Chapter One.

The New Boys.

Slegge said it was all “bosh;” for fifty years ago a boy at school had not learned to declare that everything which did not suit his taste was “rot.” So Slegge stood leaning up against the playground wall with a supercilious sneer upon his lip, and said it was all “bosh,” and only fit for children.

The other fellows, he said, might make idiots of themselves if they liked, he should stop in and read; for Dr Bewley, DD, Principal of the world-famed establishment—a grey, handsome, elderly gentleman in the truest sense of the word—had smilingly said after grace at breakfast that when he was a boy he used to take a great deal of interest in natural history, and that he presumed his pupils would feel much the same as he did, and would have no objection to setting aside their classical and mathematical studies for the morning and watching the entrance of the procession when it entered the town at twelve o’clock.

The boys, who were all standing and waiting for the Doctor to leave the dining-hall, gave a hearty cheer at this; and as the ragged volley died out, after being unduly prolonged by the younger pupils, instead of crossing to the door from the table, the Doctor continued, turning to the mathematical master:

“I think, Mr Morris, you might be kind enough to tell Wrench to get the boy to help him and place a line of forms by the wall, so that the young gentlemen can enjoy the privilege of having a prolonged private box above the crowd; or, shall I say, a high bank in this modern form of the classic amphitheatre?”

“Hear, hear!” said Mr Rampson, the heavy, solid-looking classical master, impressed by the Principal’s allusion to the Roman sports; and he grumbled out something in a subdued voice, with his eyes shut. What it was the boys did not hear, but it was evidently a Latin quotation, and ended in ibus.

The Doctor then marched slowly towards the door, with his black gown floating out around him, and carrying his mortar-board cap by the limp corner; for while everything about him was spick and span—his cravat of the stiffest and whitest as it supported his plump, pink, well-shaven chin, and his gown of the glossiest black—a habit of holding his college cap by its right-hand corner had resulted in the formation of a kind of hinge which made the University headpiece float up and down in concert with his stately steps as he turned his head from side to side and nodded benignantly at first one and then another of his junior pupils.

The masters followed, looking very severe indeed; and, following the example set by Mr Morris, they all frowned and shook their heads at the great waste of time that would follow the passing of the procession.

“So childish of the old man,” said Morris to the French master, Monsieur Brohanne, a particularly plump-looking Gaul. “The boys will be fit for nothing afterwards.”

“Certainement!” said the French master.

“But I suppose I must give orders for these seats to be placed;” and as soon as he was outside he summoned Wrench—the pale-faced and red-nosed official whose principal duty it was, with the assistance of a sturdy hobbledehoy (Mounseer Hobby-de-Hoy, as the boys called him) to keep well-blackened the whole of the boots in the big establishment—and gave orders to carry out and run a line of forms all along the outer wall of the great playground, which was continued farther on by the cricket-field hedge.

“A great waste of time,” said Morris; but he gave very strict orders to the man-servant that the biggest and strongest form was to be chalked “Number One,” and reserved for the masters only.

There was a buzz in the dining-hall which grew into a roar as the door closed. The boys, who had sat down to breakfast rather wanting in appetite—from the fact that their consciences were not very clear regarding studies in English and French or certain algebraic solutions or arrangements in angles specified by “A B C” and “D E F,” according to the declarations of a well-known gentleman named Euclid—felt in their great relief as if they would like another cup of coffee and two slices more, for the holiday was quite unexpected.

It was about this time that Slegge gave his opinion to his following, which was rather large, he being the senior pupil and considering himself head-chief of the school, not from his distinguished position as a scholar, but from the fact that his allowance of cash from home was the largest of that furnished to any pupil of the establishment, without counting extra tips. Slegge, Senior—not the pupil, for there was no other boy of the same name in the school, but Slegge père, as Monsieur Brohanne would have termed him—being sole proprietor of the great wholesale mercantile firm of Slegge, Gorrock and Dredge, Italian warehousemen, whose place of business was in the City of London, and was, as Slegge insisted, “not a shop.”

“You fellows,” he said, “can do as you like. Some of you had better set up a wicket and the net, and come and bowl to me. Ha, ha! look at Thames and the Nigger! It will just suit them. Those Indian chaps think of nothing else but show. I shan’t be at all surprised if the nigger goes up to dress and comes down again in white muslin and a turban.—I say! Hi! Thames! Rivers! What’s your stupid name? It’s going to be a hot day. You ought to come out with the chow-chow.”

“No, no,” whispered a boy beside him, “chowri.”

“Well, chow-chow, chowri; it’s all the same,” said the big lad impatiently. “Horse-tail to whisk the flies away.—Hi! do you hear?”

“Are you speaking to me?” said the tall, very English-looking lad addressed.

“Of course I am.”

“Well, you might address me by my name.”

“Well, so I did. Thames. No, I remember, Severn! What idiots your people were to give themselves names like that!”

“Well, it’s as good as Slegge anyhow,” said the lad.

There was a little laugh at this, which made the owner of the latter name turn sharply and fiercely upon the nearest boy, who shut his mouth instantly and looked as innocent as a lamb.

“Look here,” said Slegge, turning again to the lad he had addressed, “don’t you be cheeky, sir, or you’ll find yourself walked down behind the tennis-court some morning to have a first breakfast; and you won’t be the first that I have taught his place in this school.”

“Oh,” said the lad quietly, “you mean fighting?”

“Yes,” said Slegge, thrusting out his chin, “I mean fighting. You are new to this place, and you have been coming the stuck-up on the strength of your father being a poor half-pay Company’s colonel. Honourable East India Company indeed! Shabby set of sham soldiers got-up to look like the real.”

The face of the boy he addressed changed colour a little, and he drew a deep breath as he compressed his lips.

“And don’t you look at me like that,” continued Slegge, who was delighted to find a large audience gathering round him to listen while he gave one of the new boys a good setting down, “or you may find that, after I have done with you, you won’t be fit to show your ugly mug in the row of grinning boobies staring over the wall at a twopenny-halfpenny wild-beast show.”

“I don’t want to quarrel,” said the lad quietly.

“Oh, don’t you!” continued Slegge, with a sneering laugh. “Well, perhaps I do, and if I do I shall just give your master one for himself as well.”

“My master,” said the lad staring.

“Yes, your master, the nigger—Howdah, Squashee, or whatever he calls himself. Here! hi! you, Aziz Singh-Song, or whatever your name is, why don’t