The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's Part 38

"What's wrong, old man?" said Oliver, as they walked back, "aren't you well?"

"I'm all right," said Wraysford.

"But you're out of spirits. It's odd that I was in dumps and you were in good spirits up to the fatal day, and now things are just reversed.

But, I say, you mustn't get down, you know, or it'll tell against you at the exam."

"It strikes me every answer I give will tell against me. All I hope is that you get the scholarship."

"I mean to try, just like you and Loman."

And so they went into breakfast, which was a solemn meal, and despite Stephen's care in hunting up delicacies, not very well partaken of.

It seemed ages before the nine o'clock bell summoned them down to the Fifth Form room.

Here, however, the sympathy and encouragement of their cla.s.s-fellows amply served to pa.s.s the time till the examination began.

"Well, you fellows," cried Pembury, as the two entered, "do you feel like winning?"

"Not more than usual," said Oliver. "How do you feel?"

"Oh, particularly cheerful, for I've nothing to do all day, I find. I'm not in for the Nightingale, or for the Mathematical Medal, or for the English Literature. Simon's in for that, you know, so there's no chance for any one."

Simon smiled very blandly at this side compliment.

"So you fellows," continued Tony, "may command my services from morning to night if you like."

"Loman was grinding hard all yesterday," said Braddy. "I'm afraid he'll be rather a hot one to beat."

"But we _must_ beat him, mind, you fellows," said Ricketts, calmly, comprehending the whole cla.s.s in his "we."

"Why, Wray," said another, "how jolly blue you look! Don't go and funk it, old man, or it's all UP."

"Who's going to funk it?" said Oliver, impatiently, on his friend's behalf. "I tell you Wray will most likely win."

"Well, as long as one of you does," said Tom Senior, with n.o.ble impartiality, "we don't care which; do we, Braddy?"

"Of course not."

So, then, all this sympathy and encouragement were not for the two boys at all, but for their Form. They might just as well have been two carefully trained racehorses starting on a race with heavy odds upon them.

The Doctor's entry, however, put an end to any further talk, and, as usual, a dead silence ensued after the boys had taken their seats.

The Doctor looked a little uneasy. Doubtless he was impressed, too, by the importance of the occasion. He proceeded to call over the lists of candidates for the different examinations in a fidgety manner, very unlike his usual self, and then turning abruptly to the cla.s.s, said:

"The Mathematical Medal candidates will remain here for examination.

The English Literature and Nightingale Scholarship candidates will be examined in the Sixth Form room. Boys not in for either of these examinations may go to their studies till the twelve o'clock bell rings.

Before you disperse, however,"--and here the Doctor grew still more fidgety--"I want to mention one matter which I have already mentioned in the Sixth. I mention it not because I suspect any boy here of a dishonourable act, but because--the matter being a mystery--I feel I must not neglect the most remote opportunity of clearing it up."

What on earth was coming? It was as good as a ghost story, every one was so spellbound and mystified.

"On Sat.u.r.day evening I had occasion to leave my study for rather less than five minutes, shortly after nine o'clock. I had been engaged in getting together the various papers of questions for to-day's examinations, and left them lying on the corner of the table. On returning to my study--I had not been absent five minutes--I found that one of the papers--one of the Nightingale Scholarship papers, which I had only just copied out, was missing. If I were not perfectly sure the full number was there before I left the room, I should conclude I was mistaken, but of that I am sure. I just wish to ask this one question here, which I have already asked in the Sixth. Does any boy present know anything about the missing paper?"

You might have heard a pin drop as the Doctor paused for a reply.

"No? I expected not; I am quite satisfied. You can disperse, boys, to your various places."

"What a fellow the Doctor is for speeches, Wray," said Oliver, as he and his friend made their way to the Sixth Form room.

"Yes. But that's a very queer thing about the paper, though."

"Oh, he's certain to have mislaid it somewhere. It's a queer thing saying anything about it; for it looks uncommonly as if he suspected some one."

"So it does. Oh, horrors! here we are at the torture-chamber! I wish it was all over!"

They entered the Sixth Form room, which was regularly cleared for action. One long desk was allotted to the three Nightingale candidates, two others to the English Literature boys, and another to the compet.i.tors in a Sixth Form Greek verse contest.

Loman was already in his place, waiting with flushed face for the ordeal to begin. The two friends took their seats without vouchsafing any notice of their rival, and an uncomfortable two minutes ensued, during which it seemed as if the Doctor were never to arrive.

He did arrive at last, however, bringing with him the examination papers for the various cla.s.ses.

"Boys for the Greek verse prize come forward."

Wren, Raleigh, Winter, and Callonby advanced, and received each one his paper.

"Boys for the Nightingale Scholarship come forward."

The three compet.i.tors obeyed the summons, and to each was handed a paper.

It was not in human nature to forbear glancing hurriedly at the momentous questions, as each walked slowly back to his seat. The effect of that momentary glance was very different on the three boys.

Wraysford's face slightly lengthened, Loman's grew suddenly aghast, Oliver's betrayed no emotion whatever.

"Boys for the English Literature prize come forward."

These duly advanced and were furnished, and then silence reigned in the room, broken only by the rapid scratching of pens and the solemn tick of the clock on the wall.

Reader, you doubtless know the horrors of an examination-room as well as I do. You know what it is to sit biting the end of your pen, and glaring at the ruthless question in front of you. You know what it is to dash nervously from question to question, answering a bit of this and a bit of that, but lacking the patience to work steadily down the list.

And you have experienced doubtless the aggravation of hearing the pen of the man on your right flying along the paper with a hideous squeak, never stopping for a moment to give you a chance. And knowing all this, there is no need for me to describe the vicissitudes of this particular day of ordeal at Saint Dominic's.

The work went steadily on from morning to afternoon. More than one anxious face darted now and then nervous glances up at the clock, as the hour of closing approached.

Loman was one of them. He was evidently in difficulties, and the Fifth Form fellows, who looked round occasionally from their English Literature papers, were elated to see their own men writing steadily and hard, while the Sixth man looked all aground. There was one boy, however, who had no time for such observations. That was Simon. He had got hold of a question which was after his own heart, and demanded every second of his attention--"Describe, in not more than twelve lines of blank verse, the natural beauties of the River Shar." Here was a chance for the _Dominican_ poet!

"The Shar is a very beautiful stream, Of the Ouse a tributary; Up at Gusset Weir it's prettiest, I ween, Because there the birds sing so merry."

These four lines the poet styled, "Canto One." Cantos 2, 3, and 4 were much of the same excellence, and altogether the effusion was in one of Simon's happiest moods. Alas! as another poet said, "Art is long, time is fleeting." The clock pointed to three long before the bard had penned his fifth canto; and sadly and regretfully he and his fellow-candidates gathered together and handed in their papers, for better or worse.

Among the last to finish up was Oliver, who had been working hammer and tongs during the whole examination.