Follow My Leader | Page 9

morning. He made no allowance for an absence of malice in what they had done, and gave them no credit--although, indeed, neither did they give themselves credit-- for the regret and straightforwardness with which they had confessed it. He proposed to treat them, the head boys of Mountjoy, as common delinquents, and punish them as he would punish a cheat, or a bully, or mutineer.
It wasn't fair--they knew it; and if Ashford didn't know it, too--well, he ought.
"We'd rather be caned, sir," said Richardson, speaking for all three.
Mr Ashford regarded the speaker with sharp surprise.
"Richardson, kindly remember I am the best judge of what punishment you deserve."
"It's not fair to keep us in all the term," said Dick, his cheeks mounting colour with the desperateness of his boldness.
Mr Ashford changed colour, too, but his cheeks turned pale.
"Leave my sight, sir, instantly! How do you dare to use language like that to me!"
Fortunately for the dignity, as well as for the comfort, of the three boys, Dick made no attempt to prolong the argument. He turned and left the room, followed by his two faithful henchmen, little imagining that, if any one had scored in this unsatisfactory interview, he had.
Don't let the reader imagine that any mystical glory belongs to the schoolboy who happens to "score one" off his master. If he does it consciously, the chances are he is a snob for doing it. If he does it unconsciously, as Dick did here, then the misfortune of the master by no means means the bliss of the boy.
Dick felt anything but blissful as he stalked moodily to the schoolroom that morning and growled his injuries to his allies.
But Mr Ashford, as soon as his first burst of temper had evaporated, like an honest, sensible man, sat down and reviewed the situation; and it occurred to him, on reviewing it, that he had made a mistake. It was, of course, extremely painful and humiliating to have to acknowledge it; but, once acknowledged, it would have been far more humiliating to Mr Ashford's sense of honour to persist in it.
He summoned the boys once more to his presence, and they trooped in like three prisoners brought up on remand to hear their final sentence.
The master's mouth twitched nervously, and he half repented of the ordeal he had set before himself.
"You said just now, Richardson, that the punishment I proposed to inflict on you was not fair?"
"Yes, sir, we think so," replied Dick, simply.
"I think so, too," said Mr Ashford, equally simply, "and I shall say no more about it. Now you can go."
The boys gaped at him in mingled admiration and bewilderment.
"You can go," repeated the master.
Richardson took a hasty survey of his companions' countenances, and said--
"Will you cane us instead, please sir?"
"No, Richardson, that would not be fair either."
Richardson made one more effort.
"Please, sir, we think we deserve something."
"People don't always get their deserts in this world, my boy," said the master, with a smile. "Now please go when I tell you."
Mr Ashford rallied three waverers to his standard that morning. They didn't profess to understand the meaning of it all, but they could see that the master had sacrificed something to do them justice, and with the native chivalry of boys, they made his cause theirs, and did all they could to cover his retreat.
Two days later, a letter by the post was brought in to Mr Ashford in the middle of school.
Coote's face grew crimson as he saw it, and the faces of his companions grew long and solemn. A sudden silence fell on the room, broken only by the rustle of the paper as the master tore open the envelope and produced the printed document. His eyes glanced hurriedly down it, and a shade of trouble crossed his brow.
"We're gone coons," groaned Heathcote.
"Don't speak to me," said Dick.
Coote said nothing, but wished one of the windows was open on a hot day like this.
"This paper contains the result of the entrance examination at Templeton," said Mr Ashford. "Out of thirty-six candidates, Heathcote has passed fifteenth, and Richardson twenty-first. Coote, I am sorry to say, has not passed."
CHAPTER THREE.
HOW OUR HEROES GIRD ON THEIR ARMOUR.
Our heroes, each in the bosom of his own family, spent a somewhat anxious Easter holiday.
Of the three, Coote's prospects were decidedly the least cheery. Mountjoy House without Richardson and Heathcote would be desolation itself, and the heart of our hero quailed within him as he thought of the long dull evenings and the dreary classes of the coming friendless term.
"Never mind, old man," Dick had said, cheerily, as the "Firm" talked their prospects over on the day before the holidays, "you're bound to scrape through the July exam.; and then won't we have a jollification when you turn up?"
But all this was sorry comfort