"Digby Heathcote" (continued 7)

“Won’t you wish to see master, sir?” asked Susan, who did not understand exactly who Mr Rubbins was.

“Oh, no; no, thank you,” answered that gentleman, with a slight sneer in the tone of his voice. “The young one knows well enough how to take care of himself, I guess.”

Susan, from these words, at once understood who Mr Rubbins was, and formed a tolerably correct opinion of the character of the young gentleman, which she did not fail to express to Mrs Pike.

Digby had to leave Julian, who was now taken before Mr Sanford; but he promised to wait for him at the end of the passage.

Mr Sanford was not altogether satisfied with his new pupil. Julian spoke in an off-hand way of his former career, and the education he had received; and then forthwith mentioned his friendship with Digby Heathcote.

“He will show me all about the school, sir, and put me up to its ways. All I want is to know them, and I dare say that I shall get on very well with the other fellows,” said Julian, with consummate assurance. “Digby and I, you see, sir, are like brothers almost—we have been so much together, and think so exactly alike.”

Now Mr Sanford, from what he had heard of Digby, had formed a favourable opinion of him; and therefore, taking Julian at his word, he was bound to form the same of him. He knew enough, however, of the world to be aware that the very worst way of judging of persons is to take them at their own estimate; and so Julian did not find himself quite so highly esteemed as he might have wished. Mr Sanford, however, rang the bell, and desired that Master Heathcote might be sent to him.

Digby very quickly made his appearance; and Mr Sanford was at once inclined to doubt Julian’s assertion that they were acquainted, till Digby explained that they had just before met.

“Very well, Heathcote, introduce him to the other boys; and I hope I shall hear a good account of him from the masters,” said Mr Sanford. “But remember, by the by, that you do not run the risk of breaking your own neck, and that of your companions, by slipping down from the top of church towers. I must take measures to prevent such a proceeding in future; and have begged Mrs Pike and Mr Yates to see to it. Now go, and be good boys.”

Away ran Digby and Julian. The boys were in the playground, so Digby at once took his old friend there to introduce him. He was resolved to give him the chance of a good start; so he took him up only to the best fellows, intending to warn him of the characters of the others. This ought to have been a very great advantage to Julian.

Farnham, Ranger, Newland, received him, for Digby’s sake, very kindly and cordially; and even Bouverie showed that he wished to be civil to him, and did not address him in the bantering way in which big fellows are apt to speak to those younger than themselves.

Julian, however, took it into his head that all this was owing to his own merits, and was not proportionably grateful to Digby. Although warned by Digby, from the first, of the characters of Spiller, Johnny Bray, Scarborough, and others, he at once showed that he had a hankering to become acquainted with them. Spiller, consequent, very soon got round him, and became the possessor of various articles in his box, as well as of some slices of his cake, and a pot or two of jam. Scarborough was not long in falling foul of him.

Digby was about to rush to his rescue, and calling on Ranger and Farnham to assist; when what was his surprise to hear Julian say—

“Please don’t hit me, Scarborough, and I will give you a pot of jam and some marmalade, and will send home for some more, if you want it.”

“Well, hand out the grub, young one, and I will let you off this time,” answered the bully. “Remember, though, I won’t stand any nonsense. You’ve promised to get me what I want, and I intend to keep you up to your word.”

Julian sneaked off to his play-box, to get the eatables; and Digby turned away with disgust.

“The idea of buying off a thrashing from a big bully,” he exclaimed, stamping with his feet in very vexation. “It is a thoroughly un-English, cowardly proceeding. Besides, it will only make the bully attack him more readily when he wants anything out of him. As he looks upon him as my friend, he wants to revenge himself on him, as he dares not attack me again while Bouverie remains.”

Boys at school very soon find their own level. Julian rapidly sunk to his. He would have had a better chance of retaining the friendship of Farnham, Ranger, and the good set, had he been sent to sleep in their room; but, unfortunately, there was no vacant bed there, and he, consequently, was put into a room with Spiller, and some of the worst fellows. All the advantage, therefore, which he gained in the day, from associating with Digby and his friends, was undone in the evening by the loose conversation of his bedroom companions.

“I wanted to have had a jolly feast, such as you had, Digby, the fellows tell me, and which, it seems, gained you so many first-rate friends,” said Julian, one day soon after his arrival, in a melancholy tone. “But do you know, what with that brute, Scarborough, and that sneaky chap, Spiller, and a host of others, I haven’t got a single thing left. I don’t think you benefited much by me, either.”

“Oh, never mind that; but I did not suppose my feasts gave me friends,” answered Digby. “Perhaps it might have been so; but then, when I think of it, Bouverie would accept nothing, and some of the best fellows took very little, and indeed, generally put in their own share of grub.”

“Ah, still they knew that you were a fellow who was always likely to have plenty of good things,” argued Julian. “I must see about getting some more things from the Priory; it won’t do to be looking down in the world.”

Poor, miserable Julian had evidently no notion of any other bond of union between people; it should not be called friendship, though he so called it, but interest, what one may get from the other. He was to be pitied certainly; but not for a moment exonerated. He had been miserably instructed at the first, there was no doubt about that; but then he had gone to Mr Nugent’s, where he had every opportunity of learning what was right. The truth, the right was set clearly before him, but he deliberately refused to accept it. The laws of God and man, his duties in life, were clearly explained to him; he had a good example set him; he was kept as much as possible out of temptation to do wrong; still, as has been seen, he contrived to do it. Now he came where he had evidently the choice between good companions and bad, and he deliberately chose the bad.

So it will be with all those whose eyes may fall on these pages. If they abandon the straight and narrow, and perhaps difficult, path of right, and enter into the broad, and seemingly easy, course of evil, they do so with their eyes open, in spite of warnings, in spite of the whisperings of conscience, in spite of thousands of examples of the destructive results of the life they are pursuing; and they will in the end be unable to offer the slightest excuse for themselves; they will have to acknowledge they brought down all their misery and wretchedness on their own heads, that their punishment was just.

The next Saturday came, and when lessons were over, Mr Yates ascended the head-master’s desk, and informed the school that leave to go out was stopped, in consequence of certain proceedings which had come to Mr Sanford’s knowledge; but more than that he did not consider it just then necessary to explain.

This announcement, though received in silence, created the greatest vexation, and anger, and indignation among all the boys. Some thought the prohibition arose from one cause, some from another. Digby and his friends, who had played the game of Follow-my-leader on the previous Saturday, thought that it was owing to something they had done on that occasion. Some farmer, less good-natured than Mr Growler, might have complained about them; perhaps it was owing to their exploit in the church tower; others thought that it was owing to something which had occurred in the village; others, owing to a fight which had taken place between one of their boys and a country lad; and perhaps Scarborough, and Spiller, and their set might have suspected that their half-holiday practices were known, and that all the school was being punished on that account. One thing was clear, on comparing notes, that a very considerable number of misdemeanours were committed every Saturday; and that, altogether, they were not punished without cause. Those, however, as is usually the case, who were the most guilty, were the most furious.

Scarborough declared loudly that he would pot stand it; that, in spite of all the masters, he for one would go out as usual; so said a number of other fellows of his stamp.

Digby, and Farnham, and Newland did not like it; they thought themselves very unjustly treated; and of course that made them indignant. They talked of doing all sorts of things: they would scale the walls; they would take their usual expedition, with leave or without leave.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” exclaimed Farnham, who was always rather vehement when he fancied himself unjustly treated, “I’ll write home, and beg to be taken away altogether, unless we have our proper liberty. After dinner, I’ll go straight up to Mr Sanford, and ask him why we are all kept in because some other fellows have done what is wrong; and then I’ll undertake to guarantee that if he will allow them to go out, they will all behave as he could wish in every way. If he still refuses, then I will frankly tell him that I will write home, and complain, and that others are determined to do the same.”

Farnham’s proposal was very much applauded by nearly all the moderate party, a few only advocating a quiet run through the country for an hour or so, just to show that they would maintain their rights.

The dinner-bell rang. They all went in; and no one ate a worse dinner in consequence of the perturbed state of their minds. They still, however, continued, in low voices, talking the matter over; and the masters and Mrs Pike saw that something was evidently wrong. The weather, however, summarily settled the matter for them. The sky had been for some time clouding over, and before they had left the dinner-table, the rain began to descend in torrents, so that it was impossible for any one of them to make any complaint of not being allowed to go out on that day. Harder and harder came down the rain, till it was evident that it was going to be a settled pouring afternoon. Although, in one respect, this was an advantage, as it enabled the better disposed to calm their spirits, and to think quietly over what they had proposed to do, yet it, at the same time, allowed the rest to brood over their fancied wrongs, and to concoct a variety of schemes of vengeance.

Julian Langley was one of the most indignant, and most ready to join any of the plans of the extreme party. He had come to a school where he understood there was plenty of liberty and gentlemanly treatment, and he found, he said, neither one nor the other. He had read of some fellows at a large school getting up a grand rebellion, barring out the masters, and standing a siege of several days, till their terms were complied with. The idea was caught up by others. It was grand in the extreme, if not novel. Scarborough and some of the bigger fellows were delighted with it. Julian undertook to win over Heathcote and his set.

“They must not be left out, certainly,” observed Scarborough. “They are plucky fellows, and would be powerful allies; but I suspect that you will have some difficulty in managing them.”

“Let me alone for that,” answered Julian, with a self-satisfied tone. “I know how to touch up my old friend, Digby Heathcote, in the right place. He is well primed already, and only wants the spark to set him off.”

There was certainly far less noise and disturbance that Saturday afternoon than there had been for a long time. On the Sunday, also, and the following days, the masters observed that the boys behaved even better than usual. An event which proved to be of considerable importance occurred on Monday. Bouverie, who had been counselling patience and submission, was suddenly summoned home to attend the sick bed of his father: he had time only to pack up and be off. He sent, however, for Farnham, and urged him not to do anything rashly, though he could not enlighten him as to the reason of the prohibition so much complained of. Strange to say, Digby was more pleased with Julian for two or three days than he had been since he came to the school—he was constantly with him, submitting to his opinion, and speaking so very sensibly on many matters.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Digby,” said Julian at last, “if all the fellows will sink their quarrels and disputes and unite heart and hand, we shall carry the day and gain our rights. For my own part, I do not care much about the matter; I am not going to be here long, so I argue for the sake of others more than for myself. Just, therefore, come and hear what Knowles and that clever fellow, Blake, has got to say. Depend on it they will show you that they are in the right.”

In a fatal moment Digby consented to join a conference of those who called themselves the leaders of the school, to decide what should be done in case they were still denied the liberty they demanded.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Rebellion Proposed—Plans for Carrying on the War—The Weakest Find that they have to Pay the Piper—Commencement of Hostilities—Barring out.

The Saturday arrived which the boys at Grangewood expected would prove so big with events. It was a fine warm day—a great contrast to the previous Saturday. There appeared not the slightest reason why they should be kept in. As the school hours drew to a close everybody was on the tiptoe of expectation. At last half-past twelve came, and Mr Yates ascended the head-master’s desk. “Boys,” he said, in his usual disagreeable tone, “you were informed last week that you were not to go out beyond the playground. The same prohibition at present exists.”

No sooner were the words uttered than a low groan was heard from one end of the schoolroom to the other. It rose higher and higher, till it burst into something which sounded very like a loud roar of anger.

“Mr Tugman, bring me up here some of the boys who are making that hideous noise,” shouted Mr Yates. “Monsieur Guillaume, can you catch some of them? Mr Moore, is no one making a noise near you?”

Whenever one of the masters approached, the boys were found crying, with their handkerchiefs to their eyes, and saying, “Oh dear! oh dear! we mustn’t go out; we mustn’t go out.”

This continued till the dinner-bell rang; for Mr Yates would not dismiss them, as was usual when school was over.

“You may go into dinner, boys,” he sang out at last, fancying that he had gained the day.

Dinner passed over very quietly, however, and everybody eat even more than usual. Slices of bread and meat were also stowed away in the pockets of those who were sitting at a distance from Mrs Pike or any of the masters. Their intention was to lay in all the provisions of which they could possibly possess themselves. Digby had had a hamper of cake and tongues, and cheese and preserves, for which he was indebted to representations made by John Pratt to Mrs Carter, backed up by a petition from Kate. So numberless were the contents, and so liberal was the supply, that it seemed almost inexhaustible—sufficient, Digby and some of his friends considered, to last the whole school for many days. They were not well practised in commissariat arrangements or they would not have thought so. Other fellows, as it happened, also had hampers, which usually arrived about the middle of the half, to prevent their spirits sinking till the return of the holidays. All these things were collected in the play-room, as were the slices of bread and meat carried off from the dining-room. When, however, Scarborough and some of the heads of the rebellion came to examine the amount of provisions collected, they pronounced them totally inadequate for the purpose of enabling them to hold out till their grievances were redressed.

“Where, too, is the liquor?—where is the water? Is there any tea and sugar?” they asked. “We should die of thirst.” They declared that it was absolutely necessary that a party should be told off to procure the necessary stores.

It then became a question as to who should go. Scarborough and Spiller had no fancy to run any risk for the good of others, nor indeed had Julian Langley, or Tommy Bray—indeed, a very sharp look-out was kept on all Master Tommy’s movements lest he should sneak off and betray them. Water, it was suggested, might easily be collected in the water-jugs and basins, which could be brought down from the rooms, and an order was accordingly issued that the water in all the rooms should be preserved with the greatest economy. Then fuel was to be found for the fire, and kettles to boil the water, and saucepans to boil potatoes and to make stews, for they had no wish to undergo more hardships than they could help. With regard to the important point of procuring provisions, it was proposed that lots should be drawn, and that ten fellows, on whom they fell, should go out at night to obtain the supplies. Tea and sugar was loudly demanded by some: ale and ginger-beer and soda-water by others.

Scarborough and two or three of his intimates, managed the drawing of the lots: they fell in a very extraordinary manner on Digby, Farnham, Ranger, Newland, and others of the most steady boys, at the same time the most spirited and likely to carry out what they might undertake.

“It is, indeed, fortunate we fellows are altogether, because we can thoroughly trust each other,” remarked Digby, unsuspicious of any trick.

If Farnham did think unfair play had been used, he did not deign to say so. He had consented to draw lots, and as some one would have had to go, he was ready to run the risk.

The next thing to be done was to collect the funds to purchase the stores. Scarborough, and some of the other big fellows, went round and insisted on all those they could coerce emptying their pockets and their purses and contributing the greater part of their wealth to the common store. If a fellow had five shillings, he was told he must give four; if he had half-a-crown, he had to give up two shillings. Digby, Ranger, and their party contributed nearly ten shillings each. When, however, inquiries were made as to what Scarborough and some of the other big fellows were going to give, it was found that he had only a few shillings in his purse; he said that he could only put in eighteen-pence. He wanted the rest to buy tobacco, he asserted; which was very likely. Spiller, turning his pockets inside out, with a melancholy countenance, said he positively had nothing; but that he was not ashamed, as he was certain the advantage his wits would afford his companions would make ample amends for his want of tin. He, however, was certain that his friend, Julian Langley, who had so lately come from home, and had, as yet, no opportunity of spending his money, would be flush of cash.

“A fine idea!” exclaimed Scarborough, very much in the voice with which a Knight Templar of old would have addressed an unfortunate Jew whom he had got into his power. “Come, Langley, my man, we look to you for supplying the sinews of war; what have you got?”

Julian hummed and hawed not a little, and hesitated; but had at last to confess that he had got four pounds.

“Then three pounds is the least sum you can hand out,” said Scarborough. “We might justly ask for ten shillings more, but we won’t for the present; we shall know to whom to apply if more is wanted.”

Julian had most reluctantly to draw forth the amount from his purse, and heartily he wished that no rebellion had been proposed. He had to learn the truth of a proverb, which runs to the effect, that in cases such as the present, “Whoever may dance, the weak and the silly ones have invariably to pay the piper.”

“But when are we to begin the rebellion? when are we to commence barring out?” asked Digby, rising from his seat. “I thought that we were to set to work at once.”

“We admire your zeal and courage, Heathcote,” answered Scarborough, who had invariably spoken very politely to him since the lesson he had received.

It need scarcely be said that the bully looked forward to taking his revenge before long, now that Bouverie had gone.

“Your zeal and courage is great,” he repeated; “but discretion is also of importance. We have now got a half-holiday, and to-morrow is Sunday, when we shall have to do no lessons; therefore it would be folly to shut ourselves up during that time. The provisions you are to procure cannot be got in before this evening. The difficulty will be to get them in; but we must manage it thus. You must all bring as much as you can; some must be packed in hampers, and directed to different fellows, as if it had come from home. Then the tradesmen must bring others in parcels; and I know a fellow who will, for a bribe, pretend to be a cake-man, and will bring in all sorts of things in his baskets.”

Digby’s feelings, as did those of his friends, revolted somewhat from these proposals; but they had entered into the undertaking, and they thought that they were in honour bound to go on with it.

“But how are we to get out without being seen?” he asked.

“I have thought about that, too,” answered Scarborough, with a condescending smile. “We are to get up a grand game of hoops—that makes as much noise and confusion as anything. Football would, be better, if it had been the right time of the year, and we had grass to play on; now it might create suspicion. We must get the side gate open, and as we all press about it, so as to stop up the view of it from the house, you fellows are to slip out. The rest is easy. Hudson, and Jones, and Ware will supply you with what we want; they will do anything for money. Here, we have made out lists of what we want, and the different ways in which the things are to be sent in. It must all be collected in this room by to-night; if things come to-morrow, suspicion may be created. You understand the plan, now, all of you? By the bye, all the play-boxes, which have locks and keys, must be emptied, to hold the things, and the keys must be delivered over to our committee, which, you will understand, is called ‘The Committee of Safety.’ It is for the good of the cause—we must sacrifice everything to that. No one exactly would like a dictator, nor do I; so I hope all will agree that we have acted for the best.”

Digby and Farnham were not quite satisfied when they found that this committee of safety consisted of Scarborough, Spiller, and three other fellows, called Ton, Smee, and Capron, their constant associates, and very nearly as great bullies and bad characters as Scarborough. However, it was too late to recede.

The foraging party were now provided with their lists, and with certain sums to pay for the things they were to get. Whether all the money collected was given to them they could not tell. Each of them, however, wisely made a note of what he received.

This was a piece of worldly wisdom my readers will do well to imitate through life—be exact in all money transactions. Put down at once all sums received and paid away, with the date of the transaction, and the name of the person to whom the sum was paid, or from whom received. It may give a little trouble at the time, but will save a great deal in the end.

The afternoon was drawing on; they all hurried out into the playground, having got hold of every hoop to be found. They divided into two parties, and were to charge each other from one end of the ground to the other. The foragers had hoops, also, but they were to throw down theirs, and to make their escape at the signal agreed on.

Digby’s heart beat eagerly. Go he would, but still he would very much rather not have gone. He did not fear punishment, but he had hitherto been looked upon as a well-behaved boy, and he did not wish to lose that character.

The two parties drew up on either end of the ground.

“Charge!” shouted Scarborough. Away they went, rattling along, till they met in the middle. Many hoops were overthrown; the rest of the boys, with loud shouts, rushed on to the end, wheeling their hoops round, to prepare for another charge. Those whose hoops had been knocked down assembled on one side, close to the side wicket. Spiller was there, and so were all the foraging party. Spiller had some tools in his hands. The next encounter of the hoops took place exactly in a line with that spot; and though several other boys went up to it, their numbers did not appear to have increased. All that afternoon the game of hoops went on, the boys knocking away with their sticks and shouting at the top of their voices; till poor Mr Sanford’s shattered nerves were almost completely unstrung.

At length, the voice of a man, who said he was a cake-man, was heard outside; and Spiller was dispatched, with a humble request to Mrs Pike for the key of the wicket, to allow him to enter.

In an incautious moment, influenced by the idea of saving her bread-and-butter, Mrs Pike gave up the key.

“I’ll soon be back with it, marm,” said Spiller, in his blandest tone.

The cake-man’s basket was soon emptied; but it appeared that he had another one outside, and the contents of that disappeared with equal rapidity. Pockets, and pocket-handkerchiefs, and hats, were quickly filled, and the things carried off to the play-room.

The foraging party had been out, and came in, one by one, in the rear of the cake-man, heavily laden. The expected hampers also arrived. They always put Mrs Pike in good humour. A very large one was for Scarborough, who never had had one before. They were eagerly pounced on by him and the boys, and carried off into the play-room.

The masters congratulated themselves altogether on the good behaviour of the boys.

Tommy Bray, however, managed to elude the vigilance of those watching him, and got off to Monsieur Guillaume’s room, to give him a hint of what was to occur; but the French master had gone to London for three days, and Tommy dared not tell anybody else, lest his name, as the informer, should afterwards transpire.

Night came, and all went to their rooms. Never, however, had Digby been more unhappy and less satisfied with himself since he came to the school. He prayed, but he felt that his prayers were hollow. He was not doing his duty to the best of his power. Probably several of his friends felt as he did, but they did not speak of their feelings to each other.

Sunday came; they went, as usual, to church. Poor Mr Sanford was too ill to go.

“And we are preparing a terrible annoyance for him to-morrow,” thought Digby.

They walked out afterwards, in close order, with Mr Yates at their head, and Mr Tugman, who brought up the rear, watching that no one wandered on either side. They went again to church in the afternoon; and all the rest of the time was occupied in talking over their plans for the following day. They were to get up an hour before anybody was likely to be astir in the house, and assemble, with their jugs and basins of water, in the play-room. All the schoolroom shutters were to be brought into the play-room, as well as all valuables from the desks. All the books were to be collected, either to serve as missiles, or to be burned; that was not quite settled. Meantime, a party were to pay a visit to the coal-cellar and wood-yard, and to bring in a supply of coals. There were other minor arrangements, into which it is not necessary to enter.

On Sunday night, the boys went quietly to bed. At half-past four, one or two awoke, and they roused up the rest. All were soon on foot.

“I say, Newland, don’t you feel as if you were going into a battle?” said Digby.

“Just as I can fancy soldiers feel,” answered Paul.

“One satisfaction is that the row must soon begin,” said Digby. “I hate having to wait for anything of the sort.”

They spoke in whispers. They were ordered to take their pillows with them to serve as shields, if necessary, and to carry their shoes in their pockets. They all very quickly slipped downstairs. Digby and Newland, with four others, found themselves again told off to go and fetch coals and wood, an expedition of some considerable hazard. However, they none of them flinched, though, as Digby said, he felt very much as if he was committing larceny. Each carried a pillowcase, into which it was intended to put the coals or the faggots. It was broad daylight. They had several passages to traverse, and what was worse, some of the servants’ rooms to pass near. On they went however.

“It must be done, though,” whispered Digby to Newland.

They were afraid of the noise they must make in turning the keys, withdrawing the bolts, and lifting the latches. The last door was reached; they succeeded in opening it, and into the coal-yard they hurried. It did not take them long to put as much coal into their pillow-cases as they could carry. Those directed to carry faggots had more bulky loads, but not so heavy. They forgot to close the door as they returned laden with their booty.

As they went along the passage they heard Susan calling to one of her fellow-servants, “Jane, Jane, don’t you hear footsteps?—is anybody ill?”

“I hope it isn’t robbers,” answered Jane. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“Oh, nonsense; I’ll just throw on my gown and go and see.”

Now though these were not very terrible words, and uttered only by poor weak women, whom boys are apt to despise sometimes, they put the band of heroes in a great fright.

On they hurried as fast as their legs could carry them, expecting every moment to see Mr Tugman, or, perhaps, Mr Yates himself, descending the staircase to bar their progress.

“There is some one, surely,” cried Newland. “I’ll not run, though. I’ll go and face him, whoever he is.”

“I will go with you,” exclaimed Digby.

It was, however, only Ranger, who had come out to reconnoitre, and to help them along, if they required aid. They told him that the alarm was already given; so they all ran on as fast as they could into the play-room. They took the precaution of locking the schoolroom door, and of piling up some forms and desks against it, so that they might have time to make further arrangements while that was being forced.

The play-room presented a very unusual appearance when Digby looked round it. It was full of boys. The windows were barred, and shutters were nailed up against them. On one side of the fireplace was a heap of coals—on another, a pile of faggots and potatoes. Near, stood several hampers full of provisions; jugs and basins of water stood on the shelves, while all the boxes were full of eatables. Indeed, it was evident that it would take a long time to starve the garrison into submission. The first thing to be done was effectually to bar the door. There were bolts and locks, and they might easily be broken open. Spiller, who was the engineer in this department, had provided several bars, and these he screwed on across the door, so that it would have been necessary almost to knock the wall down before it could be opened.

Digby had naturally a military eye; he was looking round for weak points.

“They may be getting down the chimney,” he observed.

“Oh, then, we will light a fire and smoke them out,” answered Scarborough.

A fire was accordingly lighted.

“I suppose we are all here; but let us call the names over, and see if there are any skulkers,” said Scarborough.

This was done. Tommy Bray was the only boy missing.

“He’ll have the pleasure of breakfasting with Mrs Pike, the young jackanapes, betraying all our secrets, and having no lessons to do. He does not think of the woeful thrashing he will get.”

They heard the getting-up bell ring as usual, and then they waited, and waited, expecting some one to come to the door. No one came, however. The prayer bell rang as usual, and then, to their surprise, the breakfast-bell. This was very astonishing. They had good reason to know that it was the breakfast-bell for they were all getting very hungry. There was a general shout for breakfast. They soon had boiling water, and tea was made, and they had plenty of sugar; but some of the heroes complained much that they had no milk.

“Would you have wished to have had a cow shut up here, and hay to feed her?” asked Newland, laughing.

They all made a very hearty and luxurious breakfast—their early rising, and the excitement they had gone through, gave them appetites. Besides, they had an unusual variety of all sorts of nice things. Digby’s basket was in great requisition; and Scarborough, and Spiller, and others, who seemed to think everything common property, nearly half emptied it.

“At such times as these we don’t stand on ceremony, my good fellow. A little more of that capital marmalade, if you please,” said Scarborough.

Poor Digby could not very well refuse; at the same time he did not see exactly why the bully should eat up his marmalade.

The breakfast set was composed of very heterogeneous materials; plates were decidedly scarce, and the tea was drunk out of tin cups, and mugs, and pannikins, while some of the little fellows had to content themselves with ink-glasses, which gave rather a strong flavour to their beverage. The weather itself was warm, and the fire, and the number of boys shut up in the room, increased the heat till the closeness became very unpleasant; but they were afraid of opening the windows to let in any air, lest some of the masters might find their way in also at the same spot. The only light they had was through a few round holes in the upper part of the shutters.

When breakfast was over they began to consider what they should do. It was much too hot to play any active games. Some of the younger fellows proposed high-cockolorum and leap-frog; but they made so much dust and noise that it was not very pleasant work even to themselves, and the bigger fellows ordered them to desist, and sent a shower of books at their heads to enforce the order. Hop-scotch met with a like fate. A few tried marbles, but there was scarcely light for the purpose, and ring-taw was quickly abandoned. Others endeavoured to read amusing books to pass the time, but the dim light which fell on the page scarcely enabled them to distinguish the letters; and, besides, they found all sorts of tricks played them by those who had no literary turn, and always objected to see one of their companions take up a book. Digby persevered with the “Swiss Family Robinson,” which he had not had time to look into since the evening of his arrival, and finished it in spite of the heat and the variety of interruptions he underwent. When Digby read a work of fiction he read heartily, with his whole mind in the book, and nothing made him so savage as to be interrupted, and called back into the commonplace work of every-day life. A considerable number of fellows put their heads on their pillows in corners, and on benches, and went to sleep.

Thus the morning passed away. How different was all this calm and quiet to the fierce onslaught they had expected. They had fancied that the masters would have been thundering at the door with battering-rams, or climbing up at the windows and endeavouring to force their way in. Some even fancied that they would have appeared with muskets and pistols, and fired in upon them, or, if not, hurled stones in on their heads. Then they had vividly pictured the way in which they would have sheltered themselves with their pillows, and hurled back their lexicons, and grammars, and graduses, and delectuses, and other books, at the heads of their assailants. All that would have been very fine, and exciting, and delightful. Who would have cared for the bruises and blows they would have received? Black eyes, and even broken limbs, would have been things to have gloried in in so noble a cause. But this quiet, this perfect ignoring their very existence, was very trying. Not even a message sent to them; not a request to know what they wanted, or to beg them to return to their duty, was perplexing in the extreme. Some proposed that somebody should go out and reconnoitre; but who was to go was the question.

“It is very easy to say go,” observed Paul Newland; “but who is to go, I should like to know. Will Scarborough, then? He ought to go, I am sure. We have too long been made catspaws of in this matter; and though I do not counsel giving in, I say that some of the big fellows should bear the risk and expense, which they have hitherto not done.”

Paul had by some means or other discovered how things had been managed, and was resolved to speak out plainly. Scarborough looked daggers at him, and would have knocked him down had he dared.

“I have one thing to say,” observed the bully; “I recommend you fellows not to quarrel among yourselves. For my own part, I wish to be at peace with all the world, and am now going to have a pipe. Who will join me?”

Several big fellows, as well as Spiller and Julian Langley, said they would, and soon the room was filled with tobacco smoke, which not a little increased its unpleasantness.

“Swipes, swipes!” sung out Scarborough in a short time, and from some secret recess bottles of ale and porter were produced, the contents rapidly disappearing down their throats. Then they sang, and insisted on all the other fellows coming round and singing in turn. Probably they would have made them drink also, but that they wished to preserve the liquor for themselves.

There were about a dozen fellows thus occupied; at of them, with the exception of Julian Langley and Spiller, great, big, hulking lads, and the two latter were forward in vice and knowledge of what is bad in the world. Dinner-hour came. As if to mock them, the dinner-bell rang as usual. Those who were not smoking and drinking began to get very hungry, and to cry out for food. They only, however, got abuse from Scarborough, who had now thrown off all disguise, and assumed the dictatorship.

“If anybody touches anything, I’ll knock him down,” he cried out, with a fierce voice. “Wait till your elders think it is time to dine. Do you fancy that we are to keep, in the free and independent republic we have established, the vulgar dinner-hour of school-time. We’ll dine by and by, and you shall have some rashers of bacon to toast, and some herrings to fry, for your amusement.”

How indignant did Digby feel at hearing these words. Was it for this he had made such sacrifices?—lost a good name; acted a part he knew to be wrong? He had to learn that such is invariably the fate of those who join a bad cause, or consent to unite themselves with unprincipled men, even in a cause which they fancy may be right. Still he did not wish to raise a rebellion in the camp, and he determined to bear his hunger till it pleased the dictator to allow him to appease it.

The bells went on ringing with the greatest regularity. The dinner-hour had long passed; now the bell rang to summon them into school. Tea-time came. Digby and many other fellows had been asleep. They jumped up; they were ravenous. They insisted on having food.

Scarborough and his companions were still smoking and boozing on. He growled out, “That they must wait his pleasure.”

“I for one will not,” cried Digby, grown desperate. “Who wishes to join me? Here is my hamper. I have a right to the contents of that, at all events.”

The bully became furious at finding his authority thus openly defied; and rising from his seat, made an attempt to punish the bold rebel; but the beer he had imbibed had considerably affected his brain, and before he could reach him, down he came on his nose.

Julian, and Spiller, and the rest of his companions, seemed to think it a very good joke, and laughed heartily. But Digby and others turned him round, unloosed his neckerchief, and threw water in his face, in the hopes of reviving him.

“Oh, let him alone,” cried out Spiller. “He’ll come to by and by, never fear.”

Digby, however, did fear very much that he would not, for he was almost black in the face, and looked very horrid.

“If he should die now, how dreadful it would be,” observed Newland, in a low voice, full of awe.

They chafed his hands, and continued bathing his temples, keeping his head up, till he gave signs of returning animation.

“Oh, I think he will recover now,” exclaimed Digby, joyfully. So they put a pillow under his head, and watched him at a distance, till the natural colour came back to his face. Had he been alone with his half-tipsy friends, he would, too probably, have died. Not till he was apparently out of danger did the fuelling of hunger return; and then they got out their hampers and boxes, and set to work with right good will. They had plenty of good things; and it never occurred to them that it would be necessary to go upon short allowance, if they were to hold out for any length of time.

In the evening, there was a great cry out for tea; and though the beer-drinkers at first opposed the motion, the majority carried it. The fire was lighted, and large quantities of liquid—some said it was only sugar and water—was swallowed; and bread, and ham, and tongue, and jam and other preserves, were consumed.

Night came at last. Most of the fellows were very sleepy; but it was agreed that it would be necessary to keep guard, or they might be taken by surprise. Digby found that he was one of those selected, if not for a post of danger and honour, of great discomfort, and that he and three others were to sit up half the night to keep watch, while the rest slept. He suggested that they should be divided into proper watches; but a big fellow, Gray, who called himself Scarborough’s lieutenant, replied that he would not allow their arrangements to be interfered with.

“If I ever again join a rebellion at school, I shall deserve to be whipped for my folly, even more than for my disobedience,” thought Digby.

At last, all the fellows lay down. Digby and his companions walked about, and whistled, and sung, and tried to keep themselves awake by every means in their power; but it was very hard work. They had a few candles, but could only venture to burn one at a time; so that the light looked very dim and melancholy in the dense air of the large room.

“What donkeys we all are,” thought Digby, as he looked at the forms of his schoolfellows scattered about over the floor, many of them snoring, others talking in their sleep, and others tumbling about, evidently not enjoying quiet slumbers. At last, he lay down, but it was some time, even then, in consequence of the excitement he had undergone, and the hot and close atmosphere, ere he could go to sleep. Never, also, during his previous life, had his slumbers been so disturbed and uncomfortable.

Chapter Sixteen.

A Siege without Besiegers—heroism of Garrison—General Pike and the Army of Observation—Garrison Yields at Discretion—A New Schoolmaster, and great improvements in the school.

The morning at last came. Digby sat up and rubbed his eyes. At first he thought that he was in the smugglers’ cave; then on board the lugger, hurrying to her destruction; then in the sea-worn cavern into which he had been at last cast. At last he remembered where he was. All he had gone through on the above-mentioned occasion was trying enough, but he had not himself to blame. His present rather ridiculous discomfort he had been at least instrumental in bringing on himself. He tried to go to sleep again, for he had no pleasant thoughts to keep him awake; so he dozed on till the the usual loud-sounding bell rang to call the boys up. That awoke him effectually, though some of the boys seemed to have a satisfaction in continuing to lie down in spite of the bell. Then the first school-bell rang, and the breakfast-bell, and the second school-bell—indeed, the day passed exactly as the previous one had done. No one came near them that they were aware of, nor were they able to hold the slightest communication with anybody without. Scarborough drank more beer than he had done the day before, and was more tyrannical than ever. He and his friends smoked and drank all day, and, they said, made themselves perfectly happy; but it was dreadfully dull work for all the rest. Oh, how they wished that matters could be brought to a satisfactory conclusion. They were not allowed to have dinner till late, as before. They managed to do pretty well at it, but at tea-time bread began to run short. They had laid in a smaller supply of that than of anything else. The night passed in thorough discomfort, but with no interruption from without. The next morning they were obliged to breakfast on biscuits and sweetcakes; they had potatoes, but they could not manage to cook enough of them properly; and at dinner they were very badly off for some plain article of food to eat with their pies and ham, and similar rich dishes. At tea they were still worse off; for though jam, and honey, and cheese, and tongue are all very good things with bread, they do not make a good mixture without some of the staff of life.

Still the more heroic declared that it would be a disgrace to yield for such a trifle; indeed, it was difficult to say to whom they should yield; for unless they had opened the door and sneaked out, there was no other course for them to pursue than to stay where they were. So they had another night to spend on the bare boards, without changing their clothes, or washing their hands and faces. They had to breakfast on ham, jam and honey, or bits of pie. Fortunate were those who found some scraps of plum-cake. Even Scarborough’s tobacco was running short, and the beer was nearly expended. This would have been fortunate in most respects; but the prospect of having to go without it made him more savage than ever.

“Never fear, old fellow,” said Julian, touching him on the shoulder; “I am up to a thing or two—look here!”

He showed him a couple of bottles of gin.

“There’s comfort for you.”

The wretched fellow’s eyes glistened. What was the comfort offered? To steep his senses in forgetfulness; to make himself like a brute. He did not think of that, though. The gin bottles were soon concealed, and Scarborough was again in better spirits. There was not much dispute about the time of dinner that day, as there was very little to eat. Those who could get them, had to chew the hard tops, and the roots of tongues, and the knuckles of hams, and the rind of cheese, and to finish off with honey and marmalade; but even those who generally liked sweet things the best had very little fancy for them now. The water, too, had become very mawkish and vapid, and there was scarcely any tea left; what remained was used up that evening. Still no one proposed giving in. The bigger fellows dared not; the little ones did not know what to do; and the more daring still lived on in hopes of an assault being made on their stronghold, when they might have some excuse for yielding with honour, but to be starved into submission was most derogatory to their dignity. That night was the most unpleasant of any. Many of the fellows were very sick; bad air, no exercise, and a mixture of salt ham and sweet jam tended to disturb the economy of their insides. Several of the little fellows began to cry bitterly, and got books sent at their heads in consequence by Scarborough, whenever he woke up and heard them. The next morning the last drop of water in the jugs and basins was expended, the potatoes were all baked or boiled, and every scrap of ham, or tongue, or cheeseparing was consumed. Hunger not only stared them in the face, but was actually attacking their stomachs. Few before knew what very uncomfortable sensations it caused—how it could pinch; how sick and how low-spirited it could make them feel. Even Digby, Ranger, and Newland began to think that means must be taken to put an end to that state of things. Had they known who was the general commanding the forces opposed to them, they would not have held out so long. Not poor Mr Sanford; he was very ill, and knew nothing about the matter. Not Mr Yates; he had left the school, so had Monsieur Guillaume. The general was no other than Mrs Pike, and her whole army was represented by Susan, who was furnished with the garden steps, by means of which she was enabled to inspect at her convenience the proceedings of the heroic garrison. General Pike’s spy and informant of the resources of the enemy was little Tommy Bray, who, as his reward, had as many muffins and cakes for breakfast and tea as he could eat, and a large supply of pudding for dinner. Through him General Pike knew the exact amount of the money collected and the provisions purchased with it; and with this data to go on, she sat down and calculated the exact time these provisions were likely to last. She thus knew perfectly well that by Thursday morning the garrison must yield at discretion, and she had arranged her plans accordingly. Susan, on returning from her daily reconnaissance, assured her that the garrison were not suffering from fever, or from any dangerous ailment, but only that they generally looked very stupid and dull, and that she was very certain that by the afternoon they would be too happy to yield to any terms she might choose to dictate.

“They have no fire, marm; and they don’t seem to have a morsel of anything to eat for breakfast,” said Susan.

Mrs Pike was not very hard-hearted, but she knew that a little starvation would do none of them much harm.

“We will wait till about an hour before dinner-time, and then we will go and see what they have got to say for themselves,” she observed, rubbing her nose, which was a habit of hers when she was meditating on any subject. “By that hour Dr Graham will be here, and it is as well that he should receive the young gentlemen’s submission.”

Long and serious consultations were now held within the garrison. With the exception of Scarborough and his immediate companions, or his council, as he called them, all were unanimous that if terms were offered they must yield to them. Paul Newland, especially, was very strenuous on this point. “We have been great donkeys, of that there cannot be the slightest doubt; but we shall be still greater if we keep ourselves shut up here a moment longer than we can help,” he observed. “We have spent our money, we have made ourselves thoroughly uncomfortable, we have lost many a jolly good game of play, and we have obtained for ourselves a no very enviable character in the eyes of our masters, while we shall all of us go home with black marks against our names.”

“But we have been fighting for a great principle. We must remember that our honours were concerned,” answered Digby.

“Fighting! We haven’t fought at all,” returned Newland. “A great principle! I have been thinking over that point also. Our great principle should be obedience; that is one of the things we were sent to school to learn. I forget when I found it out, but I now clearly remember it, and in adhering to that, depend on it our honours were involved much more than in insisting on going out when, for some very good reason probably, Mr Sanford thought fit to keep us in. All I can say is, that I wish he was well, and could have us up and flog us all round, and so settle the matter off-hand. I certainly don’t like the thoughts of yielding to old Yates.”

A few acknowledged the justice of these opinions. It was not to be expected that many should do so. The last sentiment was reciprocated by all.

“The sooner, then, we make preparations for opening the door the better,” observed Farnham.

They possessed themselves of Spiller’s tools. That worthy, with Julian Langley, Scarborough, and a few others, were sitting up in a corner, puffing away slowly at their clay pipes, and sipping away at something which they did not wish the rest to see. They were too stupified to observe what was being done. The bars across the doors were removed; their strength had never even been tried. Then Farnham took down a shutter, and in desperation threw open the windows to let some fresh air in. Oh, how delicious and sweet it was, compared to the poisonous atmosphere they had been so long breathing.

“I, for one, vote that we all march out in order, and walk up and down in the playground till some one comes to know what we want,” exclaimed Digby, as if a bright idea had struck him. “Or, I will tell you what, I don’t mind going with a flag of truce straight up to Mr Sanford, to tell him our grievances, and to ask what terms he will give us.”

“Capital! grand! spirited!” shouted most of the fellows—at least they moaned out, for they were not in a condition to shout.

Not a moment was allowed him to recede from his offer. The largest and the least dirty white pocket-handkerchief they could find was immediately fastened on to the end of a broomstick. There was a little water remaining, in which Digby’s hands and face were washed. His hair was combed with the only pocket comb to be found in the army, and his clothes were brushed with the broom above spoken of, and his shirt-collar smoothed down as much as was practicable. Independently of his spirit and discretion, he certainly looked fatter and less pale than any of the rest, and was therefore the fittest envoy that could have been selected to give the enemy a favourable opinion of the garrison. They were, of course, not aware that Susan knew perfectly well all about them.

Digby was all ready, with his flag in his hand. He only waited for the door to be opened.

“Come,” exclaimed Ranger, “Heathcote may go on ahead as a herald, but I do feel that it will be a crying shame and disgrace if we let him go alone. We ought all to fall in, and march out into the playground to support him if necessary. As for those boozing fellows up there in the corner, they have deceived and cheated us, that is very evident. We are not bound to them; they may follow if they like.”

Perhaps Ranger was not quite right in this, though Scarborough and his set certainly did not deserve that terms should be kept with them.

The thoughts of fresh air and exercise, and the hope of bringing their present uncomfortable condition to a termination, made the great mass, without a moment’s further consideration, yield to the proposal; and, falling in together, the moment the door was opened and Digby had gone forth, they hurried out after him.

No one was in the schoolroom, but it looked as if it had been swept, the desks scraped and polished, and everything put in good order.

Out into the playground they marched, following Digby so closely that he appeared to be at their head. Ranger, Farnham, Newland, and his other chief friends kept directly behind him.

They had just reached the playground, and were facing the glass door opening from the house into it, when the door was opened, and a tall, very gentlemanly, youngish-looking man appeared at it, with Mr Moore, their favourite master, standing behind him. The stranger advanced towards them,—

“I am glad to meet you here, young gentlemen,” he said, in a very harmonious voice. “I understand that you have for some days past shut yourselves up in your play-room, in consequence, it is supposed, of your being dissatisfied with some arrangements which were made regarding you. My name is Dr Graham. I am now the master of this school, Mr Sanford having yielded his authority, with the sanction of your parents, into my hands. I shall at all times willingly listen to any complaints you have to make. Let me know the grievance which caused you to shut yourselves up as you have lately done.”

Digby, in a manly and straightforward way, told him exactly why they had thus acted.

“It was done at my request,” said Dr Graham. “I found, on inquiry, that most reprehensible practices took place on these occasions, and as I have a number of pupils of my own who will soon become the companions of some of you, I wished to stop all liberty till I could arrange how to deal with the culprits. My object, understand, is to have a school of happy, Christian, gentlemanly boys. There is no reason why all should not be very happy and contented; and I am resolved not to allow those of whom I have hopes of becoming so to suffer for those of whom I can have but very slight or no hope at all. Mr Moore, are these all the boys?”

“No, Sir, there are several absent, who, I fear, must be justly placed in the last category,” answered Mr Moore.

“Where are they, then?” asked Dr Graham, looking at Digby.

“In the play-room, Sir,” he answered, feeling as if he was acting a treacherous part towards them; but truly he could have said only what he did.

“We will go there at once, and see the state of affairs,” said the Doctor. It is possible he might have guessed, though, from Susan’s information. “Follow me, young gentlemen.”

Guided by Mr Moore, he went direct to the play-room.

What was the consternation of the wretched tipplers when, looking up, they found themselves deserted by their companions, and saw a stranger, with one of their masters, at the door. Scarborough tried to get up, after gazing round at them in a stupid, idiotic way, but fell forward on his face; while the rest sat still, stupidly glaring up at him and Mr Moore. At last, when they attempted to rise, they fell down as Scarborough had done.

“I shall have little difficulty in settling how to deal with those miserable fellows,” said the Doctor, pointing scornfully at them. “They are, I conclude, from what Mrs Pike tells me, the heads and instigators of this most sagaciously conducted and commendable rebellion. Happily, I am not bound to keep any boy with whose character I am not satisfied. Mr Moore, I must request you to take down the names of those I see in that corner of the room. I wish also to know those of the young gentlemen who met me openly in the playground, and especially of their leader, with the flag of truce. I accept it as a sign that they are sorry for what has occurred, and grant a full amnesty to all those who have followed it.”

The boys, on hearing these words, spoken in a thoroughly kind, frank manner, gave vent to their feelings in a loud hearty shout. The expressions touched all their better feelings.

“Long live Dr Graham!” cried Digby.

“May he long be our master, and we be his obedient attentive pupils!” added Newland, who had the happy knack of giving the right turn to a sentiment.

The cry was taken up by the rest of the boys, and the Doctor turned round and said, smiling, “Thank you; I am well satisfied. I feel sure that we shall always be good friends. Now go up into your rooms and get ready for dinner.”

The basins and jugs were carried upstairs, hands and faces were washed, and clothes changed, and when the dinner-bell rang, they went down into the dining-room, where Mrs Pike received them with a smile as if nothing had happened, and all declared that they never had had so good a dinner at the school—certainly, never had they been more hungry. And thus the mighty rebellion was concluded. Dr Graham had not promised that they should go out on a Saturday, so that they had gained nothing whatever by their movement.

Only Mr Moore and Mrs Pike superintended at dinner. The other three masters, they found, had gone.

“Before we separate,” said Mrs Pike, standing up when she had served out the last helping of pudding, “I have a few words to say to you. I am very sorry that you spent three days so unpleasantly as you must have done this week, because Mr Sanford had intended granting you, in consequence of his illness, half-holidays every day, and but slight tasks in the morning, till the arrival of Dr Graham, who has for some time arranged to take charge of the school. He had charged me to do my best to find you amusement. On Monday I had ordered carriages to take you to a pic-nic in Fairley Wood; Tuesday, a famous conjuror was to have come; and on Wednesday you were to have had a grand tea in the garden here, and fireworks afterwards. However, perhaps you thought yourselves better employed. All I can say is, that I am sorry for what has occurred, but intend to forget all about it; though, as those who win may laugh, I might be allowed, if I chose, to make fun of you.”

“Sold again—admirably sold!” exclaimed Farnham to Digby, as they walked into the playground. They were not much inclined to play, though, for never had they felt more weary and sleepy. Though the fresh air revived them, they heartily wished for bed-time.

It was soon whispered about that Doctor Graham had resolved on expelling Scarborough and all his set. Everybody acknowledged the justice of this decision, and rejoiced at it. The only one of the party who was allowed to remain was Julian Langley, in consequence of his having only so lately come to the school.

“Dr Graham,” repeated Digby, after he and his companions had been discussing the merits of their new master, “why, that is the very name of the master of the school to which Arthur Haviland was going. I wonder where he comes from. All I can say is, that he seems a first-rate man, and sensible and kind, and so Arthur said his master was.”

Two days after this, Dr Graham announced that the pupils from his former school were about to arrive. In the evening, four carriages full of them drew up at the door. Digby looked eagerly out, and there, sure enough, in the very first was Arthur Haviland. How delighted were the two friends to see each other. The surprise was mutual, for neither of them were certain that they were to meet. The Doctor, knowing how certain any change of this sort was to unsettle boys’ minds, had not told them till the last moment the arrangements which had been made. The two sets of schoolboys became acquainted with each other with great rapidity. The Doctor had won the hearts of nearly all his new pupils by his clemency and urbanity, while what was still more satisfactory, all his old ones spoke in the warmest terms of him.

A new system was at once inaugurated. A first master, a very gentlemanly man and a good scholar, took the place of the little-loved Mr Yates; Mr Moore kept his post as second master; the third, who took the place of the ill-conditioned Mr Tugman, was a very nice, quiet-looking lad, with whom at first the boys thought they could do anything; but they very soon found that beneath that calm countenance there dwelt a most determined spirit; that he had lately left a first-rate public school, where he had been praeposter of his house, and that he was thoroughly up to all the ways and dodges of boys. He had been for a short time at one of the Universities, which his want of means had compelled him to leave, and thus he had become an usher for the sake of saving money to take him there again. He worked hard himself, and he was determined that those under him should work hard also. The writing-master was also a gentleman, for Dr Graham felt the importance of having a good example set, even in minute points, to those whom he wished to see turn out gentlemen in every respect. He had explained to Mrs Pike his wish that all the provisioning and household arrangements should be established on the most liberal footing. I want the boys to have as much and as pleasant food as they would have at home, so that they may have no cause to regret coming here, because they are no longer to have the nice things to which they have been accustomed. Teacups and saucers, and spoons, and plates, and knives, were introduced at breakfast and tea, so that the boys might spread their own bread with butter, or honey, or marmalade. At dinner, too, the usual arrangements of a gentleman’s dining table were introduced—plated spoons and forks, and glass tumblers—and there were fruit tarts and puddings, and vegetables; indeed, an abundance of such things as were in season.

“These may appear trifles, Mrs Pike,” observed the Doctor, when that thrifty housewife ventured to expostulate with him; “but they have a considerable effect on boys. I doubt whether they will very much increase your weekly bills, and I am certain that they will assist to give the lads gentlemanly tastes, and assist me very considerably in managing them. It is, believe me, much easier to govern a school of gentlemanly boys than one full of those of an opposite character. My great wish is, to be able to place perfect confidence in their words. They will then require much less supervision and much less constraint. I explain this, because I think that you will aid in establishing those principles.”

“That I will, sir,” answered Mrs Pike, who was a very sensible woman, and saw at once the superiority of the Doctor’s system over that which had hitherto prevailed.

In a short time a marked difference was observed in the school, and the boys were generally infinitely happier and more contented. At the same time there were still grumblers and dissatisfied ones.

“It is all very well—a new broom sweeps clean,” said they. “Wait a little; we shall soon get back into our old ways.”

They discovered, however, that the new broom went on sweeping cleaner and cleaner, till only the bad had excuse for grumbling, because they found it difficult to indulge in their malpractices. Of course there were bad ones, even though Scarborough and his set had been expelled. Some of those the Doctor brought with him were bad, and some of those who were already in the school were so, and they very soon found each other out.

Julian Langley had plenty of companions, but still he tried very hard to win back Digby’s friendship. Had Arthur Haviland not been there he might have succeeded; but Arthur had gained a perfect insight into Julian’s character, and considered him a very dangerous companion for Digby. Julian very soon discovered now much Arthur disliked him, and determined to have his revenge.

From the time of Dr Graham’s arrival the whole system of the school was completely changed. There was a much stricter supervision, at the same time that there was much more real liberty. Bullying—that is to say, glaring tyranny and cruelty—was almost entirely put a stop to; only the would-be bullies and the very bad ones any longer could in any way complain. The Saturday excursions were once more allowed; but the boys were especially charged not to trespass, or to do any damage; and they had to pass their words that they would adhere strictly to the rules laid down. A monitorial system was established. Six boys of different ages were selected, for their general good conduct, discretion, temper, and acknowledged high principles, to act as monitors. They had a number of privileges as a recompense for the onerous duties with which they were entrusted, and which they were never known to neglect. When any distant excursion was made, one of the monitors was obliged to accompany the party, and to give a full account of all their proceedings. One of the other boys was also frequently called on to do the same. On all half-holidays they might obtain leave to go out where they liked, provided every two hours they came back and reported themselves, so that no one could go to any great distance; nor could, as before, an ill-conditioned fellow like Scarborough spend his time in smoking and drinking without being found out. Digby liked the change excessively; he was constantly with Arthur Haviland, and benefited much by his companionship; for, in truth, a high-principled boy has great power in influencing his friends and associates for good. Julian sneered, but sneered in vain, and at last ceased to try and tempt Digby to join him in his malpractices. Still Digby found it very difficult to keep altogether aloof from his former associate; there had been no cause of quarrel between them, nothing that he could well allege to separate them; and even the occasional remarks which Julian let fall, and the knowledge of the mode in which he spent his time, did harm, and might have had a serious effect on him, as it had undoubtedly on some of his other schoolfellows.

Chapter Seventeen.

Conclusion.

In a well-ordered school there is naturally less scope for adventure than in an ill-conducted one—such as Grangewood had become during poor Mr Sanford’s illness.

Dr Graham was strict and regular, but the boys were far happier than they had ever been before. He encouraged games of every description, and all sorts of athletic exercises. He had gymnastic poles erected; a large swimming-place made, into which a stream of clear water, hitherto of little use, was conducted. He had also some boats built, and launched on a large lake in the neighbourhood, which became the constant resort of the boys during the half-holidays in summer. He did not allow them to boat, however, till they had learned to swim well, not only without their clothes, but in them. They were instructed also by an old sailor, who lived near Grangewood, not only in rowing, but in sailing a boat. Here Digby, from the knowledge he had gained from Toby Tubb, found himself superior to nearly all the other fellows.

He soon gained as much popularity among the boys who had come with Dr Graham as among his former companions. This might have been a dangerous circumstance, had it not been for the good counsels of Arthur Haviland, who, whenever he could do so judiciously, entreated him not to assume on the popularity he was gaining.

“If you do, my dear Digby,” said Arthur, “I shall almost wish that such a fellow as you describe Scarborough to be was here to bully you a little every now and then. I am certain a long course of prosperity is injurious to every one, unless he is reminded on how slight a tenure he holds it, and learns both to appreciate and be grateful for it.”

Hard as this lesson was to learn, Digby acknowledged its importance, and did his best not to let pride get the better of him. Julian Langley, not intentionally, perhaps, was continually trying to counteract the good advice which Arthur gave him. Finding that he himself was sinking down in the estimation of his schoolfellows, he thought that he might help himself up again by clinging closer than he had for some time done to Digby. He had found that it did not answer to attempt to lead him directly to do what was wrong; so in order to regain his confidence, he set to work to flatter him in every way he could think of. He was continually saying, “My dear Digby, you know a popular fellow like you can do anything. I wonder you read so hard; you have talents enough to help you without that. Besides, what does an English country gentleman want with reading?”

Digby was not altogether insensible to flattery; and though he did not trust Julian, he did not exert himself to shake him off so completely as it would have been wise for him to have done.

Dr Graham was not influenced by any narrow-minded, foolish prejudices, and he took care that so strict a supervision should be exercised over the boys from one end of the twenty-four hours to the other, that no glaring malpractices could exist long undetected. Altogether, when the end of the half came, and Digby went home once more for his holidays, he gave so favourable a report of the school, that, supported in it as he was by Arthur Haviland, Mr and Mrs Heathcote resolved to send Gusty back with him. He had now, he felt, a very important responsibility thrown upon him, and he resolved to fulfil it to the utmost of his power.

Except for the sake of being with his parents and sisters, he could not help confessing that he liked school as much as home, and in high spirits, with little Gusty under his charge, he returned to Grangewood. They had not been there long before Julian Langley made a dead set at Gusty, as if he wished to establish himself as his protector and counsellor. At first Digby scarcely perceived this; then, when he at length saw Julian frequently doing something or other for Gusty, he thought it was very kind in him to take so much pains about the little fellow. It did not occur to him, indeed, that Julian was doing his brother any harm, till one day Gusty made use of some expressions and uttered some sentiments which he felt sure must have been learned from Julian. Happily, his eyes were at once opened, and he felt that, if he would save his brother from the contaminating influence of his own former companion, he must withdraw him at once from his society. He knew enough of human nature to be aware that if he at once denounced Julian as a dangerous character, Gusty would, as the moth is to the candle, very likely be attracted towards him, and he would probably have answered—“Why may I not talk to him? He is a friend of yours, I thought, and you don’t seem to fancy that he can do you harm.”

In his difficulty he went to Arthur Haviland, who undertook to speak to Gusty, and to warn him against Julian.

Arthur did so at once. He was one of those people who feel that if a thing is to be done, the sooner it is done the better.

Gusty cried at first, and seemed very unhappy, but at last acknowledged that Julian had invited him to join some expedition or other, but that he had not promised, because he thought that it was not quite right, but that he feared he should, notwithstanding this, have ultimately done so.

“I will not ask you what it is,” said Arthur; “but promise me that you will not be tempted to have anything to do with the matter.”

Gusty easily promised this, and Arthur was thankful that he had not delayed speaking.

Gusty slept in his brother’s room. Two nights after this, another boy in the same room was seen to leave it with his shoes in his hands. Digby was awake, but said nothing. He saw Gusty lift up his head. The other boy as he passed him whispered, “little Sneak,” and went on.

Gusty answered, “I am not; you had better stay.” But his advice was unheeded.

Digby could not conceive what was going to happen, but felt very glad that Gusty had refused to join the expedition, or meeting, or whatever it was which was taking place. He tried to keep awake to speak to Hanson, the boy who had gone out, to ascertain what he had been doing, and he was sorry that he had not attempted to stop him by dissuading him from doing what he had proposed. At last, however, he fell asleep, and as he did not awake till the bell rang, he had not time, after he was dressed, to speak to Hanson. The second bell rang, and the boys hurried into school.

After prayers Dr Graham stood up in his desk, looking very grave.

“I had wished,” he said, “to abolish flogging in the school; but while any of the boys are guilty not only of ungentlemanly but dishonest conduct, I must retain the custom, as I fear that it is the only punishment which they are likely to dread. I regret to say that seven boys, of different ages, were guilty, last night, of going out of the house, and of robbing the orchard of a neighbour. He saw them, counted their numbers, traced them back here. He believes that he will be able to identify some of them. Instead of severely punishing them on the spot, as they deserved, he came here this morning and told me of the circumstance, that I may deal with them as I judge right. Those who were engaged in this notable exploit come forward and let me know what you have to say for yourselves.”

The Doctor ceased. There was a pause, then a slight shuffling of feet, and six boys left their desks, and slowly, and with evident reluctance, walked up to the Doctor.

“I understood that there were seven. I hope the seventh will soon make his appearance.”

The seventh, however, did not come up. The Doctor then asked the six who pleaded guilty what induced them to commit the crime.

One said, because he liked apples; another replied, because he had been asked by others; but four of them confessed that they did it simply because they liked the excitement and danger of the exploit.

“I believe that you have all told me the truth,” answered the Doctor. “One I shall flog, to teach him that he must not allow his appetite to tempt him to commit a crime; the next, that he must not consent to do what is wrong because another asks him; and the other four, because they evidently require to have it impressed on their minds that taking that which does not belong to them is a crime both in the sight of God and man. After breakfast, you six come into my room. And now I wish the seventh culprit to come forward. I have given him time to consider what he will do.”

No one moved.

“Julian Langley, why do you not come forward?” said the Doctor, in a stern voice.

“Sir, I know nothing about it,” answered Julian, in a sharp, quick voice.

“Whose shoe is this?” asked the Doctor. “Come here, sir, and tell me.”

Julian was now compelled to come forward. He walked with an unabashed air up to the Doctor’s desk, casting a look either of triumph or scorn at the boys who had confessed their crime.

“If that is my shoe, somebody may have dropped it, wherever it was found,” he observed, coolly.

“Did anybody carry away this knife, with your name engraved on it?” asked the Doctor; “and how was it that you had only one shoe by your bedside this morning, the fellow of this one, covered with mud of the same colour?”

“Really, sir, those are difficult questions to answer just at present,” replied Julian; “all I can say is, that I cannot account for the circumstances you speak of.”

“I would fain not believe you guilty of a direct falsehood, and I must, therefore, conclude that the seventh thief who stole Mr Ladgrove’s apples is yet to be found,” said the Doctor, gravely. “But mark me, Julian Langley, I especially charge these six boys, if they have any respect for truth and honesty, and I also charge the rest of the school, not to speak to you, not to hold any communication with you, for at least a month to come, if they know you to be guilty of the crime which you now deny. I fix a month, because I hope during that time, if you are guilty, and are so punished, you will repent of the crime of stealing, as also of that of falsehood. Now, sir, go back to your seat.”

The six boys who were to be flogged sat by themselves, and did not approach, or even look at, Julian Langley. Digby greatly feared that Julian was guilty. He watched them anxiously. Hanson was one of them. How grateful he felt that Gusty was not, and he resolved to watch over him with greater care than he had before done.

After breakfast, the boys went to the Doctor’s room to be flogged. They came back into school looking very unhappy, as boys are apt to do who have been thus castigated. The play hours came round, not one of them went near Julian. He approached one of them after the other, but they all, even little Hanson, walked away from him. Others besides Digby were watching what would take place.

At length Arthur Haviland, Digby, Ranger, Newland and others called a council, and agreed to inquire into the matter. Although the guilty boys considered themselves in honour bound not to confess to any of the masters, yet when questioned directly by their own companions, they at once owned that Julian Langley had not only been with them, but was actually the very instigator of the expedition. The consequence was, that Julian was sent strictly to Coventry by the whole school.

During that whole month not a boy spoke to him. Every one knew him to be guilty. He tried to get them to speak to him, and constantly spoke to fellows, but no one would answer him. The Doctor considered that he was sufficiently punished, and those who had been flogged said that they would a hundred times rather be flogged and get it over, than undergo the punishment he had endured. He did not, however, appear to feel the disgrace, or the complete loss of his character. As soon as the month was over, he spoke to every one, and tried to enter into conversation with all who would talk to him. The Doctor, of course, knew all that had occurred, and though he hoped that Julian would have been sufficiently punished, he kept a very watchful eye over him.

At last the holidays again came round, and the Squire asked his boys if they would like to invite Julian Langley to spend some of the time with them.

“Oh, no, no,” answered Digby, “on no account. I am sure Kate does not like him; nor do I as I used to do, and he is not a good companion for Gusty.”

Digby was quite surprised how rapidly the holidays came round and round. Home was very pleasant, but so was school, and it was difficult to say at which the time passed the quickest. It had been intended that Digby should be sent to Eton, but Squire Heathcote was so pleased with Dr Graham’s system, and the progress his boys made in every way, that he resolved to let them remain on at Grangewood.

“People say that boys ought to be sent to public schools to get their pride knocked out of them, to be taught manners, and to make acquaintances who are likely to be useful to them in their future life,” observed the Squire. “Now, I may honestly boast that my boys have no pride to be knocked out of them, their manners are good, and I hope that they will make their own way without having to depend on others.”

So Digby and Gusty remained on at Grangewood, Dr Graham did his utmost to merit the confidence placed in him. He devoted all his time and thoughts not only to the mental instruction of his boys, but to making them religious, and happy, and healthy, and true gentlemen, in the fullest sense of the word. Julian Langley did not long remain at the school. After the occurrence before described he had lost all influence, as well as respect, in the school. Still he contrived to lead some of the other boys into mischief, and was, at length, guilty of acts which induced the Doctor finally to expel him. Digby continued steadily and honestly to do his duty. He became very popular with the masters as well as with his companions—even Mrs Pike acknowledged that she little thought when he first came that he would turn out so well. He was one of the chief leaders at all games and sports, and few surpassed him in any of their athletic exercises, at the same time that no one read harder, or made better progress than he did. At length he rose to be the head of the school; and then, after a year spent partly with Mr Nugent, and partly travelling with Arthur Haviland abroad, he went to Cambridge, where Arthur already was. Here, though one of the most active boating and cricketing men, he read steadily and perseveringly, and finally, very much to his own surprise, when he took his degree, came out as a wrangler, though not so high up in the list as his friend Arthur Haviland had been the year before. (Note: a wrangler is a person at Cambridge University who has passed their finals in Mathematics with First Class Honours.) During the long vacation, just before his last term, he was reading with Mr Nugent, when, one evening, a knock was heard at the door, and the maid-servant came in to say that a person wished to see the Rector. Mr Nugent went out, and there he saw a stout, but pale-faced, ragged, altogether disreputable-looking young man.

“What is it you want with me?” asked Mr Nugent, looking hard at him.

“What, don’t even you know me?” asked the stranger, in a hoarse tone.

Again the Rector scanned his features. “No, indeed I do not,” he answered. “I think that you must be labouring under some mistake or other.”

“Indeed I am not,” answered the stranger. “I know you, Mr Nugent, perfectly, and you once knew me. If I was to tell you my name you might be astonished, perhaps, for I was once a pupil of yours. My name is Julian Langley.”

“Julian Langley!” exclaimed Mr Nugent, starting up. “Are you brought to this miserable condition? But would not your father—would not your friends assist you?”

“My father has discarded me, and I have no friends—no one who cares for me,” answered Julian, bitterly. “I am suffering from hunger and thirst, and am but half clothed, as you see. I must die if I am not relieved. Will you help me?”

“I will. Come in; you shall have food at once,” answered Mr Nugent. “You will find an old friend here who will afford you, I know, his sincerest sympathy, my nephew, Digby Heathcote.”

“He will afford me his supercilious pity and contempt,” muttered Julian.

“No, no, no,” said Mr Nugent, kindly; “come in.”

“Beggars must not be choosers,” answered Julian, gruffly, following Mr Nugent into the study.

Digby, till Mr Nugent mentioned his name, did not recognise Julian. The moment he did, he sprang up, and putting out his hand pressed it warmly; but Julian, turning away his head, received the greeting with coldness and indifference.

“And how is it that you come to us in such a plight?” asked Mr Nugent, after supper had been placed on the table, and Julian had done ample justice to it. “I inquire, pray understand, not for simple curiosity, but that I may the better be able to help you.”

“Thank you,” answered Julian, filling a tumbler half full of brandy from a spirit-case which stood on the table, and tossing off the contents. “Oh, I have gone through all sorts of wonderful adventures. I have been out in Spain, fighting for the Constitutionalists against Don Carlos, but I got more kicks than half-pence there; and then I was shipwrecked; and, finally, I have been leading a somewhat vagabond life about England. I turned actor for a time, but the characters given me were not very exalted, and I quarrelled with the manager, who was a brute, and left the company. Not a very lucid account of myself; but, at all events, here I am without a farthing in my purse, or rather, without even a purse to put a farthing in if I had one.” And with a look of despair he turned his pockets inside out, and leant back in his chair.

Both Mr Nugent and Digby were silent. They felt sure that his own misconduct had brought him to his present condition, and yet they were unwilling to hint to him that such was the case. In the meantime he once more leaned forward, and again helped himself largely from the spirit-case. Mr Nugent and Digby looked at each other. They had no difficulty in guessing the cause of his present condition. Some conversation ensued with the unhappy young man, but they could scarcely hope that they were eliciting the truth from him. There was no bed for him in the house. He said that he infinitely preferred sleeping at the inn. Against his better judgment, perhaps, as he was leaving the house, Mr Nugent kindly put a five-pound note into his hand. The next day he did not appear, and Digby set off into the town to look for him. He was told that he was at the inn, in his room. He found him with a spirit bottle by his side, sitting on the floor, and perfectly unconscious. Digby, begging the people of the house, who were but too well accustomed to such events, to put him to bed, left the place, feeling that he could then do nothing for him. The next day, when Digby went back to the inn, the landlord said that he had left it altogether, because he had refused to supply him with more liquor. Digby, determining to make another attempt to rescue him from destruction, on inquiry, found that he had gone on to a neighbouring town. There he followed him, and there he found him in the same condition as before, having spent the whole of Mr Nugent’s liberal gift. Digby waited till he had recovered his senses, spoke to him earnestly and kindly, entreating him to abandon his evil courses. At last Julian said that he had one aunt who would, he knew, could he reach her house, try and reconcile him to his father, and that he had resolved firmly to reform. Digby instantly offered him ten pounds, urging him to set off without delay to his relative’s house.

Thus the former friends, who had started together in life with such equal advantages, parted.

Digby in vain waited to hear from Julian. He never reached his relative’s house. Nearly a year after that, Digby heard of his death in a hospital, of delirium tremens, a most horrible complaint, brought on by excessive drinking.

A couple of years after Arthur Haviland left College, the papers announced his marriage with Katharine, third daughter of Digby Heathcote, Esq, of Bloxholme, etc.

“I am truly thankful that my dear, dear little sister Kate has married so excellent a fellow,” wrote Digby to an old friend, when speaking of the event. “What a contrast to that wretched being, Julian Langley, whom my father and his had once intended for her. I have known Arthur for a number of years. He is, and he always was as a boy, a thoroughly high-principled, honourable fellow, a sincere, pious Christian, and as kind-hearted, sensible, and judicious as any person I have ever met. I am convinced of the truth of the saying that ‘the boy is the father of the man.’ I have had many proofs of it in my experience, and I should always strongly recommend my friends to reflect what their friends were as boys before they introduce them to their families, and especially to their sisters, whose jealous guardians they should ever endeavour to prove.”