CHAPTER XXI.
HAND TO HAND.
It all came of the junior master's clandestine connection with the_Tiddler_.
Harry Ringrose used many precautions in the matter of his littlejournalistic skeleton. He imagined it safe enough in the locked drawerin which he treasured such copies of the lively periodical as containedhis stealthy contributions. But, just as the most cautious criminal isoften guilty of the greatest carelessness, so Harry committed one grossblunder every week; and, again like so many malefactors, his own vanitywas the cause of his undoing. He must see himself in print each week atthe earliest possible opportunity.
The boys began by wondering why they always passed Teddington Stationon the Saturday walk, and why they were invariably left outside for atleast a minute. Then they wondered what paper it was the master bought.He never let them see it. Yet he habitually took a good look at itbefore rejoining them, which he nearly always did in the best oftempers, though once or twice it was just the opposite. At last onesophisticated boy bet another that it was a sporting paper, and theother boy stole into the station at Harry's heels and with greatgallantry discovered what it was. The same Saturday Harry was observedscribbling things (probably puns) on his shirt cuff, and referring tothese that evening when he said he had to write a letter, and writingthe letter in irregular short lines. It is to be feared that a few ofthe boys then turned unscrupulous detectives, and the discovery of anenvelope addressed to the editor of _Tommy Tiddler_ proved a merequestion of time.
The next thing was to find out what he wrote, and about this time Harryhad a shock. A day-boy was convicted of bringing a _Tiddler_ to lessonsat the instigation of a boarder, and the whole school heard of it afterBible-reading, when the incriminating pennyworth was taken between thetongs and publicly cremated for a "low, pernicious, disreputable paper,which I hope never to see in my school again." Harry was not present atthe time, but these were Mrs. Bickersteth's words when she told himwhat she had done, and begged him to be good enough to keep a sharplook-out for future numbers of the "degrading thing." He had the newone in his pocket as he bowed.
About this time young Woodman was laid up in the bedroom at the top ofthe house, and Harry had to keep the fire in and the kettle steamingall night. The little fellow had grown upon him more and more, and yetfor a child he was extraordinarily reserved. Harry could never tellwhether Scrafton knocked him about or not; and once when Woodmanattributed a set of bruised knuckles to his having struck another boy(a thing he was never known to do), Harry could have laughed at thepious lie if he had not been too angry at the thought of anybodyill-treating such a shadow of a boy. Yet nobody was especially good tolittle Woodman: for Baby Bickersteth was good to all.
Once or twice the boy's parents came to see him, young, wealthy people,against whom Harry formed a possibly unwarrantable prejudice; and onthese occasions, before being sent downstairs to see them, the childwas first taken upstairs and his light hair made lank and rank withpomatum, and his pale face burnished with much soap. While he was ill,however, the Woodmans ran down from their hotel in town one Sundaymorning and spent an hour in the sick-room before hurrying back. Harrywas present when Mrs. Bickersteth came in from chapel and heard of it.He followed the irate lady upstairs (to put away his Sunday hat), andhe heard her tell the invalid what she thought of his father for comingup into her bedrooms in her absence. Gentlemen in her bedrooms she didnot allow; it was a most ungentlemanly liberty to take; and so on andso on, until Harry saw such tears in the boy's eyes as Scrafton himselfcould not have wrung. A new book was lying on the bed when Harryquitted this painful scene. He saw it next under Mrs. Bickersteth'sarm; and he had to go upstairs again to say a word to the boy, thoughit should cost him his beggarly place fifty times over.
"I don't mind what they say to me," whimpered Woodman. "I only mindwhat they say about my people."
Harry found it possible to take the other side without unkindness. Mrs.Bickersteth had said more than she meant. Most people did when theywere angry. Ladies were always sensitive about untidiness, and, ofcourse, the room was untidy. She had not meant to hurt Woodman'sfeelings.
"But my mater brought me a new Ballantyne, sir," said the boy. "It wasthe one that's just come out, and Bick--Mrs. Bickersteth--has taken itaway from me."
His tears ran again.
"Well, I'll lend you something instead," said Harry.
"Thanks awfully, sir."
"I'll lend you anything you like!" quoth Harry recklessly.
He was thinking of some novels in the locked drawer.
"Honest Injun, sir?"
Harry laughed. The boy had a quaint way with him that never went toofar, he was the one fellow with whom it was quite safe to joke, and itwas delightful to see his dark eyes drying beneath the bright look thatonly left them when Woodman was really miserable.
"Honest Injun, Woodman."
"Then lend me a _Tiddler_."
"A what?"
"A _Tommy Tiddler_, sir," said Woodman demurely.
"How on earth do you know I have one?" cried Harry aghast.
"Everybody knows you get it every Saturday from the station, sir."
"But how?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Woodman. "But--but I do wish you'd show mewhat you write in it, sir. I swear I won't tell the other fellows!"
Harry was temporarily dumb. Then he burst out in an excited whisper:how in the wide world did they know he wrote for the thing? Woodmanwould not say. A lot of them did know it, but they had agreed not tosneak--for which observation he apologised in the same breath. Woodmanwhispered too; never were two such conspirators.
And the immediate result was altogether inevitable. Harry loved a wordof praise from anybody, like many a better man, and Woodman was as muchabove the average boy in sense of humour as he was below him in theordinary endowments. That Sunday, before he went to sleep, he had readevery false rhyme and every unblushing inversion of Harry's which hadyet found their way into print. It may have been very demoralising--ithas never been held that Harry had even the makings of an idealpedagogue--but the small boy actually went to sleep with a _T.T._ underhis pillow. And next day when he was permitted abroad in his room, and,after the doctor's visit, to go down to Mr. Scrafton for an hour, itwas with _T.T._ stowed hastily in his jacket pocket that Woodman madehis reappearance in the upper schoolroom.
Unaware that he had been allowed to leave his bed, Harry contrived torun upstairs during the morning with a boy's magazine which one of theother boarders had received from home that morning. Finding the roomempty, Harry only hoped his convalescent was breaking the journey frombed to Scrafton in some more temperate zone, but on his way downstairshe could not help pausing at that sinister shut door, and this was whathe heard.
"Where did you get it?" No answer--thud. "Where--did--you--get it?" Noanswer--thud--and so on some four or five times, with a dull thud aftereach fruitless reiteration.
Cold breath seemed to gather on Harry's forehead as on glass; aninstinct told him what was happening.
"I am going on, you know," continued Scrafton, dropping his normalbluster for a snarl of subtler malice, "until--you--tell--me--where--you--got----"
A blow was falling between each word, and what Harry saw as he enteredwas Scrafton leaning across a corner of the table, with his ogre's faceglaring into little Woodman's, and the unlucky _Tiddler_ grasped in hisleft hand, while with his right fist he kept punching, punching,punching, with unvarying aim and precision, between the shoulder andthe chest of the child. No single blow would have drawn a tear, normight the series have left a mark, but the little white face waspositively deathly with the cumulative pain, and, though his lips mighthave been sewn together, a tear dropped on Woodman's slate as Harryentered softly. Next instant Scrafton was seated on the floor, andHarry Ringrose standing over him, brandishing the chair that he hadtugged from under the bully's body.
"You infernal villain!" cried the younger man. "I've a good mind tobrain you where you sit!"
It was more
easily said than done. Scrafton seized a leg of the chairin either hand, and, leaping up, began jabbing Harry with the back,while his yellow face worked hideously, and his blue eyes flamed withblood. Not a word was said as the two men stood swaying with the chairbetween them; and Mrs. Bickersteth, who had heard the fall and Harry'svoice, was in time for this tableau, with its ring of small scaredfaces raised in horror.
"Mr. Scrafton!" she cried. "Mr. Ringrose! pray what are _you_ doinghere?"
"What am I doing?" shouted Harry. "Teaching this brute you keep totorture these children--teaching him what I ought to have taught himweeks ago. Oh, I had some idea of what went on, but none that it was sobad! I have seen these boys' bruises caused by this bully. I ought tohave told you long ago. I tell you now, and I dare you to keep him inyour school. If you do I call in the police!"
Poor Harry was quite beside himself. He had lost his head and histemper too completely to do justice to his case. His chest was heaving,his face flaming, and even now he looked at Scrafton as though about totear that foul beard out by the roots. Scrafton grinned like a fiend,and took three tremendous pinches of snuff.
"Mr. Scrafton has been with me twenty-two years," said Mrs.Bickersteth. "I shall hear him first. Then I will deal with you onceand for all. Meanwhile I shall be excessively obliged if you willretire to your room."
"I shall do nothing of the kind," retorted Harry Ringrose.
"Then you are no longer a master in my school."
"Thank God for that!"
Mrs. Bickersteth turned her back upon him, and through all hisrighteous heat the youth felt suddenly ashamed. In an instant he wascool.
Scrafton was telling his story. Mrs. Bickersteth had forbidden the lowpaper, _Tommy Tiddler_, to be brought into the school, and MasterWoodman not only had a copy in his pocket, but stubbornly refused tosay how he had come by it. A little persuasion was being used, when Mr.Ringrose rushed in, said Scrafton, and committed a murderous assaultupon him with that chair.
"A little persuasion!" jeered Harry, breaking out again. "A littletorture, you brute! Now I will tell you where he came by that paper. Ilent it him."
"You--a paid master in my school--lend one of my boys that vulgar,vicious, abominable paper, after I have forbidden it in the school?"
"Yes--I did wrong. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bickersteth, for that andfor the way I spoke just now--to you--not to him," Harry took care toadd, with a contemptuous jerk of the head towards Scrafton. "As forthis unlucky rag," picking it up, "it may or may not be vulgar, but Ideny that it is either vicious or abominable. I shouldn't write for itif it were."
"You _write_ for it?"
"Have done ever since I was here."
"Then," cried Mrs. Bickersteth, "even if you had not behaved as youhave behaved this morning--even if you had not spoken as you havespoken--in my presence--in the presence of the boys--you should leavemy school this day. You are not fit for your position."
"And never was," roared Scrafton, taking another huge pinch andsnapping the snuff from his fingers; "and perhaps, ma'am, you'll listento. Jeremiah Scrafton another time. What did I tell you the first timeI saw him. A common swindler's whelp--like father, like son."
So Scrafton took his chance, but now it was Harry's. He walked up tothe other and stared him steadily in the face. It was the look Harryhad given him five days out of the seven for many a week, but never hadit been quite so steady or so cool.
"I won't strike you, Scrafton," said he; "no, thank you! But we're notdone with each other yet. You've not heard the last of me--or of myfather."
"There's plenty wish they hadn't heard the last of him," rejoinedScrafton brutally.
"Well, you haven't, any way; and when you hear of him again, youruffian," continued Harry, under his breath, "it will be to somepurpose. I know something--I mean to know all. And it surprises you!What do you suppose I stayed here for except to watch you? And I'llhave you watched still, Scrafton. Trust me not to lose sight of youtill I am at the bottom of your villainy."
Not a word of this was heard by Mrs. Bickersteth or by the boys; theymerely saw Scrafton's face set in a grin that had suddenly becomeghastly, and the snuff spilling from the box between his blue-nailedfingers, as Harry Ringrose turned upon his heel and strode from theroom.
He took the stairs three at a time, in his eagerness to throw histhings into his portmanteau and to go straight from the guilty mandownstairs to the guilty man in Leadenhall Street or on Richmond Hill;he would find him wherever he was; he would tear the truth from thatfalse friend's tongue. And this new and consuming excitement so liftedhim outside of his present surroundings, that it was as though theschool was not, as though the last two months had not been; and it wasonly when he rose perspiring from his strapped portmanteau that theglint of medicine bottles caught his eye, bringing the still lingeringodours of the sick-room back to his nostrils, and to his heart a tumultof forgotten considerations.
Instead of hurrying downstairs he strode up and down his room until anote was brought to him from Mrs. Bickersteth. It begged him as agentleman to go quietly and at once, and it enclosed a cheque for tenpounds, or his full salary for the unfinished term. Harry felt touchedand troubled. The lady wrote a good bold hand, but her cheque was sotremulously signed that he wondered whether they would cash it at thebank. He had qualms, too, about accepting the full amount; but thethought of his mother overcame them, and that of the boys fortified himto send down a stamped receipt with a line in which he declined to gobefore Mrs. Bickersteth's sons returned from the City.
He remained upstairs all day, however, in order to cause no additionalembarrassment before the boys, and, when his ears told him thatafternoon school had begun, he was still further touched at the arrivalof his dinner on a tray. On the strength of this he begged for aninterview with Mrs. Bickersteth, and, when Baby Bickersteth came up tosay her mother was quite unequal to seeing him, Harry apologised freelyand from his heart for the violence to which he had given way in hisindignation. But he said that he must see her brothers before he went,as nothing could alter his opinion of the ferocious Scrafton, or of themonstrosity of retaining such a man in such a position.
"And you," he cried, looking boldly into the doll-like eyes, "you agreewith me! Then back me up this evening, and you will never, never, neverregret it!"
The girl coloured as she left him without a word; but he thought theblue eyes were going to fill, and he hoped for the best in the evening.Alas! he was leaning on reeds, and putting his faith in a couple ofsober, unimaginative citizens, who, seeing Harry excited, deducted someseventy per cent. from his indictment, and met his every charge withthe same stolid answer.
"We were under him ourselves," they said, "and you see, we are none theworse."
"But you were Mrs. Bickersteth's sons. And I don't say these boys willbe any the worse when they grow up. I only say it is a crime to letsuch little chaps be so foully used."
"You have said quite enough," replied Leonard, gruffly. "It's not theslightest use your saying any more."
"So I see!" cried Harry bitterly.
"You've upset my mother," put in Reggie, "but you don't bully us."
"No!" exclaimed Harry. "I'll leave that to Scrafton--since even the menof the house daren't stand up to him!"
This brought them to their feet.
"Will you have the goodness to go?" thundered Lennie.
"Or have we to make you?" drawled Reginald.
"You may try," said Harry, truculently. "I'm on to have it out withanybody, though I'd rather it were a brute like Scrafton than otherwisegood fellows who refuse to see what a brute he is. But you will have tosee. You haven't heard the last of this; you'll be sorry you didn'thear the last of it from me."
"You threaten us?" cried Lennie Bickersteth, throwing the drawing-roomdoor open in a way that was in itself a threat. Harry stalked throughwith an eye that dared them to use their hands. He put on his hat andovercoat, flung open the front door, picked up his portmanteau and hishat-box, and so wheeled round on th
e threshold.
"I mean," he said, "to communicate with the parents of every boy whohas been under Scrafton this term. They shall question the boysthemselves."
He turned again, and went slowly down the steps; before he was at thebottom the big door had slammed behind him for ever. And yet again didhe turn at the wooden gate between the stucco pillars. There was hiswindow, the end window of the top row, the window with the warm redlight behind the blind. Even as he watched, the blind was pulled back,and a little lean figure in white stood between it and the glass.
It was a moonlight night, made lighter yet by a fall of snow thatafternoon, and Harry saw the little fellow so distinctly for the lasttime! He was alternately waving a handkerchief with all his might anddigging at his eyes with it as though he meant to blacken them. It wasHarry's first sight of Woodman since the scene in the schoolroom, andit was destined to be his last in life.