Stalky & Co. - Rudyard Kipling (ebooks children's books free TXT) 📗

before the prefects; and the Head called them over, too—majors, minors, and tertiuses, after their old names.

“Yes, it’s all very fine,” he said to his guests after dinner, “but the boys are getting a little out of hand. There will be trouble and sorrow later, I’m afraid. You’d better turn in early, Crandall. The dormitory will be sitting up for you. I don’t know to what dizzy heights you may climb in your profession, but I do know you’ll never get such absolute adoration as you’re getting now.”

“Confound the adoration. I want to finish my cigar, sir.”

“It’s all pure gold. Go where glory waits, Crandall—minor.”

The setting of that apotheosis was a ten-bed attic dormitory, communicating through doorless openings with three others. The gas flickered over the raw pine washstands. There was an incessant whistling of drafts, and outside the naked windows the sea beat on the Pebbleridge.

“Same old bed—same old mattress, I believe,” said Crandall, yawning. “Same old everything. Oh, but I’m lame! I’d no notion you chaps could play like this.” He caressed a battered shin. “You’ve given us all something to remember you by.”

It needed a few minutes to put them at their ease; and, in some way they could not understand, they were more easy when Crandall turned round and said his prayers—a ceremony he had neglected for some years.

“Oh, I am sorry. I’ve forgotten to put out the gas.”

“Please don’t bother,” said the prefect of the dormitory. “Worthington does that.”

A nightgowned twelve-year-old, who had been waiting to show off, leaped from his bed to the bracket and back again, by way of a washstand.

“How d’you manage when he’s asleep?” said Crandall, chuckling.

“Shove a cold cleek down his neck.”

“It was a wet sponge when I was junior in the dormitory… Hullo! What’s happening?”

The darkness had filled with whispers, the sound of trailing rugs, bare feet on bare boards, protests, giggles, and threats such as:

“Be quiet, you ass!… Squattez-vous on the floor, then!… I swear you aren’t going to sit on my bed!… Mind the tooth-glass,” etc.

Sta—Corkran said,” the prefect began, his tone showing his sense of Stalky’s insolence, “that perhaps you’d tell us about that business with Duncan’s body.”

“Yes—yes—yes,” ran the keen whispers. “Tell us”

“There’s nothing to tell. What on earth are you chaps hoppin’ about in the cold for?”

“Never mind us,” said the voices. “Tell about Fat-Sow.”

So Crandall turned on his pillow and spoke to the generation he could not see.

“Well, about three months ago he was commanding a treasure-guard—a cart full of rupees to pay troops with—five thousand rupees in silver. He was comin’ to a place called Fort Pearson, near Kalabagh.”

“I was born there,” squeaked a small fag. “It was called after my uncle.”

“Shut up—you and your uncle! Never mind him, Crandall.”

“Well, ne’er mind. The Afridis found out that this treasure was on the move, and they ambushed the whole show a couple of miles before he got to the fort, and cut up the escort. Duncan was wounded, and the escort hooked it. There weren’t more than twenty Sepoys all told, and there were any amount of Afridis. As things turned out, I was in charge at Fort Pearson. Fact was, I’d heard the firing and was just going to see about it, when Duncan’s men came up. So we all turned back together. They told me something about an officer, but I couldn’t get the hang of things till I saw a chap under the wheels of the cart out in the open, propped up on one arm, blazing away with a revolver. You see, the escort had abandoned the cart, and the Afridis—they’re an awfully suspicious gang —thought the retreat was a trap—sort of draw, you know—and the cart was the bait. So they had left poor old Duncan alone. ‘Minute they spotted how few we were, it was a race across the flat who should reach old Duncan first. We ran, and they ran, and we won, and after a little hackin’ about they pulled off. I never knew it was one of us till I was right on top of him. There are heaps of Duncans in the service, and of course the name didn’t remind me. He wasn’t changed at all hardly. He’d been shot through the lungs, poor old man, and he was pretty thirsty. I gave him a drink and sat down beside him, and—funny thing, too—he said, ‘Hullo, Toffee!’ and I said, ‘Hullo, Fat-Sow! hope you aren’t hurt,’ or something of the kind. But he died in a minute or two—never lifted his head off my knees… I say, you chaps out there will get your death of cold. Better go to bed.”

“All right. In a minute. But your cuts—your cuts. How did you get wounded?”

“That was when we were taking the body back to the Fort. They came on again, and there was a bit of a scrimmage.”

“Did you kill any one?”

“Yes. Shouldn’t wonder. Good-night.”

“Good-night. Thank you, Crandall. Thanks awf’ly, Crandall. Good-night.”

The unseen crowds withdrew. His own dormitory rustled into bed and lay silent for a while.

“I say, Crandall”—Stalky’s voice was tuned to a wholly foreign reverence.

“Well, what?”

“Suppose a chap found another chap croaking with diphtheria—all bunged up with it—and they stuck a tube in his throat and the chap sucked the stuff out, what would you say?”

“Um,” said Crandall, reflectively. “I’ve only heard of one case, and that was a doctor. He did it for a woman.”

“Oh, this wasn’t a woman. It was just a boy.”

“Makes it all the finer, then. It’s about the bravest thing a man can do. Why?”

“Oh, I heard of a chap doin’ it. That’s all.”

“Then he’s a brave man.”

“Would you funk it?”

“Ra-ather. Anybody would. Fancy dying of diphtheria in cold blood.”

“Well—ah! Er! Look here!” The sentence ended in a grunt, for Stalky had leaped out of bed and with McTurk was sitting on the head of Beetle, who would have sprung the mine there and then.

Next day, which was the last of the term and given up to a few wholly unimportant examinations, began with wrath and war. Mr. King had discovered that nearly all his house—it lay, as you know, next door but one to Prout’s in the long range of buildings—had unlocked the doors between the dormitories and had gone in to listen to a story told by Crandall. He went to the Head, clamorous, injured, appealing; for he never approved of allowing so-called young men of tile world to contaminate the morals of boyhood. Very good, said the Head, he would attend to it.

“Well, I’m awf’ly sorry,” said Crandall guiltily. “I don’t think I told ‘em anything they oughtn’t to hear. Don’t let them get into trouble on my account.”

“Tck!” the Head answered, with the ghost of a wink. “It isn’t the boys that make trouble; it’s the masters. However, Prout and King don’t approve of dormitory gatherings on this scale, and one must back up the housemasters. Moreover, it’s hopeless to punish two houses only, so late in the term. We must be fair and include everybody. Let’s see. They have a holiday task for the Easters, which, of course, none of them will ever look at. We will give the whole school, except prefects and study-boys, regular prep. to-night; and the Common-room will have to supply a master to take it. We must be fair to all.”

“Prep. on the last night of the term. Whew!” said Crandall, thinking of his own wild youth. “I fancy there will be larks.”

The school, frolicking among packed trunks, whooping down the corridor, and “gloating” in form-rooms, received the news with amazement and rage. No school in the world did prep. on the last night of the term. This thing was monstrous, tyrannical, subversive of law, religion, and morality. They would go into the form-rooms, and they would take their degraded holiday task with them, but—here they smiled and speculated what manner of man the Common-room would send up against them. The lot fell on Mason, credulous and enthusiastic, who loved youth. No other master was anxious to take that “prep.,” for the school lacked the steadying influence of tradition; and men accustomed to the ordered routine of ancient foundations found it occasionally insubordinate. The four long form-rooms, in which all below the rank of study-boys worked, received him with thunders of applause. Ere he had coughed twice they favored him with a metrical summary of the marriage laws of Great Britain, as recorded by the High Priest of the Israelites and commented on by the leader of the host. The lower forms reminded him that it was the last day, and that therefore he must “take it all in play.” When he dashed off to rebuke them, the Lower Fourth and Upper Third began with one accord to be sick, loudly and realistically. Mr. Mason tried, of all vain things under heaven, to argue with them, and a bold soul at a back desk bade him “take fifty lines for not ‘olding up ‘is ‘and before speaking.” As one who prided himself upon the perfection of his English this cut Mason to the quick, and while he was trying to discover the offender, the Upper and Lower Second, three form-rooms away, turned out the gas and threw inkpots. It was a pleasant and stimulating “prep.” The study-boys and prefects heard the echoes of it far off, and the Common-room at dessert smiled.

Stalky waited, watch in hand, till half-past eight. “If it goes on much longer the Head will come up,” said he. “We’ll tell the studies first, and then the dorm-rooms. Look sharp!”

He allowed no time for Beetle to be dramatic or McTurk to drawl. They poured into study after study, told their tale, and went again so soon as they saw they were understood, waiting for no comment; while the noise of that unholy “prep.” grew and deepened. By the door of Flint’s study they met Mason flying towards the corridor.—“He’s gone to fetch the Head. Hurry up! Come on!” They broke into Number Twelve form-room abreast and panting.

“The Head! The Head! The Head!” That call stilled the tumult for a minute, and Stalky, leaping to a desk, shouted, “He went and sucked the diphtheria stuff out of Stettson major’s throat when we thought he was in town. Stop rotting, you asses! Stettson major would have croaked if the Head hadn’t done it. The Head might have died himself. Crandall says it’s the bravest thing any livin’ man can do, and I”—his voice cracked—“the Head don’t know we know!”

McTurk and Beetle, jumping from desk to desk, drove the news home among the junior forms. There was a pause, and then, Mason behind him, the Head entered. It was in the established order of things that no boy should speak or move under his eye. He expected the hush of awe. He was received with cheers—steady, ceaseless cheering. Being a wise man, he went away, and the forms were silent and a little frightened.

“It’s all right,” said Stalky. “He can’t do much. ‘Tisn’t as if you’d pulled the desks up like we did when old Carleton took prep. once. Keep it up! Hear ‘em cheering in the studies!” He rocketed out with a yell, to find Flint and the prefects lifting the roof off the corridor.

When the Head of a limited liability company, paying four per cent., is cheered on his saintly way to prayers, not only by four form-rooms of boys waiting punishment, but by his trusted prefects, he can either ask for an explanation or go his road with dignity, while the senior housemaster glares like an excited cat and points out to a white and trembling mathematical master that