A Gallant Grenadier: A Tale of the Crimean War. Brereton Frederick Sadleir
them.
A match was produced and a small piece of candle lighted.
“This way, you fellows,” cried Tommy, leading the way along a narrow shelf to the back of the house. Here there was a small room with a worm-eaten table and chairs and a heavy oak chest.
“It’s no use doing things by halves, is it?” asked Tommy, with a broad grin on his face. “Here, in this old chest, are all the costumes, and if we don’t make that old barge look as well as it ever did, I shall be astonished.”
“You’ll probably get licked, you mean,” laughed Phil. “But, all the same, it’s a splendid idea. We won’t spoil the show for a ha’porth of tar. Let’s see how these things fit.”
Ten minutes later, had any councillor of Riddington had sufficient interest to pay a casual visit to the boat-house, he would have seen a sight which would certainly have given a rude shock to his nerves. For in the old and musty building stalked three figures gorgeously attired in costumes of red velvet, slashed in all directions with what had once been white, red stockings and big-bowed shoes, heavy chains of brass round their necks, and huge beef-eater hats upon their heads. Beneath the hats, where bearded faces should have been, were the merry countenances of three boys who were bent upon a piece of mischief.
“Look here, Phil, you boss this show,” said Tommy shortly, looking at the other lad to see if he agreed. “We’re ready. Give your orders and we’ll get aboard.”
“Right, Tommy! Help with this tarpaulin. That’s right. Now jump inside, you fellows, and fish out the rowlocks, and see that a couple of oars are handy. The rudder is already there. Now we can start. Hop in there and take your places. I’ll open the gates and push her out.”
Waiting to see that all was ready, Phil pulled the bolt of the gates which closed the exit to the river, and threw them open. Then he guided the old state barge, all bedecked with gold and colours and curious devices, out into the river, giving a lusty push off, and springing in just at the last moment.
“Out oars!” he cried. “Tommy, what are you grinning at? Remember you are a bargeman.”
“Beg pardon, sir. Sorry, I’m sure,” replied the irrepressible Tommy, with a broad smile on his face. “I say, Phil, what a sight you do look in those togs! and sha’n’t we catch it when they find out who we are? Old Barrington will be furious. He said he’d have our blood – or something like that – when we held him up the other day.”
“Oh, bother Barrington! I know he said we were a disgrace to the town, and that he’d keep a special eye upon us in future,” answered Phil, with a laugh. “But pull hard, you fellows. I’ll run up past the town; there are lots of boats there that we’ll go close to. Let’s make ’em believe all’s correct. Keep straight faces, and pass them as though nothing were wrong.”
“My eye, what fun!” chuckled Tommy. “But, all right, Phil! we’ll do as you say.”
Slowly, and with a stately stroke, the two lads plied their oars, while Phil, looking almost double his real size in his strange costume, sat upright in the stern, the dog Rags by his side, and steered the barge straight up the centre of the river. Soon they were close to the boats, and not many minutes had passed before their presence caused a sensation.
“Blest if it bain’t his wushup, the mayor!” cried a hulking countryman out for a day on the river. “Row along, boys, and let’s get closer.”
From every side cries and shouts of astonishment and pleasure resounded, and all pressed towards the centre. And through them all the old barge swept grandly on its way, while its bargemen and the steersman kept a rigid silence and hastily jerked down their caps to hide the giggles which would come in spite of all their efforts. On they swept, and soon a throng of boats was following in their wake, while others ahead lay on their oars and waited. Suddenly, as they approached one of these, Phil leant forward and, shading his eyes with his hand, stared at the occupants.
“Keep on, you fellows,” he muttered. “There’s a boat ahead of us with my pater and mater aboard, and I believe the mayor too. There’ll be trouble now, I expect.”
And this was exactly the case. It was a lovely day, and, persuaded by Joe Sweetman, Mr and Mrs Western had engaged a boat, and, happening to meet the mayor before embarking, had invited him to join the party. Even as the barge appeared in sight, Mr Western was apologising for his son’s disgraceful behaviour, and telling the mayor what a disappointment Phil was to him.
“Why, as I live,” exclaimed Joe Sweetman suddenly, “that’s the old state barge! What is happening, Barrington?”
“State barge! Yes, so it is. What can it be doing out here?” the mayor, a fat-faced personage, replied. “I have not given my permission. We must see to this, Mr Western.”
A moment later the barge slipped past, and in spite of Phil’s efforts to conceal his identity he was recognised.
“It’s that rascal Western!” exclaimed the mayor, getting red with anger. “Stop, sir! What do you mean? Are you stealing that barge?”
At the mayor’s angry order Tommy and his companion ceased rowing, and, seeing that all was discovered, Phil swept his hat from his head and politely wished all “good afternoon.”
Mr Barrington almost exploded with rage. “Take that barge back at once, you young rascal,” he shouted. “I’ll have you up for stealing. How dare you? Take it back at once!”
But meanwhile a crowd had gathered, and quickly understanding the joke, they laughed long and loudly and cheered the three boys. As for Joe Sweetman, he was convulsed, and this added not a little to the mayor’s ill-temper.
Mr Western had not spoken a word. All the while he gazed sternly at Phil, as though he could not trust himself to speak, and he had landed at the steps and was on his way home before he opened his lips.
“The mayor is right,” he said bitterly. “Philip is a disgrace, and I will not allow him to stay at home a single day longer than I can help. I know an excellent institution where boys of his character can be urged into obedience. He shall go there, and nothing shall persuade me to remove him till he has changed utterly and completely.”
“What! You would send Phil to a school for backward and incorrigible boys?” exclaimed Joe Sweetman.
“Yes, that is exactly the class of institution I mean. I know of one close to London, and will send him there, so that he may be tamed into obedience.”
“Then I tell you that you will do that boy a grievous wrong,” cried Joe, roused to anger by Edward Western’s words. “Only boys of vicious nature are sent to such schools. Of the backward ones I say nothing, for Phil’s wits are as ready as any boy’s, and he is decidedly not a dunce. Nor is he vicious, as you seem to think. For Heaven’s sake look with a more open mind at the matter. Here is a merry, good-hearted lad whom, because he gets into mischief, you would pack off to a school for unruly boys. I hope you will not insist on sending him to this place, for, as I have said, he is not so bad as you think.”
“Yes, I insist, Joseph, and no amount of argument will alter that decision.”
“Ah, I wish I had the power to compel you to do so!” said Joe bitterly. “But perhaps it is all for the best. Such schools, no doubt, are much as the others, save that a boy starts as it were with a black mark against his name. Let us hope that the headmaster of the one in your thoughts will see at a glance what sort of a lad he has in reality to deal with, and treat him accordingly.”
Chapter Two.
Old Bumble
Mr Western was as good as his word, and within a week of his last escapade Phil was despatched to a certain school, situated in the outskirts of London, where only backward and incorrigible lads were received.
“I am thoroughly displeased and disappointed with you,” said the vicar severely, as he lectured Phil just before his departure. “I lifted you from poverty, provided you with a home, and for years have devoted all my spare hours to you. You know what my wishes and hopes were. They are still the same. Disappoint