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Cock-House at Fellsgarth

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<h3>Chapter Twenty Six.</h3> <h4>The Final Kick.</h4> Rollitt’s return to Fellsgarth was almost as mysterious as his disappearance. He answered to his name at call-over next morning as if he had never missed a day this term. And as Dr Ringwood and the other masters were present, and made no remark, it was generally concluded that the truant had turned up over-night, and had had it out with the authorities before bedtime. Mr Rollitt, Senior, had departed. He had looked into Wally’s study after the owner and his crew were in bed to get his bag, and had been driven down in the doctor’s fly to Penchurch. It was also understood that most of the Classic seniors had dropped into Rollitt’s study early that morning. To some he had said, “Get out”; with others he had shaken hands. The captain had evidently been among the latter; as, on the notice board that morning, among the names of the fifteen who were to play the first match for the new clubs on Saturday against Penchurch, was that of Rollitt. The excitement caused by this discovery almost put into the shade for the time the equally remarkable fact that Clapperton and Brinkman were included in the same team. Where Rollitt had been, and what he had been doing, remained a mystery. It was, of course, out of the question to ask him. Conjecture was rife, and was greatly assisted by the juniors, who hazarded all sorts of plausible explanations for the general benefit. “Think he’s been to Land’s End?” said Wally. “I hear you can do it in a week—sharp walking.” “You can get to America in that time,” said Lickford. “Yes—he does seem to have rather a twang on him. Perhaps that’s where he’s been to,” remarked D’Arcy. “Penny bank coal-mine’s only fifty miles away,” said Percy. “It runs under the sea ever so far. I should say it was a ripping place to hide in.” From which and other similar remarks it was concluded that the juniors had a much better notion as to where Rollitt had been than they chose to admit. They eagerly embraced the first opportunity of going to the shop, and investigating the scene of the mystery for themselves. They carefully locked the outer door against possible intruders, and then in Indian file ascended the stone ladder, and after it the corkscrew staircase. The room in which they found themselves was pretty much as Rollitt had left it. It had evidently been made use of by a former lodge-keeper as a dwelling-room, for there was a ragged paper on the wall, and an attempt here and there to board over dangerous holes in the floor. Besides which there was a rude shutter to the tiny window, by means of which no doubt Rollitt had succeeded in concealing his presence at night. The remains of a wood fire were on the hearth, and a candle-end showed (what they already knew) that the hermit did not spend all his evenings in darkness. More than this, in one corner still lay some of the wraps which he had evidently used to extemporise a bed. And an empty box on end in the window convinced them he had sat down during part of his residence. There was also a leaf of exercise paper and a Horace lying on the floor, which evidently had not been brought there by the owls. Altogether, as they looked round, they concluded that, but for the cold, he might have had worse quarters during his temporary exile. But the discovery that delighted them most was a fragment of a newspaper in which were wrapped the not yet exhausted end of a ham, and half a biscuit! Over these relics they dwelt with quite an affectionate interest, till somebody said— “What did he have to drink? He didn’t take any of our ginger-beer, and there’s no water here.” “Why, you duffer, of course he could get out any time he liked. It’s only a latch on the door; any one can open it from inside. He could easily get down to the river in the night, and have a tub, and fetch up some water.” They decided that in future the shop committee, except when Mr and Mrs Stratton were present, should meet nowhere but in “Rollitt’s chamber,” as they forthwith named the room, and proceeded to dedicate it to that use there and then. “Do you know,” said Wally, “that after we pay back Mr Stratton what he lent us to start with, there’ll be a clear £5 to give to the clubs out of the profits?” “Not bad,” said Percy. “They ought to put us in the first fifteen for that.” “Never mind,” said D’Arcy; “they’ve got a jolly hot fifteen for Saturday, Rollitt and all of ’em. We ought to put the Penchurch chaps to bed for once, I fancy.” This was the general impression throughout the School; and, as if to make up for the abstinence of the past few weeks, the fervour of the athletic set waxed high as the eventful day drew near. Yorke had out his men once or twice, practising kicks, and selecting where in the field each player could work to best advantage. Rollitt, of course, did not attend these practices; but Clapperton and Brinkman did, and soon lost the embarrassment with which they first faced their old rivals and enemies. Corder was down too; dreadfully afraid lest by some mishap he should discredit himself, and so be knocked out of his coveted place in the team. Mr Stratton was on the spot also, advising and admonishing—as no one knew better how to do. Even the doctor showed his interest in the new departure of the clubs by coming down too, and by giving directions to reserve seats in the pavilion for a party of his friends. The only unenthusiastic person, except Rollitt, was Dangle. He tried at first to brazen it out, and came down to the field with a sneer on his face to look, so he said, “at the good boys exercising themselves.” But the juniors soon routed him out of that attitude. “Booh, hoo! Rollitt’s coming! Wants to hear you call him a thief. Run—he’ll catch you! Put it on, well run, Dangle, you’ve missed him this time. Coast’s clear, now; you can come back. We’ll protect you,” and so on. These attentions made Dangle’s visits to the field less frequent. In school, he kept the swagger up still longer. “So,” said he one day to Clapperton, “I thought you didn’t approve of cutting fellows dead?” “No more I do.” “Why do you do it, then?” “Have you apologised to Rollitt?” “No.” “Has Rollitt thrashed you?” “No.” “When one or the other has happened, I shall be delighted to shake hands,” said Clapperton. The alternative was a dismal one, but Dangle saw no third way. Which course was least to be desired he could not for the life of him decide. A fight with Rollitt he knew would end disastrously. But to apologise—and in public! The reader has already had two football matches in the course of this story. He shall not be wearied with a third. Suffice it to say the Penchurch men—men, not boys—presented themselves on the appointed day, and all Fellsgarth turned out to see the battle. Fisher minor scored one more triumph by bringing Rollitt up to the scratch, and so completing as sound and taut a team as Yorke had ever led on to victory. Mrs Stratton was there, wearing the School colours round her hat; and the doctor was there with his field-glasses, pointing out the heroes of the School to his distinguished visitors. This time, by much squeezing and mutual accommodation, the oak tree was made to hold nine persons. Who those nine were none could guess, unless indeed they happened to be standing within a hundred yards of the spot without cotton-wool in their ears. From the first it went hard with the Penchurch men. The School had never played up better. The scrimmages were beautifully packed, and the quarter and half-backs were never off the spot. Only when, above the crowd, Rollitt’s head was seen to be at work, and it was apparent he had waked up for a time, was there any risk of confusion. But Yorke’s “Play on Rollitt!” generally pulled the scrimmage together again, and warned friend and (after a time) foe what to expect. There was no holding Rollitt back when he once made up his mind to get the ball through; and no stopping him when once he got fairly started on a run. Twice before half-time and once after he scored a touch-down. Twice Yorke did the same, and once Clapperton. Corder discovered that a fellow does not always score, and yet may play a steady, useful game. He was disappointed that it was only left him to do the latter; and he set himself down as a failure. But Mr Stratton put him on his feet wonderfully at the end. “You’ve improved, Corder. You never played as well.” The others worked well, and contributed to the great result, and perhaps, better still, grudged no one his greater glory. It was Fellsgarth that was playing, not Fullerton, Ranger, Brinkman, Fisher major, or anybody else. The final goal was Clapperton’s. It was an historic event. For the first time in the match the Penchurch men had worked the ball up into the boys’ quarters, and fears were being entertained lest, after all, they would save their “duck.” The half-backs and quarter-backs of the School were squeezed in, all of a lump, between touch and goal; and those who looked on noticed with alarm that, as matters now stood, an easy drop-kick from any of the enemy’s forwards might capture the goal. Rollitt was the first to put an end to this dangerous state of things. He bore down the scrimmage after his usual fashion, and succeeded, as he broke through, in getting the ball into his hands. But for once he could get no further. Twenty hands seized him and carried him to the ground, but not before he had sent back the ball into Fisher’s hands. “Back up now—hard and fast!” cried Yorke. Never was order more beautifully carried out, Fisher minor held the leather long enough to pass it to Brinkman. Brinkman staggered on a yard or two and slipped it back to Denton. Denton made a yard or two more and passed it to Corder. Corder fell back with it into the arms of Ranger. Ranger let Corder drop, but captured the ball, and with one of his lightning swoops carried it out of the ruck for twenty yards, when, as he fell, Yorke came up and captured it. Yorke, alas, was cut short in his career before he had gone ten yards, but Clapperton was there to take it. Away he went, shaking off the nearest of his assailants and distancing others, till he too fell gloriously, with his body in play, and his hands in touch, thirty yards from the enemy’s lines. The serried ranks formed up on either side. Clapperton, as he stood, ball in hand, ready to throw in, passed his eye along the line of his friends, and stopped short of Yorke. Yorke understood. He caught the ball, and quick as thought, returned it to Clapperton, who, swooping round behind the line, got clear with it once more, and crossing the field, curving in all the way, carried into the enemy’s lines at their far corner, whence with a wide sweep he brought it round right behind their posts, a beautiful climax to a beautiful piece of co-operative play. As Mr Stratton said, nothing all that term had been more hopeful of the new spirit of mutual confidence and support in the School than this triumphant rally. But the goal was yet to be kicked. To Yorke, of course, belonged the honour. But Yorke, to every one’s surprise, stood out. “No,” said he. “It’s Clapperton’s goal; he shall kick it.” So Fellsgarth, perhaps for the first and only time in its records, stood by and witnessed the phenomenon of its captain carrying out the ball and placing it for the vice-captain to kick. It needed all Clapperton’s nerve to save him from flurry and failure even over an easy task like this. But he pulled himself together and kicked the goal. And with that kick he sent flying into the air the last remnant of the bad blood and jealousy which had marred the term and all but wrecked the good old School. Here let us say good-bye—perhaps not for good. For Yorke and Rollitt, and Clapperton and Fisher, and all of them, are still alive and kicking. Rollitt, to the general regret, but to his own satisfaction, left Fellsgarth at the end of the term for the more congenial course of a school of engineering. Before he left he invited Fisher minor to tea in his room, and alarmed that young gentleman by sitting for a whole hour without uttering a word. At length, when the guest had to leave, he said— “Thanks, Fisher minor. Thank those fellows of yours. Tell Yorke the money that bought the boat was what I had been saving for something else. I’ll write to you. Get out, now.” That was the last of Rollitt. Dangle never made up his mind either to apologise or take a thrashing. He never met Rollitt after the return of the latter. When breaking-up day came, he got an excuse to go home earlier than the general crowd; and when School reassembled in January it was known he had left Fellsgarth for good. The two events of the breaking-up “Hall” were—first the announcement by the doctor that, at his request, Yorke would stay on another term at Fellsgarth; secondly, the presentation of a purse containing five pounds to the School clubs by the nine juniors, as the profits for the term on the business of the School shop. Which of these two events produced the more terrific cheers the reader must take upon himself to decide. An hour later, Messrs Wally, D’Arcy, Ashby, Fisher minor, Percy, Cottle, Lickford, Ramshaw, and Cash, limited, walked arm in arm across the Green, after a farewell call on Mrs Stratton, on their way to the School omnibus, which waited at the Watch-Tower. Their progress was temporarily interrupted by the sudden bolt of Fisher minor in pursuit of a lank, cadaverous figure, wearing the Modern colours, who was strolling innocently off in the direction of Mr Forder’s house. “The young un’s got ’em again,” said Wally. “Here, come back, young Fisher minor, can’t you? We shan’t wait.” Fisher minor pulled up. He looked wistfully first at the retreating figure in the distance, then at his eight friends. With a sigh he decided on the latter; and for that term, at least, finally abandoned the quest of his unlucky half-crown. It took some little time to arrange matters on the omnibus, as one or two innocent middle-boys had had the audacity to occupy the box-seat and the row behind, and had to be cajoled or pulled down. How could any one dare, when those two seats just held nine, to imagine that they were not sacred property? “That’s better,” said Wally, when at last the party were safely up, with two rugs over their eighteen knees, and a gross of brandy-balls circulating for the common comfort. “Touch ’em up, driver. Give ’em their heads! I tell you what, you chaps, this has been rather a slow half. I vote we have some larks next term.” “Rather!” chimed in the chorus. <h4>The End.</h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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