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Read Ebook: Forge of Foxenby by Goodyear R A H Robert Arthur Hanson Whitwell T M R Illustrator
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Ebook has 1374 lines and 50951 words, and 28 pages
by plucking at his sleeve.
"Oh, please, Forge, I'd rather not go until I've spoken to you privately," the Junior said.
"Privately! Well, of all the nerve! You can say anything you've got to say in front of my friend here, and look slippery, too. Doubt if I ought to let you speak at all--butting into our conversation like that."
"Sorry, Forge, but I don't think you'll mind when I've told you everything. I've come to you for protection."
"Protection! From me? I'm honoured--overwhelmed! Take a square look at this young genius, Roger. Is he quite 'all there', do you consider?"
"Well, don't lay it as heavily as a foundation-stone," interrupted Dick. "That'll do for the first part of your speech, youngster. Hurry up with the second. I'll give you a couple of minutes."
He took out his watch.
"Ah, to be sure!" said Roger. "One of the Squirms, and looks it, too."
The Junior gave Roger a quick glance which seemed to say, "It's none of your business, anyhow." Then he made his moan.
Dick and Roger exchanged half-amused glances. Then Dick looked back at his watch.
"One minute," he chuckled. "Any more of this, kid?"
"A lot, Forge! They blackguard me all the time--I've a dog's life between the two gangs--and yesterday they held my head down ever so long in the fountain."
"Did you report that to your prefect?"
"Oh, rather!" said the Captain, ironically. "Quite a natural assumption that Harwood will lie awake o' nights wondering how to get even with you. Don't be an idiot, young Mudster."
"Mawdster, if you please, Forge," the Junior corrected, not too respectfully.
"Mawdster, then! Don't snap! I think I understand you now. You belong to Holbeck's House, whose prefect snubs you. Then, because you once praised my magazine, you expect me to slip across and break a stick over the backs of a score of youngsters who are ragging you. If there's a more brazen little bounder in the whole of Foxenby, I've yet to hear of him. Quit!"
"Quit, you little ass!" put in Roger. "Don't you know how hard the Captain can kick?"
The flabby youth, realizing that his audacious appeal had failed, got quickly out of the range of Dick's boot. But he paused long enough to get in a parting shot--a stinger, too.
Both laughed ruefully at this when Mawdster had vanished.
"That's a backhander for us, straight between the eyes," said Roger.
"Rather!" Dick agreed. "The oily maggot! I only wish I'd taken your tip, Roger, and driven my uninjured foot into his fat carcase!"
The Squirms in the Forest
On a dull Saturday afternoon Robin Arkness and his Merry Men, rigged out for football, passed through the school-yard.
Their voices were raised eagerly as they discussed, in a friendly way, who should play on Robin's side and who should form a team under the captaincy of Little John. Almost all they said was, therefore, audible to Osbody and his Squirms, who, from the windows of the dining-hall, contemptuously watched them depart.
"Silly asses, booting a ball about with only themselves to score against," scoffed Grain, cracking a walnut between his teeth.
"Going by the fuss they make, you'd think it was a match for the World's Championship," said Niblo, a boy who never wasted pocket-money on regular haircutting.
Practically every Squirm had some skittish comment of this character to make. As a body they hated football. Much more in their line was it to go marching about the premises, annoying the servants and "ragging" inoffensive youngsters. In this way they missed a lot of fresh Foxenby air, which would have done them a world of good.
Osbody, leader of the Squirms, had outdoor ambitions this afternoon, however. The departure of Robin and his Merry Men in the direction of the football field had given him an idea.
"Boys," he said, "is there any reason why one gang of Foxes, more than any other, should have the Shrubbery all to itself?"
"Not a bit!"
"Confounded cheek on their part!"
"Old Man Wykeham ought to stop it!"
"Ours as much as theirs!"
"We're all in one mind about it," said Osbody. "So, as Arkness and his band of bounders are off leather-chasing, what's to prevent us having a bit of sport ourselves under the greenwood tree?"
With one accord they tumbled to the notion. Such a jolly sight less "fag" to walk right into the Shrubbery without the painful necessity of fighting their way through its outskirts--a plan of campaign which, with disastrous results, they had twice tried before, on each occasion retiring as a routed and damaged rabble.
Singing and shouting and skitting, they slouched in straggling array to the Shrubbery. That morning gardeners had been busy lopping the tree branches, many of which were strewn on the ground. Some were green and damp, but others crackled crisply when trodden on.
"They'd burn like--like blazes," said Grain, not very brilliantly. "What say you, chaps, to lighting a fire where they've had theirs?"
"That'll be clinking," agreed Osbody. "Not on the spot they last used, though. I guess our squirts made that wet for the winter. A ripping score to make off them, wasn't it, boys?"
"Rather!" said Niblo, gleefully. "Some of them were coughing and rubbing their eyes all next day."
"True. Mr. Rooke looked in and asked if any of them wanted cough mixture, but they didn't bite!"
"Ha, ha! Buzz round, boys, and rake up the fuel. If I can't beat Robin Arkness at fire-making, I'll chew my boot-protectors for a week!"
Bold words. But there are days when fires simply will not burn as they should. Match after match was struck and thrust vainly into the newspapers which formed the foundation of the pile. Some black smoke rose in a languid way, but again and again a fitful breeze blew out the tiny flame.
"Somebody must be breathing hard," said Osbody, trying to hide his vexation beneath a show of humour. "Get round, boys, and fan it with your caps."
"Funny thing, this bad luck," Grain remarked. "When Arkness lights a fire it blazes up like billy-o inside half a minute."
"Go on, Grain, skit," growled Osbody. "'Spose you think of me as Guy Fawkes, unable to set the fireworks going? Come and have a whack at it yourself, then, Mr. Clever!"
Grain swaggered nearer. "Don't mind if I do," he said. "Couldn't very well make a worse boggle of it, could I?"
He knelt beside the fire and drew from his overcoat pocket a brown-paper parcel, through which grease was oozing slightly. This was a bad investment in ham sandwiches, which Grain had found far too fat for his liking.
Without opening the package, he scooped a hole for it amongst the newspapers and dry twigs, covered it with spreading boughs, and restarted the fire. It crackled, spluttered, and burst into a blaze, flinging off an unpleasant odour of rancid fat.
Still, as a warming spectacle its success was immediate. Grain had scored over Osbody, the established leader of the Squirms, and made but a poor effort to conceal his satisfaction.
"Smart!" sneered Osbody. "Since when did you start out hawking lard and dripping, Grain?"
This was the sort of bickering which was always going on between the two leading spirits of the Squirms. You never get a pleasant atmosphere where fellows are always trying to score off one another.
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