The Cock-House at Fellsgarth | Page 7

subscriptions were called for, he would have to declare himself
before all Wakefield's a pauper.
"I say," said he to Ashby, dropping the patronising for the pathetic,
"could you ever lend me half-a-crown? I've--I've lost mine--I'll pay it
you back next week faithfully."
"I've only got five bob," said Ashby; "to last all the term, and half a
crown of that will go in the clubs to-night."
"But you'll get it back in a week--really you will," pleaded Fisher minor,
"and I'll--"
But here there was a sudden interruption. Every one, from the captain
down, looked towards the new boys, and a shout of "lamb's singing,"
headed by Wally Wheatfield, left little doubt as to what it all meant.
"Pass up the new kids down there," called one of the prefects.
Whereupon Fisher minor and Ashby, rather pale and very nervous,
were hustled up to the top of the room, where sat the grandees in a row
round the table on which the sacrifice was to take place.
For the benefit of the curious it may be explained that "lamb's singing,"
the name applied to the musical performances of new boys at Fellsgarth
on first-night, is supposed to have derived its title from the frequency
with which these young gentlemen fell back upon "Mary had a little
lamb" as their theme on such occasions.
"Isn't one of them your minor?" asked Yorke of Fisher senior.

"Yes," said the latter rather apologetically; "the one with the light hair.
He's not much to look at. The fact is, I only know him slightly. They
say at home he's a nice boy."
"Does he spend much of his time under tables, as a rule?" asked Ranger,
recognising the lost property which had hung on to his legs at dinner-
time. "If so, I'll take the other one for my fag."
"He's bagged already," said Denton. "Fisher and I put our names down
for him an hour ago."
"Well, that's cool. If Fisher wanted a fag he might as well have taken
his own minor."
"Fisher major knew better," said the gentleman in question. "It might
raise awkward family questions if I had him."
"Wouldn't it be fairer to toss up?" suggested the captain. "Or I don't
mind swopping Wally Wheatfield for him; if you really--"
Ranger laughed.
"No, thank you, I draw the line at Wally. I wouldn't deprive you of him
for the world. I suppose I must have this youngster. Let's hear him sing
first."
"Yes, lamb's singing. Now, you two, one at a time. Who's first?
Alphabetical order."
Ashby, with an inward groan, mounted the rostrum. If anything could
have been more cruel than the noise which greeted his appearance, it
was the dead silence which followed it. Fellows sat round, staring him
out of countenance with critical faces, and rejoicing in his
embarrassment.
"What's the title!" demanded some one.
"I don't know any songs," said Ashby presently, "and I can't sing."

"Ho, ho! we've heard that before. Come, forge ahead."
"I only know the words of one that my con--somebody I know--sings,
called the Vigil. I don't know the tune."
"That doesn't matter--out with it."
So Ashby, pulling himself desperately together, plunged recklessly into
the following appropriate ditty; which, failing its proper tune, he
manfully set at the top of his voice, and with all the energy he was
capable of, to the air of the Vicar of Bray--
The stealthy night creeps o'er the lea, My darling, haste away with me.
Beloved, come I see where I stand, With arms outstretched upon the
strand.
The night creeps on; my love is late, O love, my love, I wait, I wait;
The soft wind sighs mid crag and pine; Haste, O my sweet; be mine, be
mine!
This spirited song, the last two lines of which were aught up as a
chorus, fairly brought down the house; and Ashby, much to his surprise,
found himself famous. He had no idea he could sing so well, or that the
fellows would like the words as much as they seemed to do. Yet they
cheered him and encored him, and yelled the chorus till the roof almost
fell in.
"Bravo," shouted every one, the captain himself included, as he
descended from the table; "that's a ripping song."
"That sends up the price of our fag, I fancy," said Denton to his chum.
"Your young brother won't beat that."
"Next man in," shouted Wheatfield, hustling forward Fisher minor.
"Now, kid, lamm it on and show them what you can do."
"Title! title!" cried the meeting.
Now, if truth must be told, Fisher minor had come to Fellsgarth

determined that whatever else he failed in, he would make a hit at
"lamb's singing." He had made a careful calculation as to what sort of
song would