My Friend Smith | Page 2

might be at Jenny Wren's
school still if a tremendous event hadn't happened in our village, which
utterly upset the oldest established customs of Brownstroke.
We grammar-school boys never "hit" it exactly with the other town
boys. Either they were jealous of us or we were jealous of them. I don't
know, but we hated the town boys, and they hated us.
Once or twice we had come into collision, though they always got the
best of it. One winter they snowballed us to such a pitch that as long as
the snow was on the ground a lot of the little kids would no more
venture to school alone than a sane man would step over the side of a
balloon.
Another time they lined the street down both sides, and laughed and
pointed at us as we walked to school. That was far worse than
snowballs, even with stones in them. You should have seen us, with
pale faces and hurried steps, making our way amid the jeers and gibes
of our tormentors--some of the little ones blubbering, one or two of the
bigger ones looking hardly comfortable, and a few of the biggest
inwardly ruminating when and how it would best be possible to kill that
Runnit the news-boy, or Hodge the cow-boy!
These and many other torments and terrors we "Jenny Wrenites" had
endured at the hands of our enemies the town boys, on the whole
patiently. In process of time they got tired of one sort of torment, and
before their learned heads had had time to invent a new one, we had
had time to muster up courage and tell one another we didn't care what
they did.
Such a period had occurred just before my story opens. It was a whole

month since the town boys had made our lives unhappy by calling, and
howling, and yelling, and squeaking on every occasion they met us the
following apparently inoffensive couplet:--
"A, B, C, Look at the baby!"
How we hated that cry, and quailed when we heard it! However, after
about a fortnight's diligent use of this terrible weapon the town boys
subsided for a season, and we plucked up heart again. Four whole
weeks passed, and we were never once molested! Something must be
wrong in the village! Of course we all came to the conclusion that the
town boys had at last seen the error of their ways, and were turning
over new leaves.
Rash dream! One day when we were least expecting it, the "Philistines
were upon us" again, and this time their device was to snatch off our
caps! It was too terrible to think of! We could endure to be hooted at,
and pelted, and said "A, B, C" to, but to have our little Scotch caps
snatched off our heads and tossed over pailings and into puddles, was
too much even for the meek disciples of Jenny Wren. The poor little
boys got their mothers to fasten elastics to go under their chins, and
even so walked nearly half a mile round to avoid the market cross. It
was no use, the manoeuvre was discovered, and not only did the
youngsters have their caps taken, but were flipped violently by the
elastics in the face and about the ears in doing so. As for us older ones,
some ran, other walked with their caps under their tunics, others held
them on with both hands. The result was the same; our caps were
captured!
Then did Jimmy Bates, and Joe Bobbins, and Harry Rasper, and I, meet
one day, and declare to one another, that this sort of thing was not to be
stood.
"Let's tell Mother Wren," said one.
"Or the policeman," said another.
"Let's write and tell Fred Batchelor's uncle," said another. That referred

to my relative, who was always counted a "nob" in the village.
"I say, don't do any," said the redoubtable Bobbins. "The next time they
do it to me I mean to kick!"
The sentiment was loudly applauded, and a regular council of war was
held, with the following decision. We four were to go home together
that afternoon, and without waiting to be chased, would ourselves give
chase to the first bully we saw, and take his cap! The consequences of
course might be fearful--fatal; but the blood of the "Jenny Wrenites"
was up. Do it we would, or perish in the attempt.
I think we all got a little nervous as the afternoon school wore on and
the hour for departing approached. Indeed, when we were about to start,
Bates looked very like deserting straight away.
"Oh, you three go on," he said, "I'll catch you up; I just want to speak to
Jenny."
"No we don't," we all protested; "we'll wait