Jackson and his Henley friends

Book 1. 3 io J a Copyright N°

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT.

.A .V

Then they struck out with all their strength for the

opposite bank.

Frontispiece. See Page 252 .

BY

FRANK E. CHANNON

Author of “ An American Boy at Henley

Illustrated by

H. BURGESS

BOSTON

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1911

Copyright, 1911 ,

By Little, Brown, and Company. rights reserved

Published, September, 1911 printers

S. J. Tarkhill <fc Co., Boston, U. S. A.

Conferences ....

Chapter I

Henley College was having one of its big days. You would have said so had you been there. The four-acre “ Tempus ludendi ” was swarming with all sorts of men and women, boys and girls. Some eight or nine hundred college boys, resplendent in snowy, spotless collars, black Eton jackets and broad-brimmed straw hats banded by the school colors of red and black, were strolling about, showing their people the sights of the place, proudly superior in their knowledge of things. Excited juniors were darting here, there, everywhere, shouting at the top of their shrill trebles, and hordes of townspeople were sauntering about the splendid grounds. Here and there a black-gowned master could be seen, walking with dignified carriage amid the gay confusion.

2 f JACKSON AND HIS HENLEY FRIENDS

The classic gables of the college loomed out along the entire west side of the grounds, backed by the towering Cotswold range of hills, while dotted around the magnificent green, white posts were visible, defining the oval track on which presently was to be fought the battle of speed and muscle.

A confusion of shouts arose from the scene. Undoubtedly Henley College was having one of its big days.

“ Hello, Tuck, you beggar! ” yelled an excited “ sprat ” (third form boy). “ Get over here; Fve got my mater, and can’t leave her.”

The “ beggar ” addressed as “ Tuck ” dived deftly under some ropes and carromed heavily into a corpulent old gentleman, who was innocently surveying the scene, unconscious of danger.

“ Ugh! ” grunted the stout one, as he felt the full force of the collision. “ What are you trying to do, my little man? ” #

“ Trying to get to Strawberry’s mother, sir,” explained the hastening youngster, as he scrambled on his way.

“ I am not she,” repudiated the injured one, but “ Tuck,” otherwise Percy Morris Tucker, had passed gayly on and brought up at his desired haven.

“ Look here, mater, here's this chap Tuck — that is, I mean, you know, it’s Tucker, my chum,” introduced Strawberry, known on the school roll as George Newman Berry.

“ How do you do? ” inquired the “ mater,” with kindly interest.

“ Fine, thanks,” shouted Tucker, straightening out his crumpled hat and rubbing his head.

“ Did you hurt the old gentleman? ” inquired the lady, who had observed the collision.

“ No, I don’t think so, but he bashed my hat in,” complained the junior; then, turning excitedly to his chum, “ Say, Straw, hurry up; they’re going to start in half an hour, and some cad’s stole my pumps and corks; ” he rattled on, “ the junior hurdles is second, you know.”

“ Say,” delicately hinted Berry to his mother, “ think it will be all right if I steer you and Lil back of the pop stand? I’ve got to peel, you know, and you’ll get a stunning view from there. Come on, Tuck, hack your way through. Catch on to my coat, mater, and you tow on behind, Lil.”

Thus instructed, Mrs. Berry endeayored to follow the rapid, aggressive movements of her son, as h§ and his chum twisted in and out through the crowd, shouting orders to her from the van:

“ Back water, there, mater! Now, come on! Steady, Lil, what’re you shoving for? Don’t hit it up so hard, — easy, I say. Now, then, all together! ”

They reached the vantage point at last, the two ladies rather out of breath, and somewhat disheveled, but safe.

“ Get out of that chair, you shrimp! ” brusquely ordered Berry, addressing a small, first form lad; “ chairs for visitors only, you know.”

“ Oh, let the little boy sit there, George,” remonstrated Mrs. Berry, but the youngster had already backed away, with a muttered apology, and the “ mater ” was thrust into the vacant seat, with a growl of instruction from her son. “ Sit there, can’t you, or seme one will swipe it; take Lil on your lap. Now, we’ve got to cut, you know,” he rattled on, in explanatory manner; “ the junior hurdles is second, and you’ll see Tuck and me making a show of the other chaps. We’ll try to get back to you in time for the four-forty and the mile, though; my man, that Yankee, Jackson, is in for that, and he’s going to win for the school. We’re going to come back and rip for him — hang tight; don’t lose your places.”

The youngsters were gone before the bewildered mother .could find time to form a reply.

“ What is the four-forty, mother? ” inquired the lady’s daughter.

“ I’m sure I don’t know, dear, but it’s a race of some sort, I suppose; it seems to be all races to-day.”

“ The four hundred and forty,” explained a gentleman who was standing back of the two ladies, “ is the quarter of a mile race. That and the open mile are considered the two most important races of the day, I believe.”

“ Oh, yes, mother, that’s it. I remember George said that the boy he — he fags for, I think he said, was going to run in the mile race. He’s the American, you know, of whom Bert was so fond.”

“ Of course,” assented Mrs. Berry, “ it’s Roger Jackson, Bert’s old chum. Why, there he is now! ”

A tall, wiry-looking youth of seventeen was advancing towards the ladies, accompanied by a shorter, thick-set fellow.

“ Good morning, Mrs. Berry,” he greeted, raising his hat. “ Good morning, Miss Lily; we’ve been looking everywhere for you, haven’t we, Dob? ”

“ Yes,” agreed Dobson, as he shook hands, “ but there’s such a mob here to-day that it’s hard to find any one. Max lost his folks and has only just found them; at least, he didn’t, but Yank, here, spotted the two twins.”

“ Dear me,” mused Miss Lily, in apparent deep concern, “ could it be possible that there were more than two twins? ”

“ I mean, you know, there was a couple of them,” Dobson confessed.

“ Think you will be comfortable here? ” questioned Roger Jackson; “ you’ll get a good view, but it’s not so comfortable as on the stand.”

“ There’s not a ghost of a chance there,” Dobson said; “ everything’s full up; you had better stay where you are.”

“ Oh, we’re very comfortable here, thank you,” assured Mrs. Berry. “ George displaced some poor little boy to make room for us; he was quite rude to him, in fact.”

“ I guess he’ll survive,” Roger consoled; “ the chairs are for visitors, you know.”

“ Well, we’d better be jogging,” warned Dobson. “You know, Mrs. Berry, the hopes of the school rest on Yank for capturing the open mile, and we want to put him on the track fit. This Charterhouse chap, Jones, is a topnotcher, and Yank will have to extend himself to rip the tape first; come on, old man! ”

The two chums departed, arm in arm, Henley fashion, as a bugle blared from somewhere, and there was a general scattering of the crowd from the course.

White-smocked officials, with red flags, waved back the mob, and old Doctor Proctor, the head of Henley College, who had consented to act as judge, stalked with dignified steps towards the finishing line at the chapel end of the grounds.

The first event was the junior hundred and twenty yards, and then the junior hurdles, in which Berry and Tucker were entered. These two youngsters were fully conscious of their own importance, and thoroughly convinced in their own little minds that the great crowd had assembled solely to witness this event. Berry waved his hand in lordly manner to his mother and sister, as he and Tucker strolled up to the white line.

There was a perfect mob of contestants for this event, and it was run off in seven heats. Both Berry and Tucker succeeded in capturing their respective heats, but in the final Tucker was left in the ruck, while Berry tripped and fell over the last hurdle, and came down while leading his field.

They appeared fifteen minutes later at the spot where they had left the ladies, both rather crestfallen, but still convinced that they would have won if — if — if only something hadn’t happened.

Mrs. Berry consoled them as only a motherly woman knows how to, and then all attention was turned towards the open mile, which great event was next on the card.

“ There’s Maxwell! ” shouted Tucker, who had recovered his spirits. “ Oh, and there’s Jackson! Look, Straw — I mean, Berry,” he corrected himself, glancing uneasily at Mrs. Berry.

“ And there’s the Charterhouse chap, Jones! By Jinks, isn’t he a little fellow? Doesn’t look as if he’d stand any chance along with Jackson,” yelled Berry, whose memory of defeat was now swallowed up in the excitement of the coming struggle.

The contestants were trotting out on the track. Only five responded to the starter’s call. The rest had been scared out by the class of the champions.

A mighty shout greeted the runners, as they toed the line for this great annual event — The British Public School Open Mile.

On the inside was the gaunt, long-legged Henleyite, Maxwell; next came the dreaded Charterhouse boy, a short little runt of a fellow, but with a suggestion of great speed and staying powers in his compact, well-knit limbs; then the wiry American, Roger Jackson, the fifth form Henley boy; and on his right, the Malvern College champion, Batten; Wyles, the celebrated Etonian, a typical-looking speeder, was on the extreme outside.

A hush fell over the waiting thousands as the boys ranged themselves up, and the Rev. Milton Murray, senior house master at Henley, gave them a few parting instructions.

“ It’s four laps to the mile, mater,” hoarsely whispered Berry, “ and Max is to cut out the running for Jackson, you know.”

“ Ready? ” came the query from the starter far up the track.

The five runners bent forward in position, Maxwell on the inside, stretching out until his finger-tips touched the turf, as if he were starting for the hundred-yard dash, instead of the long mile.

Roger Jackson, who always carried corks, fidgeted about with them, while the chunky little Charterhouse boy kept his eye on the starter. The Malvern fellow and Wyles were on tiptoes.

“ Three! ” cried Mr. Murray.

The runners made their final poise.

“ Two!”

Maxwell, on the balance, like a hound in leash, made a false start, and was called back.

Then the nerve-racking words were gone over again.

“ Three! ”

“ Two!”

“ Gun! ” — They’re off!

A deep roar of excitement greeted the start, and the runners were away on their journey.

Maxwell, on the inside, had jumped off with the crack of the gun, and was leading his field by a couple of yards, as they flashed past the stand, with its mob of yelling spectators. Down the field, past the long lines of shouting schoolboys, they raced towards the near turn, the Eton boy running second, with Batten and Roger neck and neck, close behind, and the Charterhouse champion last, taking things easily in the ruck.

The school breathed contentedly. Things had started as they hoped they would. The two scarlet Henley champions were well up, Maxwell leading, as he was expected to, cutting out the running for his mate.

As they swung around into the far side, Roger moved up to second place, two yards behind his running mate, and the Charterhouse boy, evidently determining not to be left too far behind, ran into third place, with Batten and Wyles bringing up the rear.

So they ran past the stand the second time around, and then, as they headed for the far side again, the Eton and Malvern fellows challenged Jones for third place. The little Charterhouse chap responded with a burst of speed that left the two challengers far behind, and brought him up to within a few inches of the Henley couple. Maxwell gave a quick half-glance behind, and then let himself out in a terrific spurt, and Jones, going like the wind, intent on collaring the leader, flashed past Roger, and ran into second place.

The school yelled itself hoarse, as the rapid changing of positions took place, and then yelled again until it was black in the face, as the two rear runners began again to close in on the flying leaders.

Past the stand the runner flashed again, and started on the third lap, with the American running well within himself, and still in third position, while Maxwell tore along to the fore, with the Charterhouse fellow hot at his heels not a foot behind. Then something happened.

Maxwell had shot his bolt! He withered up and dropped away, and the four chasers shot past him in a flash.

His sudden collapse left Jones in the command by a good ten feet, with Roger his next attendant. Around they sped, past the stand again, and into the last lap.

A bell rang loudly from somewhere.

“ Last lap! Last lap! ” the cry went up.

“Now, Jackson, now! Come on, sir, come on! ”

“ Stick to him, Batten! Stick to him,

Wyles! ” yelled the Eton and Malvern contingents in unison, and loud above the din arose the Charterhouse cheers and shouts:

“ Go on, Jones! Go on, sir; you’ve got him! Go on, sir! ” and then the familiar Henley cry, and shouts of: “ Jackson! Jackson! Now, Jackson, make your run! ”

Jackson was making it. He had gained five feet on the leader, and Batten and Wyles were both closing up. A blanket would have covered the four as they whizzed around the far turn and shot up into the straight in front of the stand.

The occupants of the grandstand were on their feet in an uproar.

“ Come on, sir, come on! Jones! Jones! Hold him off, Jones! Foot it, Jackson, foot it, sir! Now, Wyles! Now, Batten, come on, sir! ”

A perfect babel of shouts arose from the wildly excited spectators, as the flying boys straightened out for the last hundred yards. Doctor Proctor was fingering his end of the tape nervously, as it swayed gently in the breeze, his keen old eyes watching sharply the four blurs of white, red, blue and black, as they flashed towards him.

On, on, they came in a terrific final spurt. Now there were only three colors in the van!

Jt was a hair-raising finish. Pa<je 13

Now only two! Only the white and the red! The white of the Charterhouse champion, the red of the Henleyite. They were neck and neck now! It was a whirlwind finish.

“ Jackson! Jackson! Jones! Jones!” The shouts went up on every side.

Fifty yards, and dead level!

“ Come on! Come on, Henley! Come on, Charterhouse! Come on, sir! ”

The two runners were locked in a fierce struggle. It was a hair-raising finish. First the scarlet would show a few inches to the fore, then the white would crowd it out, and then again the scarlet.

Ten feet more!

“ Jackson! Jackson! ” a boy’s shrill treble screamed above the din, and as if in answer to that appeal, the Henley champion gathered himself together in a final mighty effort, and in a terrific burst of speed caught the tape a foot to the fore, then, rolling over, lay panting on the turf.

The great British Public School Open Mile was over, and Henley held it, won by Roger Jackson, its American student.

The crowd broke loose and surged over the lines on to the track. The exhausted runners were picked up and carried shoulder high back to the dressing-rooms, while two small boys, almost delirious with excitement and triumph, were yelling shrilly, Berry assuring every one around and near him that Jackson was his “ man,” and that he “ fagged for him.”

Chapter II

There was no preparation for lessons that evening at Henley, and the boys were free to do as they pleased. Some obtained leave and showed their people around the town, while others simply lounged about the old college and took things easy. Among the latter were Roger Jackson and his chum, Tommy Dobson. The two fifth form boys met in the American’s den after tea, and there talked over the events of the day.

“ Say, old man, that was a clinking fine finish,” congratulated Dobson, as they went over the great race again. “ I’ll swear I thought sure that fellow had you; I didn’t think you had another ounce in you.”

Roger was swathed about in a bathrobe, lolling back in his chair, his feet elevated to the table. Some sheets of paper and an open book were on the table in front of him. He had been “ grinding ” when his chum entered.

“ I knew I had him as we passed the flagstaff at the far end of the stand,” said Roger. “ I got my finishing wind there, and I saw him falter for a twink, but he ran a rattling fine race; I wouldn’t be surprised if he could turn the tables if it was run over again. And anyway, I could never have hit the tape first if it hadn’t been for Max; the way he cut out the pace and winded that chap was bully. I tell you, Dob, the victory’s as much his as it is mine, and I hope the fellows recognize that.”

“ Of course, I know; that’s where you had the pull on the other chaps. Say, hasn’t Max come along? ”

“ Bet your life. Do you remember, Dob, what a snob he was when he first showed up here? It’s lucky that fellow Welsh moved on; he’d have ruined Max.”

“ You’re right, old man. By Jinks, how things have changed in the last couple of years. It doesn’t seem that it’s only three since you first turned up at Henley, does it? Great Scott, I can remember that day I first saw you in the playing field. Old Murray trotted you out and shoved you off on me, and then old Berry came along and nabbed you to fag for him, and you didn’t even know what fagging was. By Jove, how you flared up when I explained to you that you had to get his grub and keep his den clean.

I remember how you blurted out: ‘ What for? I’m not his servant, am I? ’ Oh, Yank, you were a greenhorn! ”

“ No more than you’d have been, old boy, if you’d been suddenly dumped into a school on my side of the pond; everything all new and strange, you know. But, I say, isn’t it odd that I have Berry’s young brother to fag for me now? See, here’s a letter I got from old Berry only the other day.”

Roger “ gunned ” through his desk, and presently unearthed a letter which he handed to his chum. It read.

“ In Quarters, Woolwich, a My Dear Yank: — I am writing that young brother of mine before I take train north for embarkation for Bermuda, where, you know, I am to be stationed for the next two years, so I am enclosing this for him to hand over to you.

“ I am jolly glad you can arrange for him to fag for you this half; I’ll feel much easier if I know he has a good man, for, you know, he’s such a frisky young beggar.

“ I have not time to write much, but I want to congratulate you on making the fifth, old man; you’ll come pretty close to running through Henley in record time if you keep up this gait.

“ Now, Yank, for the sake of old times, look after this kid brother of mine, won’t you? He’s all right, you’ll find, but easily influenced by others, and, you know, Henley is a place where a fellow has a chance to do a lot as he pleases. George has chummed up with Tucker, minor, the brother of that fellow who was in the third with you, and whose reputation for stuffing was so great. Does he still keep up that full feeding of his? Did he move up into the fifth with you and Dobson and the rest of you, or remain in the fourth?

“ The mater goes to stay at Weston while I am gone; I wished her to come out with me and live in quarters, but she funked at the trip; she does so detest water, you know.

“ I hope to get my promotion this year, and when I come back I may have my troop — who can tell?

“ Well, so long, old chap. Once more, look after George, won’t you? Regards to all the fellows.

“ Yours as ever,

“ Herbert Berry.”

Dobson returned the letter to his chum with the remark: “ Berry was a jolly fine chap;

he’ll make good, as you say, wherever he goes.”

“ Bet your life he will,” acquiesced Roger, with conviction, as he pocketed the epistle.

There was a loud knock at the door of the den, and without waiting for an invitation to enter, young Berry crashed in.

“ Oh, sorry, Jackson,” he stammered, all breathless; “ didn’t know you had any one here — say, no end of a lark! You know how down on us sprats that new monitor, Halford’s been — just cocky because he climbed into the sixth this half, you know. We chaps have just been getting even with him. You know he sent four of us up for lines in three days, so to-night, just after prep, Tuck and I and a lot of other beggars commenced to make no end of a row in our study room. We thought that’d bring him, and we fixed things all up nicely ready. Had the door shut — that is, you know, just closed, and lodged a lot of hot water tins and other truck on top; filled ’em up with water, too, and then we began to bawl that ‘ Rip-riprow ’ song — you know it. By Jinks, hadn’t got to the third line when we heard him coming full gallop down the corridor. ‘ You fellows shut up that row! ’ he was shouting, and then in he burst like a load of bricks, and, whoop, down came the cans and water and things all over him. It knocked him silly for a minute, and then you ought to have seen how crazy he got. He was drenched all through, and wild as a hornet, and he flew at Tuck like a wild cat. He got him by the collar and pounded him across a desk, and, of course, you know, we wouldn’t stand for that, so we all pitched in, and there was a row, and that brought the prefects and the night watchman down on us, and now we’re all on the report list — the whole batch of us — Whoop! ”

The eager junior had rattled on with scarcely a pause to draw his breath, Roger and Dobson sitting back in their chairs helplessly listening to him. When at last he stopped, Roger said sternly :

“ See here, Berry, you’ve been getting in trouble again; this is the third time inside of two weeks. Don’t you know you’ll get on the black list if you keep up this pace? ”

“ Oh, you know, we didn’t do anything,” cried the youngster, turning an innocent face towards his man, as he saw trouble ahead. “ We just put ’em on top of the door to get ’em out of the way, and then we thought we’d have a song to celebrate the school winning the mile to-day. How were we to know that silly beggar, Halford, would come sticking his nose in? ”

“You know you did it all on purpose to get him in there; you said so yourself just now, so what’s the use of fibbing about it? It’s all right to have some fun, but you kids carry it too far — Say,” broke off Roger, “ isn’t that the nine o’clock call? You should be in your dormitory; cut for it, sharp! ”

“ By Jinks, so it is,” cried the small boy, as he turned and dived through the doorway.

Roger sat with a half-grin on his features, gazing at his chum.

“ Isn’t he a rummy little beggar? ” he demanded.

“ He’s not like his brother,” admitted Dobson. “ He’s so excitable, and old Berry was always so cool. By Jove, old man, I shall always remember that time when the school sent him to Coventry over that exam business.”

Then the chums commenced to chat of past days at Henley.

To the readers of “ An American Boy at Henley,” it is unnecessary to explain who Roger Jackson was, but to those who have not read that story, it may be well to explain briefly that Roger was a Virginian lad who had been placed at the English college while his father was absent in India engaged in the construction of a great bridge for the British Government. Roger entered the school three years ago, and was then placed in the third form, the boys in which are nicknamed “ sprats.” The forms run from first to sixth, and are dubbed by the lads as follows: shrimps, minnows, sprats, mackerels, salmons, and whales. Roger entered as a sprat, but had passed through the third and fourth forms into the fifth, and become a salmon. He had grown into a tall, thin, wiry youth, one of the best boys at the college for either sprint or distance, and had made good on both river and gridiron, although he could not enter into the spirit of the British national summer game, cricket.

There is in vogue at most of the British public schools a system called fagging. All boys in the first, second or third forms are required to fag for boys in the fifth and sixth; the fourth is fagless, the lads there neither giving nor receiving service. The juniors keep the dens of the seniors in order; get their breakfast for them when they eat in rooms, and make themselves generally useful to their “ men,” in return for which service the seniors assist their fags with their preparation work, and look out for their interests generally.

When the young American first came to Henley he fagged for a sixth form boy named Berry, who had now left the school and was in the army, but his young brother, George, had come on to Henley, and became a sprat and a

JUNIORS AND SBNIORS fag for Roger Jackson. Dobson, the American’s chum, whose father, Sir Henry Dobson, is a famous old soldier, moved up with him, and is now a salmon. So are Cossock, Tucker, primus, Bradbury, Dauncy, and many other lads who took part in “ An American Boy at Henley.” Dobson’s fag is Tucker’s young brother, who is in the same form as Berry, and is called Tucker, minor, to distinguish him from his brother of the fifth form.

Henley College has a roll call of over a thousand boys and is divided into four houses: Murray’s, Fairbank’s, Grafton’s and Dole’s, a master of those names being at the head of each house.

With this short explanation it is hoped that those who have not read “An American Boy at Henley ” will be able to follow the fortunes of “ Jackson and his Henley Friends.”

Chapter III

The combined houses of Henley were in session next day in the “ Big,” a great hall used for the purpose of general assembly.

The day following the annual Easter sports was always an important one in the college annuals, for on that day the school captain was elected for the coming year.

The position of school captain at Henley was an unofficial one, although recognized by Doctor Proctor. The captain was elected by the boys themselves, and his position was that of a minor king. On all matters between the boys his word was law, and he was sometimes called in for consultation by the doctor, when the feeling of the lads on any particular subject was desired. The appointment of “ prefects,” or “ spotters,” as they were called by the lads, was generally governed by his recommendation. Hence the office of school captain was the most important one open to the students at the college.

Belcher, of the sixth form, was occupying the chair at the conclave.

“ Mr. Dobson, of Murray’s, has the floor,” he had just announced, whereat there was terrific cheering from the Murray two hundred and forty-seven boys, and in the midst of the clouds of dust raised by the demonstration, the chunky figure of Dobson was observed aggressively waving some papers.

“ Look here, you fellows,” he shouted, but the fellows had not concluded their greeting, and for a while his efforts to obtain a hearing were vain. Presently his voice was again heard with another: “ Look here, you fellows.”