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قراءة كتاب My Friend Smith: A Story of School and City Life
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My Friend Smith: A Story of School and City Life
where you will have to put on and take off your boots whenever you go out or come in. This boy is going out, and will take you into the playground with him,” and away she went, leaving me in the hands of the volatile Flanagan.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
It was a horribly dark place, this boot-room, and I could scarcely see who it was who was questioning me. He seemed to be a big boy, a year or two older than myself, with a face which, as far as I could make it out, was not altogether unpleasant. He continued stamping with his refractory boots all the time he was talking to me, letting out occasionally behind, in spite of Miss Henniker.
“Who are you? What’s your name?” he said.
“Fred Batchelor,” I replied, deferentially.
“Batchelor, eh? Are you a backward or a troublesome, eh?”
This was a poser. I had never put the question to myself, and was wholly at a loss how to answer. I told Flanagan so.
“Oh, but you’re bound to know!” he exclaimed. “What did they send you here for, eh?”
Whereupon I was drawn out to narrate, greatly to Flanagan’s satisfaction, the affair of Cad Prog and his baby sister.
“Hurrah!” said he, when I had done. “Hurrah, you’re a troublesome! That makes seven troublesomes, and only two backwards!” and in his jubilation he gave a specially vigorous kick out behind, and finally drove the obstinate boot home.
“Yes,” said he, “there was no end of discussion about it. I was afraid you were a backward, that I was! If the other new fellow’s only a troublesome too, we shall have it all to ourselves. Philpot, you know,” added he confidentially, “is a backward by rights, but he calls himself one of us because of the Tuesday night jams.”
“Is there another new boy too?” I inquired, plucking up heart with this friendly comrade.
“Oh! he’s coming to-morrow. Never mind! Even if he’s a ‘back’ it don’t matter, except for the glory of the thing! The ‘troubs’ were always ahead all Ladislaw’s time, and he’s no chicken. I say, come in the playground, can’t you?”
I followed rather nervously. A new boy never takes all at once to his first walk in the playground; but with Flanagan as my protector—who was “Hail fellow, well met,” with every one, even the backwards—I got through the ordeal pretty easily.
There were eight boys altogether at Stonebridge House, and I was introduced—or rather exhibited—to most of them that afternoon. Some received me roughly and others indifferently. The verdict, on the whole, seemed to be that there was plenty of time to see what sort of a fellow I was, and for the present the less I was made to think of myself the better. So they all talked rather loud in my presence, and showed off, as boys will do; and each expected—or, at any rate, attempted—to impress me with a sense of his particular importance.
This treatment gave me time to make observations as well as them, and before the afternoon ended I had a pretty good idea whom I liked and whom I did not like at Stonebridge House.
Presently we were summoned in to a bread-and-cheese supper, with cold water, and shortly afterwards ordered off to bed. I said my prayers before I went to sleep, as I had promised good Mrs Hudson, and, except for being shouted at to mind I did not snore or talk in my sleep—the punishment for which crimes was something terrific—I was allowed to go to sleep in peace, very lonely at heart, and with a good deal of secret trepidation as I looked forward and wondered what would be my lot at Stonebridge House.
Chapter Three.
How a Mysterious New Boy came to Stonebridge House.
When I rose next morning, and proceeded to take my turn at the washstand, and array my person in the travel-stained garments of the previous day, it seemed ages since I had parted with Brownstroke and entered the gloomy precincts of Stonebridge House.
Everything and everybody around me was gloomy. Even Flanagan seemed not yet to have got up the steam; and as for the other boys—they skulked morosely through the process of dressing, and hardly uttered a word. It was a beautiful day outside; the sun was lighting up the fields, and the birds were singing merrily in the trees; but somehow or other the good cheer didn’t seem to penetrate inside the walls of Stonebridge House.
I tried to get up a conversation with Flanagan, but he looked half-frightened and half guilty as I did so.
“I say,” said I, “couldn’t we open the window and let some fresh air in?”
(Mrs Hudson had always been strong on fresh air.)
“Look-out, I say,” said Flanagan, in a frightened whisper; “you’ll get us all in a row!”
“In a row?” I replied. “Who with?”
“Why, old Hen; but shut up, do you hear?” and here he dipped his face in the basin, and so effectually ended the talk.
This was quite a revelation to me. Get in a row with Miss Henniker for speaking to one of my schoolfellows in the dormitory! A lively prospect and no mistake.
Presently a bell rang, and we all wended our way down stairs into the parlour where I had yesterday enjoyed my tête-à-tête with Miss Henniker. Here we found that lady standing majestically in the middle of the room, like a general about to review a regiment.
“Show nails!” she ejaculated, as soon as all were assembled.
This mysterious mandate was the signal for each boy passing before her, exhibiting, as he did so, his hands.
As I was last in the procession I had time to watch the effect of this proceeding. “Showing nails,” as I afterwards found out, was a very old-established rule at Stonebridge House, and one under which every generation of “backward and troublesome boys” who resided there had groaned. If any boy’s hands or nails were, in the opinion of Miss Henniker, unclean or untidy, he received a bad mark, and was at once dismissed to the dormitory to remedy the defect.
One or two in front of me suffered thus, and a glance down at my own extremities made me a little doubtful as to my fate. I did what I could with them privately, but their appearance was not much improved.
At last I stood for inspection before the dreadful Henniker.
“Your hands are dirty, Batchelor. A bad mark. Go and wash them.”
The bad mark, whatever it might mean, appeared to me very unjust. Had I known the rule, it would have been different, but how was I to know, when no one had told me?
“Please, ma’am, I didn’t—”
“Two bad marks for talking!” was my only reply, and off I slunk, feeling rather crushed, to the dormitory.
I found Flanagan scrubbing at our basin.
“Ah,” said he, “I thought you’d get potted.”
“I think it’s a shame,” said I.
“Look-out, I say,” exclaimed Flanagan, skipping away as if he’d been shot, and resuming his wash at the other basin.
Presently he came back on tip-toe, and whispered, “Why can’t you talk lower, you young muff?”
“Surely she can’t hear, here up stairs?”
“Can’t she? That’s all you know! She hears every word you say all over the place, I tell you.”
I went on “hard all” at the nail-brush for a minute or so in much perplexity.
“Keep what you’ve got to say till you get outside. Thank goodness, she’s rheumatic or something, and we can open our mouths there. I say,” added he, looking critically at my hands, “you’d better give those nails of yours a cut, or you’ll get potted again.”
I was grateful for this hint, and felt in my pocket for my knife. In doing so I encountered the box of sweets Mrs Hudson had left in my hand yesterday, and which, amid other distractions, I had positively forgotten. “Oh, look here,” said I, producing the box, delighted to be able to do a good turn to my friendly schoolfellow. “Have some of these, will