King of Ranleigh: A School Story. Brereton Frederick Sadleir
sweet memories and thrill them. So with Clive. He sang lustily with the rest, and then sank to his seat to listen to the lesson. There was Harvey at the lectern. Harvey the hero of the school, looking magnificent in his simple surplice. Harvey with head erect, his fair moustache curling, reading to them in a voice that showed no sign of trembling. How Clive would have shrunk from such a task! He shivered again at the thought of such a possibility.
Then came a hymn, the last prayers, and the thunder of the organ following. The choir filed away as they had come, the school remaining motionless till they heard the last "Amen" from the vestry. Then came movement. The boys were beginning to file out of the chapel and Clive prepared to follow. His eyes strayed this way and that, as he waited for his turn. All of a sudden he received something in the nature of a shock, something which set his heart thumping. For opposite him, waiting also to take their place in the procession of slippered boys, were two with familiar faces. Clive could have shouted their names. He almost did in his excitement and delight. For within a short dozen yards of him, as yet unconscious of his presence, were Hugh and Bert, his fellow conspirators, sent from their home as a direct result of that booby trap prepared for the unpopular Rawlings.
CHAPTER IV
SOME INTRODUCTIONS
"At last! Got you, you little demon! I'll teach you to laugh when a beggarly froggy gives me sauce. This'll help to make you remember manners, and is just a sample of what's to follow."
The amiable Rawlings, still smarting after his downfall in the train, had waylaid Clive Darrell. He pounced upon that youngster just as he issued from the chapel corridor, and with a heave and a jerk forced him through the narrow entrance into Middle School. A dim gas jet only served to show the immensity of the place, and its uncomfortable bareness. It was tenantless, save for the two who had now entered.
"No use your howling, my son," exclaimed the brutal Rawlings sneeringly, twisting Clive's arm till it was a wonder it did not break, and holding it so firmly behind his back that the lad could not move. "We'll commence with your lessons now, before school begins to-morrow."
He kneed the youngster unmercifully, shaking his whole body till it was a wonder his teeth were not jerked down his throat, and repeated the dose promptly. Clive shouted and kicked. His face was pale with pain, for his arm was terribly twisted. And yet he was powerless to get free. He wondered if he were going to faint. He certainly felt very giddy. Beads of perspiration were rolling down his forehead, and no doubt, in a little while, had the torture been continued, he would have actually fainted. But there came a sudden interruption. A stout, square figure lounged into the class-room, while a head appeared at the door behind. The figure belonged to Susanne.
"Pardon," he began, with that peculiar politeness for which, in the course of a few days, he became notorious, "but you are hurting Darrell."
Rawlings swung round on him, thereby nearly completing the fracturing of Clive's arm.
"You get off," he cried angrily. "You've nothing to do with this affair, and if there's any more of your sauce I'll serve you likewise. Hear that?"
Susanne seemed to be completely deaf. Not for one second did he forget his politeness. Indeed, it came to be said of Susanne, the good-natured, stolid Frenchman, that nothing ever put him out, and that even in the heat of footer he was always himself, the essence of politeness. But he could be deaf to threats. Moreover, such a thing as temper seemed to be foreign to him. He strolled up to Rawlings, took him by the nose and pinched that organ very thoroughly – pinched it, in fact, till Rawlings holloed. He let go his hold of Clive instantly, and clung to the injured organ, while his vengeful eyes flashed over the edge of his hands at Susanne. What precisely would have happened next it is impossible to state, for there came now a second interruption. Harvey's voice was heard. He had entered the class-room and was just behind the three.
"Serve you right," he said bluntly; "and look here, Rawlings, understand this from me: while I'm Head Scholar and Captain of the School this sort of thing's got to be put a stop to. I'll have no bullying, mind that. And have the goodness to remember that Darrell's a new boy. Now, youngster, cut. It's time you were upstairs in your dormitory. Same in your case, Feofé. Rawlings, you can come along to the scholars' room. I want a chat with you."
Clive clambered briskly to One South. True, he became a little muddled between the passages and the staircases, and found himself in the wrong dormitory. But a howl from a fellow hardly as big as himself sent him running like a rabbit.
"Here! Who's this kid?" he heard, while a youth with red hair sticking up abruptly from his forehead, as if he had received a severe fright when very young and had never recovered from it, stretched out and snatched at his collar. "What dormitory?" came the curt question.
"One South."
"Then out you go. We don't have One South kids fooling about in Two South, I can tell you. Clear off!"
Clive was actually staggered by the insolent arrogance of this youngster. He bolted, whereas, with all his wits about him, it is probable that there would have been at least a wordy warfare for some few minutes. And then he dived into his own abode, and made for his own particular bed. The dormitory was almost full now. That is to say, there was a boy to every bed save one. Clive sat down on the box placed between his bed and the next, and looked curiously round. There was silence in the place. There came to his ears merely the pattering of many restless heels upon the floor, while from the other three dormitories which went to make up the four in the south of the school buildings there came not so much as a sound.
Was Rawlings in the place? Thank goodness, no! Then Harvey? Of course, he'd gone off with the bully to the scholars' room. So there was still the chance that ill luck might put Rawlings in One South. Opposite, smiling at him, was Susanne, his peace of mind apparently unruffled by the scuffle in which he had so recently taken a part. As for the rest of the thirty odd fellows, they were large and small and medium, shock-headed, sunburned after their holidays, rather clean and well groomed for schoolboys, but then they were fresh from home, and as jolly looking as one could wish for. Compulsory silence, however, muzzled them for the moment. At the call of "speak" within ten minutes such a babel of voices arose that Clive was almost deafened. Susanne grinned now and crossed to speak to him.
"I say," he began, "who's that fellow I caught twisting your arm?"
"Rawlings; he lives near us at home. He's an out-and-out bounder."
"Ah! And a bully. He'll not try again when I'm near. But when he catches you alone, then there'll be trouble. I say, er – "
"Darrell."
"Then, Darrell, pity we're not next to one another here. Wonder if it could be managed?"
The suggestion was hardly made before a hand was placed on Susanne's shoulder.
"Look here, you're a new boy, aren't you?" asked a voice. "Well, I'm Sturton, you know, prefect of One South, and chaps aren't allowed to move over and speak to one another without getting leave. Now you know, eh?"
Susanne apologised in his best manner, while Clive inspected the one who had spoken. He hadn't seen him before, for the simple reason that Sturton was one of those who ascended to the organ loft at chapel time, and was there invisible. He had come up to the dormitory after "speak," and here he was, admonishing and advising Susanne as if he were another Harvey. Clive liked Sturton at once, liked his clean-cut figure and features, his bold brown eyes, his crisp and yet friendly way of talking.
"I say, please – " he began, and then became somewhat abashed.
"Eh? Fire away! You say – "
"I was wondering, sir, if – "
"Oh, come now, none of your 'sirs.' What is it?" asked Sturton, thinking that Clive was quite a decent little fellow, an acquisition to the dormitory.
"Well – er – oh, I don't know."
Sturton laughed outright. Susanne grinned. If Clive suffered from bashfulness, at least he didn't.
"He doesn't like to say it; but we're chums – isn't that the word?" he asked. "You see, I got into the same carriage with him. There was another chap there, and he'd come to make himself disagreeable to Darrell. So I – er, chipped in, eh?"
"Got