Stalky & Co., Rudyard Kipling [good beach reads .TXT] 📗

Foxy, speeding down to retail the adventure to Keyte, who in his time had been Troop Sergeant-Major in a cavalry regiment, and now, war-worn veteran, was local postmaster and confectioner.

“You owe us something,” said Stalky, with meaning.

“I’m ‘ighly grateful, Muster Corkran. I’ve ‘ad to run against you pretty hard in the way o’ business, now and then, but I will say that outside o’ business—bounds an’ smokin’, an’ such like—I don’t wish to have a more trustworthy young gentleman to ‘elp me out of a hole. The way you ‘andled the drill was beautiful, though I say it. Now, if you come regular henceforward—”

“But he’ll have to be late three times a week,” said Beetle. “You can’t expect a chap to do that—just to please you, Foxy.”

“Ah, that’s true. Still, if you could manage it—and you, Muster Beetle—it would give you a big start when the cadet-corps is formed. I expect the General will recommend it.”

They raided Keyte’s very much at their own sweet will, for the old man, who knew them well, was deep in talk with Foxy. “I make what we’ve taken seven and six,” Stalky called at last over the counter; “but you’d better count for yourself.”

“No—no. I’d take your word any day, Muster Corkran.—In the Pompadours, was he, Sergeant? We lay with them once at Umballa, I think it was.”

“I don’t know whether this ham-and-tongue tin is eighteen pence or one an’ four.”

“Say one an’ fourpence, Muster Corkran… Of course, Sergeant, if it was any use to give my time, I’d be pleased to do it, but I’m too old. I’d like to see a drill again.”

“Oh, come on, Stalky,” cried McTurk. “He isn’t listenin’ to you. Chuck over the money.”

“I want the quid changed, you ass. Keyte! Private Keyte! Corporal Keyte! Terroop-Sergeant-Major Keyte, will you give me change for a quid?”

“Yes—yes, of course. Seven an’ six.” He stared abstractedly, pushed the silver over, and melted away into the darkness of the back room.

“Now those two’ll jaw about the Mutiny till tea-time,” said Beetle.

“Old Keyte was at Sobraon,” said Stalky. “Hear him talk about that sometimes! Beats Foxy hollow.”

 

The Head’s face, inscrutable as ever, was bent over a pile of letters.

“What do you think?” he said at last to the Reverend John Gillett.

“It’s a good idea. There’s no denying that—an estimable idea.”

“We concede that much. Well?”

“I have my doubts about it—that’s all. The more I know of boys the less do I profess myself capable of following their moods; but I own I shall be very much surprised if the scheme takes. It—it isn’t the temper of the school. We prepare for the Army.”

“My business—in this matter—is to carry out the wishes of the Council. They demand a volunteer cadet-corps. A volunteer cadet-corps will be furnished. I have suggested, however, that we need not embark upon the expense of uniforms till we are drilled. General Collinson is sending us fifty lethal weapons—cut-down Sniders, he calls them—all carefully plugged.”

“Yes, that is necessary in a school that uses loaded saloon-pistols to the extent we do.” The Reverend John smiled.

“Therefore there will be no outlay except the Sergeant’s time.”

“But if he fails you will be blamed.”

“Oh, assuredly. I shall post a notice in the corridor this afternoon, and—”

“I shall watch the result.”

 

“Kindly keep your ‘ands off the new arm-rack.” Foxy wrestled with a turbulent crowd in the gymnasium. “Nor it won’t do even a condemned Snider any good to be continual snappin’ the lock, Mr. Swayne.—Yiss, the uniforms will come later, when we’re more proficient; at present we will confine ourselves to drill. I am ‘ere for the purpose o’ takin’ the names o’ those willin’ to join.—Put down that Snider, Muster Hogan!”

“What are you goin’ to do, Beetle?” said a voice.

“I’ve had all the drill I want, thank you.”

“What! After all you’ve learned? Come on! Don’t be a scab! They’ll make you corporal in a week,” cried Stalky.

“I’m not goin’ up for the Army.” Beetle touched his spectacles.

“Hold on a shake, Foxy,” said Hogan. “Where are you goin’ to drill us?”

“Here—in the gym—till you are fit an’ capable to be taken out on the road.” The Sergeant threw a chest.

“For all the Northam cads to look at? Not good enough, Foxibus.”

“Well, we won’t make a point of it. You learn your drill first, an’ later we’ll see.”

“Hullo,” said Ansell of Macrea’s, shouldering through the mob. “What’s all this about a giddy cadet-corps?”

“It will save you a lot o’ time at Sandburst,” the Sergeant replied promptly. “You’ll be dismissed your drills early if you go up with a good groundin’ before’and.”

“Hm! ‘Don’t mind learnin’ my drill, but I’m not goin’ to ass about the country with a toy Snider. Perowne, what are you goin’ to do? Hogan’s joinin’.”

“Don’t know whether I’ve the time,” said Perowne. “I’ve got no end of extra-tu as it is.”

“Well, call this extra-tu,” said Ansell. “‘Twon’t take us long to mug up the drill.”

“Oh, that’s right enough, but what about marchin’ in public?” said Hogan, not foreseeing that three years later he should die in the Burmese sun-light outside Minhla Fort.

“Afraid the uniform won’t suit your creamy complexion?” McTurk asked with a villainous sneer.

“Shut up, Turkey. You aren’t goin’ up for the Army.”

“No, but I’m goin’ to send a substitute. Hi! Morrell an’ Wake! You two fags by the arm-rack, you’ve got to volunteer.”

Blushing deeply—they had been too shy to apply before—the youngsters sidled towards the Sergeant.

“But I don’t want the little chaps—not at first,” said the Sergeant disgustedly. “I want—I’d like some of the Old Brigade the defaulters—to stiffen ‘em a bit.”

“Don’t be ungrateful, Sergeant. They’re nearly as big as you get ‘em in the Army now.” McTurk read the papers of those years and could be trusted for general information, which he used as he used his “tweaker.” Yet he did not know that Wake minor would be a bimbashi of the Egyptian Army ere his thirtieth year.

Hogan, Swayne, Stalky, Perowne, and Ansell were deep in consultation by the vaulting-horse, Stalky as usual laying down the law. The Sergeant watched them uneasily, knowing that many waited on their lead.

“Foxy don’t like my recruits,” said McTurk, in a pained tone, to Beetle. “You get him some.”

Nothing loath, Beetle pinioned two more fags—each no taller than a carbine. “Here you are, Foxy. Here’s food for powder. Strike for your hearths an’ homes, you young brutes—an’ be jolly quick about it.”

“Still he isn’t happy,” said McTurk.

“For the way we have with our Army Is the way we have with our Navy.”

Here Beetle joined in. They had found the poem in an old volume of “Punch,” and it seemed to cover the situation:

“An’ both of ‘em led to adversity, Which nobody can deny!”

“You be quiet, young gentlemen. If you can’t ‘elp—don’t ‘inder.” Foxy’s eye was still on the council by the horse. Carter, White, and Tyrrell, all boys of influence, had joined it. The rest fingered the rifles irresolutely. “Wait a shake,” cried Stalky. “Can’t we turn out those rotters before we get to work?”

“Certainly,” said Foxy. “Any one wishful to join will stay ‘ere. Those who do not so intend will go out, quietly closin’ the door be’ind ‘em.”

Half a dozen of the earnest-minded rushed at them, and they had just time to escape into the corridor.

“Well, why don’t you join?” Beetle asked, resettling his collar.

“Why didn’t you?”

“What’s the good? We aren’t goin’ up for the Army. Besides, I know the drill—all except the manual, of course. ‘Wonder what they’re doin’ inside?”

“Makin’ a treaty with Foxy. Didn’t you hear Stalky say: ‘That’s what we’ll do—an’ if he don’t like it he can lump it’? They’ll use Foxy for a cram. Can’t you see, you idiot? They’re goin’ up for Sandhurst or the Shop in less than a year. They’ll learn their drill an’ then they’ll drop it like a shot. D’you suppose chaps with their amount of extra-tu are takin’ up volunteerin’ for fun?”

“Well, I don’t know. I thought of doin’ a poem about it—rottin’ ‘em, you know—‘The Ballad of the Dogshooters’—eh?”

“I don’t think you can, because King’ll be down on the corps like a cartload o’ bricks. He hasn’t been consulted, he’s sniffin’ round the notice-board now. Let’s lure him.” They strolled up carelessly towards the honse-master—a most meek couple.

“How’s this?” said King with a start of feigned surprise. “Methought you would be learning to fight for your country.”

“I think the company’s full, sir,” said McTurk.

“It’s a great pity,” sighed Beetle.

“Forty valiant defenders, have we, then? How noble! What devotion! I presume that it is possible that a desire to evade their normal responsibilities may be at the bottom of this zeal. Doubtless they will be accorded special privileges, like the Choir and the Natural History Society—one must not say Bug-hunters.”

“Oh, I suppose so, sir,” said McTurk, cheerily. “The Head hasn’t said anything about it yet, but he will, of course.”

“Oh, sure to.”

“It is just possible, my Beetle,” King wheeled on the last speaker, “that the housemasters—a necessary but somewhat neglected factor in our humble scheme of existence—may have a word to say on the matter. Life, for the young at least, is not all weapons and munitions of war. Education is incidentally one of our aims.”

“What a consistent pig he is,” cooed McTurk, when they were out of earshot. “One always knows where to have him. Did you see how he rose to that draw about the Head and special privileges?”

“Confound him, he might have had the decency to have backed the scheme. I could do such a lovely ballad, rottin’ it; and now I’ll have to be a giddy enthusiast. It don’t bar our pulling Stalky’s leg in the study, does it?”

“Oh, no; but in the Coll. we must be pro-cadet-corps like anything. Can’t you make up a giddy epigram, _a’laCatullus_, about King objectin’ to it?” Beetle was at this noble task when Stalky returned all hot from his first drill.

“Hullo, my ramrod-bunger!” began McTurk. “Where’s your dead dog? Is it Defence or Defiance?”

“Defiance,” said Stalky, and leaped on him at that word. “Look here, Turkey, you mustn’t rot the corps. We’ve arranged it beautifully. Foxy swears he won’t take us out into the open till we say we want to go.”

“Dis-gustin’ exhibition of immature infants apin’ the idiosyncrasies of their elders. Snff!”

“Have you drawn King, Beetle?” Stalky asked in a pause of the scuffle.

“Not exactly; but that’s his genial style.”

“Well, listen to your Uncle Stalky—who is a great man. Moreover and subsequently, Foxy’s goin’ to let us drill the corps in turn—privatimet_seriatim_—so that we’ll all know how to handle a half company anyhow. Ergo, an’ propterhoc_, when we go to the Shop we shall be dismissed drill early; thus, my beloved ‘earers, combinin’ education with wholesome amusement.”

“I knew you’d make a sort of extra-tu of it, you cold-blooded brute,” said McTurk. “Don’t you want to die for your giddy country?”

“Not if I can jolly well avoid it. So you mustn’t rot the corps.”

“We’d decided on that, years ago,” said Beetle, scornfully. “King’ll do the rottin’.”

“Then you’ve got to rot King, my giddy poet. Make up a good catchy Limerick, and let the fags sing it.”

“Look here, you stick to volunteerin’, and don’t jog the table.”

“He won’t have anything to take hold of,” said Stalky, with dark significance.

They did not know what that meant till, a few days later, they proposed to watch the corps at drill. They found the gymnasium door locked and a fag on guard. “This is