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

Chapter Twenty Five

“Am I My Brother’s Keeper?”

The evening of the Rockshire match was one of strangely conflicting emotions in Willoughby.

In the schoolhouse the jubilation was beyond bounds, and the victory of the school was swallowed up in the glorious exploits of the five schoolhouse heroes, who had, so their admirers declared, as good as won the match among them, and had vindicated themselves from the reproach of degeneracy, and once for all wiped away the hateful stigma of the boat-race. The night was spent till bedtime in one prolonged cheer in honour of their heroes, who were glad enough to hide anywhere to escape the mobbing they came in for whenever they showed their faces.

In Parrett’s house the festivities were of a far more subdued order. As Willoughbites they were, of course, bound to rejoice in the victory of the old school. But at what cost did they do it? For had not that very victory meant also the overthrow of their reign in Willoughby. No reasoning or excusing could do away with the fact that after all their boasting, and all their assumed superiority, they had taken considerably less than half the wickets, secured considerably less than a third of the catches, and scored considerably less than a quarter of the runs by which the match had been won. Their captain had been bowled for a duck’s-egg. Their best bowlers had been knocked about by the very batsmen whom the schoolhouse bowlers had dispatched with ease.

It was vain to attempt to account for it, to assert that the schoolhouse had had the best of the luck: that the light had favoured them; or that just when they happened to bowl the Rockshire men had got careless. Even such stick-at-nothing enthusiasts as Parson, Bosher, and Co., couldn’t make a case of it, and were forced to admit with deep mortification that the glory had departed from Parrett’s, at any rate for a season.

Perhaps the most patriotic rejoicings that evening were in Welch’s house. They cared but little about the rivalry between Parrett’s, and the schoolhouse, and were therefore free to exult as Willoughbites pure and simple, bestowing, of course, a special cheer on their own man, Riddell, who, though not having performed prodigies, had yet done honest work for his eleven, and at any rate made one smart catch.

“I tell you what,” said Fairbairn, who along with Coates and Porter had escaped from the violent applause of the schoolhouse and sought refuge that evening in the captain’s study—“I tell you what, I’m getting perfectly sick of this everlasting schoolhouse against Parrett business.”

“So am I,” said Porter. “As if they need go into the sulks because our fellows did better than they did!”

“They’ve brought it on themselves, anyhow,” said Coates, “and it may do them good to have to sing small for once.”

“I’m afraid if it had been the other way our fellows would have been just as much cut up as theirs are,” said Fairbairn. “Upon my word I half envy you, Riddell, old man, being a Welcher.”

Riddell smiled.

“Our fellows certainly consider themselves free to abuse or cheer all round, without the least partiality. Listen to them now.”

And certainly the hubbub that was going on was a trifle outrageous, even for Welchers.

Indeed it was so outrageous that Riddell was obliged to ask his visitors to excuse him for a moment while he went and quieted them.

As he opened the door of the preparation-room, where the house was assembled, a louder cheer than ever arose in his honour; and then those who waited in the study heard a general lull in the noise, which continued in subdued animation after he had left the scene and returned to his friends.

This casual illustration of the captain’s influence in his new house was quite a revelation to the three schoolhouse monitors.

“Why, what do you do to them to shut them up like that?” asked Coates, with something like envy in his tones. “It takes half an hour’s bawling to stop a row like that in our house, and a licking or two into the bargain; doesn’t it, you fellows?”

Riddell laughed.

“They are cricket-mad at present,” said he, “and I suppose they’re afraid of having their match against Parrett’s stopped.”

It was a modest way, no doubt, of accounting for their obedience to his authority; but whatever the reason might be, it was certain the captain had no further occasion to interfere that evening.

“There’s one comfort about this match,” said Fairbairn, after a pause, “we probably shall not hear any more of that wretched boat-race now.”

Whatever induced him to start this most unfortunate topic at this time of all others?

Riddell, who amid all the excitement of the match had contrived partially to forget the burden that lay on his spirit, started uncomfortably at the words, and his face changed to one of undisguised trouble. The others could hardly help noticing it.

“No, we’re never likely to get at the bottom of it,” said Porter; “so the sooner it drops the better.”

“It’s very odd, all the same,” said Fairbairn, “that there’s not been a single hint as to who did it. I wonder if, perhaps, we were wrong in taking for granted it was more than an accident.”

This last question was addressed to Riddell, who replied, nervously and uneasily, “No, that is, yes. It can’t have been. I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.”

His three friends looked perplexed by his sudden confusion and change of manner, and Porter had the presence of mind to change the subject.

“I hear there’s a jolly row on between Silk and Gilks,” said he. “No one knows exactly why.”

“I heard it was a bet,” said Coates.

“At any rate they’ve had a split,” said Porter.

“They never did much good while they were in partnership,” said Coates. “Young Wyndham got rather drawn in by them, I heard.”

“Rather!” said Fairbairn. “He was precious near going to the dogs altogether if old Riddell here hadn’t pulled him up.”

Riddell seemed to lack spirit to join in the conversation, which continued without him.

“Yes, the young ’un cuts them dead now,” said Porter, “but he’s a bit afraid of them still, I fancy.”

“I suppose they could let out upon him about some scrape or other,” said Coates, “and that’s what gives them a pull.”

“Anyhow, it’s a good job he has pulled up,” said Fairbairn, “for he’s not a bad youngster. He’s got into the second-eleven just lately, and is tremendously proud of it. He’s vowed he’ll get old Wyndham to come down and umpire in the match with Templeton second-eleven next month.”

All this talk was anything but pleasant for poor Riddell. Little did the speakers dream of the connection between the boat-race and young Wyndham; in fact, the latter topic, as he knew quite well, had been started on purpose to get over the awkwardness which his own confusion about the former had caused.

But to Riddell, with that knife burning in his pocket, it was all one prolonged torture, so that he was heartily glad when at length his friends rose to depart.

He excused himself from walking across the quadrangle with them, and said good-night in a spiritless way, very different from the cheery manner in which he had welcomed them an hour ago.

“I never saw such a rum fellow as Riddell,” said Coates, as the three strolled over. “Did you see how cut up he got when something was said about the boat-race?”

“He’s a little cracked on that subject,” said Fairbairn. “I do believe, until the culprit is found out, he considers himself responsible for the whole affair.”

“Well, to judge by his looks he might have been the culprit himself,” said Porter, laughing. “Hullo, here’s young Wyndham.”

“Where are you off to?” asked Fairbairn, with due monitorial solemnity, of that flighty youth; “don’t you know it’s nearly eight?”

“Oh, do you mind my going across to Riddell’s?” asked the boy; “he’ll think I’ve cut him if I don’t show up. I’ve not been to his room for half a week.”