A Hero of Romance Page 2

  Chapter II

  TUTOR BAITING

  There were twenty-seven boys at Mecklemburg House; and even this smallnumber bade fair to decrease. Last term there had been thirty-three;the term before there had been forty. Within quite recent yearsconsiderably over a hundred boys had occupied the draughty dormitoriesof the great old red-brick house.

  But the glory was departing. It is odd how little our fathers and ourgrandfathers in general knew or cared about the science of education.Boys were pitchforked into schools which had absolutely nothing torecommend them except a flourishing prospectus; schools in whichnothing was taught, in which the physique of the lads was neglected,and in which their moral nature was treated as a thing which had noexistence. A large number of "schoolmasters" had no more idea of trueeducation than they had of flying. They were speculators pure andsimple, and they treated their boys as goods out of which they were toscrew as much money as they possibly could, and in the shortestpossible space of time.

  Mecklemburg House Collegiate School was a case in point. It had been aschool ever since the first of the Georges; and it is, perhaps, nottoo much to say, that out of the large number of boys who had beeneducated beneath its roof, not one of them had received a wholesomeeducation. Yet it had always been a paying property. More than one ofits principals had retired with a comfortable competency. Certainlythe number of its pupils had never stood at such a low ebb as at thetime of which we tell. Why the number should be so uncomfortably lowwas a mystery to its present principal, Beauclerk Fletcher. The placehad belonged to his father, and his father had always found it bringsomething more than daily bread. But even daily bread was beginning tofail with Beauclerk Fletcher. Twenty-seven pupils at such a place asMecklemburg House! and the majority of them upon "reduced terms"! Mr.Fletcher, never the most enterprising of men, was beginning to beoverwhelmed beneath an avalanche of debt, and to feel that the fightwas beyond his strength.

  A great, old, rambling red-brick house, about equi-distant fromCobham, Byfleet, Weybridge--all towns in Surrey--lying in about themiddle of the irregular square which those four towns form, the housecarried the story of its decaying glories upon its countenance. ThoseGeorgian houses were solid structures, and the mere fabric was inabout as good a condition as it had ever been! but in the exterior ofthe building the change was sadly for the worse. Many of the roomswere unoccupied, panes were broken in the windows, curtains werewanting, the windows looked as though they were seldom or nevercleaned. The whole place looked as though it were neglected, whichindeed it was. Slates were off the roof, waste water pipes hung looseand rattled in every passing breeze. As to the paved courtyard infront, grass and weeds and moss almost hid the original stones. Mr.Fletcher was only too conscious of the story all this told; but to putthings shipshape and neat, and to keep them so, required far moremoney than he had to spend; so he only groaned at each new evidence ofruin and decay.

  The internal arrangements, the domestic economy, the whole system ofeducation, everything in connection with Mecklemburg House was in thesame state of decrepitude and age--worn-out traditions rather thanliving things. And Mr. Fletcher was very far from being the man tobreathe life into the dead bones and bid them live. The struggle wasbeyond his strength.

  There is no creature in God's world sharper than the average boy, noone quicker to understand the strength of the hand which holds him.The youngest pupil at Mecklemburg House was perfectly aware that theschool was a "duffing" school, that Mr. Fletcher was a "duffing"principal, and that everything about the place was "duffing"altogether. Only let a boy have this opinion about his school, and, sofar as any benefit is concerned which he is likely to derive from hissojourn there, he might almost as profitably be transported to theCannibal Islands.

  On the half-holiday on which our story opens, the pupils ofMecklemburg House were disporting themselves in what was called theplayroom. Formerly, in its prosperous days, the room had been used asa second schoolroom, the one at present used for that purpose beingnot nearly large enough to contain the pupils. But those days weregone; at present, so far from being overcrowded, the room lookedempty, and could have with ease accommodated twice the whole number ofpupils which the school contained. So what was once the schoolroom wascalled the playroom instead.

  "Stupid nonsense! keeping a fellow in because it rains!" said CharlesGriffin, looking through the dirty window at the grimy world without.

  "It doesn't rain," declared Dick Ellis. "Call this rain! I say, Mr.Shane, can't we go down to the village? I want to get something forthis cough of mine; it's frightful." And with some difficulty Dickmanaged to produce a sepulchral cough from somewhere about the regionof his boots.

  "Mrs. Fletcher says you are not to go out while it rains," answeredMr. Shane in his mildest possible manner.

  "Mrs. Fletcher!" grunted Dick. At Mecklemburg House the grey mare wasthe better horse. If Mr. Fletcher was not an ideal head-master, Mrs.Fletcher was emphatically head-mistress.

  That half-holiday was a pleasant one for Mr. Shane. It was a rule thatthe boys were never to be left alone. If they were out a master was togo with them, if they were in a master was to supervise. So, as Mr.Till was engaged with the refractory Bertie, Mr. Shane was in chargeof the play-room.

  In charge, literally, and in terror, too. For it may be maintainedwithout the slightest exaggeration, that he was much more afraid ofthe boys than the boys of him. On what principle of selection Mr.Fletcher chose his assistant-masters it is difficult to say; butwhatever else Mr. Shane was, a disciplinarian he certainly was not. Hewas the mildest-mannered young man conceivable, awkward, shy, slight,thin, not bad-looking, with a faint, watery smile, which at times gavequite a ghastly appearance to his countenance, and a deprecatorymanner which seemed to say that you had only to let him alone to earnhis eternal gratitude. But the boys never did let him alone, never. Byday and night, awake and sleeping, they did their best to make hislife a continual misery.

  "If we can't go out," suggests Griffin, "I vote we have a lark withShane."

  Mr. Shane smiled, by no means jovially.

  "You mustn't make a noise," he murmured, in that soft, almosteffeminate voice of his. "Mrs. Fletcher particularly said you were notto make a noise."

  "Right you are. I say, Shane, you stand against the wall, and let'sshy things at you." This from Griffin.

  "You're not to throw things about," said Mr. Shane.

  "Then what are we to do, that's what I want to know? It seems to mewe're not to do anything. I never saw such a beastly hole! I say,Shane, let half of us get hold of one of your arms, and the other halfof the other, and have a pull at you--tug-of-war, you know. We won'tmake a noise."

  Mr. Shane did not seem to consider the proposal tempting. He wasseated in the window, and had a book on his knees which he wanted toread. Not a work of light literature, but a German grammar. It was thedream of his life to prepare himself for matriculation at the LondonUniversity. This undersized youth was a student born; he had companywhich never failed him, a company of dreams. He dreamed of a future inwhich he was a scholar of renown; and in every moment he could stealhe strove to bring himself a step nearer to the realization of hisdreams.

  "Get up, Shane!--what's that old book you've got?" Griffin made asnatch at the grammar. Mr. Shane jealously put it behind his back.Books were in his eyes things too precious to be roughly handled."Come and have a lark; what an old mope you are!" Griffin caught himby the arm and swung him round into the room; the boy was as tall, andprobably as strong as the usher.

  The boys were chiefly engaged in doing nothing; nobody ever did domuch in that establishment. If a boy had a hobby it was laughed out ofhim. Literature was at a discount: _Spring-Heeled Jack_ and _TheKnights of the Road_ were the sort of works chiefly in request. Therewas no school library, none of the boys seemed to have any books oftheir own. There was neither cricket nor football, no healthy games ofany sort. Even in the playground the principal occupation was loafin
g,with a little occasional bullying thrown in. Mr. Fletcher was tooimmersed in the troubles of pounds, shillings, and pence to have anytime to spare for the amusements of the boys. Mr. Till was notathletic. Mr. Shane still less so. On fine afternoons the boys werepacked off with the ushers for a walk, but no more spiritlessexpeditions could be imagined than the walks at Mecklemburg House. Theresult was that the youngsters' life was a wearisome monotony, andthey were in perpetual mischief for sheer want of anything else to do.And mischief so often took the shape of cruelty.

  Charlie Griffin swung Mr. Shane out into the middle of the room, andimmediately one boy after another came stealing up to him.

  "I say, Shane, let's play roley-poley with you," said Brown major.Some one in the rear threw a hard pellet of brown paper, which struckMr. Shane smartly on the head. He winced.

  "Who threw that?" asked Griffin. "I say, Shane, why don't you whackhim? If I were a man I wouldn't let little boys throw things at me;you are a man, aren't you, Shane?" He gave another jerk to the armwhich he still held.

  "You're not to pull my arm, Griffin; you hurt me. I wonder why youboys can't leave me alone."

  "Go along! not really! We're only having a game, Shane; we're not inschool, you know. What shall we do with him, you fellows? I vote wetie him in a chair, and stick needles and pins into him; he's sure tolike that--he's such a jolly old fellow, Shane is."

  "Why don't you let us go out?" asked Ellis.

  "You know Mrs. Fletcher said you were not to go."

  "Oh, bother Mrs. Fletcher! what's that got to do with it? We won'ttell her if you let us go."

  Mr. Shane sighed. Had it rested with him he would have been only tooglad to let them go. Two or three hours of his own company would havebeen like a glimpse of paradise. But there was Mrs. Fletcher; she wasa lady whose indignation was not to be lightly faced.

  "If you won't let us go," said Ellis, "we'll make it hot for you. Doyou think we're a lot of babies, to be melted by a drop of rain?"

  "You know it's no use asking me. Mrs. Fletcher said you were not to goout if it rained, and it is raining."

  "It's not raining," boldly declared Griffin. "Call this rain! why,it's not enough to wet a cat! I never saw such a molly-coddle set-out.I go out when I'm at home if it pours cats and dogs; nobody minds; whyshould they? Come on, Shane, let's go, there's a trump; we won'tsneak, and we'll be back in half a jiff.

  "I wish you would let me alone," said Mr. Shane. Somebody snatched hisbook out of his hand. He turned swiftly to recover it, but the captorwas out of reach. "Give me my book!" he cried. "How dare you take mybook!"

  "Here's a lark! catch hold, Griffin." Mr. Shane, hurrying to recoverhis treasure, saw it dexterously thrown above his reach into the handsof Charlie Griffin.

  "Give me my book, Griffin!" And he made a rush at Griffin.

  "Catch, boys!" Griffin threw the book to some one else before Mr.Shane could reach him. It was thrown from one to the other, from endto end of the room, probably not being improved by the way in which itwas handled.

  The usher stood in the midst of the laughing boys, a picture ofhelplessness. The grammar had cost him half a crown at a second-handbookstall. Half a crown represented to him a handsome sum. There weremany claims upon his sixteen pounds a year; he had to think once, andtwice, and thrice before he spent half a crown upon a book. His bookswere to him his children. In those dreams of future glory his bookswere his constant companions, his open sesame, his royal road to fame;with their aid he could do so much, without their aid so little. Sonow and then he ventured to spend half a crown upon a volume which hewanted.

  The grammar, being badly aimed, fell just in front of him. He made adash at it. Some one gave him a push and he fell sprawling on thefloor; but he seized the book with his left hand. Griffin, falling onit tooth and nail, caught hold of it before he could secure it fromdanger. There was a rush of half a dozen. Every one wanted a finger inthe pie. The grammar was clutched by half a dozen hands at once. Theback was rent off, leaves pulled out, the book was torn to shreds. Mr.Shane lay on the floor, with the ruins of his grammar in his hands.

  Just then Bertie Bailey entered the room, victorious from his contestwith Mr. Till. A shout of welcome greeted him.

  "Hullo, Bailey! have you done the lines?"

  Bertie, a deliberate youth as a rule, took his time to answer. Hesurveyed the scene, then he put his fingers to his nose, repeating thegesture with which he had retreated from Mr. Till.

  "Catch me at it!--think I'm a silly?" Then he put his hands into hispockets, and slouched into the centre of the room. The boys crowdedround him.

  "Did he let you off?" asked Griffin.

  "Of course he let me off; I made him: he knew better than to try tomake me do his lines."

  Then he told the story; the boys laughed. The way in which the usherswere compelled to stultify themselves was a standing joke atMecklemburg House. That Mr. Till should have been forced to eat hisown words, and to let insubordination go unpunished, was a humorousidea to them.

  Mr. Shane still remained upon the floor. He was engaged in gatheringtogether the remnants of his grammar. Perhaps a pot of paste, withpatient manipulation, might restore it yet. He would give himself agreat deal of labour to avoid the expenditure of another half-crown;perhaps he had not another half-crown to spend.

  "What's the row?" asked Bertie, seeing Mr. Shane engaged in gatheringup the fragmentary leaves. They told him.

  "I'm going out," said Bailey, "and I should like to see anybody stopme. I say, Mr. Shane, I want to go down to the village."

  Mr. Shane repeated his stock phrase.

  "Mrs. Fletcher said no one was to go out while it rained." He hadcollected all the remnants of his grammar, and was rising with them inhis hand.

  "Give me hold!" exclaimed Bertie; and he snatched what was left of thebook out of the usher's hands.

  "Bailey!" cried Mr. Shane.

  "Look here, I want to go down to the village. I suppose I may, mayn'tI?"

  "Mrs. Fletcher said no one was to go out if it rained," stammered Mr.Shane.

  "If you don't let me go, I'll burn this rubbish!" Bertie flourishedthe ruined grammar in the tutor's face. Mr. Shane made a dart torecover his property; but Bertie was too quick for him, and sprangaside beyond his reach. It is not improbable that if it had come to atussle Mr. Shane would have got the worst of it.

  "Who's got a match?" asked Bertie. Some one produced half a dozen."Will you let me go?"

  "Don't burn it," said Mr. Shane. "It cost me half a crown; I onlybought it last week."

  "Then let me go."

  "What'll Mrs. Fletcher say?"

  "How's she to know unless you tell her? I'll be back before tea. Idon't care if it cost you a hundred half-crowns, I'll burn it. Make upyour mind. Is it going to cost you half a crown to keep me in?"

  Bertie struck a match. Mr. Shane attempted to rush forward to put itout, but some of the boys held him back. His heart went out to hisbook as though it were a child.

  "If I let you go, you promise me to be back within half an hour? Idon't know what Mrs. Fletcher will say if she should hear of it;--anddon't get wet."

  "I'll promise you fast enough. Mrs. Fletcher won't hear of it; andwhat if she does? She can't eat you. You needn't be afraid of mygetting wet."

  "I shan't let anybody else go."

  "Oh yes, you will! You'll let Griffin and Ellis go; you don't thinkI'm going all that way alone?"

  "And me!" cried Edgar Wheeler. Pretty nearly all the other boys joinedhim in the cry.

  "I am not going to have all you fellows coming with me," announcedBertie. "Wheeler can come; but as for the rest of you, you can stay athome and go to bed--that's the best place for little chaps like you.Now then, Shane, look alive; is it going to cost you half a crown, orisn't it?"

  Mr. Shane sighed. If ever there was a case of a round peg in a squarehole, Mr. Shane's position at Mecklemburg House was a case in point.The youth, for he was but a youth, was a good youth; he had anearnest, honest, p
ractical belief in God; but surely God neverintended him for an assistant-master. Perhaps in the years to come hemight drift into the place which had been prepared for him in theworld, but it was difficult to believe that he was in it now. Astudious dreamer, who did nothing but dream and study, he would havebeen no more out of his element in a bear garden than in the extremelydifficult and eminently unsatisfactory position which he wassupposed--it was veritable supposition--to fill at Mecklemburg House.

  "How many of you want to go?"

  "There's me,"--Bertie was not the boy to take the bottom seat--"andGriffin, and Ellis, and Wheeler, that's all. Now what is the good ofkeeping messing about like this?"

  "You're sure you won't be more than half an hour?"

  "Oh, sure as sticks."

  "And what shall I say to Mrs. Fletcher if she finds out? You're sureto lay all the blame on me." Mr. Shane had a prophetic eye.

  "Say you thought it didn't rain."

  "I don't think it does rain much." Mr. Shane looked out of the window,and salved his conscience with the thought. "Well, if you're quitesure you won't get wet, and you won't be more than half anhour--you--can--go." The latter three words came out, as it were,edgeways and with difficulty from the speaker's mouth, as if even hefound the humiliation of his attitude difficult to swallow.

  "Come along, boys!--here's your old book!" Bertie flung the grammarinto the air, the leaves went flying in all directions, the four boyswent clattering out of the room with noise enough for twenty, and Mr.Shane was left to recover his dignity and collect the scattered volumeat his leisure.

  But Nemesis awaited him. No sooner had the conquering heroesdisappeared than an urchin, not more than eight or nine years of age,catching up one of the precious leaves, exclaimed,--

  "Let's tear the thing to pieces!" The speaker was little WillieSeymour, Bertie Bailey's cousin. It was his first term at school, buthe already bade fair to do credit to the system of education pursuedat Mecklemburg House.

  "Right you are, youngster," said Fred Philpotts, an elder boy. "It's aburning shame to let them go and keep us in. Let's tear it all topieces."

  And they did. There was a sudden raid upon the scattered leaves; atthe mercy of twenty pairs of mischievous hands, they were soon reducedto atoms so minute as to be altogether beyond the hope of any possiblerecovery. Nothing short of a miracle could make those tiny scraps ofprinted paper into a book again. And seeing it was so Mr. Shane leanedhis head against the window-pane and cried.