Follow My leader Part 22

The t.i.tter which greeted this sally highly delighted the tight-laced president, who (especially as his audience consisted of a good sprinkling of the Middle school, attracted by the chance of sport), strained every nerve to sustain his reputation for wit.

"How do you do, Pauncefote, my lad?" said he, as the owner of the light blue silk handkerchief approached. "Why don't you show enough wipe?

Stick a pin in one corner, and leave the rest hanging down. How's the novel, my boy?"

"Pretty well," said Pauncefote.

"Ah, my venerable chum, Smith," continued the president, holding out his hand to the joint secretary.

"Why don't you wash your face, and stick your hands up your sleeves.

How's a fellow to flap you a daddle in those cuffs, eh?"

In this refined style of banter, Culver pa.s.sed his followers in array, gradually degenerating in his humour as he went on, until the last few came in for decidedly broad personalities.

But he saved up his final effort for the new boys, of whom Aspinall happened to be pushed forward first.

"Booh, hoo! poor little baby. Did it come for a little drink of its 'ittle bottle? It should then. Hold out your hand, you young m.u.f.f."

Aspinall obeyed, and next moment was writhing under the "scrunch" which the president in his humour bestowed upon it.

"Now make a bow," demanded that gentleman when the greeting was over.

Aspinall made obeisance, amid loud derisive cheers, and was called upon to repeat the performance several times.

"Now shake hands again."

The boy tried to escape, but his arm was roughly seized, and his hand once more captured in the ruthless grip of his host.

In vain he tried to get free. The more he struggled the tighter the grip became, till at last he fairly fell on his knees, and howled for pain.

Then d.i.c.k, who had gradually been boiling over, could stand it no longer.

"Let his hand go!" he shouted, stepping up to the president, and emphasising his demand with a slight push.

You might have knocked the Den down with a feather! They stared at one another, and then at d.i.c.k, and then at one another again, until their eyes ached.

Then Culver, utterly oblivious of his tight sleeves, or his dignified position, turned red in the face and said--

"What do you mean?"

"What I say," said d.i.c.k, a trifle pale, and breathing hard.

"Will you fight?" said Culver.

"Yes," said d.i.c.k, in a dream, for his head was swimming round, and he forgot where he was, and what the row was about.

"You mean it?" once more asked the president.

"Yes, I do," again retorted d.i.c.k.

"Very well," said Culver.

Instantly there was a stampede of the Den, and cries of "a fight!" shook the halls and pa.s.sages of Templeton.

The Sixth heard it in their lofty regions, whither they had retired after the fatigue of levee.

"Pity to stop it," said Birket, who reported the state of the matter to the seniors. "It'll do good."

"Who's the better man?" asked Cresswell.

"Culver, I fancy."

"Humph!" said the captain, "you'd better be there to see fair play, Birket; and Cresswell will come down and stop it in ten minutes. Eh, Cress?"

"All serene," said Cresswell.

CHAPTER TEN.

DESCRIBES A GREAT BATTLE, AND WHAT FOLLOWED.

Perhaps I ought to begin this chapter with an apology. Perhaps I ought to delude my readers into the belief that it gives me far more pain to describe a fight, than it gave d.i.c.k and his antagonist to take part in it. Perhaps I ought to go back and alter my last chapter, and call in the dogs of war. Perhaps I should solemnly explain to the reader how much more beautiful it would have been in d.i.c.k, if, instead of letting his angry pa.s.sions rise at the sight of young Aspinall's wrongs, he had walked kindly up to the bully, and laying his hand gently on his shoulder, asked him with a sweet smile, whether he thought that was quite a nice thing for a big boy to do to a small one? whether his conscience didn't tell him he erred? and whether he wouldn't go and retire for a quiet hour to his study, and think the matter over with the said conscience? Then, if, at the end of that time he still felt disposed to use physical force towards the little new boy, would he allow him, d.i.c.k, on this occasion to bear the punishment in his young friend's place?

I say, I might, perhaps begin my chapter in this fashion, were it not for two trifling difficulties--one being that I should be a humbug, which it is not my ambition to be; the other, that d.i.c.k, too, would have been a humbug, which he certainly was not.

The truth about fighting is--if one must express an opinion on so delicate a subject--that its right and wrong depend altogether on what you fight about. There are times when to fight is right, and there are a great many more times when to fight is wrong. And for d.i.c.k at the present moment to hold up his hands and say, "Oh, no, thank you," when Culver asked him if it was a fight, would have been as bad every bit, as if he had picked a quarrel and fought with the man who caught him out at cricket.

Having relieved our minds so far, let us, reader, accompany Basil the son of Richard, as he strides; surrounded by his myrmidons, and most of all by the faithful Heathcote, to the Templeton "c.o.c.k pit," where already the large-boned Culver, hemmed in no more by the envious grip of the toga of his mothers sister's son, awaits the fray.

For him Gosse holds the sponge, and bids him hit low, and walk his foeman over the tapes.

And now a score of officious voices cry out "A ring!" and the surging waves fall back, as when a whirlpool opens in mid-ocean.

Tall amid the crowding juniors stalks Birket, at sight of whom d.i.c.k's heart rejoices, and Gosse's countenance falls. For Birket will see fair play.

And now the faithful Heathcote staggers under the weight of his friend's discarded garments, and whispers words of brotherly cheer as the snowy sleeves of the hero roll up his arm, and his chafing collar falls from his swelling neck.

The crowd grows dumb and hearts beat quick, as those two stand there, face to face, the large-boned, solid Culver, and the compact, light- footed d.i.c.k, with his clean, fresh skin, and well-poised head, and tight, determined lips; and the signal goes forth that the battle has begun.

The knowing ones are there, who, with Birket, look close to see what the new boy is made of, and how he works his left. But the unknowing regard the size of their Culver, and prophesy fast and furiously.

Then do these two circle slowly round the tapes, attempting nothing great, but, by feint and parry, seeking each to unmask his man and discover where he is weak and where strong. The unknowing ones and Gosse murmur, and cry on their man to let out. And he, irresolute a moment, yields, and standing drives at his foeman's head. Up goes the right of Basil the son of Richard, and behold while all cry "a parry!"

in goes his left, quick as a flash, and grazes the chin of the solid Culver.

Whereat the ring well-nigh breaks with applause, and the knowing ones nod one at another, and Heathcote leaps for joy and beams like the sun at mid-day as his hero returns to his knees and girds himself for the second round.

Birket looks up at the clock and groans to see five minutes gone.

Gosse, too, groans as his man steps forward once more, unsteady and amazed at what had befallen him. "Hit low!" he whispers.