The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's Part 8

"Yes, but the Doctor said half-past nine. And you are a cad to make a fool of me," added Stephen, rising with indignation, "and--and--and--"

and here he choked.

"Calm yourself, my young friend," said Pembury. "It's such a hard thing to make a fool of you that, you know, and--and--and--!"

"I shall not speak to you," stammered Stephen.

"Oh, don't apologise," laughed Pembury. "Perhaps it would comfort you to kick me. Please choose my right leg, as the other is off the ground, eh?"

"The Doctor wants to speak to you, he says," said Stephen.

Pembury's face fell again. "Do you mean to say he saw the paper, and you told him?" he said, angrily.

"I showed him the paper, because I thought he had sent it; but I didn't tell him who gave it to me."

"Then why does he want me?"

"He wants the boy who gave me the paper, that's all he said," answered Stephen, walking off sulkily to his quarters, and leaving Anthony to receive the rebukes of Dr Senior, and make his apologies for his evil deeds as best he could.

The offence after all was not a very terrible one, and Pembury got off with a mild reprimand on the evils of practical joking, at the end of which he found himself in his usual amiable frame of mind, and harbouring no malice against his innocent victim.

"Greenfield," said he, when shortly afterwards he met Oliver, "I owe your young brother an apology."

"What on earth for?"

"I set him an examination paper to answer, which I'm afraid caused him some labour. Never mind, it was all for the best."

"What, did that paper he was groaning over come from you? What a shame, Tony, to take advantage of a little beggar like him!"

"I'm awfully sorry, tell him; but I say, Greenfield, it'll make a splendid paragraph for the _Dominican_. By the way, are you going to let me have that poem you promised on the Guinea-pigs?"

"I can't get on with it at all," said Oliver. "I'm stuck for a rhyme in the second line."

"Oh, stick down anything. How does it begin?"

"'Oh, dwellers in the land of dim perpetual,'"

began Oliver.

"Very good; let's see; how would this do?--

"'I hate the day when first I met you all, And this I undertake to bet you all, One day I'll into trouble get you all, And down the playground steps upset you all, And with a garden hose I'll wet you all, And then--'"

"Oh, look here," said Oliver, "that'll do. You may as well finish the thing right out at that rate."

"Not at all, my dear fellow. It was just a sudden inspiration, you know. Don't mention it, and you may like to get off that rhyme into another. But I say, Greenfield, we shall have a stunning paper for the first one. Tom Senior has written no end of a report of the last meeting of the Sixth Form Debating Society, quite in the parliamentary style; and Bullinger is writing a history of Saint Dominic's, 'gathered from the earliest sources,' as he says, in which he's taking off most of the Sixth. Simon is writing a love-ballad, which is sure to be fun; and Ricketts is writing a review of Liddell and Scott's _Lexicon_; and Wraysford is engaged on 'The Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.'"

"Good!" said Oliver, "and what are _you_ writing?"

"Oh, the leading article, you know, and the personal notes, and 'Squeaks from Guineapigland and Tadpoleopolis,' and some of the advertis.e.m.e.nts.

Come up to my study, you and Wray, this evening after prayers, I say, and we'll go through it."

And off hobbled the editor of the _Dominican_, leaving Oliver greatly impressed with his literary talents, especially in the matter of finding rhymes for "perpetual."

By the time he and Wraysford went in the evening to read over what had been sent in, the poem on the Guinea-pigs was complete.

They found Pembury busy over a huge sheet of paper, the size of his table.

"What on earth have you got there?" cried Wraysford.

"The _Dominican_, to be sure," said Anthony, gravely.

"Nonsense! you are not going to get it out in that shape?"

"I am, though. Look here, you fellows," said Anthony, "I'll show you the dodge of the thing. The different articles will either be copied or pasted into this big sheet. You see each of these columns is just the width of a sheet of school paper. Well, here's a margin all round--do you twig?--so that when the whole thing's made up it'll be ready for framing."

"Framing!" exclaimed Greenfield and his friend.

"To be sure. I'm getting a big frame, with gla.s.s, made for it, with the t.i.tle of the paper in big letters painted on the wood. So the way we shall publish it will be to hang it outside our cla.s.s-room, and then every one can come and read it who likes--much better than pa.s.sing it round to one fellow at a time."

"Upon my word, Tony, it's a capital notion," exclaimed Wraysford, clapping the lame boy on the back; "it does you credit, my boy."

"Don't mention it," said Tony; "and don't whack me like that again, or I'll refuse to insert your 'Diary of the Sixth Form Mouse.'"

"But, I say," said Greenfield, "are you sure they'll allow it to hang out there? It may get knocked about."

"I dare say we may have a row with the monitors about it; but we must square them somehow. We shall have to keep a f.a.g posted beside it, though, to protect it."

"And to say 'Move on!' like the policemen," added Wraysford. "Well, it's evident you don't want any help, Tony, so I'll go."

"Good-bye; don't ask me to your study for supper, please."

"I'm awfully sorry, I promised Bullinger. I know he has a dozen sausages in his cupboard. Come along there. Are you coming, Greenfield?"

And the worthy friends separated for a season.

Meanwhile, Stephen had made his _debut_ in the Fourth Junior. He was put to sit at the bottom desk of the cla.s.s, which happened to be next to the desk owned by Master Bramble, the inky-headed blanket-s.n.a.t.c.her.

This young gentleman, bearing in mind his double humiliation, seemed by no means gratified to find who his new neighbour was.

"Horrid young blub-baby!" was his affectionate greeting, "I don't want you next to me."

"I can't help it," said Stephen. "I was put here."

"Oh, yes, because you're such an ignorant young sneak; that's why."

"I suppose that's why you were at the bottom before I came--oh!"

The last exclamation was uttered aloud, being evoked by a dig from the amiable Master Bramble's inky pen into Stephen's leg.

"Who was that?" said Mr Rastle, looking up from his desk.