The Willoughby Captains | Page 8

became aware of another boat making down on him,
manned by three juniors, who were making up in noise and splashing
what they lacked in style and oarsmanship.

Parson knew them yards away. They were rowdies of Welch's house,
and he groaned inwardly at the prospect before him. The boy steering
was our old acquaintance Pilbury, and as his boat approached he
shouted out cheerily, "Hullo, there, Parson! mind your eye! We'll race
you in--give you ten yards and bump you in twenty! Pull away, you
fellows! One, two, three, gun! Off you go! Oh, well rowed, my boat!
Now you've got him! Wire in, now! Smash him up! scrunch him into
the bank! Hooroo! two to one on us! Lay on to it, you fellows; he can't
go straight! Six more strokes and you're into him! One, two, three--ha,
ha! he's funking it!--four, five--now a good one for the last--six!
Hooroo! bump to us! Welch's for ever!"
So saying, the hostile boat came full tilt on to the stern of the Parrett's
tub, and the outraged Parson found himself next moment sprawling on
his back, with the nose of his boat firmly wedged into the clay bank of
the river, while his insulting adversaries sped gaily away down stream,
making the morning hideous with their shouts and laughter.
This little incident, as may be supposed, did not tend to compose the
fluttered spirits of the unhappy Frederick. To say nothing of the
indignity of being deliberately run down and screwed into the bank by
a crew of young "Welchers," the loss of time involved in extricating his
boat from the muddy obstacle which held her by the nose, put all
chance of getting in in time to go round to Chalker's before chapel out
of the question. Indeed, it looked very like a shut-out from chapel too,
and that meant no end of a row.
By a super-human effort he got his boat clear, and sculled down hard
all, reaching the boat-house at seven minutes to eight. He had just
presence of mind enough to shout the message for Chalker to the boat-
boy, with a promise of twopence if he delivered it at once; and then
with a desperate rush he just succeeded in reaching the chapel and
squeezing himself in at the door as the bell ceased ringing.
Chapel was not, under the circumstances, a very edifying service to
Parson that morning. His frame of mind was not devotional, and his
feelings of bottled-up wrath at what was past, and dejected anticipation
of what was to come, left between them no room for interest in or

meaning for the words in which his schoolfellows were joining. The
only satisfaction morning prayers brought to him was that, for ten
minutes at least, no one could harry him; and that at least was
something to be grateful for.
Morning chapel at Willoughby was supposed to be at 7:15, and was at
7:15 all the months of the year except May, June, and July, when, in
consideration of the early-morning rowing and bathing, it was
postponed for three-quarters of an hour--a concession made up for by
the sacrifice of the usual half-hour's interval between breakfast and first
lesson.
This arrangement was all against Parson, who, if the half-hour had been
still available, could at least have skimmed through his Caesar, and
perhaps have begged a friend to help him with the French verbs, and
possibly even have had it out with Pilbury for his morning's diversion.
As it was, there was no opportunity for the performance of any one of
these duties, and at the sound of the pitiless bell he slunk into first
lesson, feeling himself a doomed man.
His one hope was Telson. Telson sat next him in class, and, he knew
well, would help him if he could.
"Telson," he groaned, directly he found himself beside his faithful ally,
"I've not looked at it!"
Telson whistled. "There'll be a row," he muttered, consolingly; "it's a
jolly hard bit."
"Haven't you got the crib?"
Telson looked uncomfortable. "Riddell caught me with it and made me
give it up."
"What on earth business has Riddell with your cribs, I'd like to know?"
exclaimed Parson, indignant, not at all on the question of morality, but
because the last straw on which he had relied for scrambling through
his Caesar had failed him.

"He didn't take it, but he advised me to give it up."
"And you were fool enough to give in to him?"
"Well, he made out it wasn't honourable to use cribs," said Telson.
"Grandmother!" snarled Parson. "Why, Telson, I didn't think you'd
have been such a soft!"
"No more did I, but somehow--oh! I'm awfully sorry, old man; I'll try
and get it back."
"Doesn't much matter," said Parson, resignedly.