King of Ranleigh: A School Story

It never occurred to either of them that they might get all their chattering over in the daytime. But that is just the little point which people sometimes fail to comprehend. It was the novelty of clandestine conversation which attracted, and set these two inventors to work to construct a telephone from plans and descriptions given in a book they had managed to borrow.

In One South itself, Clive had Susanne always beside him, and very soon a firm friendship grew up between them. While on his other side lay Masters, the slug, as Sturton called him, a decent fellow, nevertheless, and now anxious to act as guide and faithful friend to our hero.

They passed along those endless corridors to the back doors, through which law compels the boys to emerge, and sauntered down between the Fives Courts. On the left lay the Gym, where Hugh had already been practising. Then beside the Tennis Courts, and away across the field which fronts the school. And who could wish for a better place? What father or mother or fond uncle or guardian could hope to find a healthier, better spot than Ranleigh? The world has heard of the school. It has made its mark in many a walk of life, so that there is no great need to describe it minutely or to mention its precise position. Suffice to say that it is situated in Surrey, that it projects three parts of the way up a sloping hill, which is bathed by the sun on every side. There is not a musty spot about it, not a corner nor a crevice in which injurious germs may hide. See it, then, a red-brick pile, clad with creeper, with its clock tower and its chimneys and pinnacles. Cast your eyes upon the surrounding country, and admit, as admit you must, that never was there a more ideal position. For the village is a mile away. The school stands beautifully isolated. Fresh breezes sweep direct from pine tree and heather across its roofs and into its windows. Add to these charms playing fields which vie with those of schools of greater antiquity, and you have a description of Ranleigh.

But we are forced to admit that Clive gave not a thought to it. He scudded across the field with Masters, dashed through the front gates and away down the road till they came to the tuck. It is a fascinating little shop, and here again we must admit that its contents appealed more strongly to Clive than did the surroundings.

"Never been in before, eh?" asked Masters slyly, well knowing the fact that Clive had not.

"Never; wish I had. Rippin', ain't it?"

"Not half bad," admitted Masters casually. "A chap can stuff himself full here for next to nothing. By the way – "

"Eh?" asked Clive, who was regarding a pile of apple tarts with close attention. "How much, please?" he asked the attendant.

"A penny each, sir."

"Cheap!" murmured Clive. "Oh, what where you saying, Masters?"

He was carefully inspecting the contents of his purse by then, and not looking particularly at Masters. It was not precisely what that young gentleman wanted. He coughed loudly. "Oh, never mind," he said lamely. "I – I didn't say anything."

It was such an obvious fib that Clive stared at him.

"Oh, did I?" then remarked Masters. "Oh, yes, I remember. But it doesn't matter."

He thrust his hands into his pockets, turned to the door, and beckoned to Clive. "Come on," he said, somewhat sadly. "Let's clear. I'll take you in some other time."

That was just the very thing that Clive could not agree to. He had been thick-headed before. But now he was beginning to grasp the situation. It was awfully nice of Masters, too, he thought, though, to be sure, he didn't see the smile on the face of the attendant.

"What's up?" he demanded. "You're never going to leave the tuck without eating something?"

"Must," came the answer.

"Why?"

"Oh, never mind." Masters shrugged his shoulders, and went from the cottage, Clive following. "Fact is," he admitted, once they were outside, "I've forgotten to bring money with me. It's a beastly nuisance."

"But it don't matter," cried Clive. "I'll lend you some."

"And then, of course," Masters hurriedly interjected, "it's a sort of custom here, you know, for new kids to – oh, never mind, let's clear."

"To what?" demanded Clive, beginning to fathom the mystery.

"Well, if you must know, it's a sort of custom at Ranleigh for new kids to stand treat the first time they enter the tuck. But it don't matter, as I said. Let's clear. I never borrow money."

The generous-minded Clive could see only one way out of the difficulty. Indeed, he was eager to show his hospitality. And so five minutes later found the two youngsters securely seated in the little room beyond the tuck, their feet over a gas fire, their teeth busily engaged with apple tarts, while steaming cups of cocoa stood beside them. By then, Masters' modesty had entirely departed. It had been a wrench, of course, to allow a new kid to treat him! But in for a penny in for a pound wasn't a bad motto.

"Tried those big chaps?" he asked, pointing to a box of squares of chocolate. "Ripping! They're only a penny, and there's different colours all the way through. Tony – met Tony yet? He's a fellow with red hair in Two South – well, Tony swears that there's regular pictures worked up in those squares, and that if you bite carefully you can see 'em. I don't believe it myself, but it's a joke trying."

Clive did know Tony. He was the red-headed fellow who had shouted at him and been so very pugnacious on the first night of the term when Clive had entered the wrong dormitory. As to the squares, well, it would be rather a joke to test this theory of Tony's.

"We'll test 'em, then," he said. "How many, eh?"

"Well, of course," said Masters guardedly, "a fellow could do it with one, I suppose. But he'd have to be clever. Two'd give a chap a better chance, while – "

"Sixpenn'o'th of those square things, please," demanded Clive, who was warming to Masters, and who happened to have received a useful present from a distant uncle that very morning. "You try first, Masters."

"And those brandy balls are just the things for prep.," remarked Masters, some little time later, as if it were an afterthought and he had not meant Clive to hear. "They're hot with peppermint, and you can smell 'em all over the class-room. It makes the chaps look round and long for some themselves, while the prefect who's in charge of the room gets raging. Come on, Darrell."

It was perhaps a fortunate thing that Clive's stock of sixpennies was becoming small, or he would have listened further to the blandishments of the crafty Masters. As it was, he purchased a liberal quantity of brandy balls, divided them with his friend, and then went off to other fields.

"Sundy tuck's there," Masters informed him as they skirted the common, where cricket matches are played. "Of course, the Head knows that there is one, and would give his ears to catch chaps there. My word, they would get a licking! But he can't succeed, and for a very good reason. You see, a chap can slip in without being seen, and if the Head or any other inquisitive master happens to come along and suspect, why, you can bolt from the back door, up the garden and over the wall at the end. I've done it. So have other chaps."

Before three weeks of his first term had passed Clive had a nodding acquaintance with all the surroundings of the school, and with most of the fellows. Moreover, he had witnessed the first great footer match of the season, and his youthful chest had swelled with pride because of the prowess of Harvey and other men. In fact, he was slowly and steadily imbibing that spirit of esprit de corps which helps a school along. He was beginning to understand that self-effacement is a good thing at times, and that the good of the school as a whole is what should be considered. Else, why did Harvey work so hard to train the team while still doing his best in school time? Why also did Sturton work so loyally to support him, and still rise at cock-crow every morning so as to prepare his own tasks?

But early frosts somewhat upset the plans of the Captain, and saw letters innumerable despatched to some three hundred homes, demanding that skates should be sent immediately.

"Another day's frost and we'll be able to go anywhere. They say the canal's good," said Hugh, who had been making diligent enquiries. "But my mark is the lake at Ditton."

"Private, isn't it?" asked Masters, who had joined the little band of friends, and who, in fact, was often with them.

"Yes. But what's it matter? The Delarths are away from home. They'd never want to keep good ice all to themselves. We'll take french leave."

"Or write and ask. Why not?" ventured Bert mildly.

"Why not?" repeated Susanne, with sparkling eyes. "It will make the fun better. Besides, it is rude, is it not, to trespass on private property?"

They scoffed at him promptly, and the very mention of rudeness put aside the intention to write.

"It'll be part of the lark to go without being invited," said Hugh. "I know the place already, for I've been skirmishing round to discover likely spots for nesting. In the spring I'll be there. And if this frost continues, I mean to try what it's like on the ice. So there, Susanne."

Two days later, after an intervening thaw of some five hours' duration, whereat the hopes and the faces of every member of the school, save the Captain and the footer team, fell dismally, the ice was reported to be bearing on neighbouring ponds, and particularly on that one down by the common in front of the butcher's shop. It had frozen very hard overnight, and the ground was as hard as a stone. After dinner, therefore, Bert and Hugh and Clive set out, Susanne being in their company also, with Masters following behind as soon as he could get away, an "impot" of some length having detained him. Indeed, the self-same Masters had made a valiant attempt to complete the task during dinner-hour in Hall. A pen of Clive's own invention had been brought into request. Thereon were fixed no fewer than three nibs, all of which would write at the same moment.

"You see, it's not one of those clumsy things one's heard of," said the lordly inventor when he produced this wonderful time-saving implement. "Anyone can tie three nibs on to one holder and try to write with 'em all. But the blots he makes, my word! One nib rests nicely, but has too much ink. A second is too short to reach the paper, while the third sticks the point through and tears a hole. This pen gets over all three difficulties. So long as you dip her carefully, she'll write, for all the nibs are carried on spring holders. It's a champion. I'm going to bring out a self-filling six-line automatic writer before I've ended. I'll sell 'em by the ton to chaps at school."

No doubt he might if he were fortunate, and if all "impots" were of the same character as that given to Masters. That worthy having incurred the displeasure of his form master had been very politely and in dulcet tones requested to deliver five hundred repetitions of the following statement. "There's a time and a place for everything."

"And all because he scented peppermint," declared Masters hotly, when he reported the matter to his cronies. "That chap Canning's a bounder. He's always finding fault somewhere."

"But," ventured Bert cynically, "perhaps he doesn't like peppermint."

"Doesn't like peppermint! Rot!" cried Masters. "Who doesn't?"

"Well, you do," grinned Susanne.

"And so does any decent fellow. But that's where it is. Canning isn't a decent fellow. He's always grousing. Masters, you're talking. Masters, you don't answer. Masters, you're a fool. Masters – "

"You're a glutton," grinned Hugh, enjoying the indignation of that individual, and receiving a buffet for his pains. "Well, he cobbed you sucking brandy balls, given you by Clive."

"And told me that they were beastly, that I was making a beast of myself to suck 'em in class time, and that there was a time and a place for everything. Then gave me an impot."

"Which has to be done."

"That's it, and there's skating this afternoon. I'm going."

It followed that Clive's inventive genius was called in to help, and that day at dinner, Masters, having gobbled up his meal, spent the rest of his time crouching over a book resting on his knee, on which was stretched the paper on which he was operating. And all would have been well, for he was making amazing progress with that patent pen, but for the fact that a sudden and unforeseen difficulty had arisen. The penny bottle of ink he had requisitioned had the most idiotically narrow neck.

"Asses!" he growled, showing the difficulty to Clive, who sat next him. "What makes 'em turn out bottles like that? How's a chap to get to work?"

Clive had many brilliant ideas constantly occurring to him.

"Shove it into a spoon," he urged. "A tablespoon. Empty the bottle in, and then you can dip easy. It'll prevent you dipping too deep. Get on with it."

Masters realised the brilliance of the suggestion, and at once put it into practice. He took the biggest spoon to be had, buttressed it around with bread-crumbs, and then emptied his ink from the bottle. That was famous.

"One gets along like a house on fire," he told Clive triumphantly. "And the writing's ripping. Old Canning'll remark on it. George! Darrell, you might sell him one of your pens. Look! There's fifty of the beastly lines written. Here we go again. 'There's a time and a place for everything.' So there is, my boy. Hall's the place for writing rotten impots, specially when there's skating."

Hall, no doubt, was an excellent place. But accidents will happen, and here with the most surprising result. For Masters, after much diligence, had actually managed to complete three hundred lines when his sleeve got anchored in the handle of the spoon filled with ink. It jerked over, and in one brief instant the writer of the "impot" had the contents of the spoon in his lap, while some of the inky mess flowed over the table, making an excellent black map on the cloth.

"What a mess!" he groaned, when he had vainly mopped at his trousers with his handkerchief. "I'm sopping wet, and as black as a hat. And look at that beastly tablecloth. Here, Darrell, suggest something."

The best that Clive could do was to propose a covering of bread-crumbs and salt, with which the huge stain was promptly covered. But all to no purpose. The eagle eye of the Captain of the School going the round of the tables in Hall after "knock up," when there was compulsory silence, discovered the map which Masters had painted so unwittingly.

"Whose is that?" he demanded.

"Masters'."

"Ah! Writing at table. An hour's drill to-morrow, Masters. And that mess'll cost half a crown. Perhaps more. Why, your seat is smothered also. You're wet to the skin. Report to the matron afterwards, and get a change. I'll talk to you this evening."

There was Masters in trouble with a vengeance. His "impot" had to be commenced again, for ink had flown liberally over it. His trousers were ruined, and doubtless his under garments. There was half a crown at least to pay, and a visit to Harvey into the bargain.

"When there'll be a whacking," grinned Bert, always the cynic. "That'll be merely as a precaution. He'll lay it on hot so as to warm you and drive off the chill you'll be sure to have contracted."

Masters was not in sufficiently good frame of mind to trust himself to answer. But skate he meant to. So at the moment when Clive and his friends left the building, he was seeking new raiment in his dormitory, having already obtained fresh underclothing from the matron. Then, by dint of running, he caught up the little band who were bent on trespass, just before they reached the ring fence that surrounded the property of the Delarths.

"Just look round and make sure there's no one about," cautioned Clive, glancing over his shoulder. "Now, Hugh, you've been here before. You lead the way."

"Then over the fence. Into that copse at once, and then bang straight ahead. The only fellows we have to look out for are the keepers. Of course, they'll hate our going through their covers. But then, something's got to give way when there's skating. Over we go. Last man take a look round when he's joined us."

It took them perhaps half an hour to creep through the wood into which Hugh led them. Sometimes they imagined they heard voices, and when that was the case they cast themselves flat on the frozen ground and listened with bated breath. But there was nothing else to alarm them, and pushing on they arrived at length – after much exertion, for the cover was thick and brambles had a peculiar fascination for their persons – at the edge of the lake on which they proposed to skate.

"Well, I'm jiggered!" declared Hugh, his face flushing, his steaming breath a cloud all round him. "There's someone on the place already."

"Someone? A dozen people," Bert corrected him.

"And – I wouldn't like to swear to it, but I do believe that that's old Canning," said Masters, glowering on an individual who suddenly came into view from the misty distance and swept across the smooth sheet of ice towards them. "Just like him to set a fellow an impot so as to prevent his skating, and then, when that chap had taken no end of pains to get finished and – "

"Including half drowning himself with ink," grinned Bert, as a gentle reminder.

"And getting a half-crown fine marked up against him," laughed Clive, giggling at his friend's misadventure.

"And," proceeded Masters severely, ignoring the interruption, "and was working like a nigger, it's just like this cad Canning to turn up at the very spot and spoil fun entirely."

That was where the sight of this master affected the whole party. His imposition was merely a matter between himself and Masters. Of course, they were all awfully sorry for Masters, though his getting soaked with ink was a jolly old joke, whatever he thought of it – but Canning was a cad, all the same.

"What's he want to come along here trespassing on our property?" demanded Hugh hotly.

"But – it isn't ours, is it?" asked Bert dryly, whereat Susanne threatened him with violence.

"Of course it's not," the slouching Frenchman answered. "Not actually, you know. But we thought of the place first. We've the most right to it. What's Canning want hanging round the ice we've selected?"

"Cheek! Beastly impudence!" declared Clive grandly, while Masters still glowered on the unconscious master. For it was Mr. Canning without a doubt, a kill-joy on this occasion. For, having gained the lake after such great trouble, Clive and his friends dared not venture upon the ice they coveted.

"There's that cad Rawlings," suddenly whispered Bert, for Mr. Canning was close to them, and had sat down to smoke a cigarette.

"And the greasy Trendall. He's always sure to be somewhere within distance," growled Masters.

"And if that isn't Harvey, with Sturton near him, I'm not worth listening to," observed Clive, as if he were speaking of a certainty. "Yes, there's Harvey, hand in hand with Miss Withers."

"But – I don't understand," said Bert, smiling grimly when some few minutes had passed. "There are hundreds of our fellows. They're arriving every minute. Surely – "

Slowly it began to dawn upon the little band that perhaps all their secrecy and all their effort had been wasted.

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