Tom, Dick and Harry Part 16

I was bound to admit that it was a natural inquiry from a person whose shins had been considerably barked by my new boots. I felt as if I owed Mr Sharpe an apology.

"Please," said I, "I didn't mean to do it. The boys shoved me, and I didn't know where I was going, really, sir."

Mr Sharpe seemed inclined to believe me. He was a florid-looking, spectacled young man, with sandy whiskers, and a grip--oh that grip!-- that could have lifted me easily over the Lion Gate.

"Boys," said he, "let us have none of this nonsense, or I must set a house theme. Is Mrs Smiley here?"

Mrs Smiley, looking anything but the "moral" of her name, appeared in due course.

"Mrs Smiley, will you please take charge of this new boy and keep him out of trouble? Run away with Mrs Smiley, my little man; and you, boys, as soon as you have claimed your boxes, clear out till register bell."

What I did my ears deceive me? Was I, an exhibitioner, a scholar who had come up to Low Heath in all the _eclat_ of the latest "form," the friend of Tempest, the fellow who had made things too hot for himself at Dangerfield--was I, I say, to be handed over to a sort of washer-womanly person to be kept out of mischief, and called "my little man" in the presence of the whole house? Was this my triumphant entry then?

No sooner had Mr Sharpe retired, than greetings of "My little man,"

"Spiteful Sarah," "Run along with his Smiley, then," beset me on all sides. I would fain have explained and corrected any wrong impression, but they only laughed when I tried; finally, when Mrs Smiley grabbed at my hand and walked me off the scene like a baby, my humiliation was complete.

Mrs Smiley, who was far too busy with the young gentlemen's luggage to relish the extra duty put upon her by Mr Sharpe, had a very summary way of dealing with cases of my kind.

"Sit down there, and don't move till you're told," said she, pointing to a little three-legged stool in a corner in the box-room.

"But--" began I.

"Hold your tongue; how dare you speak to me?" she retorted.

"I only--"

"Stand in the corner, with your hands behind you, for disobedience,"

said she.

This was getting serious. The little three-legged stool would not have been exactly luxurious; but to be stood in the corner with my hands behind me by a person of the feminine gender called Smiley, was really too bad. The worst of it was that if I made any further protest I might be smacked in addition, and that possibility I hardly dared risk.

So, rather to my own surprise, I found myself standing in the corner, with my hands at my back, scrutinising a blue and pink rose on the wall- paper, and wondering whether it would not be worth my while to write to the _Times_ about the whole business. I could not help thinking that Mrs Smiley did not hurry herself on my account. I was conscious of box after box being dragged to the front, emptied of its contents and put back, to be removed presently by a porter, who probably looked at me every time he came in, but, I am bound to say, received very little encouragement from my studiously averted head.

After nearly an hour I began to get tired, and the blood of the Joneses began to rise within me. I was seriously meditating mutiny, or at least a definite explanation with Mrs Smiley, when at last she broke silence.

"Now, young gentleman, this way, please."

And she led me to a small comfortable-looking apartment, which I surmised to be her particular sanctum.

"What's your name?"

"Jones," said I.

"Ah--you're the boy who's brought down a rubbishy speckled waistcoat and loud striped shirts--eh?"

"Well, yes," said I.

"Did your mother buy them for you, or did you buy them?"

"I did."

"I can see your mother's a lady by the way she has everything else done.

You'll find your own trash just where you put it, in the bottom of your trunk. You will not be allowed to wear it. We expect our boys to dress like young gentlemen, whether they are such or not. What's that in your hand, Jones?"

"My hat," said I, hoping I was coming in for a little credit at last.

"Hat!" Here she was rude enough to laugh. "What made you bring a thing like that here for a hat?"

"But," said I, "I'm an exhibitioner."

"All the more shame on you not dressing like a gentleman. Look at those boots; I am sure your mother did not buy them for you. Take them off at once, sir--and put on your proper ones."

"Aren't they--isn't it the thing, the form, you know, for--"

"Form! Fiddlesticks. The thing at Low Heath is to behave and dress like gentlemen, not like vulgar, public-house potmen," said she, with an access of indignation which surprised me. "To think that you, with a nice mother like yours, should come up here a fright like that! There, put the shoes and hat in the trunk with the speckled waistcoat and shirts, and get yourself up decently, and then I'll speak to you."

I was under the impression she _had_ spoken to me--pretty strongly too.

This, then, was the end of my elaborately prepared toilet!

A horrid suspicion began to come over me at last, not only that Tempest had been having a little joke at my expense, but that I had lent myself to it with an alacrity and eagerness which had almost--nay, very nearly wholly--been ridiculous.

What does the reader think?

My further conversation with good Mrs Smiley, after I had, to use her own expression, made myself decent, only tended to confirm the painful impression. I even went to the length of adding, of my own accord, my six-b.u.t.ton lavender gloves to the pile of sacrificed finery which strewed the bottom of my trunk. And when in due time a bell rang, and Mrs Smiley said, "There now, go down to call-over, and don't be a silly any more," I obeyed with a meekness and diffidence of which I could hardly have believed myself capable, had I not been quite sure of the fact.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

TEMPEST TALKS TO ME LIKE A FATHER.

As I entered the hall, in which were already a.s.sembled most of my fellow "Sharpers," the first idea which occurred to me was that Low Heath was not such a big place after all. I had expected to encounter the whole school, instead of some fifty boys of my own particular house, and it was a relief to me to find that, for the present at any rate, I was to blush before only a limited company.

The next thing that struck me was that these fellows evinced wonderfully little interest in my appearance; which, considering the active interest they had shown in me not long since, was quite a shock. I had made up my mind to be howled at and laughed out of countenance. Instead of which they contented themselves with a half-glance to see who the new- comer was, and then went on talking together as if nothing had happened.

The conceit was already sufficiently knocked out of me to enable me to take this indifference in good part. Possibly when my name was called reference would be made to my exhibition, which would make a few of them look twice at me; but for the present I was glad to be left alone.

At first I could distinguish n.o.body; but in a little I caught sight of Tempest's head among the seniors of the house. He did not see me, nor did he appear to be looking out for me.

Suddenly some one called "Seats!" an order that was so promptly obeyed that it left me standing alone near the door at which I had entered.

"Seats--can't you hear?" said some one near me. I made promptly for the first empty desk I could see. The youth at the end of the row had his back partly turned, and it was necessary to push vigorously past him to arrive at my destination.

"Look out, you mule!" said he; "you trod on my-- Hullo, Sarah, how are you?" and a friendly kick on the shins helped me wonderfully on my way.

It was my old acquaintance of the railway carriage; and next to him was the small youth who had been so terribly concerned about my costume in the morning.

He put his feet up on the desk in front, and gave me the option of climbing over or crawling under. He was about three-quarters my size; but he had such an air of authority about him, that I hardly liked to suggest a third alternative, namely, that he should put down his feet and let me pa.s.s. So I climbed over, much to his indignation (which he expressed by sticking a nib into me as I pa.s.sed).