WRITING UP THE LOG.
WRITING UP THE LOG. Page 8..
Title page
CHARLEY'S LOG.
A Story of Schoolboy Life.
By the Author of
"Soldier Fritz, and the Enemies he Fought;"
"Glaucia, the Greek Slave," etc.
LONDON:
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,
56, Paternoster Row; 65, St. Paul's Churchyard;
and 164, Piccadilly.
Contents headpiece
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. The Two Friends
II. Disenchantment
III. The Skating Party
IV. The Accident
V. Cribs
VI. Was it Robbery?
VII. A Surprise
VIII. Running Away to Sea
IX. Conclusion
Chapter I headpiece
CHAPTER I.
THE TWO FRIENDS.
October 4th.—I am going to keep a log. I shall have to do it by-and-by when I am Captain Charles Stewart, and so, as I have been sent to school to prepare for my work in the world by-and-by, this will be helping in the preparation. Mamma often talks about my work in the world, but I am almost sure there is no sea in the world she is thinking about, while to me—well, the sea is all the world to me. But mamma wants me to forget it, and all Uncle Alfred's wonderful stories about it, and that is why I have been sent here to school; but Tom Haslitt is with me, and is not likely to let me forget uncle and his sea yarns. Tom is to be my lieutenant by-and-by, and as he will have to help with the ship's log then, he is to take a turn with this.
It was kind of mamma to arrange for Tom and I to have this little bedroom—cabin, I mean—all to ourselves; but I am afraid she would not be pleased to see how we have rigged it up, considering that she wants me to mount Uncle Charles's office stool by-and-by.
I hope that tarred yarn Tom has stowed away under the bed don't smell too strong. The compasses and charts and bits of boats we've got hanging about are pretty ornaments, and by-and-by, when we get our ship finished, our little cock-loft will be furnished.
I can't say much about the fellows here at present, but they look a very quiet lot, and one with fair hair certainly ought to have it put in curl-papers every night. I shan't have much to say to him, I know; give him a wide berth, and stick close to Tom. If we could only have gone somewhere else, some school where they train sailors, I might learn something, but it will do me no good to come here, I'm sure, and I've told mamma so.
October 6th.—The captain says I must help with the log. I'd rather heave up a couple of hammocks here and bundle these bedsteads out of the window, but I suppose we may look out for squalls if we do too much in the nautical line, for Charley has got into a scrape already. What they want to keep housemaids for at a boys' school I can't think, unless it is that they may go poking about where they are not wanted. I'm sure that rope yarn did not smell much, but she found it out, that housemaid did; and when Charley tried to get it back there was a row.
The fellows here are not so bad, when you come to know them, but I don't think I shall ever like the governor—the Doctor, as everybody calls him—or the under masters either; although I think we shall be able to do very much as we like here, as we have done at home; at least, Charley and I mean to have our own way in most things, if we possibly can.
October 10th.—What a place this is for rows! Everybody looks as mild as turnips, from the governor down to the housemaid that took our yarn. But looks are deceitful, I suppose; at least, Tom and I won't have such a pleasant, easy time as we expected. If things get much worse I shall write and ask mamma to fetch me home; I'm sure she wouldn't let me stop if I didn't like it, for I have always had my own way about everything but this sea scheme, and, like all mothers, she's afraid of the sea, of course—thinks it a monster that will certainly swallow me up.
I don't know what to make of the governor. Yesterday he called me into his room, and gave me a private lecture about duty and conscience, and a lot more about my lessons never being properly learned, and about school being a little world where character was tested, and made stronger and nobler or worse, according as we used our opportunities or yielded to our temptations. I told Tom all about it afterwards, and we laughed over it together; but I cannot forget it, or the grave, earnest way in which the governor spoke—exactly as though he knew that Tom and I had made up our minds not to learn more than we were obliged.
October 14th.—Tom hates keeping the log, but I tell him he will have to do it by-and-by, and so he ought to get his hand in now; but he says we've come to school to have a good time and as much fun as we can. Well, so we have, I suppose; at least, that was all I thought about it until lately; but, somehow, mamma's talk about preparing for our life-work, and the governor's talk about it being a test and trial of character, have got mixed up in my mind, and it has made me remember that mamma is not rich, and that I am her only child, and I shall have to work by-and-by. I mean to work and take care of her, buy a carriage for her to ride in, and everything she wants when I am a captain and have made my fortune. But I am afraid I shall have to begin by running away to sea. I've quite made up my mind to do it, for mamma is more than a little unreasonable about this, she won't even let me talk about it to her. But there, I won't grumble; she's a dear mother, and reasonable enough in everything else, and has always let me have my own way about most things.
Tom has got himself into another scrape, and the governor has threatened to separate us—send Tom to another room and put another fellow in here. I should write home to the mater at once if he did that, for it would upset everything, and the place would be unbearable. Some of the fellows grumbled, too, yesterday, that we were always in the shed they call the workshop instead of in the playground. What is it to them if we like to make boats instead of throwing a ball about? We can do as we like in the playground, I suppose. I hate cricket, that they make such a fuss about here; and if they drag me into playing it they'll soon find I'm no good, and wish me out again.
October 20th.—This is the last chance I shall get of writing in Charley's log, I expect, for I am to be turned out of his cabin, and Miss Chandos is to take my place. I mean to call him "Miss" in the playground now as well as between ourselves, for I hate the thought of his taking my place here. I wonder how Charley will like the young lady. Miss Chandos don't seem to like the prospect much more than I do, but we dare not rebel.
Charley is packing up my traps while I do the log, grumbling all the time, and threatening to serve out Miss Chandos. The young lady will not have it all her own way, I can tell her. There will be lively times with her and Charley. I wish I could stay and see the fun, but I shall hear all about it to-morrow, and Charley has promised to put it all down in the log. He says it will be good fun to read this log over to ourselves by-and-by. We mean to keep it to read on board our ship of an evening, and many a good laugh we shall have over it, I dare say. I wonder whether we shall ever laugh at this turn out. I don't think I ever shall, for Charley and I have always been chums ever since I can remember, so that it seems like—like something dreadful to have him turned over to Miss Chandos.
October 22nd.—No more of dear old Tom's sprawling writing in our log, for I wouldn't take it down into the schoolroom for the other fellows to see; no, not for anything. Yes, poor Tom's gone, and Miss Chandos has arrived. I soon let her know what sort of a welcome she was likely to have from me. Tom's traps had hardly been bundled out before the housemaid came with her hands full, and white-faced Miss Chandos behind her.
"Is this your lady's maid, Miss Chandos?" I asked. "Does she curl your hair and powder your face?"
His face was scarlet enough then, but he only said, "Thank you, Ann; if you will put down those things I will put them into their places."
"Oh, Ann," I said, with a sniff; "you had better come back, Ann, and bring the curl-papers. Or do you use curling-irons?" I asked.
Ann looked indignant, and Chandos too, but neither said a word, and she went out of the room.
When we were left to ourselves, and Chandos had put away some of his things, he suddenly turned round and said, "I hope we shall be friends, Stewart."
I hardly knew what to say for a minute, for I felt surprised and half ashamed of myself; but, thinking of Tom, and what he expected to hear, I made a mock bow, and replied, "Gentlemen must always be friends with a young lady. Tom and I will be delighted, Miss Chandos;" and then I stopped, for such a look came into his fair girl-face as never was seen in a girl's face before, I fancy. There was no more said, and I went downstairs feeling somehow as though I had not got the best of it after all, and that I might even be mistaken in thinking Miss Chandos such a coward. But after a little time spent in the playground with Tom I forgot Miss Chandos and her looks, until Tom reminded me of it, and I promised to let him know everything that happened.
Of course something was bound to happen then. How could I meet Tom in the morning and tell him the young lady had slept in peace, and everything had passed off comfortably? But what could I do? Tom and I generally had some fun throwing our clothes at each other, or shooting paper pellets from under the bedclothes after we had scrambled into bed, until Swain came and took the light away, and then we ducked our heads down and went to sleep. But there was no telling whether Miss Chandos would tumble into bed as quickly as we did. I certainly was not surprised to see her sit down and take up a book that lay on the drawers and begin to read. I let her read in peace for about five minutes, and then snatched it away and flung it across the room. I really did not see that it was a Bible until it was out of my hand; but I did not mean to let Chandos know that, or that I felt sorry for throwing it.
"Don't do that again, Stewart," he said, as he went to pick it up; and I burst out laughing to hide my vexation, and asked when Ann was coming to do his hair.
He took no notice of my question, and I tumbled into bed, wondering what Chandos would do next. I had my pea-shooter and a good supply of pellets ready for whatever happened; but I certainly expected to see him follow my example and tumble into bed. But instead of doing this he kneeled down at the side of the bed as though I had not been there, which rather startled me, for I thought he would and ought to be afraid to attempt it after what I had already done. I waited a minute or two, and then, taking a good aim, hit him right in the back of the neck. It made him start, I could see, and I laughed, though I expected he would jump up and give me a good pommelling the next minute, for it was clear he was no coward, as I had thought at first, and he would never have a better chance of pitching in, if he meant to fight it out. But no, she kept on, and so did I—pop, pop, pop at his head and the back of his neck, until it tingled again, I know. But she wouldn't complain; wanted to make believe she hadn't felt it, and said "Good night," as though I was the most civil and obliging companion in the world. It was plucky, anyhow, and I like pluck; but we shall see who gives in first, Miss Chandos; it will take a good deal to make me tire of pea-shooting, I can tell you, and it will be good practice too.
October 24th.—How Tom and I have laughed over that plucky Miss Chandos! I am not sure that the fellow deserves to be called "Miss" either, for he is plucky right through, I know—the sort of fellow that would walk up to a cannon's mouth without flinching if he was a soldier and it was his duty. What a splendid sailor he would make! I could fancy him steering his ship right under the enemy's guns if it was necessary, but never yielding an inch or knowing when he was beaten. He's beaten me at pea-shooting, and made me feel ashamed of myself. I wonder what Miss Chandos is going to be—a parson, I should think; and he means to do his life-work thoroughly, and is beginning now, as I am in keeping this log.
It seems queer that we shall all be men very soon—some sailors, some soldiers, some lawyers, and some tied to a merchant's desk, which is mother's highest ambition for me. She talks grandly sometimes about merchant princes, and how uncle will give me a share in his business; but I always try to get out of the way, for I mean to run away to sea when the time comes, and I hate to be a hypocrite.
October 30th.—Another row. I knew it would come if they turned us out of our workshop; but the best of the fun is, they don't know who has been up to this mischief, though Tom and I are both suspected, I believe. For a wonder, though, I had no hand in this, I only wish I had. Tom managed cleverly, too, to turn all the farm-yard out as he did—pigs and cows, ducks and hens; and didn't they enjoy their hour's feast in the garden! I fancy I see the governor now as he came rushing out in time to see the last of his dahlias disappear, and then the whooping and helter-skelter charge of the servants, with the governor at the head of the fray. This will be something to laugh over many a night when the wind is blowing great guns, and we are pitching and tossing so that it is impossible to read or write up the ship's log, which we shall have to keep then. The picture of to-day's fun will rise up before us long after everybody else has forgotten it. Plucky Tom! I wish I had had a share of the fun in setting the animals at liberty. I don't dare ask how he did it all yet, for the fuss is at its height, and everybody is being questioned. Of course, suspicions go for nothing, and nobody really saw who did it, and so Tom is not likely to be found out unless he splits himself, which is not very probable, unless somebody else is charged with it, and then of course he would make a clean breast of it.
CHAPTER II.
DISENCHANTMENT.
November 1st.—Chandos has got himself into a scrape, and nobody seems to know what it is about. I have asked several of the fellows, but they only shake their heads and tell me I know more about it than they do. I am sure I do not; but as Chandos shares my room they think I must be in his secrets, I suppose. I cannot help wondering what it is—something that has got the governor's back up awfully, I can see. Chandos has been locked up all day in the punishment-room, and nobody seems to know whether he will be let out to-night. I wish I was sure he was not coming, and I would try to get Tom in here, and we'd have some fun for once. I wonder what the young lady has been up to.
November 14th.—I have not written up my log for a fortnight, and now I have only a miserable tale to tell. At first I thought I'd give up the log, as Tom will never be my lieutenant now to laugh over it; but I'll keep on with it a bit longer. I thought we should often laugh over Tom's setting the farm-yard at liberty as he did, but somehow it seems to have been a dreadful trouble to everybody; but no one can feel just as I do about it, for it has taken my old chum away from me, and we can never be again what we have been. What did they want to make such a fuss about it for, and punish Miss Chandos? The governor must have been as blind as a mole to think Chandos had anything to do with it. It was ever so long before I found out the tops and bottoms of the business; but at last I found one of the juniors could tell something, and I got him by himself and threatened to break every bone in his skin if he didn't shell out all he knew, and then it came out that he had seen Chandos close to the farm-yard just before the animals were turned out, and the miserable little muff had gone with that tale to the governor as soon as the row began.
"But you know it wasn't Chandos," I said, thinking he must have seen Tom too.
"Wasn't it?" said the youngster.
I gave him a shake, and ran off to Chandos, who was just going into the cricket-field. "What's this row about you and the farm-yard, Miss Chandos?" I said.
He seems to be getting used to his name, and only said, "Oh, it's all right now, Stewart."
"Do you know who did turn the things out?" I said.
"Do you?" he asked.
I nodded. "It wasn't you, and I didn't think you knew anything about it. Suspicions go for nothing, you know."
"Well, let this pass. It's over now, and let's drop it."
"But you've been punished for what you had no hand in. Did the governor think you did it?"
"I don't think he believed I actually did it myself; but he said I was worse than those who did it if I was screening them, for I was encouraging insubordination in the school. Do you know who was suspected, Stewart?"
"Me!"
"Yes; I cleared you at once, but I couldn't say any more, and that vexed Dr. Mellor."
"Oh, the Doctor be hanged! Why didn't you go to Tom and tell him the fix you was in? I suppose you knew he did it?"
"I couldn't help knowing it where I was, and I did contrive to say a word to him about going to the Doctor, but—"
"You told Tom you were to be punished for his fault, and he wouldn't make a clean breast of it to the governor!" I said, angrily.
"There, I told you it was better to let it pass, Stewart; you could do no good now," said Chandos, walking away.
But a sudden thought had seized me, and I placed myself in his path. "But you shall give me a plain answer to my question," I said; "not that I will believe it of Tom. It is you that are the sneak; you look one, with your white face and quiet ways, and I know you are only trying to set me against my old chum!" I was almost mad with rage, and longed to knock Chandos down; and for a minute he looked as though he would fight it out, but the next he had pushed me aside, and was striding on to take his place as long-stop in the game that was just beginning. I looked after him for a minute, thinking I would go and have it out, when I suddenly thought of going to Tom, and turned back to the workshop, where Tom was busy hacking at some wood for a rudder. "I say, old fellow, did Chandos tell you he was taking your punishment for the farm-yard scrape?" I asked.
"Oh, never mind Chandos; come and rub down this mast," said Tom, turning away.
"Then—he—did—tell—you!" I said, slowly.
"Didn't you know Chandos was a sneak before to-day?" said Tom, sharply.
"But—but tell me all about it, Tom," I said, rubbing my eyes, and feeling as though I must be dreaming.
"Oh, there ain't much to tell—nothing to make such a fuss about. The fellow came to me, and said he had got into a scrape through the things getting out; but of course I didn't believe him. This was an easy way of getting me into a row, as well as helping himself out."
"But, Tom, if he took your punishment, you know—"
"Bah! my punishment! The governor isn't such a duffer as to think that white-faced milksop did that mischief. He hasn't pluck enough. I always told you he was a sneak, and now he's proved it, for he said the thing should always be a secret between us, whether I told or not, and now he's run open-mouthed to you with the tale."
"No, he hasn't." And without another word I walked out of the workshop. I didn't feel as though I wanted to fight Tom; it didn't seem as though I could fight, for I couldn't understand things a bit. Somehow they'd got so mixed up in this row that Tom seemed to be Chandos, and Chandos Tom, and whether I should wake and find they were all right, or Tom running about with Chandos's head on his shoulders, I couldn't tell for a little while.
But presently Chandos came walking through the gate on which I was mounted, and certainly he had his own straw-coloured hair safe enough. He didn't condescend to look at me as he passed, and I felt as though I hated him for robbing me of Tom. What right had he to do it—he with that white face to be so plucky? And not even for a friend either, for Tom is no friend to him any more than I am, and all the school have adopted our private name, and call him Miss Chandos. It isn't as though he didn't care about it either, for I can see he does. No boy likes to be thought a girl, or have a girl's name tacked to him; and Chandos is like the rest, but he takes it quietly, although I fancy now he would be as good in a stand-up fight as Tom himself.
Bother Tom! I don't want to think about him now. I wish he had left the pigs and cows alone, or I hadn't been in such a fume to find out all about it. I don't like to think he has been mean and cowardly—my brave, bold Tom. Anyhow, I shall always hate Miss Chandos for her share in the matter, and I'll call her Miss Chandos more than ever now. It's been a miserable time, somehow, ever since I heard the tops and bottoms of this row, for though Tom and I have never said a word about it since, we both seem to remember it always, and we keep apart as we never did before.
November 20th.—All the school is in a ferment about a special prize that is to be given for the best essay on something or other. I'm not going to try, so it don't trouble me much; but it seems as though everybody else is, and they can talk of nothing else. Even Tom is going in for this, it seems, though he don't stand much chance, I fancy; but he wants a watch, and thinks he may as well try for this. The weather is dull and cold, and our shipbuilding is almost at a standstill. We haven't done much since that row, and things are altogether miserable. Tom seems to be making new friends among the other fellows, and I've dropped shooting at Miss Chandos and hiding her Bible, so that altogether I'm rather glum, and ready to quarrel with anybody that is good for a stand-up fight. I know everybody thinks me a bear, and I am, I think, for I don't care for anybody or anything now.
November 30th.—It seems as though there was never to be an end to this row, which has made everything so miserable for me. The governor has taken it into his head to consider the matter still unsettled, although Chandos took Tom's punishment, and now poor Chandos has been told that he can't try for this prize. It's the meanest shame, for Chandos stood as good a chance as anybody, if not better than most, and now he isn't to be allowed that chance.
He tries to hide his disappointment, but I know he had begun to read up, and yesterday I asked him if he didn't mean to split on Tom, and tell the governor all about it.
"I wish Haslitt would do it himself," he said; "it would be better for everybody if he did."
"Of course it would; and I'll tell him so, and the governor too, if you won't."
"No, no, don't do that, Stewart; the school would send you to Coventry if you split on another fellow about anything. And besides—"
"Well, what more can the school do?" I asked, angrily.
"Oh, nothing, only your splitting would do no good now, I fancy."
"Well, Tom shall make a clean breast of it, and give up his chance of this prize. It ain't much of a chance for him, and so it won't be much for him to give it up; but you'll get it, Chandos—at least I hope you will;" and then I ran off to find Tom and have it out with him.
I hardly knew how to begin, but I did it somehow; and then Tom said, crossly, "What a fuss you make about nothing! I suppose Miss Chandos has set you on. Has she taught you to say your prayers yet?"
"Saying my prayers has nothing to do with this, Tom, you know that."
"Oh, hasn't it! I thought the young lady was making a milksop of you, you've been so glum, lately."
"Now look here, Tom, I haven't told you what I thought about this sneakish business, but I will if you don't make a clean breast of it to the governor at once."
"Well, who cares what you think?" said Tom, laughing; and he tried to push past me.
But I wasn't going to have that. "Now, look here, old fellow, we have been chums for ever so long, and I never knew you to do anything mean before, and I believe you're sorry for this; now make a clean breast of it, Tom, and let Miss Chandos go in for this prize."
"Has she told you she's sure to get it?"
"No, of course not; but you know she'd stand a good chance—a better chance than you do."
"I don't know so much about that, and I don't see why I should give up my chance just to suit your whims. It wouldn't help Miss Chandos either."
"Yes, it would. The governor wants to get at the bottom of this farmyard affair, and that is why he is so hard on poor Chandos."
"Poor Chandos! The young lady has bewitched you, Charley! As if this had anything to do with that old row! She knows how to come it over you, the mean sneak! As though she didn't know this was for another affair altogether."
"I don't believe it, Tom."
"Don't you? Ask some of the other fellows, then. Here, Jackson, what did you tell me Miss Chandos had been doing to lose her chance of the prize?" called Tom.
"I don't know now. Collins told me it was some artful dodge the governor had found out. Anyhow, I'm glad she's out, for the chances will be pretty evenly balanced among us now; but Chandos always goes in for such a lot of grind that he'd be sure to swamp us all. Do you go in for it, Stewart?" he asked.
"I'm not fond of grind, and shouldn't have a ghost of a chance, any more than Tom has."
"Oh, well, Haslitt will pass muster, I dare say, but we ain't much afraid of him," laughed Jackson, as he ran away.
"I tell you the fellows will kick up no end of a row now if they find I gave up for Chandos to go in; not that I think he would mind. He's a sneak, and has just told you this to hide something he has been doing himself."
"Well, I shouldn't care for what the fellows said, Tom. They want to keep Chandos out—a few of them, I don't believe they all do—just because they will stand a better chance of the prize; and it's mean and cowardly, and I wouldn't help them in it if I were you."
"But I tell you, Charley, you mustn't go against a lot like this. I'm beginning to find out that you must think of others a bit when you are at school like this, and—and—" There Tom stopped.
"Look here, Tom; it may be all very well to mind what other fellows say a bit, but I never knew you to do a mean thing in my life before, and I shall wish we had never come here if it's going to make you a sneak now."
"Who says I am a sneak? Chandos, I suppose?"
"No, it isn't Chandos. He hasn't been your chum as I have; he didn't know what you were before you came to school, and never talks about you—"
"Only to call me a sneak, I suppose?"
"No, he has never called you a sneak; but I do, and mean it, if you won't go to the governor and make a clean breast of everything."
"It would do no good, I tell you, Charley, and the other fellows would be down upon me directly if I did. Three or four are going in for this prize that wouldn't try if Chandos wasn't out. I tell you they'd never forgive me if I split now. I'll promise this, Charley, I'll never get into a scrape like it again. I wish now I'd gone to the governor at once about it."
"I wish you had; but it isn't too late, you know, now, Tom. Come on at once; we shall find him in the library. I'll go with you if you like."
I really thought Tom would go then, but just as we were turning round Jackson ran to tell him Collins and the rest wanted him; and Tom went off, calling to me,
"It's no good, Charley, I can't do it."
I felt half ashamed to meet Chandos after this, for he knew I had been to talk to Tom, and I couldn't bear him to think he was such a sneak as he has been over this; but there was no getting out of it, for he was standing by the lobby door as I went in, and looked at me in such a way that I said, crossly,
"Why don't you go to the governor yourself and tell him all about it?"
"Then Haslitt won't go?"
"No, he won't," I said. "This beastly school has made him a sneak—he never was before; he never served anybody such a trick, and he never would if he hadn't come here."
"Well, don't get so angry about it, Stewart. My mother says one of the principal uses of a school is to try what mettle we are of. We cannot tell whether a character is strong or weak until it has been tried, and the temptations and failures at school prepare us better for the temptations of the world afterwards."
"What do I care about the temptations of the world? It's this school that has spoiled Tom, and he will never be my chum again, and I shall have to look out for another lieutenant for my ship;" and I rushed off indoors, for fear Chandos should say any more, for I could not bear to hear him speak against Tom.
CHAPTER III.
THE SKATING PARTY.
November 30th.—I haven't spoken to Tom for a week, but he's so mixed up with the other fellows now that he don't seem to mind; but I am very dull, and it makes me very miserable not to have Tom working with me at our boats as we used to do. I have found out, too, that Chandos is not a general favourite in the school, but he has two or three friends—chums, like Tom and I used to be—who seem to be fond of reading, and don't get into so many scrapes as Tom's set. I belong to nobody just now. I join in a game sometimes when I don't feel too sulky; but I miss Tom too much to feel pleased with anybody else, though Chandos and I talk a bit sometimes when we go to bed. Last night we were talking about prayer. Fancy boys talking about that; but it seems Chandos believes it is all as real—as real as writing a letter to his mother, and as sure of having an answer. I was as much surprised as when the Doctor talked about us having a conscience; for it seems Chandos is not going to be a parson after all, but is to go into his uncle's counting-house, just as mother wants me to do. The only difference is that Chandos has made up his mind to it because it is his duty, he says, though he hates it as much as I do, and wants to be a doctor awfully. I begin to think the world is a dreadful puzzle. Why can't people do just what they like, instead of being driven to do what they hate so often? Chandos is a first-rate sort of fellow too, I think, in spite of his white face and curly hair; and yet he's got to do what he don't like, so that being good don't seem to have much to do with it, though my old nurse used to say good boys were always happy. Well, I'm not good, anyhow, so it's not very wonderful that I'm pretty miserable; only Tom seems happy enough, and he ought to be miserable too, which is another of the puzzles, I suppose.
December 10th.—Everybody is essay mad—that is, all the fellows in our class who have gone in for it. Chandos and I never talk about it to each other, but I know he is disappointed, for he was ill the first part of this half, and so he will have no prizes to take home at Christmas. I suppose I should be disappointed too if I was one of the fellows that grind, but I don't see the use of it, and so prizes don't come in my way. Not but what I should like to please mamma, and she would be pleased, I know, if such a wonder was to happen; but then I hate books, unless they are about the sea, or something of that sort. I shall be glad when the holidays are here now. I should not like to confess it even to Tom, but I want to see my mother, and ask her some of the questions that have puzzled me lately. Then there is always lots of fun at Christmas, and there has been so little here. Another week and this essay fuss will be over, and then the fellows will talk about the other prizes and going home, and I shall try to forget all the bother, and Tom's share in it too, if I can. I wonder who will get this essay prize—not Tom, I am certain.
December 18th.—Tom has got the prize. I cannot understand it one bit. I know he has gone in for lots of grind lately, like the other fellows, but there were two or three that I felt sure would be better up to that kind of work than he was. I cannot feel glad that he has won it, and I have not told him I am; and some of the fellows that were most urgent for him to go in have scarcely spoken to him since. I wonder whether they think, as I do, that this watch should of right belong to Chandos. Tom and I are going home together. No one at home knows anything of what has happened, and I shall not tell them if I can help it. Chandos has asked me to go and see him in the holidays, and I mean to ask mamma to let him come to our house. I think I shall like that better than going to his place, for I fancy his people are dreadfully religious, and we know nothing about that sort of thing, but I don't like to be thought quite a heathen.
January 20th.—The holidays are over, and we are back at school in our old places once more. Tom has taken up the notion that I am envious of his good luck in getting the watch. Good luck! I call it bad luck, for it was a bad business altogether, and I let out something about this at home; but mamma only thought it was one of our ordinary quarrels.
I went to see Chandos in the holidays. He has several brothers and sisters; one of them has come back with him to school, and is among the juniors, although he is only a year or two younger than his brother; but he has been delicate, and is very backward, and so was obliged to go into the lower division of the school. I like Mrs. Chandos very much. She is religious after a different pattern from my Aunt Phoebe, and somehow everything seems so real about her that I don't wonder Chandos believes everything she says. But I don't mean to like Chandos too much. He is all very well, but he is not Tom, and can never be my lieutenant. I had a talk to mamma about going to sea, but she is as obstinate as ever. I told Chandos of this when he came to see me, and he said, "Then I am afraid you will have to give it up, Stewart."
"Give it up! give up the sea! you don't know what you are talking about, Chandos!"
"Yes, I do, for I wanted to be a doctor quite as badly as you want to go to sea; but when my father died, and my mother told me how impossible it was that my wish could be gratified, I set to work at once to conquer it."
"Set to work to conquer it! But how could you do that?" I said.
"I—I began in the only way I could; I asked God to help me for my mother's sake to overcome the selfish desire, and make me willing to do all I could to learn what was necessary to be a merchant."
"But you don't hate the idea of being chained to a desk as I do, or you wouldn't talk so coolly about it."
"Not now. But I did hate it quite as much as you can, Stewart; but I remembered that my mother was not rich. When my father died we were very much reduced, and if I should offend my uncle by refusing this offer he might refuse to help the younger ones by-and-by; and so you see it was my duty to forget myself and my own wishes, and do what I could to help my mother."
"But my mother does not need my help, and so I don't see why I should give up everything I want, if you do."
"Your mother may not want your help, but she wants you. You are her only son, and—and shall I tell you?—I have heard of such things happening, you know—she may break her heart if you run away to sea. You would not do that, Stewart."
"Break her heart! Kill my mother! Chandos, you know me better than that!"
"Yes, I do, Stewart, and that is why I have spoken in time; but I have heard of boys going to sea and coming home expecting to find everything as they left it, and finding mother and father both dead—killed by grief for the runaway."
"Oh, that's all twaddle, you know, Chandos; nobody ever really died of a broken heart," I said.
"Then you mean to try the experiment on your mother? Very well, Stewart; if you will, you will, I know; only beware of the consequences, for if the twaddle should prove truth it would cause you lifelong unhappiness afterwards."
This ended his lecture, and I made up my mind to forget it as soon as I could; but somehow it mixes itself up with everything, and try as I will I cannot forget it. Of course, I don't want to run away, if I can persuade mamma to let me go to sea properly; but if she won't, what am I to do? I can't and won't go to be perched up at an office desk all day, and so there will be nothing else I can do but cut and run some fine morning. Of course, I shall write to mamma just before I sail, and tell her I'm all right and jolly, and when she knows that she'll soon be all right. Tom and I have talked over the plan dozens of times, for he was to come with me, only somehow I don't want him so much now, though his watch might be handy to sell if we were short of money on the road, for I suppose we should have to go to Liverpool, or Plymouth, or Southampton, or some of those places. Bother Chandos, making me feel uncomfortable about it. But there, I'm not going to run away to-day, and so I'll forget the whole bother.
January 26th.—At last we are going to have some fun. It has been freezing splendidly these two days, and if the governor hadn't been a duffer he would have let us go out on the ice to-day, for there is a first-rate pond—two or three, in fact—close by, and I know the ice will bear; but he has promised we shall go to-morrow, and everybody has been looking up skates in readiness. I hope it will not thaw to-night, for we are all looking forward to the fun we shall have to-morrow—all but Chandos, and he has taken it into his head that his brother ought to stay at home, as he has a cold. But Chandos junior has a will of his own, I can see, and I mean to help him to stand out against his brother's coddling, and give Miss Chandos a fright into the bargain, if I can. It will be good fun to coax the youngster to go to another pond, especially if one happens to be labelled "Dangerous." I fancy I can see his brother now running about like a hen after her brood of ducklings, for he does fuss after this youngster, as though he was different from other boys, and I'll stop it if I can.
February 4th.—I wonder whether I can put down in my log all that has happened. I shall try, for I am very dull to-day sitting up here alone while the others are in school.
It did not thaw, as everybody feared it would, and we started for the ponds in good time, Swain and the other master with us, for the governor would not trust us alone, which made some of the fellows pretty wild, and they vowed Swain should not come for nothing. Just before we started Tom came tearing across the playground to me and said, "You've split on Chandos junior!"
"Split on him! What do you mean? I don't often speak to the youngster; you and your set know more about him than I do," I said.
"Yes, but you and Miss Chandos are as thick as thieves, and you know he did not want young Frank to go to-day."
"Yes, I do know that, and I said if I was Frank I wouldn't be coddled to that tune. What of that?"
"Why, Chandos has locked him up or something, for he isn't here."
"Locked up your grandmother! How could he do that without appealing to the governor? and you know Chandos is not likely to do that now. The youngster will turn up presently, unless he has made up his mind to do as his brother wishes, and declares himself on the sick-list. There are three to stay indoors, you know."
"Yes, but young Chandos won't stay if he can help it. We've laughed him out of that—told him the school calls his brother a young lady for his meek ways, and the sooner he breaks away from her apron-string the better."
"Well, Chandos is too fussy," I said; "but don't lead the youngster into any harm, Tom. I'll help with some fun, just to give Chandos a fright, you know."
"Bravo, Charley! Jackson was just talking about the same thing, and we'll do it now." And we both rushed off to Jackson and the rest, to inquire if they had seen anything of the youngster.
"It's what I call confoundedly selfish, if Chandos has stopped the young prig from coming out," said one of the fellows.
"Chandos ain't selfish," I said; for, though I felt cross with Chandos myself, I did not care to hear him run down by Tom's set.
"Well, I don't know what you would call it, but if somebody tried to make me stay at home the only day we are likely to have any fun on the ice, I should feel ready to punch him."
"I don't believe Chandos junior will stay. But now, what are you going to do with him when he comes?"
"Do with him! Do you think we want to eat him, Stewart?"
"No, I don't suppose you do; but mind, there's to be no harm done—no sousing him, or anything of that sort. If it's just a bit of fun, to give Chandos senior a fright, I'll be in it."
"I should think you would, for things are awfully slow here now. Tom says you used to be up to anything, but since Miss Chandos—"
"There, we won't talk about that; Tom knows all about it, if you don't." And I was just turning away when Frank Chandos ran towards us with his skates in his hand, looking angry and defiant at his brother, who had followed him half across the playground.
A few minutes afterwards we started for the ponds in groups and knots of twos and threes, all laughing and chattering together, the masters at the head, and leading the way to the broadest and shallowest.
"Now, boys, I think you can skate and slide to your hearts' delight here; but mind, Dr. Mellor has given orders that no one is to go to the pond round by the alder bushes, for there are dangerous holes in it, as you all know, and if the ice should break—well, you know what the consequences are likely to be."
"All right, sir, we'll keep clear of that," said two or three, as they were fastening the straps of their skates, while some, who had already begun sliding, laughed at the notion of the ice breaking.
"It is as firm as the schoolroom floor, and one is as likely to give way as the other."
"I don't believe the governor would have let us come here at all if all the ponds hadn't been safe," I said.
"Safe! of course they're safe. The governor knows that; only he must tell us something by way of a scare. He's as bad as Miss Chandos," said Tom.
"Where is the young lady," I said, "and the youngster? We must look after them."
We were off now spinning across the pond, Tom and I, with Jackson close behind, and the three of us managed to keep together.
"What a lark it would be to take Chandos junior to the alder pond," said Jackson, looking at me as he wheeled round on his skates.
"We'll do it," I said; "but not just now. Wait a bit, till the fellows get warm to the work, and they won't miss us. We must keep our eye on the youngster. Is he skating or sliding?"
"Skating; but that don't matter," said Tom.
"No, but if Chandos senior had the skates on it would be all the better. They are his skates too; I happen to know that, and so I shall tell Master Frank presently that he ought not to stick to them for the whole afternoon."
"I see; if Chandos senior should happen to see us he will not be able to fly to the rescue of his duckling at once. But look here, Stewart, we'll manage so that he don't know anything about it."
"Oh, no, we won't! I want him to see us, to tease him a bit. I say, Jackson, are you a judge of ice? Don't you think this seems to be giving a bit?" I said.
"No, it's as firm as a rock. What ice would give in such a cutting wind as this?" And Jackson pulled his comforter closer round his throat as he spoke.
We were all pretty well wrapped up in great-coats and mufflers and worsted gloves, so that when we had a fall, as most of us did every few minutes, we had something to break the concussion a little; but these heavy things would prove rather awkward if the ice should break and let us through.
I said something about this to Jackson, but he laughed at the notion, and Tom said, "Why, what has come to you lately, Charley? You have been tied to Miss Chandos's apron-string until you have got to be a coward. I believe now you are afraid to go to the alder pond."
"Am I? you shall see about that. Where's Chandos junior?" And I wheeled off at once to look for the youngster and see what Miss Chandos was about, and whether Swain was likely to have his eye upon our movements.
I cannot write any more to-day. To-morrow I shall be stronger, I hope, and then I may finish this story about our skating.
CHAPTER IV.
THE ACCIDENT.
February 5th.—It helps to pass some of the time I am obliged to spend alone to write in my log, and so I will go on from where I left off yesterday.
I found everybody was on the ice, the masters enjoying the fun as much as the boys, and Chandos the merriest of the lot. He and two or three of his friends were racing, curveting, cutting figures in the ice, for I found that Frank had been glad to give up the skates and take to sliding.
"It's rather crowded here," I said, as I ran the youngster down, and then stopped and wheeled round to help him up.
"It's crowded everywhere, and the fellows with skates seem to think they ought to have it all their own way," he grumbled.
"Come over here; there are some good slides at the farther end of the pond;" and I helped the youngster over, purposely going close to Miss Chandos.
But she didn't smell mischief, or was too much occupied with her own fun to notice us, and we soon came up with Jackson and the rest.
"It's dreadfully cold here," said young Chandos, shivering.
"Yes, it is cold," said Tom; "the wind sweeps down upon us, freezing our very marrow if we don't keep moving."
"The best place for sliding would be the alder pond. That is sheltered a good deal from this cutting wind," said Jackson.
"But it isn't safe," said Frank Chandos.
"Safe! As if they'd let us come near this place at all if all the ponds were not safe! I tell you it will bear as well as this," said Jackson.
"Shall we go there?" proposed Tom.
"Mr. Swain said we were not to go near it," feebly ventured Frank.
"Oh, well, if you're afraid, stay where you are, but I'm going," said Jackson. "Stewart, will you come? Tom will, I know."
"Yes, I'm off," said Tom, nodding to me; but I wanted Miss Chandos to see where we were taking her duckling, to give her a fright.
The youngster saw me looking towards his brother, and said, in a whisper, "If we mean to go, Eustace had better not see us. You're sure it's safe?" he added.
"Safe as the schoolroom floor," I said; and then we went after the others; but I kept looking back towards Miss Chandos as we went towards the alder pond.
We got out of sight as soon as we could, and, screened by the close-growing trees, the bitter east wind did not sting us quite so much. Jackson and Tom were soon skimming across the pond.
"I wonder where the holes are they make such a fuss about?" said Tom.
"I don't believe there are any," said Jackson.
"Well, holes or no holes, I think we had better keep near the edge," I said; but young Chandos did not hear me, he says, and went at once towards the trees for shelter from the wind. The ice was very thin there, and the next minute there was a crack, a splash, and a scream, and young Chandos had gone down.
"Run for help!" I called to Tom, and then I skimmed across what I thought was the strongest part of the ice to help Frank. But before I could reach him the ice gave way, and we were both struggling for life.
I don't remember much of what happened beyond telling Frank to catch hold of some of the branches of the trees that were close to the water, and hearing the shouts of the boys when Tom gave the alarm. I could hear them coming, but it would be too late to save me, for my heavy clothes kept me down in the water, and I sank, never to rise again, I thought. I seemed to see my mother at that moment more plainly than I had ever seen her before, and to understand her grief for my death in a way that I could not have thought possible. But still, although I longed to escape for her sake, I seemed bound by invisible fetters that were, in reality, my heavy wet clothes. They have told me since that this probably saved me, although they thought I was dead when they got me out of the water.
Once out, however, I soon began to revive, for I am strong and healthy; but poor Frank Chandos lay hovering between life and death for nearly a week afterwards. I shall never forget that terrible time. I felt if he died I should be a murderer, for he would never have gone to the alder pond if I had not taken him there. Poor Miss Chandos, too, who had promised his mother to take good care of the lad, he was almost stunned with grief; and it was not until after his mother had come that he could be persuaded to leave his brother even for five minutes. Tom and the other fellows who came to see me told me all about it, for I was ill too, from cold and fright, but nothing to cause any alarm, and little notice was taken of me or my ailments, and I did not let any one know how miserably unhappy I was. I tried to talk to Tom about it once, but he only laughed, and said, "Oh, it's no good crying over spilt milk; let's forget all that miserable affair now. Of course we were all in the wrong box, I suppose; but then it was only done for a lark, and we've all been punished for it pretty stiffly. Jackson and I had a hundred lines of Milton to learn in after hours that took no end of time to get perfect, for the governor was so crabby he wouldn't let us off a single word, and actually heard us himself, so if you don't think that has squared accounts for us, then I don't know what will."
"If learning two hundred lines would square things, I'd do it; but think of poor Frank Chandos lying there dying, and all our fault."
"How can it be our fault? We didn't carry him to the pond. He came to please himself, and if he wasn't ill he'd have an imposition as well as us. I wonder whether the Doctor will give you one when you get well, Charley?"
"I wish he would," I said, bitterly. "Oh, I dare say it's all very well for you to talk when it isn't likely to happen, for I expect the governor will think it punishment enough for you to be kept up here and fed on slops for ever so long. I don't know myself that I would not rather have the imposition."
How glad I was when poor Chandos came to see me at last. I almost wished we really had been girls then, that I might have thrown my arms round his neck and kissed him and asked him to forgive me, for I could see he felt sorry for me, and the first words he spoke were meant to comfort me, only somehow they seemed to make me miserable.
"You did not mean to do any harm, Stewart, I know," he said, his voice shaking as he spoke.
"Will he die?" I asked. "It don't matter about me and what I meant about it, but tell me about him; is there any hope, Chandos?"
"Not much, I am afraid. Only God can save him; the doctor can do no more, he says. Stewart, you'll pray for him, won't you—pray that God will give him back to my mother, for she is almost heartbroken over it?"
"Me pray! What is the good? I don't know how; I never prayed in my life. I've said my prayers; but it's different, that is, from what you mean, and I haven't done that since I was a little chap."
"Then begin again now, Stewart. Pray for poor Frank. I know you feel unhappy about him."
"Yes, I do. I'd do anything I could; but that's just it; I can't do anything, and it seems mean to go sneaking to God now, when I didn't care a pin about the whole business until I got into this trouble; and I can't do it."
"Oh, but you mustn't think of it—think of God in that way. If you had been very ill you would have liked your mother sent for, wouldn't you? and she would have liked to come, I am sure."
"Yes, I expect there will be a row that she was not sent for as it is. But what has that to do with it?"
"Everything. God feels as kindly towards us as our mother and father, and He wants us to go to Him when we are in trouble, although we may have kept away before. My mother says He often sends trouble to be His messenger and make us come, so that He will not be offended if you should begin to pray now."
"I can't, Chandos. It's just the meanest business I ever heard of to go sneaking to God whenever I'm in trouble and can't help myself, and forget Him directly afterwards."
"But why should you forget Him afterwards? Why not make Him your Friend, as He desires to be?"
"What, be religious and grumpy, and lose all the fun of life?" I said, staring at Chandos in amazement.
"You need not be grumpy, Stewart, and you can have just as much fun, only I think you will be more careful not to let the fun do harm to other people."
"Well, I will be more careful in future, I promise you that, Chandos; but about being religious, why, I never heard of a schoolboy being religious unless he was a dreadful muff and a sneaking prig, and I hate sneaks of all sorts."
"So do I," said Chandos; "and if I thought praying to God and trying to live in fear and love of Him would make you one, I wouldn't ask you to do it. But it won't. Look here, you've heard of General Havelock, haven't you? and Hedley Vicars, that fought in the Crimean war? Did you ever hear that they were sneaks, or anything but brave, noble men—brave enough to serve God openly and fearlessly? I tell you, Stewart, it takes a brave man, not a coward, to declare himself determined to serve God. But I have said enough about this, perhaps, and you look tired."
"My head aches," I said; "but I should soon be all right if I could only know there was a chance for poor Frank to get better too."
"I wish I had better news for you, Stewart. My mother and I can only pray for him."
Chandos was going away as he said this, but I caught his hand and held him back. "I will pray too," I whispered; "but if God hears me now, how shall I ever keep square afterwards? and I must, you know, to keep from being a sneak."
"Look here, Stewart; you are mistaken altogether in thinking God's service such a dreadful bondage. He knows you are a boy, and does not expect you to be prim and precise and always praying and singing psalms. I am not sure that it would not displease Him if you tried to do that, for He knows it would be a poor preparation for our work in the world by-and-by."
"But what would He want me to do, then?" I said.
"First of all to think of Him as your friend. The Lord Jesus was a boy Himself once, you know, and so He knows all about a boy's feelings and temptations. Almost my father's last words to me were, 'Be honest and upright and pure;' and I know God will help me to keep my father's command if I seek His help, as He will you if you will take Him to be your Friend."
"And isn't that what I want?" I said; "to be honest and upright and pure?"
"I believe you do, Stewart, and it's what God wants you to be, and what He will help you to be if you will let Him."
"But what else must I do? Religious folks always are different from others, you know."
"Well, they ought to be. A religious sailor ought to be the bravest and most fearless man on board the ship, and do his work better and more cheerfully than anybody else."
"Well, my uncle did tell me of a fellow like that once, and I thought I should like all my sailors to be like him. He was a jolly, good-natured chap, ready to spin a yarn to his mates, and they were willing to listen to the moral he always contrived to bring in. He was as brave as a lion, too, and yet as kind as a woman if any of the others were sick. But there ain't many like him, you know, Chandos."
"You might make another, Stewart; and a captain—you mean to be a captain, you know—and a captain of that pattern might do as much, or even more, good than a common sailor."
"Yes, but it's the beginning. I don't see that boys have anything to do with religion. What can they do?"
"Learn better—learn their lessons more thoroughly, so as to be better fitted to do their work in the world by-and-by. I suppose you'll admit that we shall be men by-and-by if we are spared?"
"Well, yes, of course; but then it's just that. Religion seems to be for those who don't live, to prepare them for death and all that, you know. If I was very ill and dying I should want to be religious, of course, but now—"
"That's quite a mistake, Stewart, to suppose that because you are likely to live many years this matter of serving God ought to be put off. I might ask you how you can be sure that you will live even six months longer, or that you may not be carried off by some sudden accident. But I don't like to think of religion as just something to sneak out of the world comfortably with. Religion is to fit us to live—to live well, to fill life full of joy and happiness. You stare, Stewart, but I can tell you the happiest people in the world to-day are those who serve God best."
"Then what makes them pull such long faces, and look so wretched, and talk about being miserable sinners?" I asked.
"Well, we are sinners, you know, Stewart, and one of the first things we have to learn in coming to God is just this very thing. It is because we have sinned that Christ died to put away our sins; but some people don't seem to believe in this thoroughly. They know they are sinners, and it makes them unhappy and they fancy they ought to go mourning over them all the days of their life."
"That's just my Aunt Phoebe, and mamma says she is very religious, and one of the best women that ever lived, which makes me say I hate good women, and all religious people into the bargain. But, Chandos, there are not many of your sort of religious people in the world."
"More than you think for. There are some of the fellows here in this school; I won't mention any names, but two of the best and jolliest in the cricket-field will be just such men, I believe."
"Boys here in this school are religious!" I said. "Of course, I know you are, but—"
"You thought I was the only one, Stewart? Well, now, I'm glad to say when I came here I found one or two trying to solve the problem you think so improbable—how a schoolboy can serve God; and though it may be difficult sometimes—I grant you that, for temptation to do wrong even in fun must be resisted; and then lessons must be learned fairly, not shirked, and no cribs must be used, or else where is our honesty? But still, if a boy once starts to keep on the square all round, things are not so hard as you might think. But I must not stop any longer now, Stewart; I will come in and have another chat by-and-by. But—but you will not forget to pray for poor Frank?"
Forget! Sometimes I wish I could forget that dreadful day and everything that happened then. It isn't often, I suppose, that such dreadful things happen through a little fun, or else it would help Chandos's argument about the happiness of not doing wrong even in fun, for this has made me miserable enough. I wish I could be the sort of fellow Chandos talked about. It's different altogether from what I thought, and to be fair and square and honest right through in lessons and everything else has nothing of the sneak about it. But I have promised I'd pray for Frank, and I mean to do it. How am I to begin? Will God hear me? I'm not good like Chandos. He saw me shooting the pellets at him from under the bedclothes only a little while ago, I suppose, and won't He think I'm mocking Chandos now if I kneel down as he did? What was it that he said, though, about the Lord Jesus being a boy once? Well, if He was He'll know all about me, and after all it's poor Frank I want Him to help. I wouldn't venture to ask Him to help me yet; I want nothing now so much as for Frank to get well.
After thinking like this for some time I locked the door, for fear anybody should come in and see me, and then I kneeled down; but I don't know what I said, only that it was about Frank and his getting well, and that I'd try and do the square thing, and be honest and upright and pure right through, if God would only make him well again.
CHAPTER V.
CRIBS.
February 10th.—I am in the schoolroom again, and poor Frank Chandos is getting better. He is to go away as soon as he can be moved, but he is too weak even to sit up in bed yet. I went to see him yesterday, and Chandos told him I had prayed that God would make him well again. He turned his white face round, and looked at me with his big, dark eyes, and said, "Thank you, Stewart."
"Oh, don't do that! I didn't mean to do any harm, you know, but I led you into the mischief, and I've been sorry enough ever since; and I hope you'll forgive me, Chandos," I said.
But I felt almost frightened when he put out his hand and slipped it into mine—such a thin, white hand it was, with fingers for all the world like claws. I suppose the doctors know best, but I should have thought he was dying if Mrs. Chandos had not told me he was looking better.
Chandos seems to expect that I'm going in for plenty of grind, and all that sort of thing. Well, it's only fair, for I couldn't think of asking God to help me out of a scrape, and then forgetting all about it as soon as it's over; though what a schoolboy can pray about when things are all right I don't know. Of course, I haven't done with Frank yet, for I don't feel so sure about his getting well as the others do. He looks awfully thin and white, and if God was just to leave off making him well for a day or two he'd be as bad as ever, I expect.
February 12th.—It's awful hard work to grind away like this—as I have the last two days. It ain't so easy to do lessons on the square, when one has been using cribs for ever so long; and then, grind as much as you may, the lessons don't look so well after all when one is a duffer at them, as I am. Yesterday I sat poring over one book for hours and hours, trying to make out what it meant. I suppose I ought to know well enough by this time, for I've learned it all up to there; but then I've used cribs, and Swain don't know that, and so he pitched into me, and threatened a heavy imposition if ever I took up such another piece of construing. It's easy enough talking about always doing the square thing, and it mightn't be so hard if I'd always done it; but I haven't, and there's the rub.
February 16th.—There's no end of a row with the fellows over these cribs. I've always used them, and I always shall, they say; and Tom backs them, and tells them I'm tied to Miss Chandos's apron-strings.
It began about another wretched construe I handed in to Swain.
"Is this your own work, Stewart?" asked Swain; and I thought it was so good he could hardly believe I had done it, and I said, quite proudly, "Yes, sir, I've done every word of it."
"Then all I can say is, you have no right to be in this division of the school; and I shall talk to the Doctor about it." He was turning over the leaves of the exercise-book while he was talking; and presently, turning up one of the cribs, he said, "Look here, Stewart; who did this?"
"I wrote that a month ago, sir," I said.
"Yes, I know you wrote it, but who did the construing?"
I looked at Swain, and then at the map on the wall, for I didn't know who had done it. I always did my lessons with Tom and the rest, and they managed the cribs somehow, and I just copied them off the slips of paper Jackson or some of the fellows handed to me.
"You have been using cribs, sir," thundered Swain; and then he looked round at the other fellows, who were all very busy over their books.
I wished for once that the schoolroom floor was like the ice on the alder pond, and I could slip through out of sight, for I couldn't tell a direct lie about it; and Swain had cornered me so that there was no other way of getting out of it. So I said nothing, though I knew I should catch it from Tom and the rest when we got into the playground, for I could see by Swain's looks that he suspected cribs had been used by all the lot.
"You may go to your seat now, Stewart, and I will see Dr. Mellor about this," he said at last.
As soon as ever we got into the playground the row began with the other fellows.
"Look here, you miserable muff! what right have you to get us all into this awful scrape?" said Jackson, pulling off his jacket ready to fight.
"Who says I'm a miserable muff?" I said, looking round at the others who had gathered near.
"Well, Charley, it was mean of you not to open your mouth when you might have saved us all by a single word. Swain would have believed you if you'd said, 'I haven't been cribbing;' and it wouldn't have been much of a fib either, for you haven't cribbed for nearly a month, I know."
"No, because I haven't done many lessons lately. You may call it a fib if you like, but I call it a lie, and you know I hate lying, Tom, as you did a little while ago. Now, Jackson, do you want to fight it out?" I asked, beginning to roll up my shirt-sleeves.
"No, no, don't fight; things are bad enough now, and the governor will be furious if he hears you have been fighting," said Tom; and he caught hold of Jackson and held him back.
"Try and settle it without fighting," said one of the other fellows. "I don't suppose Stewart meant to get us into a row."
"No, I didn't," I said. "I only wanted to go on the square for myself."
"One of Miss Chandos's tricks for serving us out," I heard Jackson whisper to Tom,
"Well, that's all very well, you see, Stewart, but you've been using cribs with us for ever so long, and so you must stick to them now."
"I shan't," I said. "I mean to act on the square."
"Go on the square for anything else you like, but you mustn't throw us overboard in this crib business. We're all in the same boat, you see, Charley, and it won't do; the other fellows don't like it."
"Then they can lump it," I said; and I was turning away, but Tom ran after me.
"Now, be reasonable, old fellow; I've stuck up for you," he said, "for Jackson and the rest wanted to kick up a row as soon as they found you were doing your lessons on the square; but I said, 'Let him be a bit, and have his own way; he'll soon be glad of cribs again.'"
