The Willoughby Captains - Reed Talbot Baines (книги бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗

I am not going to continue the report of this animated and intellectual meeting. It lasted till call-over, was renewed again directly after tea, and continued long after the speakers and audience were in bed. Bosher got dreadfully mobbed, besides being hit on the ear with a stone and hunted several times round the playground by the anti-Radicals.

Altogether Willoughby had gone a little “off its head,” so to speak, on the subject of the election. Riddell found himself powerless to control the excitement, and the other monitors were most of them too much interested in the event themselves to be of much service. The practice for the Rockshire match, as well as the play of the newly-started Welchers’ club, was for the time completely suspended; and it was evident that until the election was over there was no prospect of seeing the school in its right mind again.

The day before the event was a busy and anxious one for the captain. All day long fellows came applying to him on the wildest of pretexts for “permits” the following afternoon to go into town. Pilbury, Cusack, and Philpot wanted to get their hair cut. King and Wakefield had to get measured for boots, and to-morrow afternoon was the only time they could fix for the ceremony. Parson and Telson suddenly recollected that they had never called to pay their respects at Brown’s after the pleasant evening they had spent there a few weeks ago. Strutter, Tedbury, and a few other Limpets were anxious to study geology that afternoon at the Town Museum, Pringle wanted to see how his “uncle” was getting on, etcetera, etcetera.

All which ingenious pretexts the captain very naturally saw through and firmly declined, much to the mortification of the applicants — who many of them returned to the charge with fresh and still more ingenious arguments for making an exception in their particular case. But all to no effect. About midday the captain’s study was empty, and the following notice pasted on the door told its own story.

Notice.

By the Doctor’s order, no permits will be allowed to-morrow. Call-over will be at four instead of five.

A. Riddell, Capt.

In other words, the authorities were determined that Willoughby should take no part in the election, and to make things quite sure had fixed call-over for the very hour when the poll would be closing. Of course poor Riddell came in for all the blame of this unpopular announcement, and had a bad time of it in consequence. It was at first reported that the captain was a Radical, and that that was the reason of the prohibition, but this story was contradicted by his appearance that same evening with a yellow ribbon in his buttonhole. It was next insinuated that as he had not been allowed to go down himself he was determined no one else should, and Willoughby, having once taken up the idea, convinced itself this was the truth. However, when a good many of the disappointed applicants went to Bloomfield, and were met by him with a similar refusal, it began to dawn upon them that after all the doctor might be at the bottom of this plot to thwart them of their patriotic desires, and this discovery, though it by no means allayed their discontent, appeared to keep their resentment within some sort of bounds.

The juniors, disappointed in the hope of publicly displaying their anti-radical sentiments before all Shellport, looked about for consolation indoors that evening, and found it in a demonstration against the unlucky Bosher, who, against his will, had been forced to personate the Radical at the recent meeting, and now found it impossible to retrieve his reputation. He was hissed all round the playground, and finally had to barricade himself in his study to escape further persecution. But even there he was not safe. The youthful Whigs forced their way into his stronghold, and after much vituperation and reproach, proceeded to still more violent measures. “Howling young Radical cad!” exclaimed Telson, who, carried away by the excitement of the hour, had forgotten all Mr Parrett’s prohibitions, and had come to visit his old allies; “you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Indeed, I’m Yellow,” pleaded the unhappy Bosher. “They forced me to be Cheeseman at the meeting, but it wasn’t my fault.”

“Don’t tell crams,” cried the others. “It’s bad enough to be a Radical without trying to deceive us.”

“I’m not trying to deceive you, really I’m not,” protested Bosher.

“I’ll be anything you like. I hate the Radicals. Oh, I say, don’t be cads, you fellows. Let me be a Whig, do!”

“No,” cried the virtuous Parson. “We’ll have no Radical cads on our side.”

“But I’m not a Radical cad,” cried Bosher; “at least not a Radical.”

At that moment King made a sudden grab at a small black book which lay on the mantelpiece.

“Oh, you fellows,” cried he, “here’s a lark. Here’s his diary.”

A mighty Whig cheer followed the discovery, amidst which Bosher’s wild protests and entreaties were quite drowned.

“His diary!” exclaimed Parson. “That’ll show if he’s a Radical or not. Hand it over, King. That’ll show up his jolly gross conduct, eh?”

“No, no!” cried Bosher. “Give it up, you fellows; it’s mine. Don’t be cads, I say; it’s private.” And he made a wild dash for his treasure.

But it was no use. Parson gravely addressed his prisoner.

“Look here, young Bosher, it’s no use making a row. We must look at the diary to see if you’re really a Radical or not. It’s our painful duty, so you’d better be quiet. We’re sorry to have to do it, you know, but it can’t be helped. If we find nothing Radical in the diary we’ll let you off.”

It was no use protesting, and poor Bosher had to submit with the best grace he could to hear his inmost thoughts read out in public.

“Here, Telson, old man,” said Parson, “you read it. Speak out, mind. Better go backwards; start at yesterday.”

Telson took the precious volume solemnly and began, frequently interrupted by the protests of the author, and more frequently by the laughter of his audience.

“‘Thursday, the 4th day of the week.’” (“I always thought it was the fifth,” observed Cusack). — “Rose at 6:13. Time forbad to shave down in the Big. N.B. — The world is big, I am small in the world, I sawest Riddell who is now in Welch’s playing cricket with the little boys. Pilbury sported too, ugly in the face. (Here all but Pilbury seemed greatly amused.) Also Cusack, who thinks a great deal,”—(“Hear, hear,” from Cusack)—“about himself. (Laughter.) I attend an election at 10:2 in the Big. Parson taketh the chair. Parson is a f — l and two between.”

“Oh!” broke in the outraged Parson. “I knew he was a Radical cad. All right, Bosher, my boy; you’ll catch it! Steam away, Telson!”

“‘It was a gross meeting, Pringle being much stuck-up. He maketh a speech. Meditations while Pringle is making a speech. The grass is very green. (Great laughter at Pringle’s expense.) I will aspire up Telson thinketh he is much, but thou ist not oh, Telson, much at all I spoke boldly and to the point. I am the Radical.’”

“There you are!” exclaimed Parson, triumphantly: “didn’t I tell you so? Bosher! What do you mean by telling such howling crams, Bosher?”

“I only meant—”

“Shut up! Fire away, Telson!”

“‘I am the Radical. I desire to smash everything the little Welchers make noises. Meditations: let me be noble dinner at 3:1 stew. The turnips are gross. I request leave of Riddell to go to the town to-morrow but he sayeth no. I am roused’—that’s all of yesterday.”

“About enough too!” exclaimed the wrathful Parson. “Just read the day before, before we start hiding him.”

“Oh, please don’t lick me!” cried the unhappy author: “I’ll apologise, you know, Parson, Telson; please don’t!”

“‘Wednesday — rose at 8:13. Sang as I shaved the Vicar of Bray. I shall now describe my fellows which are all ugly and gross. Parson is the worst.’”