Briggs, the mayor of the town, had been returned by a comfortable majority. Since then ill-health had caused that gentleman to resign his seat, and the place was once more in a state of unrest. This time the school was deeply interested in the matter. The previous election had not stirred them. They did not care whether Sir Eustace Briggs defeated Mr Saul Pedder, or whether Mr Saul Pedder wiped the political floor with Sir Eustace Briggs. Mr Pedder was an energetic Radical; but owing to the fact that Wrykyn had always returned a Conservative member, and did not see its way to a change as yet, his energy had done him very little good. The school had looked on him as a sportsman, and read his speeches in the local paper with amusement; but they were not interested. Now, however, things were changed. The Conservative candidate, Sir William Bruce, was one of themselves—an Old Wrykinian, a governor of the school, a man who always watched school-matches, and the donor of the Bruce Challenge Cup for the school mile. In fine, one of the best. He was also the father of Jack Bruce, a day-boy on the engineering side. The school would have liked to have made a popular hero of Jack Bruce. If he had liked, he could have gone about with quite a suite of retainers. But he was a quiet, self-sufficing youth, and was rarely to be seen in public. The engineering side of a public school has workshops and other weirdnesses which keep it occupied after the ordinary school hours. It was generally understood that Bruce was a good sort of chap if you knew him, but you had got to know him first; brilliant at his work, and devoted to it; a useful slow bowler; known to be able to drive and repair the family motor-car; one who seldom spoke unless spoken to, but who, when he did speak, generally had something sensible to say. Beyond that, report said little.
As he refused to allow the school to work off its enthusiasm on him, they were obliged to work it off elsewhere. Hence the disturbances which had become frequent between school and town. The inflammatory speeches of Mr Saul Pedder had caused a swashbuckling spirit to spread among the rowdy element of the town. Gangs of youths, to adopt the police-court term, had developed a habit of parading the streets arm-in-arm, shouting “Good old Pedder!” When these met some person or persons who did not consider Mr Pedder good and old, there was generally what the local police-force described as a “frakkus”.
It was in one of these frakkuses that Linton had lost a valuable tooth.
Two days had elapsed since Dunstable and Linton had looked in on Sheen for tea. It was a Saturday afternoon, and roll-call was just over. There was no first fifteen match, only a rather uninteresting house-match, Templar’s
“What a beastly term the Easter term is,” said Linton, yawning. “There won’t be a thing to do till the house- matches begin properly.”
Seymour’s had won their first match, as had Day’s. They would not be called upon to perform for another week or more.
“Let’s get a boat out,” suggested Dunstable.
“Such a beastly day.”
“Let’s have tea at the shop.”
“Rather slow. How about going to Cook’s?”
“All right. Toss you who pays.”
Cook’s was a shop in the town to which the school most resorted when in need of refreshment.
“Wonder if we shall meet Albert.”
Linton licked the place where his tooth should have been, and said he hoped so.
Sergeant Cook, the six-foot proprietor of the shop, was examining a broken window when they arrived, and muttering to himself.
“Hullo!” said Dunstable, “what’s this? New idea for ventilation? Golly, massa, who frew dat brick?”
“Done it at ar-parse six last night, he did,” said Sergeant Cook, “the red-‘eaded young scallywag. Ketch ‘im—I’ll give ‘im—”
“Sounds like dear old Albert,” said Linton. “Who did it, sergeant?”
“Red-headed young mongrel. ‘Good old Pedder,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you Pedder,’ I says. Then bang it comes right on top of the muffins, and when I doubled out after ‘im ‘e’d gone.”
Mrs Cook appeared and corroborated witness’s evidence. Dunstable ordered tea.
“We may meet him on our way home,” said Linton. “If we do, I’ll give him something from you with your love. I owe him a lot for myself.”
Mrs Cook clicked her tongue compassionately at the sight of the obvious void in the speaker’s mouth.
“You’ll ‘ave to ‘ave a forlse one, Mr Linton,” said Sergeant Cook with gloomy relish.
The back shop was empty. Dunstable and Linton sat down and began tea. Sergeant Cook came to the door from time to time and dilated further on his grievances.
“Gentlemen from the school they come in ‘ere and says ain’t it all a joke and exciting and what not. But I says to them, you ‘aven’t got to live in it, I says. That’s what it is. You ‘aven’t got to live in it, I says. Glad when it’s all over, that’s what I’ll be.”
“‘Nother jug of hot water, please,” said Linton.
The Sergeant shouted the order over his shoulder, as if he were addressing a half-company on parade, and returned to his woes.
“You ‘aven’t got to live in it, I says. That’s what it is. It’s this everlasting worry and flurry day in and day out, and not knowing what’s going to ‘appen next, and one man coming in and saying ‘Vote for Bruce’, and another ‘Vote for Pedder’, and another saying how it’s the poor man’s loaf he’s fighting for—if he’d only
There was a “confused noise without”, as Shakespeare would put it, and into the shop came clattering Barry and McTodd, of Seymour’s, closely followed by Stanning and Attell.
“This is getting a bit too thick,” said Barry, collapsing into a chair.
From the outer shop came the voice of Sergeant Cook.
