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Cock-House at Fellsgarth

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<h2 class="author">Talbot Baines Reed</h2> <h2 class="title">"The Cock-House at Fellsgarth"</h2> <hr> <h3>Chapter One.</h3> <h4>Green and Blue.</h4> First-night at Fellsgarth was always a festive occasion. The holidays were over, and school had not yet begun. All day long, from remote quarters, fellows had been converging on the dear old place; and here they were at last, shoulder to shoulder, delighted to find themselves back in the old haunts. The glorious memories of the summer holidays were common property. So was not a little of the pocket-money. So, by rule immemorial, were the contents of the hampers. And so, as they discovered to their cost, were the luckless new boys who had to-day tumbled for the first time headlong into the whirlpool of public school life. Does some one tell me he never heard of Fellsgarth? I am surprised. Where can you have been brought up that you have never heard of the venerable ivy-clad pile with its watch-tower and two wings, planted there, where the rivers Shale and Shargle mingle their waters, a mile or more above Hawkswater? My dear sir, Fellsgarth stood there before the days when Henry the Eighth, (of whom you may have possibly heard in the history books) abolished the monasteries and, some wicked people do say, annexed their contents. There is very little of the old place standing now. A piece of the wall in the head-master’s garden and the lower buttresses of the watch-tower, that is all. The present building is comparatively modern; that is to say, it is no older than the end of the Civil Wars, when some lucky adherent to the winning side built it up as a manor-house and disfigured the tower with those four pepper-castors at the corners. Successive owners have tinkered the place since then, but they cannot quite spoil it. Who can spoil red brick and ivy, in such a situation? Not know Fellsgarth! Have you never been on Hawkswater then, with its lonely island, and the grey screes swooping down into the clear water? And have you never seen Hawk’s Pike, which frowns in on the fellows through the dormitory window? I don’t ask if you have been up it. Only three persons, to my knowledge (guides and natives of course excepted), have done that. Yorke was one, Mr Stratton was another, and the other—but that’s to be part of my story. First-night, as I have said, was a specially “go-as-you-please” occasion at the school. Masters, having called over their roll, disappeared into their own quarters and discreetly heard nothing. Dames, having received and unpacked the “night-bags,” retired elsewhere to wrestle with the big luggage. The cooks, having passably satisfied the cravings of two hundred and fifty hungry souls, and having removed out of harm’s way the most perishable of the crockery, shrugged their shoulders and shut themselves into the kitchens, listening to the noise and speculating on the joys of the coming term. What a noise it was! Niagara after the rains, or an express train in a tunnel, or the north wind in a gale against the Hawk’s Back might be able to beat it. But then Fellsgarth was not competing; each of the fellows was merely chatting pleasantly to his neighbours. It was hardly a fair trial. And yet it was not bad for the School. When Dangle, who owned the longest ear in the school, could not hear a word which Brinkman, who owned the loudest voice, shouted into it, it spoke somewhat for what Fellsgarth might do in the way of noise if it tried. The only two persons who were not actively contributing to the general clamour were the two new boys who sat wedged in among a mass of juniors at one of the lower tables. They may have considered that the beating of their hearts was noisy enough. But people in this world are slow at hearing other people’s hearts beat. No one seemed to notice it. It is due to the stouter of these two young gentlemen to say that the beating of his heart, and the general state of amaze in which he found himself, did not interfere greatly with his appetite. He had brought that accomplishment, if no other, from home, and not being engaged like those around him in conversation, he contrived to put away really a most respectable meal. Indeed, his exploits in this direction had already become a matter for remark among his neighbours. “It’s all right,” said one of the juniors, who answered to the name of D’Arcy; “his buttons are sewn on with wire. They’ll hold.” “I suppose he’s made of gutta-percha,” observed another. “He’ll stretch a little more before he’s done.” “I say, what a bill he’s running up! By the way, what do they charge for this kind of pudding?” “It’s a dear kind—and nothing like as good as the sort we get for regular. I never could understand why they make fellows shell out for what they eat first-night.” “It is a swindle,” said D’Arcy, solemnly. “I’ve had to make a very light meal, because I’ve only half a crown, and I’m afraid there won’t be much change left out of that.” The new boy was just laying butter on a roll, and preparing to close the proceedings of the meal with a good square turn of bread and butter. But as D’Arcy’s words fell on his ears he suddenly stopped short and looked up. “I say,” said he, “isn’t this dinner charged in the house bill then?” D’Arcy laughed derisively. “Well, you most be a muff. Don’t you know school doesn’t begin till to-morrow? They give you dinner to-night, but you’re not obliged to eat it.” The new boy took a gulp of water, which he calculated would be gratis under any circumstances, and then gasped—“I say, I didn’t know that.” D’Arcy looked solemn. “Jolly awkward,” said he; “what have you had?” Whereupon Master Ashby, the new boy, entered on a detailed confession, which D’Arcy, evidently an expert at mental arithmetic, “totted up” as he went along. “How many times pudding did you say?” he asked towards the end, “Twice and a bit.” “Three and ten; I dare say he won’t be stiff about the bit, three and ten; and that roll and butter—” “I’ve not eaten them.” “No, but you’ve touched them. You’ll be charged, unless you can get a fellow to take them off your hands.” “Will you have them?” asked Ashby. Whereupon there was a laugh at D’Arcy’s expense, which annoyed that young gentleman. “I don’t want your second-hand grub. You’d better take it round and see what you can get for it.” Ashby looked at the bread, and then glanced round the table. “No,” said he, “I’ll have it and pay for it, if it comes to that.” “That’ll be four bob.” Ashby gave a gulp of despair. “I’ve not got so much.” “Then you’ll get in a jolly row.” “Could you lend me one and six, I say?” asked the new boy. Again D’Arcy got the worst of the laugh. “Didn’t you hear me say I’d only just got enough to pay for my own? But I tell you what; you can hide under the table. You’re not known.” Ashby looked round, and felt about with his foot under the table to ascertain what room there might be there. Then he flushed up. “No, I shan’t,” said he; “I’d get into the row instead.” As his eye travelled round and marked the curious smile on every face it suddenly dawned upon him that he had been “done.” His first sensation was one of immense relief. He should not have to pay for his dinner after all! His second was a cunning device for getting out of the dilemma. “I thought you’d begin to laugh soon,” said he to D’Arcy. “I knew you couldn’t keep it up.” D’Arcy turned very red in the face and glared at this audacious youngster in deserved wrath. “What do you mean, you young ass? You know you’ve swallowed it all.” “He swallowed all the grub anyhow,” said another. “No, I’ve not,” said Master Ashby. “I’d have another go-in now. I knew he’d have to laugh in the end.” It was hopeless to deal seriously with a rebel of this sort. D’Arcy tried to ride off on the high horse; but it was not a very grand spectacle, and Ashby, munching up the remains of his roll, was generally held to have scored. The relief with which he hailed the discovery of his mistake was so genuine, and the good spirits and appetite the incident put into him were so imperturbable, as to disarm further experiment at his expense, and he was left comparatively free to enjoy the noise and imbibe his first impression of Fellsgarth in his own way. The other new boy, meanwhile, was not altogether without his difficulties. Fisher minor, to which name this ingenuous young gentleman answered, would probably have been the first to pour contempt on the verdure of his companion. He had come up to Fellsgarth determined that, in whatever respect he failed, no one should lightly convict him of being green. He had wormed out of his brother in the Sixth a few hints of what was considered the proper thing at Fellsgarth, and these, with the aid of his own brilliant intellect and reminiscences of what he had read in the books, served, as he hoped, both to forewarn and forearm him against all the uncomfortable predicaments into which the ordinary new boy is apt to fall. It must be confessed that as he sat and listened to the noise, and marked how little Fellsgarth appeared to recognise his existence, he felt a trifle uneasy and nervous. He wasn’t sure now that he knew everything. All these fellows seemed to be so thoroughly at home, and to know so exactly what to do; he wished he could do the same. He wished, for instance, he could spin a fork round with his first finger and thumb while he talked, as Yorke, the captain, was doing. He did once privately try, while he was not talking, but it was a dismal failure. The fork fell with a great clatter to the floor and attracted general attraction his way. He picked the weapon up with as easy an air as he could assume, whistling sotto voce to himself as he did it, so as to appear unconcerned. “Look out, I say; you mustn’t whistle at meal-times, it’s bad manners,” said a voice at his side. He turned round and perceived a pleasant-looking youth of the species junior, in a red tie and wrist studs to match. This youth evidently knew what was what at Fellsgarth; and a further glance at him convinced Fisher minor that he had met him in a good hour. For all dinner-time he had been exercised as to whether it was the thing to wear the jacket opened or buttoned. Yorke wore his buttoned, so did a good many of the Sixth; and Fisher minor had consequently buttoned up too. But his new friend, who was pronounced in all his ways and evidently an authority on etiquette, wore his open. Fisher minor therefore furtively slipped his fingers down and opened his coat. “You’re a new kid, I suppose,” said he of the red necktie. “Yes, I’m Fisher minor.” “What, son of Fisher the boat-builder? I didn’t know he had one so old.” “No, oh no. That’s my brother up there, talking to the Dux.” “The who? I don’t see any ducks.” “I mean Yorke, you know, the captain.” “Why ever do you call him ducks? You’d better let him catch you calling him names like that. Oh, you’re a brother of old Fisher? You look it.” Fisher minor was alarmed at the tone in which this observation was made. It seemed to imply that Fisher major was not quite all that could be desired, and yet the younger brother did not exactly know what it was in the elder which called for repudiation. However, he was spared the pain of deciding by a new voice on his other side. “What’s that, Wally? Does this kid say he belongs to Fisher? Oh, my stars, what form we’re coming to!” Fisher minor glanced round, and experienced a shock as he did so. For the new speaker was so like the last that he was tempted to suppose the latter had suddenly changed seats and contrived to substitute a blue necktie for a red, and button his jacket during the feat. But when he looked back, the owner of the red tie was still in his place. After considerable wagging of his head, he was forced to admit that he was seated between two different persons. “Why, he can’t help that,” said the gentleman addressed as Wally. Fisher minor laughed feebly, and really wished his brother would pay a little more attention to the “form.” “Of course,” said Wally, talking across to his twin brother, “fellows can’t tell what asses they look until they’re told. Don’t you remember the chap last term who always wore his trousers turned up, till the prefects made him turn them down or go on the Modern side.” “Catch us taking any of your cast-off louts on our side,” retorted the other brother, who evidently belonged to the slighted side; “yes—shocking bad form it was—and when he turned them down at last, they found seventy-four nibs, fifty matches, and nobody knows how many candle-ends.” All this time Fisher minor, with panic at his heart, was furiously trying to turn down his trouser-ends with his feet. What a lucky escape for him to get this warning in time! During the walk round the grounds he had turned his ends up, and had quite forgotten to put them down again when he came in. Now, no coaxing would get them down without manual assistance. He sat clawing with one foot after another, lacerating his shins and his garments in vain. At length in despair he dropped his fork again, and under cover of this diversion attempted to stoop and adjust the intractable folds. In his flurry he naturally forgot the fork; so that when, after a minute and a half, he emerged without it into the upper world, his two companions were not a little perplexed. “What have you been up to down there? Do you generally eat your grub under the table?” asked Wally. “All I can say is, it’s the best place for him if he wears his hair like that,” said the other in tones of alarm. “Young kid, I never noticed that before! Whatever induces you to part it on the right? Did you ever hear of a Fellsgarth fellow— Oh, I say, what a wigging you’ll get! Look at me and Wally and Yorke and all of ’em. Whew! it makes one ill to see it! Just look round for yourself.” As more than half of those present appeared to have no parting at all, and most of the rest parted on the left, Fisher minor realised with horror that he had been guilty of a terrible solecism. The alarm depicted in the faces of both the twins was proof enough that the matter was a critical one. It was no time for shuffling. He had had enough of that over his trouser-ends. He must throw himself on the mercy of his critics. “I quite forgot—of course,” said he hurriedly; “I—I—” “Look here,” said Wally, hurriedly shoving a pocket-comb into his hands; “you’d better go downstairs again and change it sharp, or you’ll be spotted. Cut along.” So Fisher minor began with shame to look once more for his fork, and in doing so crawled well under the table, and sitting down proceeded nervously and painfully to open up a parting on the left side of his head. It was an arduous task, and not made easier by the unjustifiable conduct of the twins, who having got their man safe under hatches began to kick out in an unceremonious fashion and basely betray his retreat to their friends and neighbours. “Pass him on!” “Hack it through!” “Ware cats!” was the cry, in the midst of which the luckless Fisher minor, finding a return to his old place effectually barred, and wearying of the ceremony of running a gauntlet of all the legs along the table before it was half over, made a <ANTIMG src="images/fgrth016.jpg" alt=""> hasty selection of what seemed to him the mildest pair within reach, and clutching at them convulsively, hung on for dear life. The owner of the limbs in question was Ranger, a prefect of his house and more or less of a grandee at Fellsgarth. As he was unaware of the cause of the excitement around him, this sudden assault from below took him aback, and he started up from his chair in something as near a panic as a Fellsgarth prefect could be capable of. Naturally his parasite followed him. To Ranger’s credit, he took in the situation rapidly, and did not abuse his opportunities. “What’s this?” he demanded, lifting up Fisher minor, with his hair all on end and the pocket-comb still in his hand, by the coat-collar. “Who does this belong to?” No one in particular owned the object in question. “What are you?” asked the prefect. “I’m Fisher minor; I got under the table, somehow.” “So I should suppose. Afraid of the draughts, I suppose.” “It was Wally and his brother put me there. I didn’t mean—” “Oh—Wally, was it? Here, young Wheatfield, you shouldn’t leave your property about like this. It’s against rules. Here, hook on, and don’t go chucking it about any more.” “All serene,” said the twin. “Come along, kid. Done with my comb? You look ever so much better form now; doesn’t he, you chaps? How came you to lose your way downstairs?” Fisher minor owned himself utterly unable to account for the misadventure, and discreetly remained silent until the signal was given to return thanks and separate every boy to his own house. As he was wandering across the court, very dismal and apprehensive of what more was in store for him, a lean youth with a pale face and very showily attired accosted him. “Hullo, kid, are you a new chap?” “Yes,” replied Fisher minor, eyeing the stranger suspiciously. “What side are you on?” Fisher stared interrogatively. “Well, then, are you Modern or Classic?” “I don’t know, really,” said Fisher minor, wishing he knew which he ought to proclaim himself. Then making a bold venture, he said, “I believe Modern.” “Good job for you,” said the youth; “saves me the trouble of kicking you. Can you lend me a bob? I’ll give it you back to-morrow as soon as I’ve unpacked.” It did strike Fisher minor as queer that any one should pack shillings up in a trunk, but he was too pleased to oblige this important and fashionable-looking personage to raise any question. “Yes. Can you give me change out of a half-crown? Or you can pay me the lot back to-morrow, I shan’t be wanting it till then,” said he. “All serene, kid; I’m glad you are our side. I shall be able to give you a leg-up with the fellows. Whose house are you in?” “Wakefield’s, the same as my brother.” “What—then you must be a Classic! They’re all Classics at Wakefield’s. Why can’t you tell the truth when you’re asked, instead of a howling pack of lies?” “I didn’t know, really, I thought—” “Come, that’s a good one. Any idiot knows what side he’s on at Fellsgarth.” Fisher minor was greatly confused to stand convicted thus of greenness. “You see,” said he, putting on a little “side” to cover his shame, “I was bound to be stuck on the same side as my brother, you know.” “Nice for you. Not a gentleman among them. All paupers and prigs,” said this young Modern, waxing eloquent. “You’ll suit them down to the ground.” Considering that Fisher minor had just lent the speaker half a crown, these taunts struck him as not exactly grateful. At the same time he writhed under the reproach, and felt convinced that Classics were not at all the “form” at Fellsgarth. “Why,” pursued the other, pocketing his coin in order to release his hands for a little elocution, “we could boy ’em up twice over. The workhouse isn’t in it with Wakefield’s. There’s not a day but they come cadging to us, wanting to borrow our tin, or our grub, or something. There, look at that chap going across there! He’s one of ’em. Regular casual-ward form about him. He’s the meanest, stingiest lout in all Fellsgarth.” “Why,” exclaimed Fisher minor, looking in alarm towards this prodigy of baseness, “why, that’s—that’s Fisher, my brother!” The Modern youth’s jaw fell with a snap, and his cheeks lost what little colour they had. “What? Why didn’t you tell me! Look here, you needn’t tell him what I said. It was quite between ourselves, you know. I must be cutting, I say. See you again some day.” And he vanished, leaving Fisher minor considerably more bewildered, and poorer by a cool half-crown, than he had been five minutes ago. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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