february 10th.—i am in the schoolroom again, and poor frank chandos is getting better. he is to go away as soon as he can be moved, but he is too weak even to sit up in bed yet. i went to see him yesterday, and chandos told him i had prayed that god would make him well again. he turned his white face round, and looked at me with his big, dark eyes, and said, "thank you, stewart."
"oh, don't do that! i didn't mean to do any harm, you know, but i led you into the mischief, and i've been sorry enough ever since; and i hope you'll forgive me, chandos," i said.
but i felt almost frightened when he put out his hand and slipped it into mine—such a thin, white hand it was, with fingers for all the world like claws. i suppose the doctors know best, but i should have thought he was dying if mrs. chandos had not told me he was looking better.
chandos seems to expect that i'm going in for plenty of grind, and all that sort of thing. well, it's only fair, for i couldn't think of asking god to help me out of a scrape, and then forgetting all about it as soon as it's over; though what a schoolboy can pray about when things are all right i don't know. of course, i haven't done with frank yet, for i don't feel so sure about his getting well as the others do. he looks awfully thin and white, and if god was just to leave off making him well for a day or two he'd be as bad as ever, i expect.
february 12th.—it's awful hard work to grind away like this—as i have the last two days. it ain't so easy to do lessons on the square, when one has been using cribs for ever so long; and then, grind as much as you may, the lessons don't look so well after all when one is a duffer at them, as i am. yesterday i sat poring over one book for hours and hours, trying to make out what it meant. i suppose i ought to know well enough by this time, for i've learned it all up to there; but then i've used cribs, and swain don't know that, and so he pitched into me, and threatened a heavy imposition if ever i took up such another piece of construing. it's easy enough talking about always doing the square thing, and it mightn't be so hard if i'd always done it; but i haven't, and there's the rub.
february 16th.—there's no end of a row with the fellows over these cribs. i've always used them, and i always shall, they say; and tom backs them, and tells them i'm tied to miss chandos's apron-strings.
it began about another wretched construe i handed in to swain.
"is this your own work, stewart?" asked swain; and i thought it was so good he could hardly believe i had done it, and i said, quite proudly, "yes, sir, i've done every word of it."
"then all i can say is, you have no right to be in this division of the school; and i shall talk to the doctor about it." he was turning over the leaves of the exercise-book while he was talking; and presently, turning up one of the cribs, he said, "look here, stewart; who did this?"
"i wrote that a month ago, sir," i said.
"yes, i know you wrote it, but who did the construing?"
i looked at swain, and then at the map on the wall, for i didn't know who had done it. i always did my lessons with tom and the rest, and they managed the cribs somehow, and i just copied them off the slips of paper jackson or some of the fellows handed to me.
"you have been using cribs, sir," thundered swain; and then he looked round at the other fellows, who were all very busy over their books.
i wished for once that the schoolroom floor was like the ice on the alder pond, and i could slip through out of sight, for i couldn't tell a direct lie about it; and swain had cornered me so that there was no other way of getting out of it. so i said nothing, though i knew i should catch it from tom and the rest when we got into the playground, for i could see by swain's looks that he suspected cribs had been used by all the lot.
"you may go to your seat now, stewart, and i will see dr. mellor about this," he said at last.
as soon as ever we got into the playground the row began with the other fellows.
"look here, you miserable muff! what right have you to get us all into this awful scrape?" said jackson, pulling off his jacket ready to fight.
"who says i'm a miserable muff?" i said, looking round at the others who had gathered near.
"well, charley, it was mean of you not to open your mouth when you might have saved us all by a single word. swain would have believed you if you'd said, 'i haven't been cribbing;' and it wouldn't have been much of a fib either, for you haven't cribbed for nearly a month, i know."
"no, because i haven't done many lessons lately. you may call it a fib if you like, but i call it a lie, and you know i hate lying, tom, as you did a little while ago. now, jackson, do you want to fight it out?" i asked, beginning to roll up my shirt-sleeves.
"no, no, don't fight; things are bad enough now, and the governor will be furious if he hears you have been fighting," said tom; and he caught hold of jackson and held him back.
"try and settle it without fighting," said one of the other fellows. "i don't suppose stewart meant to get us into a row."
"no, i didn't," i said. "i only wanted to go on the square for myself."
"one of miss chandos's tricks for serving us out," i heard jackson whisper to tom,
"well, that's all very well, you see, stewart, but you've been using cribs with us for ever so long, and so you must stick to them now."
"i shan't," i said. "i mean to act on the square."
"go on the square for anything else you like, but you mustn't throw us overboard in this crib business. we're all in the same boat, you see, charley, and it won't do; the other fellows don't like it."
"then they can lump it," i said; and i was turning away, but tom ran after me.
"now, be reasonable, old fellow; i've stuck up for you," he said, "for jackson and the rest wanted to kick up a row as soon as they found you were doing your lessons on the square; but i said, 'let him be a bit, and have his own way; he'll soon be glad of cribs again.'"
"but i don't mean to have anything to do with them again, i tell you, tom; it's downright dishonest."
"hoighty toighty—dishonest! you'll tell us next we're all thieves!" said tom, angrily.
"what's that he says?" asked collins, who happened to hear the last words.
"oh, he's setting up for a solomon after the chandos pattern; says we are all dishonest—little better than thieves, of course."
"what do you mean, stewart?" said collins, turning upon me fiercely.
"just what i say—what i told tom—it isn't honest to use cribs, and i've done with them."
"you'll have to ask us about that now, stewart; we've helped you, and we'll do it again, though you have served us this shabby trick, for it won't do, you know, to have another kick-up with swain about your wretched construing. this may blow over, but the next won't, and then we shall all be in for it."
"why don't you give the muff a good pommelling?" said jackson; "he's done no end of mischief. it's no better than peaching to serve us such a shabby trick. swain suspects us, i know."
"look here, jackson, a fight will just bring the whole thing out, and we shall all be condemned to no end of grind if it does. there'll be no time for the playground or cricket-field or anything else; we shall just be worked like galley-slaves, for the governor will have all the old lessons done over again by way of extra impositions. i know him better than you; but if you'll just keep cool and take my advice we may all escape."
"now then, boys, listen to the words of the sage," said one of the fellows, elbowing his way to the front.
"go on, collins, make us a speech," said another.
"it ain't much of a speech. you must give up cribs now."
"oh, that's all cram; we can't do it," said tom.
"we must."
"we shall all look as interesting as stewart did to-day when we go up. i say, why didn't you put your finger in your mouth, stewart?" he asked.
i was too angry to answer, but the rest burst into a loud laugh, and i punched one fellow's head, but collins wouldn't let us have a fair stand-up fight, and so i walked away, leaving them to settle about the cribs as they liked; but tom came to me afterwards, and said that the fellows had agreed to use no more cribs for a fortnight, but after that i must do as the rest did, or they would send me to coventry.
february 20th.—mrs. chandos is still here nursing frank. i go into his room to see him every day for a few minutes; but there isn't time for anything now except on half-holidays, for it is grind, grind, grind all day long, and the worst of it is we get impositions, and the masters are cross because all the construing is done so badly. i wonder who invented cribs. it's an easy way of getting over the lessons at first, but a fellow is nicely floored if he has to do without them for a bit, as we have just now. i fancy, too, that swain suspects what is going on, and is watching to catch some of us, for we have heard nothing since the day of the row—not a word more about my being sent to the governor.
i wish it wasn't so hard to do everything on the square. chandos says i find it hard because i made a bad beginning when i came here, and the longer i go on without altering this the harder it will be to alter. he gave me quite a lecture about this last night—about everything in my life depending upon the sort of beginning i make now. i laughed, and told him he ought to be a parson, and i should expect to see him preaching at some street corner if they wouldn't give him a gown and pulpit; but though i laughed i cannot help thinking he may be right after all. i suppose these lessons they give us to learn will be useful in some way, and when i leave school i shall be supposed to know all about them, as swain thinks i know all about the construing in my exercise-book, and it may be more awkward by-and-by not to know it than it is now. i'll try to think of this. dear old chandos, i like to tease him a bit about his lectures, and yet i like him to talk to me as he does.
i can understand now how it is he is so grave and quiet. he is the eldest son, and his mother talks to him as though he was frank's father. what a pity it is he cannot have his wish and be a doctor. it's cruel, i think, that people can't have their own way about things like this. i couldn't give up going to sea, as chandos has given up his wish.
march 4th.—the fortnight is up, and cribs are coming in fashion again, but everybody is very careful, for swain is still on the look-out, i can see. last night i had a talk with chandos about it, and he says if i am firm the boys will not send me to coventry, as they threaten. jackson and a few others may bully me a bit, but the school will not be led by them.
to tell the truth, i am not so much afraid of jackson and that lot as of the endless grind i shall have to do to keep on the square and do without cribs. i wish i'd never begun with them, and it wouldn't be so hard now, but once begun, it seems almost impossible to leave them off.
i said something of this to chandos, and he said if i asked god's help i should not find things so difficult; but i don't see how praying can help me with my lessons or make them any easier, but still i mean to keep on.
march 12th.—the fellows are awfully rusty because i won't use cribs. yesterday tom came to talk to me about it—the first time he has spoken for a week, for most of the fellows have kept their word, and sent me to coventry for it.
"now look here, charley, the fellows have sent me to speak to you once more—mind, it's the last time—and if you ain't reasonable now you won't have another chance."
"if it is about cribs you can hold your tongue, for i've made up my mind long ago," i said.
"oh, that's all cram. it won't do to come over us with that tale, you know, charley; you've used 'em for months and months before you came here, i know, and you'll be glad enough to use 'em again; but you'll find then the fellows won't help you, and so i've come to give you one more chance. now then, yes or no?"
"no," i said, firmly.
"oh, i'm not going to take your answer in such a hurry as all that. just think a bit, old fellow, what you'll do when the summer comes, and you have to sit stewing over your lessons in that musty old class-room while we are in the cricket-field. why, you'll never get that big ship of yours finished unless you take to cribs again."
"i can't help it," i said, sulkily, and wishing all the time i could get my lessons done sooner.
"oh yes, you can, and you needn't think to cram me with the tale that you are fond of grind, because i know better. you hate it like poison, and if you weren't afraid of miss chandos and her slow-going lot you'd take to cribs again like a sensible fellow."
"who says i'm afraid of chandos?"
"i do, and so do the other fellows; and she's just taking all the spirit out of you, and making you as big a coward as she is herself."
"i tell you, tom, you're mistaken in thinking chandos is a coward, and i'll fight any fellow that dares to say so."
"oh, everybody knows you can fight, but that isn't the thing. i haven't come to quarrel with you, charley, but to talk over this. look here now, things are getting awfully dull and slow. we haven't had a real good lark this half, for all our time has to be spent in grind."
"you and collins and jackson always get done in good time."
"yes, and a few others besides, but some of them talk about giving up cribs through you, and it ain't fair. swain will find out about the cribs if you are so much longer over your lessons than we are. mind, this isn't the only thing, charley. we're old chums—"
"we were at one time, tom, but i can't forget that farm-yard business," i put in.
"oh, botheration to the farm-yard! that was months and months ago, and everybody has forgotten that, if you haven't."
"i'm not so sure of that, tom," i said.
tom put his hands into his pockets and whistled. after a minute or two he said, "well, charley, you'll never be the sailor i thought you would."
"bother being a sailor! what's that got to do with it?" i said. "you were talking about our being chums."
"well, only this—sailors don't bear malice like you."
"i don't bear malice. it isn't that at all. you didn't hurt me, except that i felt i'd lost my old chum, when you did that sneaking business, and let chandos take your punishment."
"oh, bother chandos! i'm sick of hearing the young lady's name, and i didn't come to talk about her, but about these cribs. i tell you, charley, if you don't take them up again there'll be no fun this half."
"we can live without fun, i suppose," i said, crossly.
"i suppose we can, but you were always up to anything in that line. but now—well, there's been nothing since the skating but just maundering about like a parcel of girls."
"would you like that skating business over again?—because i shouldn't! i do like a good lark as well as anybody, but i may as well tell you straight out, tom, i mean to go on the square with our larks as well as with lessons. i shan't forget how near frank chandos was to dying for one while, and i mean to be careful in that direction for the future, for i shouldn't like to be a murderer, even in fun."
