I MADE MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH STONEBRIDGE HOUSE.

The eventful Monday came at last, and with my little box corded up, with
Mrs Hudson as an escort, and a pair of brand-new knickerbockers upon my
manly person, I started off from my uncle's house in the coach for
Stonebridge, with all the world before me.

I had taken a rather gloomy farewell of my affectionate relative in his
study.  He had cautioned me as to my conduct, and given me to understand
that at Stonebridge House I should be a good deal more strictly looked
after than I had ever been with him.  Saying which he had bestowed on me
a threepenny-bit as "pocket-money" for the term, and wished me good-bye.
Under the circumstances I was not greatly overcome by this leave-
taking, and settled down to make myself comfortable for my long drive
with Mrs Hudson to Stonebridge.

Mrs Hudson had been my nurse ever since I could remember, and now the
poor old soul and I were to part for good.  For she was to see me safely
inside the doors of Stonebridge House, and then go back, not to my
uncle's (where she would no longer be needed), but to her own home.  Of
course she was very much depressed by the prospect, and so indeed was I.
For a good while we neither of us said much.  Then, by way of changing
the subject and beguiling the way, she began to address to me long and
solemn exhortations as to my conduct at the new school.  She knew as
much about "schools for backward and troublesome boys" as I did; but
that was no matter.

She made me promise, for one thing, that I would make a point of wearing
a clean collar three times a week; and, for another, of calling the
housekeeper's attention to the very first sign of a hole in my socks.
(As my socks, by the way, usually showed the daylight in upon six out of
the ten toes, and one out of the two heels every time I took off my
boots, I was promising a lot when I made this bargain!)  Further, I was
to see my Sunday clothes were always _hung_ on pegs, and not _laid_ in
drawers; and my blue necktie, mind, was not to be touched till my black-
and-pink was past work.

From these matters she passed on to my conduct towards my new masters
and companions.

"Mind and always tell them the truth straight out, Freddy," she said,
"and say `sir' whenever you speak to Mr Ladislaw--and say your prayers
regularly night and day, won't you? and be very careful to use your own
comb and brush, and not lend them about to the other young gentlemen."

Mrs Hudson, you see, had an easy way of flying from one topic to
another.  Her exhortations were crowded with pieces of good advice,
which may have sounded funny when all strung together, but were each of
them admirable taken separately.  I of course promised her everything.

The journey was a long one, but the day was bright, and we had a good
basketful of provender, so it was not tedious.  At length the driver
turned round, and said we should come in sight of Stonebridge at the
next turn of the road.

My spirits began to sink for the first time.  Dismal and all as
Brownstroke had been, how did I know I should not be happier there,
after all, than at this strange new place, where I knew no one?  I
wished the driver wouldn't go so fast.  Mrs Hudson saw my emotion, I
think, for she once more opened fire, and, so to speak, gathered up the
last crumbs of her good counsel.

"Oh, and Freddy dear," fumbling nervously in her pocket, and letting
down her veil, "write and tell me what they give you to eat; remember,
pork's bad for you, and leave your cuffs behind when you go out bird's-
nesting and all that.  Mind, I'll expect to hear about everything,
especially about whether you get warm baths pretty regularly, and if Mr
Ladislaw is a good Christian man--and look here, dear," she continued
hurriedly, producing a little parcel from the depths of her pocket,
"you're not to open this till I'm away, and be sure to take care of it,
and don't--"

"That there chimbley," interrupted the driver at this stage, "is the
fust 'ouse in Stonebridge."

Five minutes later we were standing in the hall of Stonebridge House.

It didn't look much like a school, I remember thinking.  It was a large
straggling building, rather like a farmhouse, with low ceilings and
rickety stairs.  The outside was neat, but not very picturesque, and the
front garden seemed to have about as much grass in it as the stairs had
carpets.  As we stood waiting for some one to answer our ring, I
listened nervously, I remember, for any sound or trace of my fellow
"backward and troublesome boys," but the school appeared to be confined
to one of the long straggling wings behind, and not to encroach on the
state portion of the house.

After a second vigorous pull at the bell by our coachman, a stern and
scraggy female put in her appearance.

"Is this Frederick Batchelor?" she inquired, in tones which put my
juvenile back up instantly.

"Yes, this is Master Freddy," put in the nervous Mrs Hudson, anxious to
conciliate every one on my behalf.  "Freddy, dear, say--"

"Is that his box?" continued the stern dame.

"Yes," said Mrs Hudson, feeling rather chilled; "that's his box."

"Nothing else?"

"No, except his umbrella, and a few--"

"Take the box up to my room," said the lady to a boy who appeared at
this moment.  "Where is the key?"

"I've got that, marm," replied Mrs Hudson, warming up a little, "and I
should like to go over his things myself as they are unpacked."

"Wholly unnecessary," replied the female, holding out her hand for the
key.  "I see to everything of that kind here."

"But I _mean_ to open the box!" cried Mrs Hudson, breaking out into a
passion quite unusual with her.

I, too, had been getting the steam up privately during the last few
minutes, and the sight of Mrs Hudson's agitation was enough to start
the train.

"Yes," said I, swelling out with indignation, "Mrs Hudson and I are
going to open the box.  You sha'n't touch it!"

The female appeared to be not in the least put out by this little
display of feeling.  In fact, she seemed used to it, for she stood
quietly with her arms folded, apparently waiting till we both of us
thought fit to subside.

Poor Mrs Hudson was no match for this sort of battle.  She lost her
control, and expressed herself of things in general, and the female in
particular, with a fluency which quite astonished me, and I did my
little best to back her up.  In the midst of our joint address a
gentleman appeared on the scene, whom I correctly divined to be Mr
Ladislaw himself.

Mr Ladislaw was a short, dapper man, in rather seedy clothes, with long
sandy hair brushed right back over the top of his head, and no hair at
all on his face.  He might have been thirty, or he might have been
fifty.  His eyes were very small and close together; his brow was stern,
and his mouth a good deal pulled down at the corners.  Altogether, I
didn't take to him at first glance, still less when he broke into the
conversation and distinctly took the part of Mrs Hudson's adversary.

"What is all this, Miss Henniker?" he said in a quick, sharp voice,
which made me very uncomfortable.

"This is Mr Jakeman's servant," answered the female.  "She was talking
a little rudely about Frederick Batchelor's luggage here."

"And so was I!"  I shouted valiantly.  "It's not _your_ luggage, and you
sha'n't have it, you old--beast!"

The last word came out half-involuntarily, and I was terribly frightened
as soon as it had escaped my lips.

I do not know how Mr Ladislaw or Miss Henniker took it, for I dare not
look up.  I heard Mrs Hudson utter a mild protest, and next moment was
conscious of being taken firmly by the hand by Mr Ladislaw and led to
the door from which he had just emerged.

"Remain here, Batchelor," said he, sternly, "till I come back."

There was something in his voice and manner which took the spirit out of
me, and he might have spared himself the trouble of locking the door
behind him.  I found myself in a small study, with shelves on the walls
and a writing-table in the window, which looked out on to a playground,
where, in the distance, I could catch sight of three boys swinging.

This first prospect of my future companions so interested me that I had
actually nearly forgotten all about poor Mrs Hudson, when Mr Ladislaw
entered the study and said--"The person is going now, Batchelor.  If you
like you can say good-bye."

I flew out into the hall.  Mrs Hudson was there crying, alone.  What we
said, and how we hugged one another, and how desperately we tried to be
cheerful, I need not relate.  I was utterly miserable.  My only friend,
the only friend I had, was going from me, leaving me in this cheerless
place all alone.  I would have given worlds to return with her.  Mr
Ladislaw stood by as we uttered our last farewells.

"Be a good boy, Freddy, dear; be a good boy," was all she could say.

"So I will, so I will," was all I could reply.  Then she turned to where
the coach was waiting.  But once more she paused, and drew from her
pocket another parcel, this time a box, of the nature of whose contents
I could readily guess.

"It's only a few sweets, dear.  There, be a good boy.  Good-bye,
Freddy!"

And in another minute the coach was grating away over the gravel drive,
and I stood utterly disconsolate in Stonebridge House, with my box of
sweets in one hand and Mr Ladislaw at the other.

Some of my readers may have stood in a similar situation.  If they have,
I dare say they can remember it as vividly as any incident in their
life.  I know I can.  I remember instinctively ramming the box into one
of my side trousers pockets, and at the same time wondering whether both
the hats hanging on the pegs were Mr Ladislaw's, or whether one of them
belonged to some one else.

Then suddenly it came over me that the former gentleman stood at my
side, and all my misery returned as he said--

"I will take you to Miss Henniker, Batchelor; follow me."

The sound of the wheels of Mrs Hudson's coach were still audible down
the road, and as I turned my back on them and followed Mr Ladislaw up
the carpetless stairs, it seemed as if I was leaving all hope behind me.

I found Miss Henniker in the middle of a large parlour, with my box
lying open on the ground beside her, and some of my vestments already
spread out on the table.  A half inclination to renew the rebellion came
over me, as I thought how poor dear Mrs Hudson had been triumphed over;
and all these tokens of her kindly soul, folded so neatly, inventoried
so precisely, and all so white and well aired, had here fallen into
strange hands, who reverenced them no more than--than the shirts and
collars and cuffs of I do not know how many more "backward or
troublesome" boys like myself.  But I restrained my feelings.

"I will leave Batchelor in your charge for the present," said Mr
Ladislaw.  At the same time he added something in an undertone to Miss
Henniker which I did not catch, but which I was positive had reference
to the dear departed Mrs Hudson, whereat I fumed inwardly, and vowed
that somehow or other I would pay Miss Henniker out.

When Mr Ladislaw was gone Miss Henniker continued her work in silence,
leaving me standing before her.  She examined all my clothes, looked at
the mark on every collar, every sock, and scrutinised the condition of
every shirt-front and "dicky."  At last she came to my Sunday suit, at
the sight of which I remembered all of a sudden my nurse's injunction,
and said, as meekly as possible, "Oh, if you please, Mrs Hudson says
those are to be hung up, and not laid flat!"

Miss Henniker stared at me as if I had asked her her age!

"Silence!" she said, when she could sufficiently recover herself;
"and--"

"And," continued I, carried away with my subject, and really not hearing
her remonstrance--"and, if you please, I'm to have three clean collars a
week, and you're to darn--"

"Frederick Batchelor!" exclaimed Miss Henniker, letting drop what she
had in her hand, and stamping her foot with most unwonted animation;
"did you hear me order you to hold your tongue?  Don't dare to speak
again, sir, till you're spoken to, or you will be punished."

This tirade greatly surprised me.  I had been quite pleased with myself
for remembering all Mrs Hudson's directions, and so intent on relieving
my mind of them, that I had not noticed the growing rage of the middle-
aged Henniker.  In after years, when this story was told of me, I got
the credit of being the only human being, who all by himself, had
succeeded in "fetching" the Stonebridge housekeeper.  At present,
however, I was taken aback by her evident rage, and considered it
prudent to give heed to her admonition.  The unpacking was presently
finished, and the scarlet in the Henniker's face had gradually toned
down to its normal tint, when, turning to me, she silently motioned me
to follow her.  I did so, along a long passage, in which there were at
least two turnings.  At the end of this was a door leading into a room
containing half a dozen beds.  Not a very cheerful room--long and low
and badly lighted, with only two washstands, and a rather fusty flavour
about the bedclothes.  Don't suppose, at my age, I was critical on such
points; but when I take my boy to school, I do not think, with what I
know now, I shall put him anywhere where the dormitory is like that of
Stonebridge House.

"That," said Miss Henniker, pointing to one of the beds, "is your bed,
and you wash at this washstand."

"Oh," said I, again forgetting myself; "you are to be sure my brush and
comb--"

"Silence, Batchelor!" once more reiterated Miss Henniker.

From the dormitory I was conducted to the schoolroom, and from the
schoolroom to the dining-room, and from the dining-room to the boot-
room, and my duties were explained in each.

It was in the latter apartment that I first made the acquaintance of one
of my fellow "troublesome or backwards."

A biggish boy was adopting the novel expedient for getting on a tight
boot of turning his back to the wall and kicking out at it like a horse
when I and my conductress entered.

The latter very nearly came in for one of the kicks.

"Flanagan," said she, "that is not allowed.  I shall give you a bad mark
for it."

Flanagan went on kicking till the end of the sentence, and then subsided
ruefully, and said, "The bothering thing won't come on or off, please,
ma'am.  It won't come on with shoving."

"If your boots are too small," replied the lady, solemnly, begging the
question, "you must write home for new ones."

"But the bothering things--"

"Batchelor," said Miss Henniker, turning to me, "this is the boot-room,
where you will have to put on and take off your boots whenever you go
out or come in.  This boy is going out, and will take you into the
playground with him," and away she went, leaving me in the hands of the
volatile Flanagan.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

It was a horribly dark place, this boot-room, and I could scarcely see
who it was who was questioning me.  He seemed to be a big boy, a year or
two older than myself, with a face which, as far as I could make it out,
was not altogether unpleasant.  He continued stamping with his
refractory boots all the time he was talking to me, letting out
occasionally behind, in spite of Miss Henniker.

"Who are you?  What's your name?" he said.

"Fred Batchelor," I replied, deferentially.

"Batchelor, eh?  Are you a backward or a troublesome, eh?"

This was a poser.  I had never put the question to myself, and was
wholly at a loss how to answer.  I told Flanagan so.

"Oh, but you're _bound_ to know!" he exclaimed.  "What did they send you
here for, eh?"

Whereupon I was drawn out to narrate, greatly to Flanagan's
satisfaction, the affair of Cad Prog and his baby sister.

"Hurrah!" said he, when I had done.  "Hurrah, you're a troublesome!
That makes seven troublesomes, and only two backwards!" and in his
jubilation he gave a specially vigorous kick out behind, and finally
drove the obstinate boot home.

"Yes," said he, "there was no end of discussion about it.  I was afraid
you were a backward, that I was!  If the other new fellow's only a
troublesome too, we shall have it all to ourselves.  Philpot, you know,"
added he confidentially, "is a backward by rights, but he calls himself
one of us because of the Tuesday night jams."

"Is there another new boy too?"  I inquired, plucking up heart with this
friendly comrade.

"Oh! he's coming to-morrow.  Never mind!  Even if he's a `back' it don't
matter, except for the glory of the thing!  The `troubs' were always
ahead all Ladislaw's time, and he's no chicken.  I say, come in the
playground, can't you?"

I followed rather nervously.  A new boy never takes all at once to his
first walk in the playground; but with Flanagan as my protector--who was
"Hail fellow, well met," with every one, even the backwards--I got
through the ordeal pretty easily.

There were eight boys altogether at Stonebridge House, and I was
introduced--or rather exhibited--to most of them that afternoon.  Some
received me roughly and others indifferently.  The verdict, on the
whole, seemed to be that there was plenty of time to see what sort of a
fellow I was, and for the present the less I was made to think of myself
the better.  So they all talked rather loud in my presence, and showed
off, as boys will do; and each expected--or, at any rate, attempted--to
impress me with a sense of his particular importance.

This treatment gave me time to make observations as well as them, and
before the afternoon ended I had a pretty good idea whom I liked and
whom I did not like at Stonebridge House.

Presently we were summoned in to a bread-and-cheese supper, with cold
water, and shortly afterwards ordered off to bed.  I said my prayers
before I went to sleep, as I had promised good Mrs Hudson, and, except
for being shouted at to mind I did not snore or talk in my sleep--the
punishment for which crimes was something terrific--I was allowed to go
to sleep in peace, very lonely at heart, and with a good deal of secret
trepidation as I looked forward and wondered what would be my lot at
Stonebridge House.



CHAPTER THREE.

HOW A MYSTERIOUS NEW BOY CAME TO STONEBRIDGE HOUSE.

When I rose next morning, and proceeded to take my turn at the
washstand, and array my person in the travel-stained garments of the
previous day, it seemed ages since I had parted with Brownstroke and
entered the gloomy precincts of Stonebridge House.

Everything and everybody around me was gloomy.  Even Flanagan seemed not
yet to have got up the steam; and as for the other boys--they skulked
morosely through the process of dressing, and hardly uttered a word.  It
was a beautiful day outside; the sun was lighting up the fields, and the
birds were singing merrily in the trees; but somehow or other the good
cheer didn't seem to penetrate inside the walls of Stonebridge House.

I tried to get up a conversation with Flanagan, but he looked half-
frightened and half guilty as I did so.

"I say," said I, "couldn't we open the window and let some fresh air
in?"

(Mrs Hudson had always been strong on fresh air.)

"Look-out, I say," said Flanagan, in a frightened whisper; "you'll get
us all in a row!"

"In a row?"  I replied.  "Who with?"

"Why, old Hen; but shut up, do you hear?" and here he dipped his face in
the basin, and so effectually ended the talk.

This was quite a revelation to me.  Get in a row with Miss Henniker for
speaking to one of my schoolfellows in the dormitory!  A lively prospect
and no mistake.

Presently a bell rang, and we all wended our way down stairs into the
parlour where I had yesterday enjoyed my _tete-a-tete_ with Miss
Henniker.  Here we found that lady standing majestically in the middle
of the room, like a general about to review a regiment.

"Show nails!" she ejaculated, as soon as all were assembled.

This mysterious mandate was the signal for each boy passing before her,
exhibiting, as he did so, his hands.

As I was last in the procession I had time to watch the effect of this
proceeding.  "Showing nails," as I afterwards found out, was a very old-
established rule at Stonebridge House, and one under which every
generation of "backward and troublesome boys" who resided there had
groaned.  If any boy's hands or nails were, in the opinion of Miss
Henniker, unclean or untidy, he received a bad mark, and was at once
dismissed to the dormitory to remedy the defect.

One or two in front of me suffered thus, and a glance down at my own
extremities made me a little doubtful as to my fate.  I did what I could
with them privately, but their appearance was not much improved.

At last I stood for inspection before the dreadful Henniker.

"Your hands are dirty, Batchelor.  A bad mark.  Go and wash them."

The bad mark, whatever it might mean, appeared to me very unjust.  Had I
known the rule, it would have been different, but how was I to know,
when no one had told me?

"Please, ma'am, I didn't--"

"Two bad marks for talking!" was my only reply, and off I slunk, feeling
rather crushed, to the dormitory.

I found Flanagan scrubbing at our basin.

"Ah," said he, "I thought you'd get potted."

"I think it's a shame," said I.

"Look-out, I say," exclaimed Flanagan, skipping away as if he'd been
shot, and resuming his wash at the other basin.

Presently he came back on tip-toe, and whispered, "Why can't you talk
lower, you young muff?"

"Surely she can't hear, here up stairs?"

"Can't she?  That's all you know!  She hears every word you say all over
the place, I tell you."

I went on "hard all" at the nail-brush for a minute or so in much
perplexity.

"Keep what you've got to say till you get outside.  Thank goodness,
she's rheumatic or something, and we can open our mouths there.  I say,"
added he, looking critically at my hands, "you'd better give those nails
of yours a cut, or you'll get potted again."

I was grateful for this hint, and felt in my pocket for my knife.  In
doing so I encountered the box of sweets Mrs Hudson had left in my hand
yesterday, and which, amid other distractions, I had positively
forgotten.  "Oh, look here," said I, producing the box, delighted to be
able to do a good turn to my friendly schoolfellow.  "Have some of
these, will you?"

Flanagan's face, instead of breaking out into grateful smiles, as I
anticipated, assumed a sudden scowl, and at the same moment Miss
Henniker entered the dormitory!

Quick as thought I plunged the box back into my pocket, and looked as
unconcerned as it was possible to do under the trying circumstances.

"Flanagan and Batchelor, a bad mark each for talking," said the now
painfully familiar voice.  "What have you there, Batchelor?" added she,
holding out her hand.  "Something Mrs Hudson gave me," I replied.

"I wish to see it."

I was prepared to resist.  I could stand a good deal, but sheer robbery
was a thing I never fancied.  However, a knowing look on Flanagan's face
warned me to submit, and I produced the box.

The lady took it and opened it.  Then closing it, she put it in her own
pocket, saying--

"This is confiscated till the end of the term.  Flanagan and Batchelor,
`Show nails.'"

We did show nails.  Mine still needed some trimming before they were
satisfactory, and then I was bidden descend to the parlour for prayers.

Prayers at Stonebridge House consisted of a few sentences somewhat
quickly uttered by Mr Ladislaw, who put in an appearance for the
occasion, followed by a loud "Amen" from Miss Henniker, and in almost
the same breath, on this occasion, the award of a bad mark to Philpot
for having opened his eyes twice during the ceremony.

After this we partook of a silent breakfast, and adjourned for study.
Miss Henniker dogged us wherever we went and whatever we did.  She sat
and glared at us all breakfast time; she sat and glared at us while Mr
Ladislaw, or Mr Hashford, the usher, were drilling Latin grammar and
arithmetic into us.  She sat and glared while we ate our dinner, and she
stood and glared when after school we assembled in the boot-room and
prepared to escape to the playground.  Even there, if we ventured to
lift our voices too near the house, a bad mark was shot at us from a
window, and if an unlucky ball should come within range of her claws it
was almost certainly "confiscated."

I don't suppose Stonebridge House, except for Miss Henniker, was much
worse than most schools for "backward and troublesome boys."  We were
fairly well fed, and fairly well taught, and fairly well quartered.  I
even think we might have enjoyed ourselves now and then, had we been
left to ourselves.  But we never _were_ left to ourselves.  From morning
to night, and, for all we could tell, from night till morning, we were
looked after by the lady housekeeper, and that one fact made Stonebridge
House almost intolerable.

We were lounging about in the so-called "playground" that afternoon, and
I was beginning to discover a little more about some of my new
schoolfellows, when there appeared walking towards us down the gravel
path a boy about my own age.

He was slender and delicate-looking, I remember, and his pale face
contrasted strangely with his almost black clustering hair and his dark
big eyes.  He wasn't a handsome boy, I remember thinking; but there was
something striking about him, for all that.  It may have been his solemn
expression, or his square jaw, or his eyes, or his brow, or his hair, or
the whole of them put together.  All I know is, that the sight of him as
he appeared that afternoon walking towards us in the playground, has
lived in my memory ever since, and will probably live there till I die.

"Here comes the new boy," said Philpot.  Of course we all knew it must
be he.

"And a queer fish, too, by all appearances," responded Flanagan.

"Very queer indeed," said Hawkesbury.  Hawkesbury was one of the two
"backwards,"--but for all that he was the cleverest boy, so the others
told me, in the whole school.

"He doesn't seem very bashful," said another.

Nor indeed did he.  He sauntered slowly down the path, looking solemnly
now on one side, now on the other, and now at us all, until presently he
stood in our midst, and gazed half inquiringly, half doubtfully, from
one to the other.

I know I felt a good deal more uncomfortable than he did himself, and
was quite glad when Flanagan broke the solemn silence.

"Hullo, youngster, who are you, eh?"

"Smith," laconically replied the new boy, looking his questioner in the
face.

There was nothing impudent in the way he spoke or looked; but somehow or
other his tone didn't seem quite as humble and abject as old boys are
wont to expect from new.  Flanagan's next inquiry therefore was a little
more roughly uttered.

"What's your Christian name, you young donkey?  You don't suppose you're
the only Smith in the world, do you?"

We laughed at this.  It wasn't half bad for Flanagan.

The new boy, however, remained quite solemn as he replied, briefly,
"John Smith."

"And where do you come from?" said Philpot, taking up the questioning,
and determining to get more out of the new-comer than Flanagan had; "and
who's your father, do you hear? and how many sisters have you got? and
why are you sent here? and are you a backward or a troublesome, eh?"

The new boy gazed in grave bewilderment at the questioner during this
speech.  When it was ended, he quietly proceeded to move off to another
part of the playground without vouchsafing any reply.

But Philpot, who was on his mettle, prevented this manoeuvre by a sudden
and dexterous grip of the arm, and drew him back into the circle.

"Do you hear what I say to you?" said he, roughly, emphasising his
question with a shake.  "What on earth do you mean by going off without
answering?"

"It's no business of yours, is it?" said the new boy, mildly.

"Yes," exclaimed Philpot, "it is.  You don't suppose we fellows are
going to be humbugged by a young sneak like you, do you?"

"I sha'n't tell you, then!" quietly replied Smith.

This astounding reply, quietly as it was uttered, quite took away
Philpot's breath, and the breath of all of us.  We were so astonished,
indeed, that for some time no one could utter a word or make up his mind
what to do next.

Then gradually it dawned on the company generally that this defiant,
stuck-up youngster must immediately be put down.

"Come here!" said Philpot, as majestically as he could.

Smith remained where he was, as solemn as ever.  But I, who stood near,
could detect a queer light in his black eyes that looked rather ominous.

When one fellow, in the presence of an admiring audience, grandly orders
a junior to "Come here!" and when that junior coolly declines to move,
it is a very critical situation both for the boy who orders and the boy
who disobeys.  For the one, unless he follows up his brag, will pretty
certainly be laughed at; and the other, unless he shows the white
feather and runs away, will generally come in for a little rough usage.
This seemed likely to happen now.  As Smith would not come to Philpot
for a thrashing, Philpot must go to Smith and thrash him where he stood.
And so doubtless he would have done, had not Mr Hashford appeared at
that very moment on the gravel walk and summoned us in to preparation.

This interruption was most unsatisfactory.  Those who wanted to see what
the new boy was made of were disappointed, and those whose dignity
wanted putting to-rights were still more disappointed.

But there was no helping it.  We trailed slowly indoors, Philpot vowing
he would be quits with the young cub some day, and Hawkesbury, in his
usual smiling way, suggesting that "the new boy didn't seem a very nice
boy."

"I know what _I_ should do," said Flanagan, "if I--"

"A bad mark to Flanagan for not coming in quietly," said the voice of
Miss Henniker; and at the sound the spirit went out from us, and we
remembered we were once more in Stonebridge House.

"Preparation" was a dreadful time.  I knew perfectly well, though I
could not see her, that Miss Henniker's eyes were upon me all the time.
I could feel them on the back of my head and the small of my back.  You
never saw such an abject spectacle as we nine spiritless youths appeared
bending over our books, hardly daring to turn over a leaf or dip a pen,
for fear of hearing that hateful voice.  I could not help, however,
turning my eyes to where the new boy sat, to see how he was faring.  He,
too, seemed infected with the depressing air of the place, and was
furtively looking round among his new schoolfellows.  I felt half
fascinated by his black eyes, and when presently they turned and met
mine, I almost thought I liked the new boy.  My face must somehow have
expressed what was passing through my mind, for as our eyes met there
was a very faint smile on his lips, which I could not help returning.

"Batchelor and Smith, a bad mark each for inattention.  That makes four
bad marks to Batchelor in one day.  No playground for half a week!"

Cheerful!  I was getting used to the lady by this time, and remember
sitting for the rest of the time calculating that if I got four bad
marks every day of the week, that would be twenty-eight a week, or a
hundred and twelve a month; and that if four bad marks deprived me of
half a week's playground, one month's bad marks would involve an absence
of precisely fourteen weeks from that peaceful retreat; whereat I bit my
pen, and marvelled inwardly.

The dreary day seemed as if it would never come to an end.  My spirits
sank when, after "preparation," we were ordered up stairs to tea.  How
_could_ one enjoy tea poured out by Miss Henniker?  Some people call it
the "cup that cheers."  Let them take tea one afternoon at Stonebridge
House, and they will soon be cured of that notion!  I got another bad
mark during the meal for scooping up the sugar at the bottom of my cup
with my spoon.

"Surely," thought I, "they'll let us read or play, or do as we like,
after tea for a bit?"

Vain hope!  The meal ended, we again went down to our desks, where
sheets of paper were distributed to each, and we were ordered to "write
home"!  Write home under Miss Henniker's eye!  That was worse than
anything!

I began, however, as best I could.  Of course, my letter was to Mrs
Hudson.  Where she was, was the only home I knew.  I was pretty certain,
of course, the letter would be looked over, but for all that I tried not
to let the fact make any difference, and, as I warmed up to my task, I
found my whole soul going out into my letter.  I forgot all about its
contents being perused, and was actually betrayed into shedding a few
tears at the thought of my dear absent protectress.

"I wish I was back with you," I wrote.  "It's _miserable_ here.  The
sweets you gave me have been stolen by that horrid old--"

At this interesting juncture I was conscious of somebody standing behind
me and looking over my shoulder.  It was Miss Henniker!

"Give me that," she said.

I snatched the letter up and tore it into pieces.  I could stand a good
deal, as I have said, but even a boy of twelve must draw the line
somewhere.

Miss Henniker stood motionless as I destroyed my letter, and then said,
in icy tones--

"Follow me, Batchelor."

I rose meekly, and followed her--I cared not if it was to the gallows!
She led me to her parlour, and ordered me to stand in the corner.  Then
she rang her bell.

"Tell Mr Ladislaw I should like to see him," said she to the servant.

In due time Mr Ladislaw appeared, and the case for the prosecution
forthwith opened.  My misdemeanours for the entire day were narrated,
culminating with this last heinous offence.

"Batchelor," said Miss Henniker, "repeat to Mr Ladislaw word for word
what you were writing when I came to you."

I know not what spirit of meekness came over me.  I did as I was told,
and repeated the sentence verbatim down to the words, "The sweets you
gave me have been stolen by that horrid old--"

"Old what?" said Mr Ladislaw.

"Old what?" said Miss Henniker, I hesitated.

"Come, now, say what you were going to write," demanded Mr Ladislaw.

"Old what, Batchelor?" reiterated the Henniker, keeping her eyes on me.

I must be honest!

"Old beast," I said in a low tone.

"I thought so," said the lady.  "Batchelor has called me a beast twice
since he came here, Mr Ladislaw."

"Batchelor must be punished," said Mr Ladislaw, who, I could not help
privately thinking, was a little afraid of Miss Henniker himself.  "Come
to my study, sir."

I came, followed of course by the Henniker; and in Mr Ladislaw's study
I was caned on both hands.  Miss Henniker would, I fancy, have laid it
on a little harder than the master did.  Still, it was enough to make me
smart.

But the smart within was far worse than that without.

"Return to the class-room now, and write at once to your uncle, Mr
Jakeman," said Miss Henniker, "and to no one else."

I returned to the room, where I found an eager whispered discussion
going on.  When a boy was taken off for punishment by the Henniker,
those who were left always had a brief opportunity for conversation.

The subject of discussion, I found, was Smith, who sat apart, with no
paper before him, apparently exempt from the general task.  As usual, he
was looking solemnly round him, but in no way to explain the mystery.
At last Hawkesbury, the "pet" of the school--in other words, the only
boy who seemed to get on with Miss Henniker and Mr Ladislaw--had walked
up to Mr Hashford's desk, where the usher sat in temporary authority,
and had said, "Oh, Smith, the new boy, hasn't any paper, Mr Hashford."

"No, I was told not to give him any," said the usher, terrified lest the
Henniker should return.

"I wonder why?" said Hawkesbury.

"Yes, it is strange," replied Mr Hashford; "but please go to your
place, Hawkesbury; Miss Henniker will return."

Hawkesbury had reported this brief conversation to his fellows, and this
was what had given rise to the discussion I found going on when I
returned from my caning.  It was soon cut short by the Henniker's
reappearance; but the mystery became all the greater when it was seen
that no notice was taken of the new boy's idleness, and that at the
close of the exercise, when we were all called upon to bring up our
letters, his name was distinctly omitted.

My effusion to my uncle was brief and to the point.

Dear Uncle Jakeman,--Miss Henniker wishes me to say that I have had five
bad marks to-day.  I have also been caned hard on both hands for writing
to dear Mrs Hudson, and for calling Miss Henniker bad names.  I hope
you are very well.  Believe me, dear uncle, your affectionate nephew,--

Fred.  Batchelor.

With the exception of striking out the "dear" before Mrs Hudson this
letter was allowed to pass.

In due time and to my great relief the bell rang for bed, and glad of
any chance of forgetting the hateful place, I went up stairs to the
dormitory.

The new boy, I found, was to occupy the bed next mine, at which I was
rather pleased than otherwise.  I could not make out why I should take a
fancy to Smith, but somehow I did; and when once during the night I
happened to wake, and heard what sounded very much like a smothered sob
in the bed next mine, I at least had the consolation of being sure I was
not the only miserable boy at Stonebridge House.



CHAPTER FOUR.

HOW SMITH AND I TOOK A BREATH OF FRESH AIR AND PAID FOR IT.

As "circumstances over which I had no control" prevented my joining my
fellow troublesome and backward boys in their daily retreat to the
playground for the next few days, I had only a limited opportunity of
seeing how the new boy settled down to his new surroundings.

Inside Stonebridge House we were all alike, all equally subdued and
"Henpecked."  The playground was really the only place where any display
of character could be made; and as for three days I was a prisoner,
Smith remained as much a mystery to me at the end of the week as he had
been on the day of his arrival.

I could, however, guess from his looks and the looks of the others that
he was having rather a bad time of it out there.  Hawkesbury used to
come in with such a gracious smile every afternoon that I was certain
something was wrong; and Philpot's flushed face, and Rathbone's scowl,
and Flanagan's unusual gravity, all went to corroborate the suspicion.
But Smith's face and manner were the most tell-tale.  The first day he
had seemed a little doubtful, but gradually the lines of his mouth
pulled tighter at the corners, and his eyes flashed oftener, and I could
guess easily enough that he at least had not found his heart's content
at Stonebridge House.

My term of penal servitude expired on Sunday; and in some respects I
came out of it better than I had gone in.  For Mr Hashford had the
charge of all detained boys, and he, good-hearted, Henniker-dreading
usher that he was, had spent the three days in drilling me hard in
decimal fractions; and so well too, that I actually came to enjoy the
exercise, and looked upon the "repeating dot" as a positive pastime.
Even Miss Henniker could not rob me of that pleasure.

"Batchelor," whispered Flanagan to me, as we walked two and two to
church behind the Henniker that Sunday, "that new fellow's an awfully
queer cove.  I can't make him out."

"Nor can I.  But how's he been getting on the last day or two?"

"Getting on!  You never knew such scenes as we've had.  He's afraid of
nobody.  He licked Philpot to fits on Thursday--smashed him, I tell you.
You never saw such a demon as he is when his dander's up.  Then he
walked into Rathbone; and if Rathbone hadn't been a foot taller than
him, with arms as long as windmills, he'd have smashed Rathbone."

"Did he try it on you?"  I inquired.

"No--why should he?" said the sturdy Flanagan; "time enough for that
when I make a brute of myself to him.  But I dare say he'd smash me too.
It's as good as a play, I tell you.  That time he did for Philpot he
was as quick with his right, and walked in under his man's guard, and
drove up at him, and took him on the flank just like--"

"A bad mark to Flanagan for talking, and to Batchelor for listening,"
rose the voice of Miss Henniker in the street.

This public award made us both jump, and colour up too, for there were a
lot of ladies and gentlemen and young ladies close at hand, all of whom
must have distinctly heard the Henniker's genial observation.  However,
I was most curious to hear more of Smith.  Flanagan and I both had colds
the rest of the way and finished our conversation behind our
handkerchiefs.

"Have you heard any more about him?" asked I.  "Not a word.  He's as
close as an owl.  Hawkesbury says Hashford told him he came here
straight from another school.  By the way--keep your handkerchief up,
man!--by the way, when I said he's afraid of no one, he _is_ afraid of
Hawkesbury, I fancy.  I don't know why--"

"I don't think I like Hawkesbury, either.  He's got such an everlasting
grin."

"So will you have if you don't talk lower, you young idiot," said
Flanagan.  "Yes, it's the grin that fetches Smith, I fancy.  I grinned
at him one day, meaning to be friendly, but he didn't half like it."

I laughed at this, greatly to Flanagan's wrath.  Luckily, however, no
evil consequences happened, and we reached church without any more bad
marks.

Of all days, Sunday at Stonebridge House was the most miserable and
desperate.  We had not even the occupation of lessons, still less the
escape to the playground.  After church, we were marched back to the
school, and there set to read some dry task book till dinner.

And after dinner we were set to copy out a chapter of Jeremiah or some
other equally suitable passage from beginning to end on ruled paper,
getting bad marks as on week days for all faults.  After this came tea,
and after tea another dreary march forth to church.  But the culminating
horror of the day was yet to come.  After evening church--and there
really was a sense of escape and peace in the old church, even though we
could not make out the sermon--after evening church, we were all taken
up to Miss Henniker's parlour, and there doomed to sit perfectly still
for a whole hour, while she read aloud something by one of the very old
masters.  Oh, the agony of those Sunday evenings!

I have sat fascinated by that awful voice, with a cramp in my leg that I
dared not stir to relieve, or a tickling in the small of my back from
which there was no escape, or a cobweb on my face I had not the courage
to brush away.  I have felt sleep taking possession of me, yet daring
neither to yawn, nor nod my head, nor wink my eyes.  I have stared
fixedly at the gas, or the old china ornament on the mantelpiece, till
my eyes became watery with the effort and I have suffered all the
tortures of a cold in the head without the possibility either of
sniffing or clearing my throat!

It made no difference to Miss Henniker that she was reading aloud.  She
had her eye on every one of us the whole time, nay, more than ever; and
many a bad mark was sprinkled up with her readings.

"Once more, dearly beloved--Batchelor, a bad mark," became to me quite a
familiar sound before I had been many Sundays at Stonebridge House.

This particular Sunday evening I thought I should go mad, at least,
during the first part of the performance.  I _couldn't_ sit still, and
the more I tried the more restless I became.  At last, however, some
chance directed my eyes to where the new boy was sitting in a distant
corner of the room, and from that moment, I can't tell why, I became a
model of quiet sitting.  I found myself forgetting all about the
cobwebs, and Mrs Hudson, and the china ornament, and the small of my
back, and thinking of nothing but this solemn, queer boy, with his big
eyes, and black hair, and troubled face.  The more I looked at him the
more sorry I felt for him, and the more I wished to be his friend.  I
would--

"Batchelor, repeat the last words I read," broke in Miss Henniker.

She thought she had me, but no!  Far away as my thoughts had been, my
ears had mechanically retained those last melodious strains, and I
answered, promptly, "Latitudinarianism of an unintelligent
emotionalism!"

One to me!  And I returned to my brown study triumphant, and pretty
secure against further molestation.

I made up my mind, come what would, I would speak to the new boy and let
him see _I_ was not against him.

Some one will smile, of course, and say, sarcastically, "What a treat
for the new boy!"  But if he only knew with what fear and trembling I
made that resolution, he would acquit Fred Batchelor of any very great
self-importance in the matter.

Bedtime came at last, and, thankful to have the day over, we crawled
away to our roosts.  The new boy's bed, as I have said, was next mine,
and I conceived the determination, if I could only keep awake, of
speaking to him after every one was asleep.

It was hard work that keeping awake; but I managed it.  Gradually, one
after another dropped off, and the padding footsteps overhead and the
voices below died away till nothing was heard but the angry tick of the
clock outside and the regular breathing of the sleepers on every hand.

Then I softly slid out of bed and crawled on my hands and knees to
Smith's bed.  It was an anxious moment for me.  He might be asleep, and
wake up in a fright to find some one near him; or he might be awake and
resent my intrusion.  Still I determined I _would_ go to him, and I was
rewarded.

"Is that Batchelor?"  I heard him whisper as I approached his bed.

"Yes," I answered, joyfully, and feeling half the battle over.

"Come in," said he, moving to make room for me.

"Oh no!"  I said, in terror at the very idea.  "Suppose I fell asleep.
I'll kneel here, and then if any one comes I can crawl back."

"What is it?"  Smith said, presently, after a long and awkward pause.

I was thankful that he broke the ice.

"Oh," I whispered, "aren't you jolly miserable here, I say?"

"Pretty!" said he.  "Aren't you?"

"Oh, yes!  But the fellows are all so unkind to you."

Smith gave a little bitter laugh.  "That doesn't matter," he said.

"Doesn't it?  I wish I was bigger, I'd back you up--and so will
Flanagan, if you let him."

"Thanks, old man!" said the new boy, putting his hand on my arm.  "It's
not the fellows I mind, it's--" and here he pulled up.

"Old Henniker," I put in, in accents of smothered rage.

"Ugh!" said Smith; "she's awful!"

But somehow it occurred to me the Henniker was not what Smith was going
to say when he pulled up so suddenly just before.  I felt certain there
was something mysterious about him, and of course, being a boy, I burned
to know.

However, he showed no signs of getting back to that subject, and we
talked about a lot of things, thankful to have scope for once for our
pent-up feelings.  It was one of the happiest times I had known for
years, as I knelt there on the hard carpetless floor and found my heart
going out to the heart of a friend.  What we talked about was of little
moment; it was probably merely about boys' trifles, such as any boy
might tell another.  What was of moment was that there, in dreary,
cheerless Stonebridge House, we had found some interest in common, and
some object for our spiritless lives.

I told him all about home and my uncle, in hopes that he would be
equally communicative, but here he disappointed me.

"Are your father and mother dead too?"  I said.

"Not both," he replied.

It was spoken in a tone half nervous, half vexed, so I did not try to
pursue the subject.

Presently he changed the subject and said, "How do you like that fellow
Hawkesbury?"

"Not much; though I don't know why."

Smith put out his hand and pulled my face close to his as he whispered,
"I hate him!"

"Has he been bullying you?"  I inquired.

"No," said Smith.  "But he's--ugh--I don't know any more than you do why
I hate him.  I say, shall you be out in the playground to-morrow?"

"Yes, unless I get four bad marks before.  I've two against me already."

"Oh, don't get any more.  I want to go for a walk."

"A walk!"  I exclaimed.  "You'll never be allowed!"

"But we might slip out just for a few minutes; it's awful never to get
out."

It _was_ awful; but the risk.  However, I had promised to back him up,
and so I said where he went I would go.

"If it was only to climb one tree, or see just one bird on the bushes,"
he said, almost pathetically.  "But I say, ain't you getting cold?"

I was not, I protested, and for a long time more we continued talking.
Then at last the creaking of a board, or the noise of a mouse, startled
us in earnest, and in a moment I had darted back to my bed.  All was
quiet again.

"Good-night, old boy," I whispered.

"Good-night, old man.  Awfully good of you," he replied.  "I'll come to
you to-morrow."

And not long after we were both sound asleep.

I managed to keep down my bad marks below four next day, so that I was
able once more to take my walks abroad in the playground.

It was with a little feeling of misgiving that I sallied forth, for
Smith was at my side, reminding me of our resolution to escape, if only
for a few minutes, to the free country outside.  I would greatly have
preferred not trying it, but Smith was set on it, and I had not the face
to leave him in the lurch.

The far end of the playground, beyond the swings, broke into a patch of
tangled thicket, beyond which again a little ditch separated the grounds
of Stonebridge House from the country outside.

To this thicket, therefore, we wandered, after "showing ourselves" on
the swings for a few minutes, for the sake of allaying suspicions.  The
other fellows were most of them loafing about on the far side of the
gravel yard, where the marble holes were; so we managed to make our
escape pretty easily, and found ourselves at length standing on the
breezy heath.  Once there, Smith's whole manner changed to one of wild
delight.  The sense of freedom seemed to intoxicate him, and the
infection seized me too.  We scampered about in a perfectly ridiculous
manner; up hills and down hollows, leaping over bushes, chasing one
another, and, in fact, behaving exactly like two kids (as we were),
suddenly let loose from confinement.

"I say," said I, all out of breath, "suppose we run clean away, Smith?"

Smith pulled up in the middle of a scamper, and looked up and down on
every side.  Then the old solemn look came as he replied, "Where to,
that's it?"

"Oh, Brownstroke, if you like; or your home.  Let's turn up, you know,
and give them a jolly surprise."

Smith's face clouded over as he said, hurriedly, "I say, it's time to be
going back, or we shall get caught."

This was an effectual damper to any idea of flight, and we quickly
turned back once more to Stonebridge House.

We found our gap all right, and strolled back past the swings and up the
gravel walk as unconcernedly as possible, fully believing no one had
been witness of our escapade.  We were wrong.

Hawkesbury came up to us as we neared the house, with the usual smile on
his face.

"Didn't you hear me calling?" he said.  "You know it's against rules to
go out of bounds, and I thought--"

"What! who's been out of bounds?" said the voice of the Henniker at that
moment.

Hawkesbury looked dejected.

"Who did you say, Hawkesbury, had been out of bounds?"

"I'd rather not tell tales," said Hawkesbury, sweetly.

"I've been out of bounds," blurted out Smith, "and so has Batchelor.  I
asked him to come, and Hawkesbury has been spying and--"

"Silence," cried Miss Henniker.  "Smith and Batchelor, follow me."

We followed duly to Mr Ladislaw's study, where we were arraigned.
Hawkesbury was sent for as evidence.  He came smiling, and declared he
may have been mistaken, perhaps it was two other boys; he hoped we
should not be punished, etcetera.  Smith was nearly breaking out once or
twice during this, and it was all I could do to keep him in.  Hawkesbury
was thanked and dismissed, and then, with the assistance of Miss
Henniker, Mr Hashford, and Mr Ladislaw, Smith and I were birched, and
forbidden the playground for a fortnight, during which period we were
required to observe absolute silence.

So ended our little adventure out for a puff of free air!  Among our
fellows we gained little enough sympathy for our misfortunes.  Flanagan
was the only fellow who seemed really sorry.  The rest of the ill-
conditioned lot saw in the affair only a good opportunity of crowing
over their ill-starred adversary, and telling me it served me right for
chumming up to such a one.

One day, greatly to my surprise, when the Henniker was away
superintending the flogging of Flanagan for some offence or other,
Hawkesbury came over and sat beside me.

"Oh," said he, softly, "Batchelor, I've been wanting to tell you how
sorry I am I helped get you into your scrape.  I didn't mean--I was only
anxious for you to know the rule.  I hope you'll forgive me?" and he
held out his hand.

What could I do?  Perhaps he was telling the truth after all, and we had
thought too badly of him.  And when a big boy comes and asks pardon of a
small one, it is always embarrassing for the latter.  So I gave him my
hand, and told him I was sure he did not mean it, and that it did not
matter at all.

"Thanks, Batchelor," he said, smiling quite gratefully.  "It's a relief
to me."

Then I watched him go on what I knew was a similar errand to Smith, but,
as I expected, his reception in that quarter was not quite so flattering
as it had been in my case.  I could see my chum's eyes fire up as he saw
the elder boy approach, and a flush come over his pale cheeks.  I
watched Hawkesbury blandly repeating his apology, and then suddenly, to
my astonishment and consternation, I saw Smith rise in his seat and
throw himself furiously upon his enemy.  Hawkesbury was standing near a
low form, and in the sudden surprise caused by this attack he tripped
over it and fell prone on the floor, just as Miss Henniker re-entered.

There was a brief pause of universal astonishment, then the Henniker
demanded, "What is this?  Tell me.  What is all this, Hawkesbury?"

Hawkesbury had risen to his feet, smiling as ever, and brushing the dust
from his coat, replied softly, "Nothing, really nothing, ma'am.  I fell
down, that's all."

"I knocked you down!" shouted Smith, panting like a steam-engine, and
trembling with excitement.

"Oh," said Hawkesbury, kindly, though not quite liking the downright way
in which the adventure had been summed up.  "It was only play, Miss
Henniker.  My fault as much as Smith's.  He never meant to be so rough.
Really."

"Silence, both!" said Miss Henniker.  "Smith, follow me!"

"Oh, Miss Henniker, please don't punish him," said Hawkesbury.

"Silence," replied the Henniker, icily.  "Come, Smith."

Miss Henniker had the wonderful art of knowing by instinct who was the
culprit in cases like this.  She was never troubled with a doubt as to
her verdict being a right one; and really it saved her a great deal of
trouble.

Smith was haled away to justice, where, in addition to a flogging and
further term of imprisonment, he was reduced for a given period to a
bread-and-water diet, and required publicly to beg Hawkesbury's pardon.

That there might be no delay about the execution of the last part of the
sentence, the culprit was conducted back forthwith to the schoolroom,
accompanied by Miss Henniker and Mr Ladislaw.

"Hawkesbury," said the latter, addressing the injured boy, "I have
desired Smith to beg your pardon here and now for his conduct to you.
Smith, do as you have been told."

Smith remained silent, and I who watched him could see that his mind was
made up.

"Do you hear Mr Ladislaw, Smith?" demanded the Henniker; "do as you are
bid, at once."

"Please, sir," began Hawkesbury, with his pleasant smile.

"Silence, Hawkesbury," said the Henniker.  "Now, Smith."

But she might have been addressing a log of wood.

"Do you hear what I say to you?" once more she exclaimed.

Smith only glared at her with his big eyes, and resolutely held his
tongue.

"Then," said Mr Ladislaw, "Smith must be publicly punished."

Smith was punished publicly; and a more repulsive spectacle I never wish
to witness.  A public punishment at Stonebridge House meant a flogging
administered to one helpless boy by the whole body of his schoolfellows,
two of whom firmly held the victim, while each of the others in turn
flogged him.  In the case of an unpopular boy like Smith, this
punishment was specially severe, and I turned actually sick as each of
the cowardly louts stepped up and vented their baffled wrath upon him.
Hawkesbury, of course, only made the slightest pretence of touching him;
but this of all his punishment seemed to be the part Smith could bear
least.  At last, when it was all over, the bruised boy slunk back to his
desk, and class proceeded.

That night, as I knelt beside my poor chum's bed, he said, "We've paid
pretty dear for our run on the heath, Fred."

"_You_ have, old man," I replied.

Smith lay still for some time musing, then he said, "Whatever do they
mean by forgiving enemies, Fred?"

Smith didn't often get on these topics, and I was a little nervous as I
replied, "What it says, I suppose."

"Does it mean fellows like Hawkesbury?"

"I should say so," said I, almost doubtful, from the way in which he
spoke, whether after all I might not be mistaken.

"Queer," was all he replied, musingly.

I tried hard to change the subject.

"Are you awfully sore, Jack?"  I said.  "Have one of my pillows."

"Oh no, thanks.  But I say, Fred, don't you think it's queer?"

"What, about forgiving your enemies?  Well, yes it is, rather.  But, I
say, it's time I cut back.  Good-night, old man."

And I crept back to bed, and lay awake half the night listening to him
as he turned from side to side in his sleep, and feeling that everything
and everybody was queer, especially my friend Smith.



CHAPTER FIVE.

HOW A

CHAPTER OF MISFORTUNES BEFEL MY FRIEND SMITH AND ME.

The summer wore on, and with it the gloom of Stonebridge House sunk
deeper and deeper into our spirits.  After a week or two even the sense
of novelty wore off, and we settled down to our drudges' doom as if we
were destined all our lives never to see any place outside the
Henniker's domain.

If it hadn't been for Smith I don't know how I should have endured it.
Not that we ever had much chance of enjoying one another's society.  In
school it was wholly impossible.  In the playground (particularly after
our recent escapade), we had very little opportunity given us; and at
night, when secretly we did contrive to talk, it was with the constant
dread of detection hanging over us.

What concerned me most of all, though, was the bad way in which Smith
seemed to get on with every one of his schoolfellows except me, and--
perhaps Flanagan.  With the bullies, like Philpot and Rathbone, he was
at daggers drawn; towards the others he never took the trouble to
conceal his dislike, while with Hawkesbury an explosion seemed always,
imminent.

I could not understand why he got on so badly, especially with
Hawkesbury, who certainly never made himself disagreeable, but, on the
contrary, always appeared desirous to be friendly.  I sometimes thought
Smith was unreasonable to foster his instinctive dislike as he did.

"Jack," said I one night as he was "paying a call" to my bedside--"Jack,
I'm half beginning to think Hawkesbury isn't so bad a fellow after all."

"Why?" demanded Smith.

"Oh, I don't know.  He's done me one or two good turns lately."

"What sort?"

"Well, he helped me in the Latin the other day, of his own accord,
and--"

"Go on," said Smith, impatiently.

"And he gave me a knife to-day.  You know I lost mine, and he said he'd
got two."

Smith grunted.

"I'd like to catch him doing a good turn to me, that's all," said he.
"_I'd_ cure him of that!"

I didn't like to hear Smith talk like this.  For one thing, it sounded
as if he must be a great deal less foolish than I was, which nobody
likes to admit; and for another thing, it seemed wrong and unreasonable,
unless for a very good cause, to persist in believing nothing good about
anybody else.

So I changed the subject.

"I say," said I, "what are you going to do these holidays?"

"Stay here," said he.  "Are you going home?"

"What!"  I exclaimed.  "Stay here for four weeks with the old Hen?  Why
ever, Jack?"

"Don't know--but that's what I've got to do.  Are you going home?"

"I suppose so," said I, with an inward groan.  "But, Jack, what _will_
you do with yourself?"

"Much as usual, I expect.  Sha'n't get much practice in talking till you
come back!" added he, with a low laugh.

"Jack, why don't you go home?"  I exclaimed.  "Are you in a row there,
or what?  You never tell me a word about it."

"Look-out, I hear some one moving!" cried Smith, and next moment he was
back in his bed.

I was vexed.  For I half guessed this alarm had been only an excuse for
not talking about home, and I didn't like being silenced in that way.
Altogether that night I was a good deal put out with Smith, and when
presently he whispered across "Good-night," I pretended to be asleep,
and did not answer.

But I was not asleep, and could not sleep.  I worked myself first into a
rage, then into an injured state, and finally into a miserable condition
over my friend Smith.

Why should he keep secrets from me, when I kept none from him?  No, when
I came to think over it, I did not keep a single secret from him!  Did
he think I was not to be trusted, or was too selfish to care?  He might
have known me better by this time.  It was true I had told him my
secrets without his asking for them; in fact, all along he had not
seemed nearly as anxious as I had been for this friendship of ours.  My
conscience stung me at this last reflection; and there came upon me all
of a sudden a sense of the utter desolation of this awful place without
a single friend!  No, I determined it should take more than a little
pique to make me cast away my only friend.  And with the thought, though
it must have been far on in the night, I slipped from my bed and crawled
to his.

He was fast asleep, but at the first touch of my hand he started up and
said, "What's the row?"

"I'm sorry, Jack; but I was in a temper to-night, and couldn't go to
sleep till I made it up."

"A temper! what about?" said he.  "I didn't know you were."

"I fancied you wouldn't--that is, that you thought--you didn't trust me,
Jack."

"You're the only fellow I do trust, Fred, there," said he, taking my
arm.  Then, with a sigh, he added, "Why shouldn't I?"

"What a beast I was, Jack!" cried I, quite repentant.  "I don't--"

"Hush!" said Jack.  Then, whispering very close to my ear, he added,
"There are some things, you know, I _can't_ tell even you--about home--"

There was a sound in the room, as of a boy, suddenly aroused, starting
up in his bed.  Our blood turned cold, and we remained motionless,
hardly daring to breathe, straining our ears in the darkness.

Suddenly the boy, whoever he was, sprang from his bed, and seizing the
lucifers, struck a light.

It was Hawkesbury!  I had almost guessed it.  I felt Jack's hand tighten
on my arm as the sudden glare fell full upon us, and Hawkesbury's voice
cried, "Oh, you fellows, what a start you gave me!  I couldn't make out
what the talking was.  I thought it must be thieves!"

At the same moment the dormitory door opened, and a new glare lit up the
scene.  It was Miss Henniker in her dressing-gown, with a candle.

"What, talking?  Who was talking?" she said, overhearing Hawkesbury's
last exclamation.

It was a queer picture that moment, and I can recall it even now.
Hawkesbury standing in his night-shirt in the middle of the room.  I, as
lightly clad, crouching transfixed beside my friend's bed, who was
sitting up with his hand on my arm.  And the Henniker there at the door,
in her yellow-and-black dressing-gown and curl-papers, holding her
candle above her head, and looking from one to the other.

"Who was talking?" she demanded again, turning to Hawkesbury.

Hawkesbury, smiling, returned to his bed, as he replied, "Oh, nothing.
I think I must have been dreaming, and woke in a fright."

But as he spoke his eyes turned to us two, and Miss Henniker's followed
naturally.  Then the whole truth dawned upon her.

I rose from my knees and walked sheepishly back to my bed.

"What are you doing out of your bed, sir?" demanded she.

It was little use delaying matters by a parley, so I replied, bluntly,
"Talking to Smith."

"And I," added the loyal Smith, "was talking to Batchelor!"

"Silence!" cried the Griffin.  "Batchelor, dress immediately, and follow
me!"

I did as I was bid, mechanically--that is, I slipped on my
knickerbockers and slippers--and found myself in a couple of minutes,
thus airily attired, following Miss Henniker, like a ghost, down the
long passage.  She led the way, not, as I expected, to the parlour, or
to Mr Ladislaw's room, but conducted me upstairs and ushered me into a
small and perfectly empty garret.

"Remain here, Batchelor!" said she, sternly.

The next moment she was gone, locking the door behind her, and I was
left shivering, and in total darkness, to spend the remainder of the
night in these unexpected quarters.

My first sensation was one of utter and uncontrollable rage.  I was
tempted to fling myself against the door, to shout, to roar until some
one should come to release me.  Then as suddenly came over me the
miserable certainty that I was helpless, and that anything I did would
be but labour lost, and injure no one but myself.  And, Smith, too!  It
was all up with our precious secret parleys; perhaps we should not even
be allowed to see one another any more.  In my misery I sat down on the
floor in a corner of my dungeon and felt as if I would not much care if
the house were to fall about my ears and bury me in the ruins.  Cheerful
reflection this for a youth of my tender years!

As I sat, shivering and brooding over my hard fate, I heard footsteps
ascending the stairs.  When you are sitting alone in an empty room, at
the dead of night, this is never a very fascinating sound, and I did not
much enjoy it.

And as I listened I could make out that the footsteps belonged to two
people.  Perhaps I was going to be murdered, I reflected, like Prince
Arthur, or the two boys in the Tower!  At the same moment a streak of
light glimmered through the crack of the door, and I heard a voice say,
"Come this way, Smith."

So Smith, too, was going to be locked up for the night.  My heart
bounded as for an instant it occurred to me it would be in my dungeon!
No such good fortune!  They passed my door.  At any rate, my chum should
know where I was, so I proceeded to make a demonstration against my door
and beseech, in the most piteous way, to be released.  Of course, it was
no use, but that did not matter; I never expected it would.

I listened hard to the retreating footsteps, which stopped at the end of
the passage.  Then a door opened and shut again, a key turned, one pair
of steps again returned past my door, and as I peeped through the
keyhole I had a vague idea of a yellow-and-black gown, and knew that the
Henniker had gone back to her place.

If only Smith had been shut up next door to me I might have been able to
shout to him so that he could hear, but what chance was there when three
or four rooms at least divided us?  After all, except that he was near
me, and knew where I was, things were not much better than they had been
before.  So I sat down again in my corner and sulkily watched the first
glimmers of dawn peep in at the little window.  It must be about 3 a.m.,
I thought.  And that meant four good hours before any chance of a
release came.  And as it was, my feet were pretty nearly dead with cold,
and a thin nightgown is not much covering for a fellow's body and arms.
It rather pleased me to think the adventure might end fatally, and that
at my inquest Miss Henniker might be brought in guilty of manslaughter.

It must be breezy, for those leaves have been tapping away at my window
the last minute or so pretty hard.  Bother the leaves!  And yet, when
you come to think of it, you do not often hear leaves tap as hard as
that!  My window will be smashed in if they keep it up at that rate.  So
I get up lazily and approach the scene of action.

I nearly screamed as I did so, for there, close up against the window,
was a face!  I was so taken aback that it took me a good minute to
recover my wits and perceive that the apparition was none other than my
faithful friend Jack Smith, and that the tapping I had been giving the
leaves such credit for had been his eager attempts to attract my
attention.

I sprang to the window, jubilant, and opened it.

"Oh, Jack! hurrah!  However did you get here?"

"Oh, you have _spotted_ me at last, have you?" said he, with a grim
smile.  "I've been here five or ten minutes."

"You have!" exclaimed I.

"Yes.  My window opened on to this ledge, too; so I didn't see why I
shouldn't come."

"You might have fallen and killed yourself.  But I say, Jack, won't you
come in?  Even if we do get caught things can't be much worse than they
are."

"I know that--so I think you'd better come out."

"What for?" exclaimed I, in astonishment.

"To get away--anywhere," said he.

In a moment I was up on the window-sill, scrambling out on to the ledge
beside him.  The fresh morning breeze blew on my face as I did so, and a
glorious sense of freedom took hold of both our drooping spirits.  We
needed no words.  Only let us get free!

"Come along," said Jack, crawling along the narrow ledge which ran round
the top of the house.

"How shall we get down?"  I asked.

"That's what I want to find out," said Jack.  "Isn't there a water-pipe
or something in front?"

Carefully we made our perilous journey round the side of the house
towards the front.  Smith leaned over and peered down.

"Yes," said he, "there's a water-pipe we could easily slide down, if we
could only get at it.  Look!"

I looked over too.  The ground seemed a long way below, and I felt a
trifle nervous at the prospect of trying to reach it by such unorthodox
means as a water-pipe, even could we get at that pipe.  But the ledge on
which we were overhung the side of the house, and the pipe began under
it, just below where we stood.

"We must try, anyhow," said Jack, desperately.  "I'll go first; catch
hold of my hands, Fred."

And he was actually going to attempt to scramble over and round under
the ledge, when he suddenly paused, and cried, "Hold hard.  I do believe
this bit of ledge is loose!"

So it was.  It shook as we stood upon it.

"We might be able to move it," said Jack.

So we knelt down and with all our might tugged away at the stone that
divided us from our water-pipe.  It was obstinate at first, but by dint
of perseverance it yielded to pressure at last, and we were able
triumphantly to lift it from its place.

It was easy enough now reaching the pipe.  But here a new peril arose.
Sliding down water-pipes is an acquired art, and not nearly as easy as
it seems.  Jack, who volunteered to make the first descent, looked a
little blue as he found the pipe was so close to the wall that he
couldn't get his hands round, much less his feet.

"You'll have to grip it hard with your ankles and elbows," he said,
beginning to slide down an inch or two; "and go slow, whatever you do."

It was nervous work watching him, and still more nervous work when at
length I braced myself up to the effort and proceeded to embrace the
slender pipe.  How I ever managed to get to the bottom I can't say.  I
remember reflecting about half way down that this would be good daily
exercise for the Henniker, and the mere thought of her almost sent me
headlong to the bottom.

At last, however, I stood safe beside my chum on the gravel walk.

"Now!" said he.

"Now," I replied, "where shall we go?"

"London, I think," said he, solemnly as ever, "All right--how many
miles?"

"Eighty or ninety, I fancy--but where's your coat?"

"In the dormitory.  I was too much flurried to put it on."

"Never mind, we can use mine turn about.  But I wish we'd got boots
instead of slippers."

"So do I," replied I, who even as I stood felt the sharp gravel cutting
my feet; "ninety miles in slippers will be rather rough."

"Never mind," said Jack, "come on."

"Come on," said I.

At that moment, to our dismay and misery, we heard a window above us
stealthily opened, close to the water-pipe, and looking up beheld the
Henniker's head and yellow-and-black body suddenly thrust out.

"Batchelor and Smith--Mr Ladislaw," (here her voice rose to pretty
nearly a shriek)--"Mr Ladislaw! come at once, please--Batchelor and
Smith, running away.  Mr Ladislaw, quick!  Batchelor and Smith!"

We stood motionless, with no spirit left to fly, until the door was
opened, and Mr Ladislaw, Miss Henniker, and Mr Hashford, all three,
sallied out to capture us.

Among them we were dragged back, faint and exhausted, into Stonebridge
House, all thoughts of freedom, and London, effectually banished from
our heads, and still worse, with the bitter sense of disappointment
added to our other miseries.

Mr Hashford was set to watch us for the rest of the night in the empty
schoolroom.  And he had an easy task.  For even though he fell asleep
over it, we had no notion of returning to our old scheme.  Indeed, I was
shivering so, I had no notion of anything but the cold.  Jack made me
put on his coat, but it made very little difference.  The form I was on
actually shook with my shivering.  Mr Hashford, good soul that he was,
lent me his own waistcoat, and suggested that if we all three sat close
together--I in the middle--I might get warmer.  We tried it, and when at
six o'clock that same eventful morning the servant came to sweep the
room she found us all three huddled together--two of us asleep and one
in a fever.

I have only a dim recollection of what happened during the next week or
so.  I was during that time the most comfortable boy in all Stonebridge
House.  For the doctor came every day, ordered me all sorts of good
things, and insisted on a fire being kept in my room, and no lessons.
And if I wished to see any of my friends I might do so, and on no
account was I to be allowed to fret or be disturbed in mind.  I couldn't
help feeling half sorry for Miss Henniker being charged with all these
uncongenial tasks; but Stonebridge House depended a great deal on what
the doctor said of it, and so she had to obey his orders.

I took advantage of the permission to see my friends by requesting the
presence of Smith very frequently.  But as the Henniker generally
thought fit to sit in my room at the same time, I didn't get as much
good out of my chum as I might have done.  I heard he had had a very
smart flogging for his share of that eventful night's proceedings, and
that another was being saved up for me when I got well.

It was quite a melancholy day for me when the doctor pronounced me
convalescent, and said I might resume my ordinary duties.  It was
announced to me at my first appearance in school, that on account of my
delinquencies I was on the "strict silence" rule for the rest of the
term, that my bed was removed to the other dormitory, and that I was
absolutely forbidden to hold any further communication, either by word
or gesture, with my friend Smith.

Thus cheerfully ended my first term at Stonebridge House.



CHAPTER SIX.

HOW THINGS CAME TO A CRISIS AT STONEBRIDGE HOUSE.

A year passed, and found us at the end of it the same wretched,
spiritless boys as ever.  Stonebridge House had become no more
tolerable, the Henniker had grown no less terrible, and our fellow
"backward and troublesome boys" were just as unpleasant as they had
been.  No new boys had come to give us a variety, and no old boys had
left.  Except for the one fact that we were all of us a year older,
everything was precisely the same as it had been at the time of the
adventure related in my last chapter.  But that one year makes a good
deal of difference.  When Smith and I slid down the water-pipe a year
ago we were comparatively new friends, now we had grown to love one
another like brothers.  When the Henniker, on the same occasion, put an
end to our scheme of escape, we had endured her persecutions but three
months, now we had endured them for fifteen.  A great deal of secret
working may go on in a fellow's mind during a year, and in that way the
interval _had_ wrought a change, for we were a good deal more to one
another, Smith and I, and a good deal more desperate at our hard lot,
both of us, than we had been a year ago.

It had been a miserable time.  My holidays alone with my uncle had been
almost as cheerless as my schooldays at Stonebridge House with Miss
Henniker.  If it hadn't been for Smith I do believe I should have lost
every vestige of spirit.  But happily he gave me no chance of falling
into that condition.  He seemed always on the verge of some explosion.
Now it was against Hawkesbury, now against the Henniker, now against Mr
Ladislaw, and now against the whole world generally, myself included.  I
had a busy time of it holding him in.

He still showed aversion to Hawkesbury, although I differed from him on
this point, and insisted that Hawkesbury was not such a bad fellow.
Luckily, however, no outbreak happened.  How could it, when Hawkesbury
was always so amiable and forgiving and friendly?  It was a wonder to me
how Jack _would_ persist in disliking this fellow.  Sometimes I used to
be quite ashamed to see the scornful way in which he repulsed his
favours and offers of friendship.  On the whole I rather liked
Hawkesbury.

The summer term was again drawing to a close, and for fear, I suppose,
lest the fact should convey any idea of pleasure to our minds, the
Henniker was down on us more than ever.  The cane was in constant
requisition, and Mr Ladislaw was always being summoned up to administer
chastisement.

Even Hawkesbury, who generally managed to escape reproach, came in for
her persecution now and then.

One day, I remember, we were all in class, and she for some reason
quitted the room, leaving Mr Hashford in charge.

Now, no one minded Mr Hashford very much.  He was a good-natured
fellow, who did his best to please both us and his mistress; but he was
"Henpecked," we could see, like all the rest of us, and we looked upon
him more as a big schoolfellow than as a master, and minded him
accordingly.  We therefore accepted the Henniker's departure as a signal
for leaving off work and seizing the opportunity to loosen our tongues
and look about us.  Hawkesbury happened to be sitting next to me.  He
put down his pen, and, leaning back against the desk behind him, yawned
and said, "I say, Batchelor, I hope you and Smith haven't been
quarrelling?"

"Quarrelling!" exclaimed I, astounded at the bare notion.  "Why,
whatever puts that into your head?"

"Oh," said he, with his usual smile, "only fancy.  But I'm glad it isn't
the case."

"Of course it isn't," said I, warmly.

"I haven't seen you talking to him so often lately; that's why," said
Hawkesbury; "and it always seems a pity when good friends fall out."

I smiled and said, "How can I talk to him, except on the sly, in this
place?  Never fear, Jack Smith and I know one another too well to fall
out."

"Ah, he is a mysterious fellow, and he lets so few people into his
secrets."

"Yes," said I, colouring a little.  "He doesn't even let me into them."

Hawkesbury looked surprised.  "Of course you know where he came from
first of all, and all that?"

"No, I don't," I said.

"What, not know about-- But I'd better not talk about it.  It's not
honourable to talk about another boy's affairs."

"Hawkesbury," said Mr Hashford at this moment, "don't talk."

This was quite a remarkable utterance for the meek and mild Mr Hashford
to make in the Henniker's absence, and we all started and looked up in a
concerned way, as if he must be unwell.

But no, he seemed all right, and having said what he had to say, went on
with his work.

Hawkesbury took no notice of the interruption, and went on.  "And, on
the whole, I think it would be kinder not to say anything about it, as
he has kept it a secret himself.  You see--"

"Hawkesbury," again said Mr Hashford, "you must not talk."

Hawkesbury smiled in a pitiful sort of way at Mr Hashford, and again
turned towards me to resume the conversation.  "You see--" began he.

"Hawkesbury," again said Mr Hashford, "this is the third time I have
told you not to talk."

"Who was talking?" cried the Henniker, entering at that moment.

"Hawkesbury, I'm sorry to say, Miss Henniker."

"Hawkesbury--a bad mark for--"

"Oh!" said I, starting up, "I was talking--"

"A bad mark to you, Batchelor, for interrupting me, and another for
talking.  Hawkesbury, a bad mark for talking in class."

We were all astonished.  We had hitherto looked upon Hawkesbury as a
privileged person who might do as he liked, and upon Mr Hashford as a
person who had not a soul of his own.  Here was the phenomenon not only
of our schoolfellow getting publicly censured, but of Mr Hashford
backing up Miss Henniker, and Miss Henniker backing up Mr Hashford.

Flanagan afterwards confided to me his theory of this unwonted event.
"I expect," said he, "Hashford's just got his screw raised, and wants to
show off a bit before the Hen, and she wants to encourage him to be
rather more down on us, you know.  She's got the toothache, too, I know,
and that accounts for her not being particular who she drops on, though
I am surprised she pitched on Hawkesbury.  How pleased your chum Smith
will be!"

But my friend Smith, when I had a chance of speaking to him, seemed
indifferent about the whole affair, being taken up with troubles of his
own.  A letter had come for him that day, he told me, in tones of fierce
anger.  It had been opened and read as usual, before being handed to
him.  He did not complain of that; that was an indignity we had to
submit to every time we received a letter.  But what he did complain of,
and what had roused his temper, was that the last half-sheet of the
letter had been deliberately torn off and not given to him.

Directly after class he had marched boldly to the Henniker's parlour and
knocked at the door.

"Come in!" snapped she.

Smith did come in, and proceeded to business at once.

"You haven't given me all my letter, ma'am," he said.

Miss Henniker looked at him with some of the same astonishment with
which she had regarded me when I once told her she was to see my socks
were regularly darned.

Then she pulled herself up, in her usual chilly manner, and replied, "I
am aware of that, Smith."

"I want it, please, ma'am," said Smith.

Again the Henniker glared at this audacious youth, and again she
replied, "You will not have it, Smith!"

"Why not?"

"Leave the room instantly, sir, for daring to speak like that to me, and
write out one hundred lines of Caesar before you get your dinner!" cried
the Henniker, indignantly.  "You've no right to keep--"

"Smith, follow me!" interrupted Miss Henniker, in her most irresistible
voice, as she led the way to Mr Ladislaw's study.

Smith did follow her, and was flogged, of course.

I was as indignant as he was at this tale of injustice; it reminded me
of my box of sweets last year, which I had never seen back.

Smith's rage was beyond all bounds.  "I won't stand it!" said he;
"that's all about it, Fred!"

"What can we do?" asked I.

That was the question.  And there was no answering it.  So we slunk back
to our places, nursing our wrath in our bosoms, and vowing all sorts of
vengeance on the Henniker.

Nor were we the only boys in this condition of mind.  Whether it was the
Henniker was thoroughly upset by her toothache, or by Hawkesbury's bad
conduct and Smith's impertinence, I cannot say, but for the next day or
two she even excelled herself in the way she went on.

There was nothing we could do, or think, or devise, that she did not
pounce upon and punish us for.  Some were detained, some were set to
impositions, some were flogged, some were reduced to bread and water,
some had most if not all of their worldly goods confiscated.  Even
Hawkesbury shared the general fate, and for a whole week all Stonebridge
House groaned as it had never groaned before.

Then we could stand it no longer.  We all felt that; and we all found
out that everybody else felt it.  But as usual the question was, what to
do?

It was almost impossible to speak to one another, so closely were we
watched, and even when we did, we discovered that we were all at sixes
and sevens, and agreed only on one thing, which was that we _could not_
stand it.

At length one day, to our infinite jubilation, as we were dismally
walking from the schoolroom to the parlour, we saw the front door open.
A fly was standing at it, and as we passed, the Henniker in her Sunday
get-up was stepping into it!

What had we done to deserve such a mercy?  She was going to pay a state
call somewhere, and for one blessed hour at any rate we should be at
peace!

A council of war was immediately held.  For once in a way Stonebridge
House was unanimous.  We sunk all minor differences for a time in the
grand question, what should we do?

A great many wild suggestions were immediately made.

Rathbone undertook, with the aid of any two other fellows, to inflict
personal chastisement on the public enemy.

This was rejected peremptorily.  It would be no use, we should catch it
all the worse afterwards; besides, bad as she was, the Henniker was a
woman, and it would be cowardly to thrash her.

"Tie up her hands and feet and gag her," suggested Philpot.

Wouldn't do again.  She'd get Ladislaw to help her out.

"Tie up Ladislaw and Hashford too."

We weren't numerous or strong enough to do it.

"Let's all bolt," suggested Flanagan.

They'd send the police after us.  Or if they didn't, how were we to get
on, without money or shelter or anywhere to go?

"Suppose," said I, "we shut them out of the schoolroom and barricade the
door, and don't let them in till they accept our terms."

"That's more like it," said some one; "but then what about food?  We
can't store enough, even if we emptied the larder, to stand a long
siege."

"Well, then," said Smith, "suppose we screw them up, and don't let them
out till they give in."

"That's it," said every one, "the very thing."

"What do you say, Hawkesbury?" inquired I.

"Well," said he, smiling pleasantly, "it's not a nice thing to turn
against one's master and mistress; but really Miss Henniker has been
very vexing lately."

"Hurrah! then you agree?"  And the question was put all round, every one
assenting.  At least so I thought.  But Smith as usual was doubtful of
Hawkesbury.

"You agree, Hawkesbury?" said he.

"Really," said the other, with a smile, "it isn't nice to be suspected,
Smith.  Isn't it enough to say a thing once?"

"Oh yes, yes," cried out every one, impatiently, and most anxious to
keep the meeting harmonious.  "He said he did, Smith; what more do you
want?  Do let's pull all together."

"Just what I want," said Smith.

"Well," said Philpot, "I propose we lock them up in the big schoolroom."

"Wouldn't it be better," said Flanagan, "to lock the Henniker up in her
own room, and let Ladislaw and Hashford have the parlour?  It will be
more comfortable for them.  There's a sofa there and a carpet.  Besides,
the window's a worse one to get out of."

"How about feeding them?" some one asked.

"That'll be easy enough," said Smith.  "There's a ventilator over all
the doors, you know.  We can hand the things in there."

"I vote the old Hen gets precious little," interposed Rathbone.  "I
wouldn't give her any."

This idea was scouted, and it was resolved that all the prisoners should
have a sufficient, though, at the same time, a limited amount of
provisions.  That being arranged, the next question was, when should we
begin?  We had to take a good many things into account in fixing the
important date.  To-day was Friday.  The butcher, some one said, always
brought the meat for the week on Monday; but the baker never came till
the Wednesday.  So if we began operations on Monday we should have a
good supply of meat but very little bread to start with; and it was
possible, of course, the baker might smell a rat, and get up a rescue.
It would be better, on that account, to defer action till after the
baker's visit on Wednesday.  But then the washerwoman generally came on
the Thursday.  We all voted the washerwoman a nuisance.  We must either
take her a prisoner and keep her in the house, or run the risk of her
finding out that something was wrong and going back to the village and
telling of us.

"If we could only keep it up a week," said Smith, "I think we could
bring them to terms."

"Suppose we drop a line to the washerwoman the day before not to call,"
suggested I.

The motion met with universal applause, and I was deputed to carry it
out at the proper time.  The good lady's address I knew was on a slate
in Miss Henniker's pantry.

"And I tell you what," said Smith, starting up with the brilliancy of
the suggestion; "let's hide away all the bread we can find, except just
what will last over to-morrow.  Then most likely she'll tell the baker
to call on Monday, and we can begin then!"

It was a brilliant suggestion.  Two of the company departed forthwith to
the larder, and unobserved hid away a few loaves in one of the empty
trunks in the box-room.

Our plans were ripening wonderfully.  But the most difficult business
was yet to come.  What terms should we require of our prisoners as the
price of their release?  And on this point, after long discussion, we
found we could not agree.  Some were for the immediate dismissal of the
Henniker; others demanded that she should not be allowed to speak
without special permission; and others that she should remain in her
parlour all day long, and come out only for prayers and to give orders
to the tradesmen.

These proposals were too absurd to take seriously; and as presently the
company began to grow a little quarrelsome over the matter, it was
decided for peace' sake that the question should be deferred, and terms
arranged when the prisoners themselves offered to give in.

"If I may make a suggestion," said Hawkesbury, who had taken no part in
the previous discussion, "it is that you should appoint one fellow
captain, and agree to obey his orders.  You'll never manage it if you
don't."

"Not at all a bad idea," said one or two.  "You be the captain,
Hawkesbury."

"No, thank you," said he, smiling gratefully.  "I really am not used to
this sort of thing; but I think Smith, now, would be just the fellow."

I considered this beautiful of Hawkesbury, coming so soon after Smith's
rather uncomplimentary behaviour to him.

The proposition was generally approved.  Smith was not a favourite, but
he had made the only suggestions of any real use in the present case,
and appeared to have entered into the scheme so warmly that it was
evident no one would make a better captain.

He received his new dignity with great complacency.

"I'll do my best," said he, "if you fellows will back me up and stick to
the engagement."

Our time was now getting brief, so after a few more hurried suggestions
and discussions we separated and returned to our ordinary duties.

That evening the Henniker was no better than she had been during the
day.  Her brief sojourn in society that afternoon had not improved her a
bit, Flanagan, as usual, suggested a plausible reason.

"I expect," whispered he, "she went after a new pupil and didn't hook
him; that's why she's in such a precious tantrum."

"Flanagan!" cried the well-known voice--"Flanagan, come here!"

Flanagan obeyed, and stood meekly before the tyrant.

"This is the eighth time to-day, Flanagan, I have rebuked you for
talking.  You are detained for the rest of the term.  Hold out your
hand, Flanagan!"

It was not often the Henniker inflicted corporal punishment herself;
when she did it was pretty smart, as Flanagan found.  In the absence of
a cane she had used the ruler, and as Flanagan--who unsuspectingly
supposed she was merely seized with a desire to inspect his nails--held
out his hand knuckles upwards, the ruler descended on his knuckles with
such force that the luckless youth howled for astonishment, and
performed a dance _solo_ in the middle of the floor.

We were sorry for him, yet we inwardly smiled to think how soon the
tables would be turned.

That night, just before we went to bed, as I was in the shoe-room
looking for my slippers, I had the satisfaction of hearing the Henniker
say to the kitchen-maid, "Matilda, we're getting short of bread.  Let
the baker know to call on Monday next week."

Things could not have promised better for our desperate scheme!



CHAPTER SEVEN.

HOW THERE AROSE A NOTABLE REBELLION AT STONEBRIDGE HOUSE.

Of course we were wrong; of course we were foolish.

But then, reader, please remember we were only boys goaded up to the
last pitch, and quite unable, as I have narrated, to stand the Henniker
any longer.

It was no game we were embarked on.  If you had seen the seriousness of
our faces as we inspected the parlour and reconnoitred the Henniker's
future prison, that Saturday; if you had heard the seriousness of our
voices as we solemnly deliberated whether nails or screws would be best
to use in fastening up the doors--you would have found out that,
"backward and troublesome" boys as we were, we could be in earnest
sometimes.

"Screwing's quieter," said Rathbone.

"Nailing's quicker," said Philpot.

"Isn't that a thing the captain had better decide?" softly suggested
Hawkesbury, turning to Smith.

I always got fidgety when the senior boy and my chum got near each
other.  Smith had such a way of firing up instinctively at whatever the
other might say, even when it meant no harm.

He flared up now with his eyes, and then turning to the two boys, said,
shortly, "Screws of course; that's been settled long ago."

Hawkesbury smiled gratefully, and said he was sure a matter like that
would not be overlooked.

Well, the Henniker went on having her fling that Saturday and Sunday.
We caught it right and left, and took it all meekly.  Nay, some of us
took it so meekly that I was once or twice afraid our secret would be
suspected.

The regulation-reading in the parlour on Sunday evening was a shocking
time for me.  I had no intention of being bad, but somehow, what with
the excitement of our scheme, and the dreariness of the reader's voice,
and the closeness of the room, I fell asleep and nearly rolled off my
form.

The Henniker put down her book.

"Batchelor," said she, "you shall be punished.  Stand on the form and
read aloud."

And so saying, she handed me the book and pointed to the place.

This was the very refinement of torture, and I draw a veil over the sad
spectacle which followed.  Nor was I the only victim standing there
struggling and perspiring through the long sentences, turned back
whenever I made a mistake, to begin the page over again, till the end of
the chapter seemed to get farther and farther away; the other boys, too,
came in for part of the tragedy, for the Henniker, being now free of her
book, had no occupation for her eyes but to glare at them, and no
occupation for her tongue but to level bad marks and rebukes and
punishments at the head of every offender.

"Reading" lasted that evening until ten o'clock, and to this day I
cannot imagine how it ever came to an end even then.  I know I never got
to the end.  This sad experience gave a considerable additional zest to
our hopes of freedom on the following day.

Smith was not the sort of fellow to undertake what he did not mean to
carry through, and I was astonished to see how carefully his plans were
laid, and how precisely he had allotted to every one of us our
respective duties.

Monday dawned at length, and we rose from our beds like patriots on the
morning of a battle which is to decide their freedom or slavery.

I had two minutes' whisper with Smith as we went down to breakfast.

"Tell the fellows," said he, "that the signal to begin will be just when
morning school is over.  The Hen goes to get ready for dinner, and
Shankley and Philpot are to follow and screw her up.  The holes are
already bored, so it won't take long."

"Suppose she yells," suggested I.

"Not likely, but if she does--her room's far enough away.  Oh! by the
way, I've screwed her window already.  I thought we can one of us easily
smash a pane for her if she wants more ventilation."

"And how about Ladislaw and Hashford?"

"I'm going down, when the Henniker's safe, to ask them both to step up
into the parlour.  They'll probably think something's wrong, and hurry
up.  (I've screwed that window, too, by the way.)  Then you and Rathbone
are to screw their door when they are safe in--I've put the key outside,
too--and I've told the other fellows to be ready to bring a lot of desks
and things out of the schoolroom and pile them up, in case they kick too
hard."

"Upon my word, Jack, you're a regular general.  But I say, we've
forgotten the two servants."

"No, we haven't.  I've told them what's up, and they won't interfere;
but--shut up now."

During the morning we continued to pass round word what the arrangements
were, and waited feverishly for the close of morning school.  As we sat
in the class-room we had the satisfaction of seeing first the butcher's
pony and then the baker's cart drive up the front garden and drive back
again.  We were all right for the "sinews of war" for a day or two,
anyhow!

The Henniker kept it up till the last, and distributed her favours
lavishly and impartially all round.  But we heeded it not; we even
enjoyed it, for were not we to have our innings next?

It seemed as if morning school would never end.  At last a fluttering at
our hearts, more convincing even than the clock, told us the hour was
come.  We rose from our seats.  The rebellion at Stonebridge House had
begun.

The Henniker marched with stately tread from the room, and up the stairs
to her own apartment.  It seemed a long journey to us, who sat listening
in breathless silence, and at last the closing of her door seemed to
resound all over the house.

"Now then," said Smith to Shankley and Philpot, who, with their shoes
off and their tools in their hands, stood ready, like two trained
assassins, for the word of command.  "Now then, and keep quiet, whatever
you do!"

They went.  There was nothing stately about their march.  They darted up
the stairs two steps at a time, and the last we saw of them was as they
turned the corner into the passage, at the end of which was situate the
enemy's fortress.

It seemed a year before they returned!

At last Shankley, with beaming face, burst into our midst.

"It's all right!" said he, in an excited whisper.  "She sounded a little
like kicking, so Philpot's keeping guard.  We had one screw half in
before she even heard us."

"What did she say then?" asked three or four eager questioners.

"She wanted to know who was there, and if we wanted to speak to her we
must wait till she came down, and a bad mark to whoever it was for
coming and disturbing her."

There was a general laugh at this, which Smith hurriedly checked.

"The thing's only half done yet," he said.  "Time enough to laugh when
the other two are safe."

This was a wise rebuke, and we became serious in an instant.

"Now," said Smith, "have you got the screwdriver and screws all right,
Batchelor?  The rest of you be ready if I call;" and off he went to
summon the two masters to the parlour.

It was a critical moment, for every thing depended on our getting both
into the room together.

Smith, so he told us afterwards, found both Mr Ladislaw and Mr
Hashford talking together in the study of the former.  He entered the
room suddenly, and crying, in an agitated voice, "Oh, will you both
please step up to Miss Henniker's parlour at once?  Please be quick!" as
suddenly vanished.

Of course both the masters, making sure Miss Henniker must be in a fit,
or else that the house must be on fire, rushed upstairs, gallantly side
by side, to the rescue.  Rathbone and I, who were in hiding behind the
door next to that of the parlour, could hear them scuttling towards us
along the passage, and making straight for their trap.  They rushed
wildly into the room.  In a moment we were out after them, the door was
slammed to, the key was turned, and the first screw was well on its way
home before they even found out that the beloved Henniker was not there!

Then, after a moment's pause (during which screw number two had started
on its way), the handle of the door was shaken, and Mr Hashford's voice
cried out, "Who is there?  What are you doing there, you boys?"

His only answer was a mighty cheer from the assembled pupils of
Stonebridge House, which must have been quite as explicit as the longest
explanation.

"Now then," cried Smith, as once more the handle of the door was
violently agitated; "look sharp, you fellows, with the desks--"

"Smith," cried the voice of Mr Ladislaw, from within; "you shall answer
for this, Smith.  Undo the door at once, sir."

But it had been agreed no parley should be held with the besieged, and
Smith's only answer was to help to drag up the first desk and plant it
firmly against the door.  The blockade was soon made, but until it was,
the fellows kept steadily and seriously to work.

Then ensued a scene I shall never forget, and which told significantly
as the most thrilling story what had been our privations and
persecutions and unhappiness at Stonebridge House.

The fellows yelled and rushed through the school as if they were mad.
They shouted, and sung, and halloed, and laughed.  They flung books and
rulers and ink-pots to the four winds of heaven.  They put the cane in
the fire, and one of the Henniker's reading books, which was lying in
the study, they tore into a thousand pieces.  They burst into every
forbidden nook and cranny of the house.  They rushed down to the kitchen
and up to the attics.  They bawled down the speaking-tube, and danced on
the dining-room table.  Nothing was omitted which could testify to their
glee at the new emancipation, or their hatred of the old _regime_.  They
held a mock school outside the Henniker's door, and gave one another bad
marks and canings with infinite laughter, by way of cheering up their
prisoner.

Finally the calls of hunger put an end to this strange demonstration,
and with a mighty stampede we made for the kitchen.  To our surprise, it
was empty.

"Why, where's the cook and housemaid?" cried one and another to Smith.

"Oh," said Smith, who with the cares of generalship upon him had taken
only a small part in the jubilation which had just been celebrated, "the
servants have gone home.  They both live at Felwick, so I said they
might take a week's holiday."

The coolness of this announcement was received with much laughter, in
the midst of which, however, Hawkesbury was heard to say, "I hope Smith
is a good cook, for really I can't eat my food raw."

This was certainly a matter we had not reckoned on, and the idea of raw
meat did cast a temporary shadow on our happiness.  But Smith replied,
"Oh, of course we do the cooking by turns.  By the way, Hawkesbury, you
and Flanagan have to see to that to-day."

Hawkesbury's smile left him for an instant.

"Nonsense; I'm not going to do anything of the sort."

"Then you'd better be the captain," said Smith glumly, "if you aren't
going to obey orders."

Hawkesbury's smile returned.

"Oh, if it's the captain's orders, of course.  Come along, Flanagan."

"Come along," said the jovial Flanagan; "I think we'll make a hash of it
with a vengeance!"

Whereat this little breeze blew over.  As a matter of fact, we all
assisted at the cooking of this celebrated meal, and made a terrific
hash of it, which, nevertheless, we relished greatly, and declared we
had never tasted such a dinner since we came to Stonebridge House.  No
more we had!

But amid our own feasting it would never do to forget our prisoners.
Three parcels were made, containing each a liberal helping of bread and
meat, with little parcels of salt and butter thoughtfully added.

"Write on them `For two days,'" said Smith, "and bring them up."

"How about water?" asked some one.

"There's enough in each room for a day or two," said Smith, who seemed
to have taken note of everything.

"I don't see the fun of feeding them up this way," said Rathbone.
"You'll never get them to give in as long as you make them so jolly
comfortable."

"I'd like to see how you liked it for two days," said Smith.  "I don't
suppose you'd think yourself overfed or jolly comfortable either.  But
come on; have you got the string?"

Each parcel was attached to a long piece of string, and conveyed in
state by the entire school to its respective destination.  The Henniker
was first fed.  Amid shouts of "Cheer, boys, cheer," and "Rule
Britannia," we marched up to her door and halted, while Smith, with the
aid of a rake, lifted the parcel on to the small ventilator above the
door, and gave it a little shove over the other side.

"Now lower away," said he to the boy who held the string.

"Smith, I hear your voice," cried the Henniker.  "Smith, open my door,
_please_."

Except for the last extraordinary expression the Henniker's voice
sounded much as usual.  No answer, of course, was given, and we waited
until the parcel should be detached from the string.

For about five minutes it remained untouched, during which period the
holder tried to attract the attention of the prisoner by sundry
spasmodic jerkings of the string.  At length the fish did bite.  Without
a word the parcel was detached from the string.  We turned to go.

"Plate, knife, and fork in the cupboard," cried out Smith, as we did so.

"You don't mean to say," said Rathbone, as we went along, "that you've
put a knife and fork for her?"

"Yes, I have," said Smith, in a manner which did not encourage the
truculent Rathbone to pursue the subject.

The feeding of the two masters was a longer process.  For to reach their
door it was necessary to climb over a perfect jungle of desks and chairs
piled up against it; and when reached it was discovered that the glass
ventilator, which usually stood open, had been shut and fastened inside.
But Smith was not to be baulked by a trifle.  He coolly broke the glass
with his rake, till he had made a hole big enough to admit the parcels,
which, one after the other, were lifted over the opening, and lowered
within reach of their respective owners.  In the present case the string
to which they were attached was double, so, when it was found that
neither was taken, Smith gave the order to "run" the string, and let
them drop the parcels off on to the floor.  This was done, and we were
turning to go, when Mr Ladislaw's voice rose in angry tones.

"Listen to me, boys," he cried, authoritatively.

A general yell was the only answer to this, mingled with loud laughter,
as Mr Hashford's head suddenly appeared at the broken ventilator.  The
apparition was the signal for a general fusillade of paper balls, in the
midst of which the usher modestly retired from observation.

The evening was spent in the same rollicking manner as the afternoon.
We held mock school in Mr Ladislaw's study, and got Flanagan to dress
up in an old gown of the Henniker's, which was found in the boot-room,
and enact that favourite character's part, which he did to the life.  We
also made out our own "reports" for home, and played a most spirited
game of croquet in the hall, with potatoes for balls and brooms for
mallets, besides treating our prisoners to a ravishing concert by an
orchestra of one dinner-bell, two dish-covers, two combs and paper, and
one iron tray.

We kept it up till rather late, and, indeed, it was not till Smith
summoned us to a council of war that the problem of how and where to
spend the night occurred to us.

"Some of us ought to stay up as sentinels," said our captain.

"Well, I can't, for one," said Philpot, "for I was never so sleepy in my
life."

"I should think," said Hawkesbury, sweetly, "if the captain stayed up we
should be quite safe."

Why _should_ Smith glare so whenever Hawkesbury spoke?  I wondered.  I'm
sure there did not seem to be anything offensive in this.

"I'll stay up, Jack," said I, more with a desire to avert a row than
because I felt particularly "spry."

"So will I," said Shankley, "if you'll dig me in the ribs when I get
sleepy."

"I'll tell you what," said Smith, after having recovered himself.
"Suppose we bring all the beds down and camp out on the landing."

This was carried with acclamation, and every one forthwith proceeded to
his dormitory, and reappeared staggering under the weight of his
bedclothes.  One monstrous bed was made in which we all "camped out" in
turn, one fellow only remaining awake as sentinel for an hour at a time.

"We shall have to settle to-morrow," said Smith, when he had returned to
"camp," after having gone the round and seen that all lights were out,
and all doors and bolts fastened--"we shall have to settle to-morrow
what to say to them about coming out, you fellows."

"I thought that was left to the captain," said Hawkesbury.

"I vote we stick out against the Henniker having anything to do with
us," said Philpot, "in or out of school."

"Yes, and do away with afternoon school and preparation too," said
Rathbone; "they are both nuisances."

"And get a holiday to go out of bounds once a week," said Flanagan in
the act of dropping asleep.

These sweeping schemes of reform, however, agreeable as they sounded,
seemed none of them likely to receive the assent of our prisoners.

Smith's idea was a good deal more moderate.  "I don't see that we can
stick out for more than leave to talk when we are not in class, and do
away with `detentions.'"

"That really seems hardly worth all the trouble," said Hawkesbury, "does
it?"

"It's left to the captain," said Smith, shortly, "and that's my idea, if
you agree."

"We ought to bargain they don't take any more notice of this affair, or
write home about it," suggested Shankley.

"Who cares what they write home?" scornfully inquired Smith.

"Ah, it may not matter to _you_," said Hawkesbury, smiling very sweetly,
"but to all the rest of us it does."

Smith glared at the speaker, and looked as if he was about to fly at his
throat; but he controlled himself, and merely replied, "Very well, then,
they are to promise not to say anything about it at home, as well as
give in on the other things.  Is that settled?"

Everybody said "yes," and shortly afterwards most of the mutineers were
peacefully asleep.

"Fred," said Smith to me that night, as we kept watch together, "unless
that fellow Hawkesbury lets me alone I shall give the thing up."

"Don't do that," said I.  "Really, I don't think that Hawkesbury means
it.  I'll speak to him if you like."  It cost me a great effort to say
this.

Smith fired up unwontedly at the suggestion.

"If you do, you and I will never be friends again," he said,
passionately.  Then recovering himself, he added, repentantly, "Fred,
I'm awfully sorry I lost my temper.  I know I'm a brute; but please
don't think of speaking to any one about it."

"All right, old man," said I.

And so the night wore on, and when presently it came to be our turn to
lie down and sleep in the big bed, I, at any rate, did so a good deal
disturbed in my spirit, and not altogether sure whether in our present
escapade we Stonebridge House boys were not making rather fools of
ourselves.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

HOW THE REBELLION COLLAPSED, AND WE LEFT STONEBRIDGE HOUSE.

I was roused next morning early by the sound of voices, and found that a
fresh council of war was being held in the big bed on the question of
the ultimatum.  Smith was away at the time.

"I mean to say," said Rathbone, "Smith's far too mild to suit me."

I felt called upon to stick up for my chum.

"Why did you make him captain?"  I said.  I had long got past the stage
of being afraid either of Rathbone or Philpot at Stonebridge House.

"Well," retorted the malcontent, "why doesn't he go the whole hog?"

"Depends on what you call the whole hog," I replied.

"Why, instead of feeding them up like fighting-cocks I'd starve them--I
would.  And I'd have locked them all together in an empty garret, and
not in rooms with sofas and beds and all that nonsense.  And I wouldn't
let them out till they came out on their knees and promised to do
whatever they were ordered.  That's what I'd do, and I'll tell--"

"Now then, Rathbone," cried Smith, entering at that moment, "it's your
turn to look after the grub, remember.  Look alive, or we shall have no
breakfast."

It was a curious indication of the power that was in my friend Smith,
that Rathbone--though the words of mutiny were even then on his lips--
quietly got up and went off to his allotted duties without saying a
word.

"Look here," said Smith, presently, pulling two papers from his pocket,
"I've written out the terms we agreed to.  How will this do?

"`To Mr Ladislaw, Miss Henniker, and Mr Hashford,--We, the undersigned
boys of Stonebridge House, are willing to release you on the following
conditions:

"`1.  That leave be given to the boys to talk to one another when not in
class.

"`2.  That detention for bad marks given by Miss Henniker be abolished.

"`3.  That you say nothing to any one about all this.

"`As long as you stick to these conditions, and Miss Henniker doesn't
plague us, we agree to be steady and not mutiny any more.'  That's about
all we need say, isn't it?"

"I don't see," said Philpot, "the use of the last clause.  We don't want
to bind ourselves down."

"There's no harm, though, in saying we won't kick up a row if they treat
us properly."

"I don't know," said Philpot, doubtfully.  "I don't want to sign away my
right to kick up a row."

We laughed at this ingenuous admission, and Smith said, "Well, I think
we've a better chance of bringing them to book if we keep it in.  What
do you say, Flanagan?"

"Oh yes, keep it in.  You know I like rows as well as anybody, but
what's the use of them when there's nothing to make them about?"

"I think it had better stay in," said I.  "What do you say, Hawkesbury?"

Hawkesbury smiled in an amused way, as if it was a joke.

This appeared to incense Smith greatly, as usual.

"Why ever don't you say what you think instead of grinning?" he blurted
out.

"Why, you know, my dear fellow, we leave it all to you.  I agree to
anything!"

I verily believe if Smith had had a boot in his hand it would have found
its way in the direction of his enemy's smile.  Happily he hadn't; so he
turned his back on the speaker, and proceeded, "Very well, then we'd
better sign these at once.  I've got a pen and ink here.  Look sharp,
you fellows."

"Don't you think," said Hawkesbury, blandly, once more, "as it's all
been left to the captain, he had better sign the paper in the name of
the school?  You don't mind, Smith, I'm sure?"

Smith snatched up the pen hastily, and signed his name at the foot of
each document.

"I'm not afraid, if that's what you mean."

I could watch the working of his face as he hurriedly folded each paper
up into the form of a note, and knew the storm that was going on in his
own breast.  Certainly Hawkesbury, however good his intentions, was a
little aggravating.

"Perhaps you'll throw that in over the Henniker's door?" said Smith,
handing one of the notes to Hawkesbury.

Again Hawkesbury smiled as he replied, "Really, I'm such a bad shot; I'd
much rather you did it."

"Give it me," I cried, interposing before my friend could retort.  "I'll
throw it in."

Saying which I took the missive, and after one or two bad shots,
succeeded in getting it through the ventilator and hearing it drop in
the middle of the Henniker's floor.

"A letter for you," I cried by way of explanation.  "You've an hour to
give an answer."

"Batchelor," replied Miss Henniker from within, in what seemed rather a
subdued voice, "you are doing very wrong.  Let me out immediately,
Batchelor."

"Not till you promise what's written in the note," replied I, quitting
the place.

A similar ceremony was enacted by Smith in delivering the "ultimatum" to
the two masters, and we then adjourned for breakfast.

"What shall we do to-day?" asked Flanagan, who was quite fresh again
after yesterday's hard work.

"Oh, any mortal thing you like," said Shankley.  "I mean to go and have
a rare walk over the roof."

"I vote we make up a party and go down to the village," said another.

"No, no," said Smith, looking up, "we must stay indoors, or the thing
will soon get known.  You can do anything you like indoors."

There was a little growling at this, although we knew there was reason
in the prohibition.

"I don't see any harm in going out on the heath," said Rathbone; "you
did that yourself once."

"Yes, and some one saw me do it," replied Smith.  "I say, stay in
doors."

His tone was peremptory, and as usual it had its due effect.  The
fellows ate their breakfast quietly and said no more about it.

The meal was rather a protracted one, owing to Rathbone having forgotten
to put the bag in the coffee-pot before he inserted the coffee, and thus
spoiling the beverage altogether.  He was sent back to make it over
again--a circumstance which by no means had the effect of soothing his
spirits.

By the time breakfast was done the hour had nearly arrived when our
prisoners were to give their answers to our manifesto.

As we were preparing to march up stairs, with a view to ascertain their
decision, Hawkesbury met us, coming down with his hat on.

"Where are you going?" demanded Smith.

Hawkesbury looked very pleasant indeed as he replied, "Oh, please don't
mind me.  I'm going out for a walk.  I've got a headache, and really I
don't see much use playing about indoors."

Smith's face darkened.  "Didn't you hear me say there was no going out?"
he said.

Hawkesbury smiled and seemed much amused.  Smith's wrath was rising
apace.  "What I said I'll stick to!" cried he, standing across the step.
"You sha'n't go out!"

"Hawkesbury," I interposed, anxious to avert a row, "we've all promised
to obey the captain, you know."

"Really," replied Hawkesbury, "I didn't.  Please let me pass, Smith."

"Then you were speaking false," exclaimed the irate Smith, "when you
said you did promise?"

"Really, Smith, I didn't say I did promise--"

"Wretched liar!" replied Smith.

"That's not a nice name to call a fellow," mildly replied Hawkesbury.
"I hope I'm a gentleman, and don't deserve it."

"Bah," said Smith, in tones of utter disgust, standing aside and letting
his enemy pass.  "Go where you like, we want no sneaks here!"

Hawkesbury walked on, smiling pleasantly.

"Good-bye for the present," said he.  "Mind you obey your captain, you
fellows.  We all know _he's_ a gentleman, don't we?"

And he went out, leaving us all in a state of utter astonishment.

A babel of voices at once arose.  Some declared Hawkesbury was quite
right not to stand being ordered about; others said he ought to have
been stopped going out, and others said, "Who cared if he did go?"

In the midst of this my eyes turned to Jack Smith.  His face, which had
been flushed and excited, was now pale and solemn.  He either did not
hear or did not heed the discussion that was going on; and I must
confess I felt half-frightened as my eyes suddenly met his.  Not that he
looked dangerous.  He had a strange look--half of baffled rage and half
of shame--which was quite new to me, and I waited anxiously to discover
what he meant.

As his eye met mine, however, he seemed to recover himself and to make
up his mind.

"Batchelor," said he, "get the screwdriver."

"What are you going to do?" asked some one.  "Are you going to lock
Hawkesbury out?"

"No," said Smith, quietly; "but I'm going to let out the others."

"What!" cried the fellows at this astounding announcement: "without
waiting for their answer?  We shall all get expelled!"

"No, you won't!" said Smith, doggedly, and rather scornfully.

"You don't mean to say you're going to show the white feather?" said
Rathbone.

"I mean to say I'm going to let them out."

"Yes, and get all the credit of it, and leave us to get into the row,"
said Philpot.

Smith turned round short on the speaker and held out the screwdriver.
"Here," said he, "if you want the credit, go and do it yourself!"

Of course, Philpot declined the tempting offer, and, without another
word, Smith walked up to the passage and began pulling away the desks
from the parlour door.

Flanagan and one or two of us, sorely perplexed, helped him; the others
stood aloof and grumbled or sneered.

The two masters within heard the noise, but neither of them spoke.

At last all was clear, and Smith said, "Now then, you'd better go, you
fellows!"

We obeyed him, though reluctantly.  Our curiosity as well as our anxiety
prompted us to stay.  We retired to the end of the passage, where from a
distant door we nervously watched Smith turn the key and draw out first
one screw then the other from the door that divided him and us from our
masters.

At last we saw it open.  Smith walked into the room and shut the door
behind him.  What happened inside we never exactly knew.  After half an
hour, which seemed to us as long as a day, the three emerged, and walked
straight down the passage and up the stairs that led to Miss Henniker's
room.  Smith, with the screwdriver, walked in the middle, very solemn
and very pale.

Stealthily we crawled up after them, and hid where we could observe what
was to follow.

Mr Ladislaw knocked at the Henniker's door.

"Well?" said a voice within.

The word was mildly spoken, and very unlike the snap to which we had
been accustomed in former days.

"It is I," said Mr Ladislaw, "and Mr Hashford."

"I shall be glad if you will immediately have my door opened," was the
reply.

"Smith, unscrew the door at once," said Mr Ladislaw.

Smith solemnly proceeded to do as he was bid, and presently the screws
were both dislodged.

"Is it done?" said the Henniker when the sound ceased.

"Yes, Miss Henniker; the door is quite free."

"Then," said the Henniker--and there positively seemed to be a tremor in
the voice--"please go; I will be down presently."

So the little procession turned and once more walked down the stairs,
Smith, with his screwdriver, still walking solemnly in the middle.  We
who were in hiding were torn by conflicting desires.  Our first impulse
was to remain and enjoy the spectacle of the crestfallen Henniker
marching forth from her late prison.  But somehow, rough boys as we
were, and not much given to chivalric scruples, the sound of that
tremble in the Henniker's voice, and with it the recollection of the
part we had taken in her punishment, made us feel as if, after all, the
best thing we could do was not to remain, but to follow the others down
stairs.

As we were doing so the ten o'clock bell rang for morning classes, and
we naturally sought the schoolroom, where, with Mr Hashford in the
desk, school was assembled just as if nothing had happened.  Hawkesbury
was the only absentee.

I certainly admired Mr Hashford on this occasion.  He appeared to be
the only person in the room who was not thoroughly uncomfortable.
Indeed, as we went on with our work, and he, almost pleasantly, entered
into it with us, we felt ourselves getting comfortable too, and could
hardly believe that the usher now instructing us had, an hour ago, been
our prisoner, and that we so recently had been shouting words of mutiny
and defiance all over the school.  It was like a dream--and, after all,
not a very nice dream.

But we were recalled to ourselves when presently, along the passage
outside our door, there resounded a footstep which instinct told us
belonged to the Henniker.  Not much chance of feeling comfortable with
that sound in one's ears!

But to our surprise and comfort it passed on and descended the stairs.
It was like a reprieve to convicted felons.

Class went on, and the clock was getting on to twelve--the usual hour
for a break--when the door opened, and Mr Ladislaw put in his head and
said, "Smith, will you step down to my study?  Mr Hashford, the mid-day
bell will not ring till one to-day."

Smith solemnly followed the master from the room, and for another hour
we worked in class--one of us, at any rate--feeling very anxious and not
a little uneasy.

When the bell did ring, and we went down stairs, not knowing exactly
what was to become of us, my first thought was, what had become of
Smith?  He was not in the playground, where we wandered about listlessly
for a quarter of an hour before dinner, nor was he to be seen when
presently we assembled in the memorable parlour for our mid-day repast.

It was not a very grand meal, that dinner.  We partook of the cold
remains of a joint which one of ourselves had made a woeful attempt to
cook the day before, and which now tasted anything but delicious.  Miss
Henniker was in her usual place, and as we sat with our eyes rigidly
fixed on the plates before us, we were conscious of her glancing once or
twice towards one and another of us, and then turning away to speak to
Mr Ladislaw, who was also present.  Except for the whispered
conversation of these two not a word was uttered during the meal.  Even
Flanagan, when, in reaching the salt, he knocked over his water, did not
receive the expected bad mark, but was left silently to mop up the spill
as best he could.

It was a terrible meal, and my anxiety about my friend Smith made it all
the worse.

Dinner was over, and we were descending to afternoon class in Mr
Ladislaw's study, when the front door opened and Hawkesbury entered.

We could see he was taken aback and utterly astonished to see Mr
Ladislaw and Miss Henniker at liberty and us once more at our old tasks.
For a moment his face looked concerned and doubtful, then, suddenly
changing, it broke out into smiles as he ran up to Mr Ladislaw.

"Oh, Mr Ladislaw," cried he, "and Miss Henniker, I am so glad!  I
really couldn't bear to be in the school while they were treating you so
shamefully!"

"Where have you been, Hawkesbury?" said Mr Ladislaw.

"Oh!  I went out in hopes of being able to--"

"You have told no one of what has occurred?" said Mr Ladislaw, sternly.

"Oh, no!" said the smiling Hawkesbury; "I really went out because I
couldn't bear to be in the school and be unable to do anything for you
and Miss Henniker.  I _am_ so glad you have got out!"

None of us had the spirit to protest.  We could see that Hawkesbury's
statement, and his expressed joy at their liberation, had gone down both
with Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker--and at our expense, too; and yet we
dared not expostulate or do ourselves justice.

Afternoon school went on, and still no Smith appeared.  Was he locked up
in the coal-hole or in one of the attics up stairs?  I wondered; or had
he been given into custody, or what?  No solution came to the mystery
all that afternoon or evening.  We worked silently on, conscious that
the Henniker's eyes were upon us, but aware that she neither spoke nor
interfered with us.

Bedtime came at last, and, in strange trouble and anxiety, I went up.  I
almost made up my mind to ask Mr Hashford or Mr Ladislaw what had
become of Smith, but I could not screw my courage up to the pitch.

As I was undressing, Hawkesbury came near me and whispered, "Where is
Smith?"

I vouchsafed no reply.  I had been used to give Hawkesbury credit for
good intentions, but I had had my confidence shaken by that day's
events.

"Don't be cross with me, Batchelor," said he; "I really don't deserve
it."

"Why did you desert and leave us all in the lurch?" growled I.

"I did not mean to do it," said he, very meekly; "but really, when I
woke this morning I felt I was doing wrong, Batchelor, and could not
bear to stay in and stand by while Mr Ladislaw and Miss Henniker were
kept shut up.  That's really the reason, and I thought it would be
kinder of me to keep out of the way and not spoil your fun.  Smith quite
misunderstood me, he did really."

"Why didn't you say you wouldn't join before we began?"  I asked.

"Why, because you know, Batchelor, I was in a bad frame of mind then,
and was angry.  But I tried hard to forgive, and I blame myself very
much that I even seemed to agree.  You mustn't think too hardly of me,
Batchelor."

I said nothing, but went on undressing, more perplexed than ever to know
what to think.  Hawkesbury, after a warm "Good-night," left me, and I
was thankful, at any rate, for the prospect of a few hours' sleep and
forgetfulness.

I was just getting into bed, and had turned back the clothes to do so,
when I suddenly caught sight of a scrap of paper appearing from under my
pillow.

I first supposed it must be some remnant of last night's sports, but, on
taking it out, found that it was a note carefully rolled up and
addressed to me in Smith's well-known hand.

With eager haste I unfolded it and read, "I'm expelled.  Good-bye.
Write `J.,' Post-Office, Packworth."

Expelled! sent off at an hour's notice, without even a word of good-bye!
My first sensations were selfish, and as I curled myself up in bed,
with his note fast in my hand, I felt utterly wretched, to know that my
only friend, the only comfort I had at Stonebridge House, had been taken
away.  What should I do without him?

Expelled!  Where had he gone to, then?  Packworth, I knew, was a large
town about ten miles from Brownstroke, where my uncle now and then went
on business.  Did Jack live there, then?  And if he did, why had he
never told me?  At any rate, I could get over and see him in the
holidays.  "Write to me."  How was that possible here? unless, indeed--
unless I could smuggle the letter into the post.  Poor Jack expelled!
Why should he be expelled more than any of us, except Hawkesbury?  What
a fury he had been in with Hawkesbury that very morning!  Certainly
Hawkesbury was aggravating.  Strange that my friend Smith and
Hawkesbury--that my friend Jack--that Jack and Hawk--

And here, in a piteous muddle of mind and spirit, I fell asleep.

I remained another year at Stonebridge House after Jack Smith had been
expelled.  We did not get a single holiday during that period, so that
my scheme of walking over from Brownstroke, and finding him out at
Packworth, never came off.  And I only contrived to write to him once.
That was the first time, the Sunday after he had left, when the Henniker
saw me dropping my letter into the post.  After that I was closely
watched, and I need hardly say, if Jack ever wrote to me, I never got
his letter.  Still I cherished the memory of my friend, and even when
Stonebridge House was most desolate, found some consolation in feeling
pretty sure I had a friend somewhere, which is more than every one can
say.

I made steady progress with my arithmetic and other studies during the
year, thanks to Mr Hashford, who, good fellow that he was, took special
pains with me, so that at the end of the year I was pronounced competent
to take a situation as an office-boy or junior clerk, or any like post
to which my amiable uncle might destine me.

I was not sorry to leave Stonebridge House, as you may guess.  During
the last year, certainly, things were better than they had been.  No
reference was made on any occasion, either in public or in private, to
the great rebellion of that summer.  The Henniker never quite got over
the shake she had had when we rose in arms against her, and Mr Ladislaw
appeared proportionately subdued, so on the whole things were rather
more tolerable.  And for lack of my lost friend, I managed to improve
the acquaintance of the good-natured Flanagan, besides retaining the
favour of the smiling Hawkesbury.

So passed another year, at the end of which I found myself a wiser and a
sadder boy, with my back turned at length on Stonebridge House, and my
face towards the wide, wide world.



CHAPTER NINE.

HOW I REPLIED TO AN ADVERTISEMENT AND WAITED FOR THE ANSWER.

The day that witnessed my departure from Stonebridge House found me, I
am bound to confess, very little improved by my year or two's residence
under that dull roof.  I do not blame it all on the school, or even on
Miss Henniker, depressing as both were.

There is no reason why, even at a school for backward and troublesome
boys, a fellow shouldn't improve, if he gave his mind to it.  But that
is just where I failed.  I didn't give my mind to it.  In fact, I made
up my mind it was no use trying to improve, and therefore didn't try.
The consequence was, that after Jack Smith left, I cast in my lot with
the rest of the backward and troublesome boys, and lost all ambition to
be much better than the rest of them.

Flanagan, the fellow I liked best, was always good-humoured and lively,
but I'm not sure that he would have been called a boy of good
principles.  At any rate, he never professed to be particularly
ambitious in any such way, and in that respect was very different from
Hawkesbury, who, by the time he left Stonebridge House, six months
before me, to go to a big public school, had quite impressed me with the
worth of his character.

But this is a digression.  As I was saying, I left Stonebridge House a
good deal wilder, and more rackety, and more sophisticated, than I had
entered it two years before.  However, I left it also with considerably
more knowledge of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division;
and that in my uncle's eye appeared to be of far more moment than my
moral condition.

"Fred," he said to me the day after I had got home, and after I had
returned from a triumphant march through Brownstroke, to show myself off
to my old comrades generally, and Cad Prog in particular--"Fred," said
my uncle, "I am going to send you to London."

"To London!" cried I, not knowing exactly whether to be delighted, or
astonished, or alarmed, or all three--"to London."

"Yes.  You must get a situation, and do something to earn your living."

I ruminated over this announcement, and my uncle continued, "You are old
enough to provide for yourself, and I expect you to do so."

There was a pause, at the end of which, for lack of any better remark, I
said, "Yes."

"The sooner you start the better," continued my uncle.  "I have marked a
few advertisements in that pile of newspapers," added he, pointing to a
dozen or so of papers on his table.  "You had better take them and look
through them, and tell me if you see anything that would suit you."

Whereat my uncle resumed his writing, and I, with the papers in my arms,
walked off in rather a muddled state of mind to my bedroom.

Half way up stairs a sudden thought occurred to me, which caused me to
drop my burden and hurry back to my uncle's room.

"Uncle, do you know the Smiths of Packworth?"

My uncle looked up crossly.

"Haven't you learned more sense at school, sir, than that?  Don't you
know there are hundreds of Smiths at Packworth?"

This was a crusher.  I meekly departed, and picking up my papers where I
had dropped them, completed the journey to my room.

It had been a cherished idea of mine, the first day I got home to make
inquiries about my friend Smith.  It had never occurred to me before
that Smith was such a very common name; but it now dawned slowly on me
that to find a Smith in Packworth would be about as simple as to find a
needle in a bottle of hay.

Anyhow, I could write to him now without fear--that was a comfort.  So I
turned to my newspapers and began to read through a few of the
advertisements my uncle had considerately marked.

The result was not absolutely exhilarating.  My uncle evidently was not
ambitious on my account.

"Sharp lad wanted to look after a shop."  That was the first I caught
sight of.  And the next was equally promising.

"Page wanted by a professional gentleman.  Must be clean, well-behaved,
and make himself useful in house.  Attend to boots, coals, windows,
etcetera.  Good character indispensable."

I was almost grateful to feel that no one could give me a good character
by any stretch of imagination, so that at any rate I was safe from this
fastidious professional gentleman.  Then came another:

"News-boy wanted.  Must have good voice.  Apply Clerk, Great Central
Railway Station."

Even this did not tempt me.  It might be a noble sphere of life to
strive to make my voice heard above a dozen shrieking engines all day
long, but I didn't quite fancy the idea.

In fact, as I read on and on, I became more and more convinced that my
splendid talents would be simply wasted in London.  Nothing my uncle had
marked tempted me.  A "muffin boy's" work might be pleasant for a week,
till the noise of the bell had lost its novelty; a "boy to learn the art
of making button-holes in braces" might perhaps be a promising opening;
and a printer's boy might be all very well, but they none of them
accorded with my own ideas, still less with my opinion of my own value.

I was getting rather hopeless, and wondering what on earth I should say
to my uncle, when the brilliant idea occurred to me of looking at some
of the other advertisements which my uncle hadn't marked.  Some of these
were most tempting.

"A junior partner wanted in an old-established firm whose profits are
£10,000 a year.  Must bring £15,000 capital into the concern."

There!  If I only had £15,000, my fortune would be made at once!

"Wanted a companion for a nobleman's son about to travel abroad."

There again, why shouldn't I try for that?  What could a nobleman's son
require more in a companion than was to be found in me?

And so I travelled on, beginning at the top of the ladder and sliding
gently down, gradually losing not only the hope of finding a situation
to suit me, but also relinquishing my previous strong faith in my own
wonderful merits.  I was ready to give it up as a bad job, and go and
tell my uncle I must decline all his kind suggestions, when, in an
obscure corner of one paper, my eye caught the following:

"Junior clerkship.  An intelligent lad, respectable, and quick at
figures, wanted in a merchant's office.  Wages 8 shillings a week to
commence.  Apply by letter to Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, Hawk
Street, London."

I jumped up as if I had been shot, and rushed headlong with the paper to
my uncle's study.

"Look at this, uncle!  This will do, I say!  Read it, please."

My uncle read it gravely, and then pushed the paper from him.

"Absurd.  You would not do at all.  That is not one of those I marked,
is it?"

"No.  But they were all awful.  I say, uncle, let's try for this."

My uncle stared at me, and I looked anxiously at my uncle.

"Fred," said he sternly, "I'm sorry to see you making a fool of
yourself.  However, it's your affair, not mine."

"But, uncle, I'm pretty quick at figures," said I.

"And intelligent and respectable too, I suppose?" added my uncle,
looking at me over his glasses.  "Well, do as you choose."

"Will you be angry?"  I inquired.

"Tut, tut!" said my uncle, rising, "that will do.  You had better write
by the next post, if you are bent on doing it.  You can write at my
desk."

So saying he departed, leaving me very perplexed and a good deal out of
humour with my wonderful advertisement.

However, I sat down and answered it.  Six of my uncle's sheets of paper
were torn up before I got the first sentence to my satisfaction, and six
more before the letter was done.  I never wrote a letter that cost me
such an agony of labour.  How feverishly I read and re-read what I had
written!  What panics I got into about the spelling of "situation," and
the number of l's in "ability"!  How carefully I rubbed out the pencil-
lines I had ruled, and how many times I repented I had not put a "most"
before the "obediently"!  Many letters like that, thought I, would
shorten my life perceptibly.  At last it was done, and when my uncle
came in I showed it to him with fear and trembling, and watched his face
anxiously as he read it.

"Humph!" said he, looking at me, "and suppose you do get the place, you
won't stick to it."

"Oh yes, I will," said I; "I'll work hard and get on."

"You'd better," said my uncle, "for you'll have only yourself to depend
on."

I posted my letter, and the next few days seemed interminable.  Whenever
I spoke about the subject to my uncle he took care not to encourage me
over much.  And yet I fancied, gruff as he was, he was not wholly
displeased at my "cheek" in answering Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's
advertisement.

"Successful!" growled he.  "Why, there'll be scores of other boys after
the place.  You don't expect your letter's the best of the lot, do you?
Besides, they'd never have a boy up from the country when there are so
many in London ready for the place, who are used to the work.  Mark my
word, you'll hear no more about it."

And so it seemed likely to be.  Day after day went by and the post
brought no letter; I was beginning to think I should have to settle down
as a newspaper-boy or a page after all.

At the end of the week I was so disheartened that I could stay in the
house no longer, but sallied out, I cared not whither, for a day in the
fresh air.

As I was sauntering along the road, a cart overtook me, a covered
baker's cart with the name painted outside, "Walker, Baker, Packworth."

A brilliant idea seized me as I read the legend.  Making a sign to the
youth in charge to stop, I ran up and asked, "I say, what would you give
me a lift for to Packworth?"

"What for?  S'pose we say a fifty-pun' note," was the facetious reply.
"I could do with a fifty-pun' note pretty comfortable."

"Oh, but really, how much?  I want to go to Packworth awfully, but it's
such a long way to walk."

"What do you weigh, eh?"

"I don't know; about seven stone, I think."

"If you was eight stun I wouldn't take you, there!  But hop up!"

And next moment I found myself bowling merrily along in the baker's cart
all among the loaves and flour-bags to Packworth.

My jovial driver seemed glad of a companion, and we soon got on very
good terms, and conversed on a great variety of topics.

Presently, as we seemed to be nearing the town, I ventured to inquire,
"I say, do you know Jack Smith at Packworth?"

The Jehu laughed.

"Know him--old Jack Smith?  Should think I do."

"You do?" cried I, delighted, springing to my feet and knocking over a
whole pyramid of loaves.  "Oh, I _am_ glad.  It's him I want to see."

"Is it now?" said the fellow, "and what little game have you got on with
him?  Going a grave-diggin', eh?"

"Grave-digging, no!"  I cried.  "Jack Smith and I were at school
together--"

The driver interrupted me with a loud laugh.

"Oh, my eye, that's a good 'un; you at school with old Jack Smith!  Oh,
that'll do, that'll do!" and he roared with laughter.

"But I really was," repeated I, "at Stonebridge House."

"You was?  How long before you was born was it; oh my eye, eh?"

"It was only last year."

"Last year, and old Jack lost the last tooth out of his head last year
too."

"What! has he had his teeth out?" cried I, greatly concerned.

"Yes, and all his hair off since you was at school with him," cried my
companion, nearly rolling off the box with laughter.

"What do you mean?"  I cried, in utter bewilderment at this catalogue of
my friend's misfortunes.

"Oh, don't ask me.  Old Jack Smith!"

"He's not old," said I, "not very, only about sixteen."

This was too much for my driver, who clapped me on the back, and as soon
as he could recover his utterance cried, "My eyes, you _will_ find him
growed!"

"Has he?" said I, half envious, for I wasn't growing very quickly.

"Ain't he!  He's growed a lump since you was at school together," roared
my eccentric friend.

"What is he doing?"  I asked, anxious to hear something more definite of
poor Jack.

"Oh, the same old game, on'y he goes at it quieter nor he used.  Last
Sunday that there bell-ringing regular blowed him out, the old covey."

A light suddenly dawned upon me.

"Bell-ringing; old covey.  That's not the Jack Smith I mean!"

"What!" roared my companion, "you don't mean him?"

"No, who?" cried I, utterly bewildered.

"Why, old Jack Smith, the sexton, what was eighty-two last Christmas!
You wasn't at school with him!  Oh, I say; here, take the reins: I can't
drive straight no longer!" and he fairly collapsed into the bottom of
the cart.

This little diversion, amusing as it was, did not have the effect of
allaying my anxiety to hear something about my old schoolfellow.

My driver, however, although he knew plenty of Smiths in the town, knew
no one answering to Jack's description; and, now that Packworth was in
sight, I began to feel rather foolish to have come so far on such a
wild-goose chase.

Packworth is a large town with about 40,000 inhabitants; and when,
having bidden farewell to the good-natured baker, I found myself in its
crowded bustling streets, any chance of running against my old chum
seemed very remote indeed.

I went to the post-office where my two letters had been addressed, the
one I wrote a year ago, just after Jack's expulsion, and the other
written last week from Brownstroke.

"Have you any letters addressed to `J'?"  I asked.

The clerk fumbled over the contents of a pigeon-hole, from which he
presently drew out my last letter and gave it to me.

"Wait a bit," said he, as I was taking it up, and turning to leave the
office.  "Wait a bit."

He went back to the pigeon-hole, and after another sorting produced,
very dusty and dirty, my first letter.  "That's for `J' too," said he.

Then Jack had never been to Packworth, or got my letter, posted at such
risk.  He must have given me a false address.  Surely, if he lived here,
he would have called for the letter.  Why did he tell me to write to
Post-Office, Packworth, if he never meant to call for my letters?

A feeling of vexation crossed my mind, and mingled with the
disappointment I felt at now being sure my journey here was a hopeless
one.

I wandered about the town a bit, in the vague hope of something turning
up.  But nothing did.  Nothing ever does when a fellow wants it.  So I
turned tail, and faced the prospect of a solitary ten-mile walk back to
Brownstroke.

I felt decidedly down.  This expedition to Packworth had been a
favourite dream of mine for many months past, and somehow I had never
anticipated there would be much difficulty, could I once get there, in
discovering my friend Smith.  But now he seemed more out of reach than
ever.  There were my two neglected letters, never called for, and not a
word from him since the day I left Stonebridge House.  I might as well
give up the idea of ever seeing him again, and certainly spare myself
the trouble of further search after him.

I was walking on, letters in hand, engaged in this sombre train of
thought, when suddenly, on the road before me, I heard a clatter of
hoofs accompanied by a child's shriek.  At the same moment round a
corner appeared a small pony galloping straight towards where I was,
with a little girl clinging wildly round its neck, and uttering the
cries I had heard.

The animal had evidently taken fright and become quite beyond control,
for the reins hung loose, and the little stirrup was flying about in all
directions.

Fortunately, the part of the road where we were was walled on one side,
while the other bank was sloping.  I had not had much practice in
stopping runaway horses, but it occurred to me that if I stood right in
the pony's way, and shouted at him as he came up, he might, what with me
in front and the wall and slope on either side, possibly give himself a
moment for reflection, and so enable me to make a grab at his bridle.

And so it turned out.  I spread out my arms and yelled at him at the top
of my voice, with a vehemence which quite took him aback.  He pulled up
dead just as he reached me, so suddenly, indeed, that the poor child
slipped clean off his back, and then, before he could fling himself
round and continue his bolt in another direction, I had him firmly by
the snaffle.

The little girl, who may have been twelve or thirteen, was not hurt, I
think, by her fall.  But she was dreadfully frightened, and sat crying
so piteously that I began to get quite alarmed.  I tied the pony up to
the nearest tree, and did what I could to relieve the young lady's
tribulation, a task in which I was succeeding very fairly when a female,
the child's nurse, arrived on the scene in a panic.  Of course my little
patient broke out afresh for the benefit of her protectress, and an
affecting scene ensued, in the midst of which, finding I was not wanted,
and feeling a little foolish to be standing by when so much crying and
kissing was going on, I proceeded on my way, half wishing it had been my
luck to secure that lively little pony for my journey home.

However, ten miles come to an end at last, and in due time I turned up
at Brownstroke pretty tired, and generally feeling somewhat down in the
mouth by my day's adventures.

But those adventures, or rather events, were not yet over; for that same
evening brought a letter with the London postmark and the initials M.,
B., and Company on the seal of the envelope!

You may fancy how eagerly I opened it.  It ran as follows:

"Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company are in receipt of Frederick
Batchelor's application for junior clerkship, and in reply--"

"What?"  I gasped to myself, as I turned over the leaf.

"--would like to see Batchelor at their office on Saturday next at
10:15."

I could hardly believe my eyes.  I rushed to my uncle and showed him the
letter.

"Isn't it splendid?"  I cried.

"Not at all," replied he.  "Don't be too fast, you have not got the
place yet."

"Ah, I know," said I, "but I've a chance at least."

"You have a chance against a dozen others," said my uncle, "who most
likely have got each of them a letter just like this."

"Well, but, of course, I must go on Saturday?"

"You still mean to try?" said my uncle.

"Why yes," said I resolutely.  "I do."

"Then you had better go to town on Saturday."

"Won't you go with me?"  I inquired nervously.

"No," said my uncle; "Merrett, Barnacle, and Company want to see you,
not me."

"But--" began I.  But I didn't say what I was going to say.  Why should
I tell my uncle I was afraid to go to London alone?

"Where am I to live if I do _get_ the place?  London's such a big place
to be in."

"Oh, we'll see to that," said my uncle, "in due time.  Time enough for
that when you get your place."

This was true; and half elated, half alarmed by the prospect before me,
I took to my bed and went to sleep.

My dreams that night were a strange mixture of Merrett, Barnacle, and
Company, the little girl who fell from the pony, Jack Smith, and the
jovial baker; but among them all I slept very soundly, and woke like a
giant refreshed the next day.

If only I had been easy in my mind about Jack Smith, I should have been
positively cheerful.  But the thought of him, and the fact of his never
having called for my letters, sorely perplexed and troubled me.  Had he
forgotten all about me, then?  How I had pictured his delight in getting
that first letter of mine, when I wrote it surreptitiously in the
playground at Stonebridge House a year ago!  And I had meant it to be
such a jolly comforting letter, too; and after all here it was in my
pocket unopened.  I must just read it over again myself.  And I put my
hand in my pocket to get it.  To my surprise, however, only the last of
the two letters was there, and high or low I could not find the other.
It was very strange, for I distinctly remembered no having it in my hand
after leaving Packworth.  Then suddenly it occurred to me I must have
had it in my hand when I met the runaway pony, and in the confusion of
that adventure have dropped it.  So I had not even the satisfaction of
reading over my own touching effusion, which deprived me of a great
intellectual treat.

However, I had other things to think of, for to-morrow was Saturday, the
day on which I was to make my solitary excursion to London in quest of
the junior clerkship at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's.



CHAPTER TEN.

HOW I RAN AGAINST MY FRIEND SMITH IN AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER.

I suppose my uncle thought it good discipline to turn a young fellow
like me adrift for a whole day in London to shift for myself, and
wrestle single-handed with the crisis that was to decide my destiny.

He may have been right, but when, after an hour's excited journey in the
train, I found myself along with several hundred fellow-mortals standing
in a street which seemed to be literally alive with people, I, at any
rate, neither admired his wisdom nor blessed him for his good
intentions.

Every one but myself seemed to be in a desperate hurry.  Had I not been
sure it was the way of the place, I should have been tempted to suppose
some tremendous fire, or some extraordinary event was taking place at
the other end of the street, and that every one was rushing to get a
glimpse of it.  I stood a minute or two outside the station, hoping to
be left behind; but behold, no sooner had the tail of the race passed
me, when another, indeed two other train-loads of humanity swarmed down
upon me, and, hustling me as they swept by, fairly carried me along with
them.

One thing alarmed me prodigiously.  It was not the crowd, or the noise,
or the cabs, or the omnibuses, or the newspaper-boys, or the shops, or
the policemen, or the chimney-pot hats.  These all astonished me, as
well they might.  But what terrified me was the number of boys like
myself who formed part of the procession, and who, every one of them as
I imagined, were hurrying towards Hawk Street.

My uncle had told me that I should find Hawk Street turning out at the
end of the street in which the station stood, and this was precisely the
direction in which these terrible boys were all going.

How knowing they all looked, and how confident!  There was not one of
them, I was certain, but was more intelligent than I, and quicker at
figures.  How I hated them as they swaggered along, laughing and joking
with one another, looking familiarly on the scene around them, crossing
the road in the very teeth of the cab-horses, and not one of them caring
or thinking a bit about me.  What chance had I among all these?

There was not much conceit left in me, I assure you, as I followed
meekly in their wake towards Hawk Street that morning.

My uncle's directions had been so simple that I had never calculated on
having any difficulty in finding my destination.  But it's all very well
in a quiet country town to find one street that turns out of another,
but in London, between nine and ten in the morning, it's quite a
different matter.  At least so I found it.  Half a dozen streets turned
out of the one which I and the stream descended, and though I carefully
studied the name of each in turn, no Hawk Street was there.

"Can you tell me where Hawk Street is?"  I inquired at last of a fellow-
passenger after a great inward struggle.

"Hawk Street?  Yes.  Go through Popman's Alley, and up the second court
to the left--that'll bring you to Hawk Street."

"But uncle said it turned--" My guide had vanished!

I diligently sought for Popman's Alley, which I found to be a long paved
passage between two high blocks of buildings, and leading apparently
nowhere; at least I could discover no outlet, either at the end or
either side.  Every one was in such a hurry that I dared not "pop the
question" as to the whereabouts of Hawk Street again, but made my way
back once more to the entrance.  By this time I was so muddled that for
the life of me I could not tell which was the street I had come down,
still less how I could get back to it.

Ask my way I must, if I died for it!  Ten o'clock had struck ten minutes
ago, and I was due at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's at 10:15.

I noticed a boy ahead of me walking rather more slowly than the rest.  I
would ask him, and stick to him till he put me right.  So I made up to
him boldly.

"Will you show me the way to Hawk Street, please?"  I said, as I came
up.

He turned round suddenly as I spoke.  Was it possible?  Here, in London,
where one might as soon expect to meet a body one knows as meet the man
in the moon!

It was my friend Smith!

"Jack!"  I exclaimed.

"Fred!" exclaimed Smith, seizing my hand.

There was no doubt about it, and no doubt about all my foolish
suspicions as to his having forgotten me or ceased to care for me being
groundless.  His solemn face lit up almost to a look of jubilation as he
grasped my hand and said, "Why, Fred, old man, whatever are you doing
here?"

"What are _you_ doing?" cried I.  "Who ever would have thought of
running up against you in this place?  But I say," said I, suddenly
remembering the time.  "I have got to be in Hawk Street in two minutes,
Jack.  For goodness' sake, show us the way, if you know it."

Smith opened his black eyes very wide.

"You have to be somewhere in Hawk Street?" he asked.

"Yes.  Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's the name.  I'm after a place
they have got there."

Smith's face passed through a variety of expressions, ending in the old
solemn look as he quietly said, "So am I."

"You!"  I exclaimed.  "You after the same place?  Oh, Jack!"

"I'm awfully sorry," said he.  "I didn't know--"

"Oh, it's not that," I interrupted, "at all.  I wish they had two
places, though."

"So do I.  Perhaps they have.  But I say, you'd better look sharp."

"Aren't you coming too?"  I said.

"I haven't to be there till 10:30.  They'll see you first."

At that moment a clock chimed the quarter, and startled me nearly out of
my wits.

"That's the time," cried I.  "Where _ever_ is Hawk Street, Jack?"

"This is it we're in, and that's the place over the way.  Merrett's is
on the first-floor."

"Be sure you wait outside for me," said I, preparing to dart over.

"Yes," said he.  "But, Fred, promise me one thing."

"What?" said I, hurriedly.

"Not to show off badly because I'm after the place too."

Old Jack!  He gave me credit, I fear, for a good deal more nobleness
than I had a right to claim.

"All serene," said I, "if you'll promise the same."

"Yes," said he.  "Mind, honour bright, Fred."

And so we parted, he to pace up and down the street for a long quarter
of an hour, and I to present myself before the awful presence of Messrs.
Merrett, Barnacle, and Company.

If all the youths who had flocked with me from the station in the
direction of Hawk Street had been bound (as my fears had suggested), for
this place, they would have found themselves rather cramped for room by
the time they were all assembled; for the first-floor offices which I
entered were decidedly limited in their capacity.  I, who had been
expecting at least a place capable of holding several scores of clerks,
was somewhat taken aback to find myself in a counting-house which
accommodated only half a score, and even that at rather close quarters.
In fact, I was so much taken aback that, although I had seen the name
plainly inscribed on the door, I was constrained to inquire on entering,
"Is this Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's office, please?"

"Yes," said one of the clerks, shortly, "what about it?"

"Oh, if you please," I began, "I've come to--that is I've--"

"Come, out with it, can't you?" said the clerk.

"It's the situation," said I, feeling very uncomfortable.

"Well, what about it?" said the clerk, who, evidently cheered by the
smiles of his fellow-clerks, thought it a good joke to browbeat a poor
green country boy.

"Only I've come after it," faltered I.

"Have you, though?  And who told you to do that, I'd like to know?"

"My uncle--that is I had a letter--" but here a general laugh
interrupted my confession, and I felt very foolish indeed.

"So you've got an uncle, have you?  Do you ever lend him your gold
watch?"

This witticism was lost on me.  I didn't see the connection between my
uncle borrowing my gold watch (if I had had one), and the situation at
Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's.  But it would never do to make
myself disagreeable.

"I've not got a gold watch, or a silver one either," I said.

This seemed to occasion fresh merriment among my catechist and his
fellows.

"Why don't you say who told you to come?" demanded the clerk.

"I did say," mildly replied I.  "I got a letter."

"What's that to do with it?  I got a letter to-day, didn't I, Wallop, to
tell me my washerwoman had changed her address.  But that's no reason
for my coming here."

This was perfectly sound reasoning.  So I amended my explanation.

"I got a letter from Merrett, Barnacle, and Company.--"

"_Messrs_.  Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, if you please," put in the
clerk.

"I beg your pardon," said I, "from Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and
Company, telling me to be here at 10:15."

"Oh.  Why didn't you say that before?  What's the use of prevaricating
when it's just as easy to tell the truth straight out, eh?  What's the
time now?"

"Twenty past," said I, looking at the clock.

"And you call that punctual?  That's a nice beginning, anyhow.  What's
your name?"

"Batchelor," said I.

This again appeared to afford amusement to the company in general; and
one or two jokes at the expense of my name were forthcoming, which I
bore with as good a grace as I could.

At length it pleased the clerk who had cross-examined me to get off his
stool, and after poking the fire and consulting the directory, and
skirmishing pleasantly with a fellow-clerk for a minute or two, to go to
the door of the inner-room and knock there.

"Come in," I heard a voice answer, and the clerk entered.

He emerged again in a moment and beckoned to me.  Now was the time!  I
braced myself up to the ordeal, and not heeding the facetious dig in the
ribs which the clerk gave me in passing, I put on my best face, and
entered the awful presence.

Two gentlemen sat facing one another at the table, one of them old, the
other middle-aged.  These I instantly guessed to be Messrs. Merrett and
Barnacle.  Mr Barnacle, the junior partner, who had a sharp voice and a
stern face, undertook my examination, Mr Merrett only coming in
occasionally with some mild observation.

"You are Batchelor," said Mr Barnacle, when I had entered and carefully
closed the door behind me.  I noticed he held in his hand my original
letter of application.  "You are Frederick Batchelor.  How is it you are
late?"

"I'm sorry, sir," faltered I, at this rather discouraging beginning,
"but--"

And here I stuck.  What was the use of trying to explain what still
remained the fact?

Mr Barnacle eyed me keenly, and continued, "You are fourteen, you say,
have just left school, and are good at arithmetic.  What school were you
at?"

"Stonebridge House, sir."

"Where is that?"

"In Cliffshire."

"And you think you would suit us?"

"I'd try, sir," said I.

"Do you know what our work is?" said Mr Barnacle.

"No, sir, not exactly," I replied.

"Generally speaking," mildly put in Mr Merrett, "you've a sort of
idea."

"Yes," said I, not quite sure whether I was telling the truth or not.

Mr Barnacle touched his bell, and the clerk appeared.

"Bring me the invoice-book, Doubleday."

Mr Doubleday returned directly with a large account-book, which he
deposited on the table before the junior partner.

Mr Barnacle pushed it towards me.

"I want a list made out of all the goods sent to Mr Walker, of Bombay,
since the beginning of the year.  Let me see you make it out."  Then
touching his bell again, he said to Mr Doubleday, the clerk, "Here,
Doubleday, give this boy some invoice paper and a pen, and let him write
at your desk.  He is to make a copy of all Walker's invoices since the
beginning of this year."

"Yes, sir," said Doubleday.

"Be particular that he receives no assistance, and bring me the sheets
when completed.  Batchelor, take this book and follow Mr Doubleday to
the counting-house."

"Do it as well as you can, without any help," mildly put in Mr Merrett,
by way of encouragement.

I followed my conductor in a state of terrible trepidation, feeling that
all this wasn't a bit like what I had expected my interview with Messrs.
Merrett, Barnacle, and Company to be.

"Here, hop up, young fellow," said Mr Doubleday, pointing to a high
stool at one of the desks, "and pull up your boot."

I concluded this last expression meant make haste, and I accordingly
pulled up my boot, and lost no time in setting myself to my task.

I was to make out a list of all that Walker of Bombay had had since the
beginning of the year.  I opened the big account-book; it contained a
great many accounts, some long, some short.  I began at the beginning,
and searched through for any belonging to Walker of Bombay.

At length, after about twenty pages, I found an entry dated December
30th last year.  That would not do; I was only to make a list of what
had been sent this year; and yet, on looking again, I saw it noted that
these goods, though entered on the 30th of December, had not been
shipped till the 2nd of January.  Here was a poser to begin with.  I
looked up and caught the eye of Doubleday, who, evidently enjoying my
perplexity, was watching me.

"I say," I ventured to say, "does he mean--"

"Hold your tongue, sir," broke out the virtuous Doubleday.  "Didn't you
hear Mr Barnacle say you were to get no assistance?  What do you mean
by it?  I'm ashamed of you; so's Wallop."

"I shall mention the matter to the governor," observed Wallop, with a
grin at his ally.

"Oh, don't," I said.  "I beg your pardon!"  It was evidently hopeless to
expect any light from without on the problem, so I decided for myself I
would include the account in question.  I was just beginning to copy it
out, and to shut my ears to the chaff that was going on around me, when
the counting-house door opened, and the solemn face of my friend Smith
appeared, asking if Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company were at home.

His quick eye detected me at once, and I felt very uncomfortable, lest
he should misunderstand the state of affairs and jump to the conclusion
that I had been already engaged by the firm.  At all risks I determined
to put him right on this point.

"I'm not taken on, Jack," I said, before his question had been answered.
"They've given me--"

"I'll give you a box on the ears, young gentleman," broke out the amazed
Doubleday.  "You're forgetting yourself.  Go on with your work.  Now
then, young hop-o'-my-thumb," said he, addressing himself to Smith,
"what do you want?"

Smith solemnly produced a letter, which he exhibited to the senior
clerk.

"Oh, you're after the place too, are you, young bull's-eye?"

"Yes," said Smith, solemnly, and apparently not aware that the last
expression had been intended as a joke.

"Why don't you laugh, eh?" cried Wallop; "we all laugh here when Doubles
makes a joke; don't we, Crow?"

Mr Crow, thus appealed to, replied, "Oh, of course.  We don't get much
laughing, though."

Mr Doubleday waxed red in the face at this, and rounded on Smith.

"Don't go staring at me, do you hear?  Look in the fireplace, can't you?
and then you won't set alight to anything.  Do you know this kid here?"
added he, pointing at me over his shoulder.

"Yes," replied Smith.

"Do you know he's after the place?"

"Yes," said Smith.

"Then what do you want to come after it for?  One of you's enough, ain't
it?"

Smith stared solemnly at the speaker, whereat that virtuous individual
waxed once more very wroth.

"Look here, if you can't cast your eyes somewhere else, young fellow,
I'll cast them for you, so now.  Why don't you answer my question?"

"I was told to be here at half-past ten," replied Jack.

"Then what do you mean by coming at twenty-eight past, eh, you young
ruffian?  Stay outside the door till the right time."

Smith obeyed solemnly, and for exactly two minutes remained outside.  At
the end of that period he returned.

Mr Doubleday, evidently perplexed for the moment how to get a rise out
of him, announced him to the partners, and I saw him vanish into the
inner-room.

"I say, Wallop," said Doubleday, when he had disappeared, "I hope
they're not going to take on a couple of them."

My heart bounded as I listened.  The bare suggestion was delightful.

"I hope not," said Wallop.  "I don't see what they want _one_ for."

"Oh, I do," said Crow (who I supposed had hitherto been the junior),
"he'll be jolly useful, you know, running errands, and all that."

"All I can say is, unless he does it better than you, he'll be very
little use."

"There you go," said Crow, in a sulk.  "The more a fellow does for you
the more you growl.  You see if I get you any more cheap neckties.  I'm
always ashamed, as it is, to ask for ninepenny sailor's knots and one-
and-twopenny kid gloves at the shop."

"Tell the truth--they're one-and-three.  I suppose you get one-and-
twopenny and pocket the odd penny!"

This pleasant recrimination might have proceeded I know not how long,
greatly to the detriment of my task, had not some one at the other desk
changed the subject.

"Don't you fret, you there," said he, "the junior's not for you at all.
He's for the imports.  I told the governor we wanted a boy in our
department last week."

"You did!" exclaimed Doubleday.  "Why, I told him we couldn't possibly
do without more help here in the exports a fortnight ago."

I don't know if any one saw my face when this glorious announcement was
made.  I could have danced on my desk for joy!  Just suppose--suppose it
should turn out that Jack Smith should be taken on in the export
department and I in the import--or the other way round!  I could hardly
contain myself at the bare idea.  Wouldn't I be glad!  I would get
Wallop one-and-fourpenny gloves and only charge him one-and-three for
them, to signalise the joyous event.  I would let myself out as a slave
to the entire office, if only Jack Smith and I were both taken on!  How
was he getting on in the partners' room?  I wondered.  I hoped--

"I suppose you've done," said Doubleday, looking round at this point;
"if so you can hook it."

"I haven't quite," said I, dashing back to my work.

I finished at last, and before Jack had come out of the inner-room too.

I handed my papers to Doubleday, who looked at them critically.

"Well," he said, "that's a pretty show.  Have a look at this, Wallop, I
say.  Your youngest grandchild could make his sevens nearly as well as
that!"

As Mr Wallop was about eighteen years old, I ventured to regard this
language as figurative on the part of Mr Doubleday, and trusted the
sevens were not quite as bad as he made out.

"All right," said Doubleday, "you can cut home to your mother-in-law.
You'll probably hear no more about it.  There's millions of other
loafers after the berth."

"When will I know?"  I faltered.

"Let's see, this is the nineteenth century, ain't it?  Call again about
the year two thousand.  February the thirty-first's the most convenient
day for us, we're all at home then.  Ta-ta."

I departed rather disconsolately, and waited half an hour outside in the
street for Smith.

"Well," said I, when presently he appeared, "how did you get on?"

"Not very grand," said he.  "I had to do some accounts like you.  I
heard one of the partners say yours were pretty good when the clerk
brought them in."

"Really?" cried I, with pleasure I could hardly disguise.  "But, I say,
Jack, unless you get on too, it'll be an awful sell."

"We can't both get on," said Jack.

"I don't know," said I.  And I related what I had overheard in the
counting-house.

Smith brightened up at this.  A very little encouragement was enough to
set us building castles in the air.  And we did build castles in the air
that morning as we paced the crowded city streets.

By the time these architectural exercises were over it was time for me
to go back to the station and catch my train; but not before I had tried
to extract from Jack what he had been doing with himself since he was
expelled from Stonebridge House.

As before, he was very uncommunicative.  All I heard was that the reason
he didn't get my letters at Packworth was that he had told me, or
thought he had told me, to address my letters to "T," and I had always
addressed them to "J."  But even had I addressed them correctly, he
would only have received the first, as a fortnight after he left
Stonebridge he went to London, where he had hitherto been working as a
grocer's shop-boy.  You should have seen the look of disgust with which
he referred to this part of his life!  But now, having seen Merrett,
Barnacle, and Company's advertisement, he was applying for their
situation.

But in all his story he would tell me nothing about his home, or his
relatives, so that as to knowing who my friend Smith was, or where he
came from, I went back that afternoon to Brownstroke as much in the dark
as ever.  But I had found _him_!



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

HOW MY FRIEND SMITH AND I ENTERED ON NEW DUTIES IN NEW COMPANY.

The two days which followed my eventful expedition to London were among
the most anxious I ever spent.  Young and unsophisticated as I was, I
knew quite enough of my own affairs to feel that a crisis in my life had
been reached, and that a great deal, nay, everything, depended on how my
application for Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's situation turned out.
If I succeeded there, I should have made a start in life--modest enough,
truly, but a start all the same--and who was to say whether from the
bottom of the ladder I might not some day and somehow get to the top?
But if I missed, I knew full well my uncle would take my affairs into
his own hands, and probably put me to work which would be distasteful,
and in which I should be miserable.  So you see, reader, I had a good
deal staked on my little venture.

The miserable thing was that I might never hear at all from the firm,
but go on hoping against hope, day after day, in a suspense which would
be worse than knowing straight off that I had failed.  However, I kept
up appearances before my uncle, for I didn't want him to think it was no
use waiting a little before he took me in hand himself.  I spent several
hours a day working up my arithmetic, making out imaginary invoices
against every imaginable person, and generally preparing myself for
office work.  And the rest of my time I spent in cogitation and
speculation as to my future destiny, and the merits and demerits of
those enviable mortals, Doubleday, Wallop, and Crow, of the Export
Department of Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company.

On Tuesday morning two letters came for me with the London postmark, one
in Jack Smith's well-remembered handwriting, the other with the awful
initials, "M., B., and Company," on the seal.

I opened Smith's letter first.  It was very short.

"Dear Fred,--I hear to-day I have got the situation.  I'm afraid that
means you have missed it.  I'm awfully sorry, old boy, that's all I can
say.  I hope in any case you will come to London.  I'll write again.
Ever yours,--Jack."

I flung down the letter in a whirl of mingled feelings.  That Jack Smith
had got the situation I could not help being glad.  But that I had lost
it was simply crushing.  Although I had kept reminding myself all along
in words that the chances were very remote, I yet discovered how I had
at heart been reckoning on my success almost to a certainty.  And now I
was utterly floored.

All this was the first hurried impression caused on my mind by my friend
Smith's letter; and for a minute I quite forgot, in my mortification,
that I had in my hand another letter--a letter from Merrett, Barnacle,
and Company themselves.  Then suddenly remembering it, I called to mind
also the vague rumour of two clerks being wanted in the office, and with
new hope and wild anxiety I tore open the envelope.

Could I believe my eyes?

"Frederick Batchelor is informed that his application for junior
clerkship is successful.  He will be required to begin work on Monday
next at 9 a.m."

For the space of two minutes, reader, I knew not if I was standing on my
head or my feet.  I will pass over the excited day or two which
followed.  My uncle, of course, did what he could to check my glee.  He
said Merrett, Barnacle, and Company must be easily pleased, but they
would soon find out their mistake, and that I might as well make up my
mind to be dismissed after the first fortnight, and so on.  I didn't
take it much to heart; and after the first gush did not trouble my
relative much with my prospects.

I was, however, a little curious to know what proposal he would make
about my board and lodging in the great metropolis, which, after all,
was a matter of some little consequence to me.

He did not see fit to relieve my anxiety on this point until the very
eve of my departure from Brownstroke, when he said, abruptly, "You will
be gone before I'm down to-morrow, Frederick.  Don't forget the train
starts at two minutes before six.  I have arranged for you to lodge with
Mrs Nash, whose address is on this card.  There will be time to take
your trunk round there before you go to your work.  For the present I
shall pay for your lodging."

"Shall I get my meals there?"  I ventured to ask.

"Eh!  You must arrange about that sort of thing yourself; and take my
advice, and don't be extravagant."

As my salary was to be eight shillings a week, there wasn't much chance
of my eating my head off, in addition to providing myself decently with
the ordinary necessaries of life.

"I say I shall pay your lodging for the present, but before long I
expect you to support yourself entirely.  I cannot afford it,
Frederick."

It had never occurred to me before that I cost anything to keep, but the
fact was slowly beginning to dawn on me, and the prospect of having
shortly to support myself cast rather a damper over the pictures I had
drawn to myself of my pleasant life in London.

"Good-bye," said my uncle.  "Here is half-a-sovereign for you, which
remember is on no account to be spent.  Keep it by you, and don't part
with it.  Good-night."

And so my uncle and I parted.

It was with rather subdued feelings that next morning I set out betimes
for the station, lugging my small trunk along with me.  That trunk and
the half-sovereign I was not to spend comprised, along with the money
which was to pay my fare, and the clothes I wore, the sum of my worldly
goods.  The future lay all unknown before me.  My work at Hawk Street,
my residence at Mrs Nash's, my eight shillings a week, I had yet to
find out what they all meant; at present all was blank--all, that is,
except one spot, and that was the spot occupied by my friend Smith.  I
could reckon on him, I knew, whatever else failed me.

I caught my train without much difficulty, as I was at the station at
least half an hour before it was due, and had a third-class carriage to
myself all the way to London.  There were not many people travelling at
that early hour, and when I reached the great metropolis at seven
o'clock the station and streets looked almost as deserted as on the
former occasion they had been crowded.

Mrs Nash's residence, so the card said, was in Beadle Square, wherever
that might be.  I was, however, spared the anxiety of hunting the place
up, for my uncle had authorised me to spend a shilling in a cab for the
occasion; and thus conveyed, after twistings and turnings which
positively made my head ache, I arrived in state at my future lodging.

The "square" was, like many other City squares, a collection of
tumbledown dingy houses built round an open space which might once have
contained nothing but green grass and trees, but was now utterly
destitute of either.  There was indeed an enclosure within rusty and
broken iron palings, but it contained nothing but mud, a few old beer-
cans, and a lot of waste-paper, and one dead cat and one or two half-
starved living ones.  A miserable look-out, truly, as I stood on Mrs
Nash's doorstep with my trunk waiting to be let in.

A slatternly female, whom I supposed to be the servant, admitted me.

"Is Mrs Nash in?" said I.

"Yes, that's me," said the lady.  "I suppose you're young Batchelor."

She spoke gruffly and like a person who was not very fond of boys.

"Yes," said I.

"All right," said she; "come in and bring your trunk."

I obeyed.  The place looked very dark and grimy, far worse than ever
Stonebridge House had been.  I followed her, struggling with my trunk,
up the rickety staircase of a house which a hundred years ago might have
been a stylish town residence, but which now was one of the forlornest
ghosts of a house you ever saw.

I found myself at last in a big room containing several beds.

"Here's where you'll sleep," said the female.

"Are there other boys here, then?"  I asked, who had expected a solitary
lodging.

"Yes, lots of 'em; and a bad lot too."

"Are they Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's boys?"  I inquired.

"Who?" inquired Mrs Nash, rather bewildered.

I saw my mistake in time.  Of course this was a regular lodging-house
for office-boys generally.

"Leave your box there," said Mrs Nash, "and come along."

Leading to the floor below the dormitory, I was shown a room with a long
table down the middle, with a lot of dirty pictures stuck on the wall,
and one or two dirty books piled up in the corner.

"This is the parlour," said she.  "Are you going to board, young man?"

I looked at her inquiringly.

"Are you going to get your grub here or out of doors?" she said.

"Do the other boys get it here?"  I asked.

"Some do, some don't.  What I say is, Are you going to or not?"

"What does it cost?"  I said.

"T

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/21036