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

sweet cheek,” said McTurk, stooping.

“Mustn’t look through the key-hole,” said the sentry.

“I like that. Why, Wake, you little beast, I made you a volunteer.”

“Can’t help it. My orders are not to allow any one to look.”

“S’pose we do?” said McTurk. “S’pose we jolly well slay you?”

“My orders are, I am to give the name of anybody who interfered with me on my post, to the corps, an’ they’d deal with him after drill, accordin’ to martial law.”

“What a brute Stalky is!” said Beetle. They never doubted for a moment who had devised that scheme.

“You esteem yourself a giddy centurion, don’t you?” said Beetle, listening to the crash and rattle of grounded arms within.

“My ordcrs are, not to talk except to explain my orders—they’ll lick me if I do.”

McTurk looked at Beetle. The two shook their heads and turned away.

“I swear Stalky is a great man,” said Beetle after a long pause. “One consolation is that this sort of secret-society biznai will drive King wild.”

It troubled many more than King, but the members of the corps were muter than oysters. Foxy, being bound by no vow, carried his woes to Keyte.

“I never come across such nonsense in my life. They’ve tiled the lodge, inner and outer guard, all complete, and then they get to work, keen as mustard.”

“But what’s it all for?” asked the ex-Troop Sergeant-Major.

“To learn their drill. You never saw anything like it. They begin after I’ve dismissed ‘em—practisin’ tricks; but out into the open they will not come—not for ever so. The ‘ole thing is pre-posterous. If you’re a cadet-corps, I say, be a cadet-corps, instead o’ hidin’ be’ind locked doors.”

“And what do the authorities say about it?”

“That beats me again.” The Sergeant spoke fretfully. “I go to the ‘Ead an’ ‘e gives me no help. There’s times when I think he’s makin’ fun o’ me. I’ve never been a Volunteer-sergeant, thank God—but I’ve always had the consideration to pity ‘em. I’m glad o’ that.”

“I’d like to see ‘em,” said Keyte. “From your statements, Sergeant, I can’t get at what they’re after.”

“Don’t ask me, Major! Ask that freckle-faced young Corkran. He’s their generalissimo.”

One does not refuse a warrior of Sobraon, or deny the only pastry-cook within bounds. So Keyte came, by invitation, leaning upon a stick, tremulous with old age, to sit in a corner and watch.

“They shape well. They shape uncommon well,” he whispered between evolutions.

“Oh, this isn’t what they’re after. Wait till I dismiss ‘em.”

At the “break-off” the ranks stood fast. Perowne fell out, faced them, and, refreshing his memory by glimpses at a red-bound, metal-clasped book, drilled them for ten minutes. (This is that Perowne who was shot in Equatorial Africa by his own men.) Ansell followed him, and Hogan followed Ansell. All three were implicitly obeyed. Then Stalky laid aside his Snider, and, drawing a long breath, favored the company with a blast of withering invective.

“‘Old ‘ard, Muster Corkran. That ain’t in any drill,” cried Foxy.

“All right, Sergeant. You never know what you may have to say to your men.—For pity’s sake, try to stand up without leanin’ against each other, you blear-eyed, herrin’-gutted gutter-snipes. It’s no pleasure to me to comb you out. That ought to have been done before you came here, you—you militia broom-stealers.”

“The old touch—the old touch. We know it,” said Keyte, wiping his rheumy eyes. “But where did he pick it up?”

“From his father—or his uncle. Don’t ask me! Half of ‘em must have been born within earshot o’ the barracks.” (Foxy was not far wrong in his guess.) “I’ve heard more back-talk since this volunteerin’ nonsense began than I’ve heard in a year in the service.”

“There’s a rear-rank man lookin’ as though his belly were in the pawn-shop. Yes, you, Private Ansell,” and Stalky tongue-lashed the victim for three minutes, in gross and in detail.

“Hullo!” He returned to his normal tone. “First blood to me. You flushed, Ansell. You wriggled.”

“Couldn’t help flushing,” was the answer. “Don’t think I wriggled, though.”

“Well, it’s your turn now.” Stalky resumed his place in the ranks.

“Lord, Lord! It’s as good as a play,” chuckled the attentive Keyte. Ansell, too, had been blessed with relatives in the service, and slowly, in a lazy drawl—his style was more reflective than Stalky’s—descended the abysmal depths of personality.

“Blood to me!” he shouted triumphantly. “You couldn’t stand it, either.” Stalky was a rich red, and his Snider shook visibly.

“I didn’t think I would,” he said, struggling for composure, “but after a bit I got in no end of a bait. Curious, ain’t it?”

“Good for the temper,” said the slow-moving Hogan, as they returned arms to the rack.

“Did you ever?” said Foxy, hopelessly, to Keyte.

“I don’t know much about volunteers, but it’s the rummiest show I ever saw. I can see what they’re gettin’ at, though. Lord! how often I’ve been told off an’ dressed down in my day! They shape well—extremely well they shape.”

“If I could get ‘em out into the open, there’s nothing I couldn’t do with ‘em, Major. Perhaps when the uniforms come down, they’ll change their mind.”

Indeed it was time that the corps made some concession to the curiosity of the school. Thrice had the guard been maltreated and thrice had the corps dealt out martial law to the offender. The school raged. What was the use, they asked, of a cadet-corps which none might see? Mr. King congratulated them on their invisible defenders, and they could not parry his thrusts. Foxy was growing sullen and restive. A few of the corps expressed openly doubts as to the wisdom of their course; and the question of uniforms loomed on the near horizon. If these were issued, they would be forced to wear them.

But, as so often happens in this life, the matter was suddenly settled from without.

The Head had duly informed the Council that their recommendation had been acted upon, and that, so far as he could learn, the buys were drilling. He said nothing of the terms on which they drilled. Naturally, General Collinson was delighted and told his friends. One of his friends rejoiced in a friend, a Member of Parliament—a zealous, an intelligent, and, above all, a patriotic person, anxious to do the most good in the shortest possible time. But we cannot answer, alas! for the friends of our friends. If Collinson’s friend had introduced him to the General, the latter would have taken his measure and saved much. But the friend merely spoke of his friend; and since no two people in the world see eye to eye, the picture conveyed to Collinson was inaccurate. Moreover, the man was an M.P., an impeccable Conservative, and the General had the English soldier’s lurking respect for any member of the Court of Last Appeal. He was going down into the West country, to spread light in somebody’s benighted constituency. Wouldn’t it be a good idea if, armed with the General’s recommendation, he, taking the admirable and newly established cadet-corps for his text, spoke a few words—“Just talked to the boys a little—eh? You know the kind of thing that would be acceptable; and he’d be the very man to do it. The sort of talk that boys understand, you know.”

“They didn’t talk to ‘em much in my time,” said the General, suspiciously.

“Ah! but times change—with the spread of education and so on. The boys of to-day are the men of to-morrow. An impression in youth is likely to be permanent. And in these times, you know, with the country going to the dogs?”

“You’re quite right.” The island was then entering on five years of Mr. Gladstone’s rule; and the General did not like what he had seen of it. He would certainly write to the Head, for it was beyond question that the boys of to-day made the men of to-morrow. That, if he might say so, was uncommonly well put.

In reply, the Head stated that he should be delighted to welcome Mr. Raymond Martin, M.P., of whom he had heard so much; to put him up for the night, and to allow him to address the school on any subject that he conceived would interest them. If Mr. Martin had not yet faced an audience of this particular class of British youth, the Head had no doubt that he would find it an interesting experience.

“And I don’t think I am very far wrong in that last,” he confided to the Reverend John. “Do you happen to know anything of one Raymond Martin?”

“I was at College with a man of that name,” the chaplain replied. “He was without form and void, so far as I remember, but desperately earnest.”

“He will address the Coll. on ‘Patriotism’ next Saturday.”

“If there is one thing our boys detest more than another it is having their Saturday evenings broken into. Patriotism has no chance beside ‘brewing.’”

“Nor art either. D’you remember our ‘Evening with Shakespeare’?” The Head’s eyes twinkled. “Or the humorous gentleman with the magic lantern?”

 

“An’ who the dooce is this Raymond Martin, M.P.?” demanded Beetle, when he read the notice of the lecture in the corridor. “Why do the brutes always turn up on a Saturday?”

“Ouh! Reomeo, Reomeo. Wherefore art thou Reomeo?” said McTurk over his shoulder, quoting the Shakespeare artiste of last term. “Well, he won’t be as bad as her, I hope. Stalky, are you properly patriotic? Because if you ain’t, this chap’s goin’ to make you.”

“Hope he won’t take up the whole of the evening. I suppose we’ve got to listen to him.”

“Wouldn’t miss him for the world,” said McTurk. “A lot of chaps thought that Romeo-Romeo woman was a bore. I didn’t. I liked her! ‘Member when she began to hiccough in the middle of it? P’raps he’ll hiccough. Whoever gets into the Gym first, bags seats for the other two.”

 

There was no nervousness, but a brisk and cheery affability about Mr. Raymond Martin, M.P., as he drove up, watched by many eyes, to the Head’s house.

“Looks a bit of a bargee,” was McTurk’s comment. “Shouldn’t be surprised if he was a Radical. He rowed the driver about the fare. I heard him.”

“That was his giddy patriotism,” Beetle explained. After tea they joined the rush for seats, secured a private and invisible corner, and began to criticise. Every gas-jet was lit. On the little dais at the far end stood the Head’s official desk, whence Mr. Martin would discourse, and a ring of chairs for the masters.

Entered then Foxy, with official port, and leaned something like a cloth rolled round a stick against the desk. No one in authority was yet present, so the school applauded, crying: “What’s that, Foxy? What are you stealin’ the gentleman’s brolly for?—We don’t birch here. We cane! Take away that bauble!—Number off from the right” —and so forth, till the entry of the Head and the masters ended all demonstrations.

“One good job—the Common-room hate this as much as we do. Watch King wrigglin’ to get out of the draft.”

“Where’s the Raymondiferous Martin? Punctuality, my beloved ‘earers, is the image o’ war—”

“Shut up. Here’s the giddy Dook. Golly, what a dewlap!” Mr. Martin, in evening dress, was undeniably throaty—a tall, generously designed, pink-and-white man. Still, Beetle need not have been coarse.

“Look at his back while he’s talkin’ to the Head. Vile bad form to turn your back on the audience! He’s a Philistine—a Bopper—a Jebusite—an’ a Hivite.” McTurk leaned back and sniffed contemptuously.

In a few colorless words, the Head introduced the speaker and sat down amid applause. When Mr. Martin took the applause to himself, they naturally applauded more than ever. It was some time before be