Stalky & Co.

“Crandall minor that was, and brought off poor Duncan’s body?” The Head nodded. “Where are you going to put him? We’ve turned you out of house and home already, Head Sahib.” This was a Squadron Commander of Bengal Lancers, home on leave.

“I’m afraid he’ll have to go up to his old dormitory. You know old boys can claim that privilege. Yes, I think little Crandall minor must bed down there once more.”

“Bates Sahib “ – a Gunner flung a heavy arm round the Head’s neck – “you’ve got something up your sleeve. Confess! I know that twinkle.”

“Can’t you see, you cuckoo?” a Submarine Miner interrupted. “Crandall goes up to the dormitory as an object-lesson, for moral effect and so forth. Isn’t that true, Head Sahib?”

“It is. You know too much, Purvis. I licked you for that in ‘79.”

“You did, sir, and it’s my private belief you chalked the cane.”

“N-no. But I’ve a very straight eye. Perhaps that misled you.”

That opened the flood-gates of fresh memories, and they all told tales out of school.

When Crandall minor that was – Lieutenant R. Crandall of an ordinary Indian regiment – arrived from Exeter on the morning of the match, he was cheered along the whole front of the College, for the prefects had repeated the sense of that which the Head had read them in Flint’s study. When Prout’s house understood that he would claim his Old Boy’s right to a bed for one night, Beetle ran into King’s house next door and executed a public “gloat” up and down the enemy’s big form-room, departing in a haze of ink-pots.

“What d’you take any notice of those rotters for?” said Stalky, playing substitute for the Old Boys, magnificent in black jersey, white knickers, and black stockings. “I talked to him up in the dormitory when he was changin’. Pulled his sweater down for him. He’s cut about all over the arms – horrid purply ones. He’s goin’ to tell us about it to-night. I asked him to when I was lacin’ his boots.”

“Well, you have got cheek,” said Beetle, enviously.

“Slipped out before I thought. But he wasn’t a bit angry. He’s no end of a chap. I swear, I’m goin’ to play up like beans. Tell Turkey!”

The technique of that match belongs to a bygone age. Scrimmages were tight and enduring; hacking was direct and to the purpose; and around the scrimmage stood the school, crying, “Put down your heads and shove!” Toward the end everybody lost all sense of decency, and mothers of day-boys too close to the touch-line heard language not included in the bills. No one was actually carried off the field, but both sides felt happier when time was called, and Beetle helped Stalky and McTurk into their overcoats. The two had met in the many-legged heart of things, and, as Stalky said, had “done each other proud.” As they swaggered woodenly behind the teams – substitutes do not rank as equals of hairy men – they passed a pony-carriage near the wall, and a husky voice cried, “Well played. Oh, played indeed!” It was Stettson major, white-checked and hollow-eyed, who had fought his way to the ground under escort of an impatient coachman.

“Hullo, Stettson,” said Stalky, checking. “Is it safe to come near you yet?”

“Oh, yes. I’m all right. They wouldn’t let me out before, but I had to come to the match. Your mouth looks pretty plummy.”

“Turkey trod on it accidental-done-a-purpose. Well, I’m glad you’re better, because we owe you something. You and your membranes got us into a sweet mess, young man.”

“I heard of that,” said the boy, giggling. “The Head told me.”

“Dooce he did! When?”

“Oh, come on up to Coll. My shin’ll stiffen if we stay jawin’ here.”

“Shut up, Turkey. I want to find out about this. Well?”

“He was stayin’ at our house all the time I was ill.”

“What for? Neglectin’ the Coll. that way? ‘Thought he was in town.”

“I was off my head, you know, and they said I kept on callin’ for him.”

“Cheek! You’re only a day-boy.”

“He came just the same, and he about saved my life. I was all bunged up one night – just goin’ to croak, the doctor said – and they stuck a tube or somethin’ in my throat, and the Head sucked out the stuff.”

“Ugh! ‘Shot if I would!”

“He ought to have got diphtheria himself, the doctor said. So he stayed on at our house instead of going back. I’d ha’ croaked in another twenty minutes, the doctor says.”

Here the coachman, being under orders, whipped up and nearly ran over the three.

“My Hat!” said Beetle. “That’s pretty average heroic.”

“Pretty average!” McTurk’s knee in the small of his back cannoned him into Stalky, who punted him back. “You ought to be hung!”

“And the Head ought to get the V.C.,” said Stalky. “Why, he might have been dead and buried by now. But he wasn’t. But he didn’t. Ho! ho! He just nipped through the hedge like a lusty old blackbird. Extra-special, five hundred lines, an’ gated for a week – all sereno!”

“I’ve read o’ somethin’ like that in a book,” said Beetle. “Gummy, what a chap! Just think of it!”

“I’m thinking,” said McTurk; and he delivered a wild Irish yell that made the team turn round.

“Shut your fat mouth,” said Stalky, dancing with impatience. “Leave it to your Uncle Stalky, and he’ll have the Head on toast. If you say a word, Beetle, till I give you leave, I swear I’ll slay you. Habeo Capitem crinibus minimis. I’ve got him by the short hairs! Now look as if nothing had happened.”

There was no need of guile. The school was too busy cheering the drawn match. It hung round the lavatories regardless of muddy boots while the team washed. It cheered Crandall minor whenever it caught sight of him, and it cheered more wildly than ever after prayers, because the Old Boys in evening dress, openly twirling their mustaches, attended, and instead of standing with the masters, ranged themselves along the wall immediately 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.”