The Fifth Form at St. Dominic's

Front matter

THE

Fifth Form at St. Dominic's

A SCHOOL STORY

Chapter I

CHAPTER I. THE NOTICE BOARD

The four o’clock bell was sounding up the staircase and down the passages of Saint Dominic’s school. It was a minute behind its time, and had old Roach, the school janitor, guessed at half the abuse privately aimed at his devoted head for this piece of negligence, he might have pulled the rope with a good deal more vivacity than he at present displayed.

At the signal there was a general shuffling of feet and uproar of voices—twelve doors swung open almost simultaneously, and next moment five hundred boys poured out, flooding the staircases and passages, shouting, scuffling, and laughing, and throwing off by one easy effort the restraint and gravity of the last six hours.

The usual rush and scramble ensued. Some boys, taking off their coats and tucking up their sleeves as they ran, made headlong for the playground. Some, with books under their arms, scuttled off to their studies. The heroes of the Sixth stalked majestically to their quarters. The day boarders hurried away to catch the train at Maltby. A few slunk sulkily to answer to their names in the detention-room, and others, with the air of men to whom time is no object and exertion no temptation, lounged about in the corridors with hands in pockets, regarding listlessly the general stampede of their fellows, and apparently not knowing exactly what to do with themselves.

Among these last happened to be Bullinger of the Fifth and his particular friend Ricketts, who, neither of them having any more tempting occupation, were comfortably leaning up against the door of the Fourth junior class-room, thereby making prisoners of some twenty or thirty youngsters, whose infuriated yells and howls from within appeared to afford the two gentlemen a certain languid satisfaction.

“Open the door! do you hear?” shrieked one little treble voice.

“All right!” piped another. “I know who you are, you cads. See if I don’t tell Dr. Senior!”

“Oh, please, I say, I shall lose my train!” whimpered a third.

“Wait till I get out; see if I don’t kick your shins!” howled a fourth.

It was no use. In vain these bantams stormed and raved, and entreated and blubbered. The handle would not turn, and the door would not yield. Mr. Bullinger and his friend vouchsafed no reply, either to their threats or their supplications, and how long the blockade might have lasted it is impossible to say, had not a fresh dissension called the beleaguerers away. A cluster of boys at a corner of the big corridor near the main entrance attracted their curiosity, and suggested a possibility of even more entertainment than the goading into fury of a parcel of little boys, so, taking advantage of a moment when the besieged had combined, shoulder to shoulder, to make one magnificent and desperate onslaught on to the obdurate door, they quietly “raised the siege”, and quitting their hold, left the phalanx of small heroes to topple head over heels and one over another on to the stone floor of the passage, while they sauntered off arm-in-arm to the scene of the new excitement.

The object which had attracted the knot of boys whom they now joined was the School Notice Board, on which, from time to time, were posted notices of general and particular interest to the school. On this particular afternoon (the first Friday of the Summer term) it was, as usual, crowded with announcements, each interesting in its way.

The first was in the handwriting of Dr. Senior’s secretary, and ran as follows:—

“A Nightingale Scholarship, value £50 a year for three years, will fall vacant at Michaelmas. Boys under seventeen are eligible. Particulars and subject of examination can be had any evening next week in the secretary’s room.”

“Fifty pounds a year for three years!” exclaimed a small boy, with a half whistle. “I wouldn’t mind getting that!”

“Well, why don’t you, you avaricious young Jew? You’re under seventeen, I suppose?” retorted the amiable Mr. Bullinger, thereby raising a laugh at the expense of this little boy of eleven, who retired from the scene extinguished.

The next notice was in the classical handwriting of the secretary of the Sixth Form Literary Society, and ran as follows:—

“This Society will meet on Tuesday. Subject for debate, ‘That the present age is degenerate,’ moved by A.E. Callender, opposed by T. Winter. Boys from the Senior Fifth are invited as auditors.”

This notice, even with the patronising postscript, would have passed without comment, as Sixth Form notices usually did, had not some audacious hand ventured to alter a word and make the subject of debate, instead of “That the present age is degenerate,” read “That the present Sixth is degenerate.” Who the perpetrator of this outrage might be was a mystery, but the alteration was quite enough to render the notice very amusing to many of the readers, especially the Fifth Form boys, and very terrible to others, especially the small boys, who looked nervous and guilty, and did not dare by the slightest sign to join in the mirth of their irreverent seniors. Most of the assembly agreed that “there would be a row about it,” with which assurance they passed on to the next notice.

“Wanted, a Smart Fag. No Tadpoles or Guinea-pigs need apply. Horace Wraysford, Fifth Form.”

“Bravo, Horatius!” said Ricketts. “A lucky young cub it will be that he takes on,” added he, turning to a group of the small boys near. “He’ll do your sums and look over your exercises for you like one o’clock. Ugh! though, I suppose every man Jack of you is a Tadpole or a Pig?”

Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs, I should say, were the names given to two combinations or clubs in the clannish Junior School, the mysteries of which were known only to their members, but which were not regarded with favour by the older boys.

As no one answered this charge, Ricketts indulged in a few general threats, and a few not very complimentary comments on the clubs in question, and then returned to the notice board, which contained two more announcements.

“Cricket Notices. To-morrow will be a final big practice when the elevens for the ‘A to M versus N to Z’ match on the 25th will be chosen. ‘Sixth versus School’ will be played on the 1st proxo. The School Eleven will be selected from among players in the two above matches.”

“A private meeting of the Fifth will be held this afternoon at 4:30 to discuss an important matter.”

“Hullo!” said Bullinger, looking up at the clock, “it’s half-past now! Come along, Rick.”

And the two demagogues disappeared arm-in-arm down the passage, followed by the admiring glances of the juniors, who spent the next half-hour in wondering what could be the important matter under consideration at the private meeting of the Fifth. The universal conclusion was that it had reference to the suppression of the Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs—a proceeding the very suggestion of which made those small animals tremble with mingled rage and fear, and sent them off wriggling to their own quarters, there to deliberate on the means of defence necessary to protect themselves from the common enemy.

The meeting in the Fifth, however, was to consider a far more important subject than the rebellious clubs of the Junior School.

The reader will doubtless have inferred, from what has already been said, that the young gentlemen of the Fifth Form at Saint Dominic’s entertained, among other emotions, a sentiment something like jealousy of their seniors and superiors in the Sixth. Perhaps Saint Dominic’s is not the only school in which such a feeling has existed: but, at any rate during the particular period to which I am referring, it was pretty strong there. Not that the two Forms were at war, or that there was any fear of actual hostilities. It was not so bad as all that. But the Fifth were too near the heroes of the top Form to consent to submit to their authority. They would be Sixth men themselves soon, and then of course they would expect the whole school to reverence them. But till that time they resented the idea of bowing before these future comrades; and not only that, they took every opportunity of asserting their authority among the juniors, and claiming the allegiance for themselves they refused to render to others. And they succeeded in this very well, for they took pains to make themselves popular in the school, and to appear as the champions quite as much as the bullies of the small fry. The consequence was that while Tadpoles and Guinea-pigs quaked and blushed in the presence of the majestic Sixth, they quaked and smirked in the presence of the Fifth, and took their thrashings meekly, in the hope of getting a Latin exercise looked over or a minor tyrant punished later on.

Just at the present time, too, the Fifth was made up of a set of fellows well able to maintain the peculiar traditions of their fellowship. They numbered one or two of the cleverest boys (for their age) in Saint Dominic’s; and, more important still in the estimation of many, they numbered not a few of the best cricketers, boxers, football-players, and runners in the school. With these advantages their popularity as a body was very great—and it is only due to them to say that they bore their honours magnanimously, and distributed their kicks and favours with the strictest impartiality.

Such was the company which assembled on this afternoon in their own class-room, with closed doors, to deliberate on “private and important business.” About twenty boys were present, and the reader must let me introduce a few of them, before his curiosity as to the occasion of their assembling themselves together can be satisfied.

That handsome, jovial-looking boy of sixteen who is sitting there astride of a chair, in the middle of the floor, biting the end of a quill pen, is the redoubtable Horace Wraysford, the gentleman, it will be remembered, who is in want of a fag. Wraysford is one of the best “all-round men” in the Fifth, or indeed in the school. He is certain to be in the School Eleven against the County, certain to win the mile race and the “hurdles” at the Athletic Sports, and is not at all unlikely to carry off the Nightingale Scholarship next autumn, even though one of the Sixth is in for it too. Indeed, it is said he would be quite certain of this honour, were it not that his friend and rival Oliver Greenfield, who is standing there against the wall, with his head resting on a map of Greece, is also in for it. Greenfield does not strike one as nearly so brilliant a fellow as his friend. He is quieter and more lazy, and more solemn. Some say he has a temper, and others that he is selfish; and generally he is not the most popular boy in Saint Dominic’s. Wraysford, however, sticks to him through thick and thin, and declares that, so far from being ill-tempered and selfish, he is one of the best fellows in the school, and one of the cleverest. And Mr. Wraysford is prepared to maintain his allegation at the point of the knuckle! That hulking, ugly youth is Braddy, the bully, the terror of the Guinea-pigs, and the laughing-stock of his own class-mates. The boy who is fastening a chalk duster on to the collar of Braddy’s coat is Tom Senior, the Doctor’s eldest son, who, one would have imagined, might have learned better manners. Last, not least (for we need not re-introduce Messrs. Ricketts or Bullinger, or go out of our way to present Simon, the donkey of the Form, to the reader), is Master Anthony Pembury, the boy now mounting up on to a chair with the aid of two friends. Anthony is lame, and one of the most dreaded boys in Saint Dominic’s. His father is editor of the Great Britain, and the son seems to have inherited his talent for saying sharp things. Woe betide the Dominican who raises Tony’s dander! He cannot box, he cannot pursue; but he can talk, and he can ridicule, as his victims all the school over know.

He it is who has, of his own sweet will, summoned together the present meeting, and the business he is now about to explain.

“The fact is, you fellows,” he begins, “I wanted to ask your opinion about a little idea of my own. You know the Sixth Form Magazine?”

“Rather,” says Ricketts; “awful rubbish too! Papers a mile long in it about Greek roots; and poetry about the death of Seneca, and all that sort of thing.”

“That’s just it,” continued Pembury; “it’s rubbish, and unreadable; and though they condescend to let us see it, I don’t suppose two fellows in the Form ever wade through it.”

“I know I don’t, for one,” says Wraysford, laughing; “I did make a start at that ode on the birth of Senior junior in the last, which began with—

“‘Hark, ’tis the wail of an infant that wakes the still echoes of lofty Olympus,’

“but I got no farther.”

“Yes,” says Tom Senior, “Wren wrote that. I felt it my duty to challenge him for insulting the family, you know. But he said it was meant as a compliment, and that the Doctor was greatly pleased with it.”

“Well,” resumed Pembury, laughing, “they won’t allow any of us to contribute. I suggested it to the editor, and he said (you know his stuck-up way), ‘They saw no reason for opening their columns to any but Sixth Form fellows.’ So what I propose is, that we get up a paper of our own!”

“Upon my word, it’s a splendid idea!” exclaimed Wraysford, jumping up in raptures. And every one else applauded Pembury’s proposition.

“We’ve as good a right, you know,” he continued, “as they have, and ought to be able to turn out quite as respectable a paper.”

“Rather,” says Ricketts, “if you’ll only get the fellows to write.”

“Oh, I’ll manage that,” said Anthony.

“Of course you’ll have to be editor, Tony,” says Bullinger.

“If you like,” says the bashful Tony, who had no notion of not being editor.

“Well, I call that a splendid idea,” says Braddy. “Won’t they be in a fury? (Look here, Senior, I wish you wouldn’t stick your pins into my neck, do you hear?)”

“What shall we call it?” some one asks.

“Ah, yes,” says Pembury, “we ought to give it a good name.”

“Call it the Senior Wrangler” suggested Ricketts.

“Sounds too like a family concern,” cried Tom Senior.

“Suppose we call it the Fifth Form War Whoop,” proposed Wraysford, amid much laughter.

“Or the Anti-Sixth,” says Braddy, who always professes an implacable enmity towards the Sixth when none of them are near to hear him.

“Not at all,” says Greenfield, speaking now for the first time. “What’s the use of making fools of ourselves? Call it the Dominican, and let it be a paper for the whole school.”

“Greenfield is right,” adds Pembury. “If we can make it a regular school paper, it will be a far better slap at the Sixth than if we did nothing but pitch into them. Look here, you fellows, leave it to me to get out the first number. We’ll astonish the lives out of them—you see!”

Every one is far too confident of Tony’s capacity to raise an objection to this proposal; and after a good deal more talk, in which the idea of the Dominican excites quite an enthusiasm among these amiable young gentlemen, the meeting breaks up.

That evening, as the fellows passed down the corridor to prayers, a new notice appeared on the board:

“The first number of the Dominican will appear on the 24th inst.”

“What does it mean?” asked Raleigh of the Sixth, the school captain, of his companions, as they stopped to examine this mysterious announcement; “there’s no name to it.”

“I suppose it’s another prank of the Fifth. By the way, do you see how one of them has altered this debating society notice?”

“Upon my word,” said Raleigh, reading it, and smiling in spite of himself, “they are getting far too impudent. I must send a monitor to complain of this.”

And so the two grandees walked on.

Later in the evening Greenfield and Wraysford sat together in the study of the former.

“Well, I see the Nightingale is vacant at last. Of course you are going in, old man?” said Wraysford.

“Yes, I suppose so; and you?” asked the other.

“Oh, yes. I’ll have a shot, and do my best.”

“I don’t mean to let you have it, though,” said Greenfield, “for the money would be valuable to me if I ever go up to Oxford.”

“Just the reason I want to get it,” said Wraysford, laughing. “By the way, when is your young brother coming?”

“This week, I expect.”

“I wonder if he’ll fag for me?” asked Wraysford, mindful of his destitute condition.

Greenfield laughed. “You’d better ask the captain about that. I can’t answer for him. But I must be off now. Good-night.”

And an hour after that Saint Dominic’s was as still and silent as, during the day, it had been hustling and noisy.

Chapter II

“Good-bye, my boy; God bless you! and don’t forget to tell the housekeeper about airing your flannel waistcoats.”

With this final benediction ringing in his ears, the train which was to carry Master Stephen Greenfield from London to Saint Dominic’s steamed slowly out of the station, leaving his widowed mother to return lonely and sorrowful to the home from which, before this day, her youngest son had never wandered far without her.

Stephen, if the truth must be told, was hardly as affected by the parting as his poor mother. Not that he was not sorry to leave home, or that he did not love her he left behind; but with all the world before him, he was at present far too excited to think of anything rationally. Besides, that last remark about the flannel waistcoats had greatly disturbed him. The carriage was full of people, who must have heard it, and would be sure to set him down as no end of a milksop and mollycoddle.

He blushed to the roots of his hair as he pulled up the window and sat down in his corner, feeling quite certain every one of his fellow-travellers must be secretly smiling at his expense. He wished his mother would have whispered that last sentence. It wasn’t fair to him. In short, Stephen felt a trifle aggrieved; and, with a view to manifesting his hardihood, and dispelling all false impressions caused by the maternal injunction, he let down the window and put his bare head out of it for about a quarter of an hour, until a speck of dust settled in his eye and drove him back to his seat.

It is decidedly awkward to get dust in your eye when you want to figure as a hero, for the eyes will water, and must be wiped, and that looks particularly like weeping. Stephen refrained from using his handkerchief as long as he could; but it was no use; he must wipe his eye in the presence of his fellow-passengers. However, if he whistled a tune while doing so, no one could suspect him of real tears; so he struck up, “Glide along, my bonny boat,” as cheerfully as he could, and mopped his smarting eye at the same time. Alas! the dust only got farther in, and the music, after half an hour’s heroic perseverance, flagged altogether. It was no use trying to appear heroic any longer, so, what with pain and a dawning sense of loneliness and home-sickness, Stephen shed a few real tears into his handkerchief, an indulgence which did him good in every way, for it not only relieved his drooping spirits, but washed that wretched piece of dust fairly out of its hiding-place.

This relief, with the aid of a bun and a bottle of ginger-beer at one of the stations, set him, so to speak, on his feet again, and he was able to occupy the rest of his journey very pleasantly in drumming his heels on the floor, and imagining to himself all the marvellous exploits which were to mark his career at Saint Dominic’s. He was to be a prodigy in his new school from the very first; in a few terms he was to be captain of the cricket club, and meanwhile was to gain the favour of the Sixth by helping them regularly in their lessons, and fighting any one against whom a special champion should be requisite. He was, indeed, just being invited to dinner with the Doctor, who was about to consult him concerning some points of school management, when the train suddenly pulled up at Maltby, and his brother Oliver’s head looked in at the window with a “Hullo! here you are! Tumble out!”

Oliver and Stephen were Mrs. Greenfield’s only two boys. Their father had died twelve years ago, when Stephen was a baby, and the two boys had been left in charge of an uncle, who had carefully watched over their education, and persuaded his sister, to allow her elder boy to go to a public school. Mrs. Greenfield had consented, with many tremblings, and Oliver had, four years ago, been sent to Saint Dominic’s, where he was now one of the head boys in the Fifth Form. Only a few weeks before the opening of this story the boys’ uncle had died, leaving in his will a provision for sending Stephen to the same school as his brother, or any other his mother might select. The poor widow, loth to give up her boy, yet fain to accept the offer held out, chose to send Stephen to Saint Dominic’s too, and this was the reason of that young gentleman’s present appearance on the stage at that centre of learning.

“I’ll send up your traps by the carter; we can walk,” said Oliver, taking his young brother into charge.

Stephen was only too glad, as it gave him time to breathe before plunging at once into the scene of his future exploits. “Is it far?” he asked.

“Only a mile,” said Oliver; “come on. Hullo, Rick, where have you been to?”

This was addressed to Ricketts, whom they met just outside the station.

“Oh! to Sherren’s about my togs. I wanted them for the match to-morrow, you know. I’ve told him if he doesn’t send them up in time we’ll all get our things made in London, so I guess he’ll hurry himself for once. Oh, look here! did you get a paper with the result of the American match? Bother! Here, you kid, what’s your name, cut back to the station and get a daily. Look sharp! Bring it to me in my room. Come on, Greenfield.”

Master Stephen looked so astonished at this cool request from a total stranger that both the elder boys laughed.

“This is my young brother, Rick, just come—”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Ricketts, blushing, “I’ll go—”

“No, I’ll go,” said Stephen, darting off, and expending a penny of his own to get this magnifico of the Fifth his paper.

This little incident served to break the ice for the new boy, who felt highly honoured when Ricketts said he was “much obliged to him.”

“By the way,” said Oliver, suddenly, “I ought to get my togs up too. Bother that Sherren! I say, Rick, see my young brother up to the school, will you, while I cut back? He can wait in my study.”

Stephen felt very desolate to be left thus alone the moment after his arrival, and it did not add to his pleasure to observe that Ricketts by no means appeared to look upon the task of seeing him to Saint Dominic’s as a privilege. They walked on in silence for about half a mile, and then encountered several groups of boys strolling out along the road. Ricketts stopped to talk to several of them, and was very nearly going off with one of the party, when he suddenly remembered his charge. It was rather humiliating this, for Stephen; and already his triumphal entry into Saint Dominic’s was beginning to be shorn of some of its glory. No one noticed him; and the only one that paid him the least attention appeared to look upon him as a nuisance.

“Here, Tony,” suddenly shouted Ricketts to Pembury, who was jogging along on his crutches a little way ahead, towards the school; “do you mind showing this kid the way up? I have to go back with Wren. There’s a good fellow.”

“Well, that’s cool,” replied Master Pembury; “I’m not a kid-conductor! Come on, youngster; I suppose you haven’t got a name, have you?”

“Yes, Stephen Greenfield.”

“Oh, brother of our dear friend Oliver; I hope you’ll turn out a better boy than him, he’s a shocking character.”

Stephen looked concerned. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean to do what’s wrong,” began he, apologetically.

“That’s just it, my boy. If he doesn’t mean to do it, why on earth does he do it? I shall be sorry if he’s expelled, very sorry. But come on; don’t mind if I walk too fast,” added he, hobbling along by Stephen’s side.

Stephen did not know what to think. If Ricketts had not addressed his companion as “Tony” he would have fancied he was one of the masters, he spoke with such an air of condescension. Stephen felt very uncomfortable, too, to hear what had been told him about Oliver. If he had not been told, he could not have believed his brother was anything but perfection.

“I’m lame, you see,” said Pembury, presently. “You are quite sure you see? Look at my left leg.”

“I see,” said Stephen, blushing; “I—I hope it doesn’t hurt.”

“Only when I wash my face. But never mind that; Vulcan was lame, too, but then he never washed. You know who Vulcan was, of course?”

“No, I don’t think so,” faltered Stephen, beginning to feel very uneasy and ignorant.

“Not know Vulcan! My eye! where have you been brought up? Then of course you don’t know anything about the Tenth Fiji War? No? I thought not. Dreadful! We shall have to see what you do know. Come on.”

Stephen entered Saint Dominic’s thoroughly crestfallen, and fully convinced he was the most ignorant boy that ever entered a public school. The crowds of boys in the playground frightened him, and even the little boys inspired him with awe. They, at any rate, had heard of Vulcan, and knew about the Tenth Fiji War!

“Here,” said Anthony, “is your brother’s study. Sit here till he returns, and make the most of your time, for you’ll have to put your best foot foremost to-morrow in the Doctor’s exam.”

So saying, he left abruptly, and the poor lad found himself alone, in about as miserable a frame of mind as a new boy would wish to be in.

He looked about the study; there were some shelves with books on them. There was a little bed let into the wall on one side; there was an easy-chair, and what professed to be a sofa; and there was a pile of miscellanies, consisting of bats and boots and collars and papers, heaped up in the corner, which appeared to be the most abundantly furnished portion of the little room. Stephen sat there very dismal, and wishing himself home again once more, when the door suddenly opened and a small boy of his own age appeared.

“Hullo! What do you want?” demanded this hero.

“I’m waiting for my brother.”

“Who’s your brother?”

“Oliver Greenfield.”

“Oh, all right! you can get his tea as well as I can: you’ll find all the things in the cupboard there. And look here, tell him Bullinger wants to know if he can lend him some jam—about half a pint, tell him.”

Poor Stephen! even the small boys ordered him about, and regarded him as nobody. He would fain have inquired of this young gentleman something about Vulcan, and have had the advantage of his experience in the preparation of his brother’s tea; but the youth seemed pressed for time, and vanished.

As well as he could, Stephen extricated the paraphernalia of his brother’s tea-table from the cupboard, and set it out in order on the table, making the tea as well as profound inexperience of the mystery and a kettle full of lukewarm water would permit. Then he sat and waited.

Before Oliver arrived, four visitors broke in upon Stephen’s vigil. The first came “to borrow” some tea, and helped himself coolly to two teaspoonfuls out of Oliver’s canister. Stephen stood by aghast and speechless.

“Tell him I’ll owe it him,” calmly remarked the young gentleman, as he departed with his booty, whistling a cheerful ditty.

Then a fag came in and took a spoon, and after him another fag, with a mug, into which he poured half of the contents of Oliver’s milk-jug; and finally a big fellow rushed in in a desperate hurry and snatched up a chair and made off with it.

Stephen wondered the roof of Saint Dominic’s did not fall in upon these shameless marauders, and was just contemplating putting the stores all back again into the cupboard to prevent further piracy, when the welcome sound of Oliver’s voice in the passage put an end to further suspense.

“Well, here you are,” said Oliver, entering with a friend. “Wray, this is my young brother, just turned up.”

“How are you?” said Wraysford, in a voice which won over Stephen at once; “I heard you were coming. Have you—”