"Of course if you can give any sort of idea where I can get that pound I
shall be very thankful. Unfortunately, in this case, five shillings
would be no good, and even ten would be no good, strange though it may
seem. Only a pound is any use. I must now conclude, my dear grannie,
with best love and good wishes from your very affectionate grandson,
"ARTHUR MORTIMER BANNISTER.
"P.S.—Though all this fearful brain worry has thrown me back a lot in
class, still _my Scripture is all right_, and I shall be able to say the
Kings of Israel, either backwards or forwards, next holidays, in a way
that, I hope, will surprise you. I have been a good deal interested in
Gideon and the dew upon the fleece lately."
Well, I sent off this ripping letter, which was far, far the longest and
best I had ever written in my life; and before sending it I printed at
the top of each page, "Don’t tell father," feeling that to be very
important. Then I waited and hoped that my grandmother would read the
letter in the way I meant her to, and great was my relief when I found
that she had. On the very morning of the meeting of creditors she wrote
a whacking long letter and sent a postal order for a pound; and the
letter I put away for future reading and the postal order I took to Mr.
Thwaites, who always changes postal orders into money for boys.
Me seemed surprised at the great size of the postal order, but gave me a
golden pound and told me to be careful of it. I was so excited that I
very nearly got kept in at morning school, but I escaped; and when the
time came I went to Gideon, and he walked up to the gym. with me to meet
the creditors.
*III*
Ten chaps were assembled for the bankruptcy, but I jolly soon cleared
out Stopford, because the sixpence he said I owed him had been paid at
the beginning of the term, and Westcott was able to prove it. So
Stopford went, but reluctantly. Steggles also went. He wanted me to
take back my mortgaged bat and owe him about six shillings instead, but,
knowing Steggles, I felt sure that something must have gone wrong with
the bat, and when I examined it, I found that it was so. In fact, the
bat was badly sprung; and Gideon said it was like Steggles, and a
beastly, paltry thing to try to do. So Steggles also went, and that
left eight fellows. These eight chaps were told to make their claims,
and when they had, Gideon made me examine them to see they were all
right. Only four claimed too much, and Mathers, who is an awfully
kind-hearted chap, claimed too little.
So I said, "I’m afraid I owe you one and nine, not one and three,
Mathers."
And he said, "That’s all right. I knocked off a tanner when you won the
house match against Browne’s a week ago." Which shows the sort of chap
that Mathers was.
I said, "Does anybody else feel inclined to knock off anything owing to
my winning the house match against Browne’s?"
But nobody did, and seeing that five of the creditors actually belonged
to Browne’s house I couldn’t expect that they would.
"When you’ve admitted the claims," said Gideon, "I’ll add them up
myself."
So I went through the claims and had to admit them all.
Then Gideon added them up and said—
"The claims lodged against you, Bannister, amount to exactly one pound
twelve shillings and eightpence; but I think you told me that the
tuck-woman was also a creditor. If so, she ought to be here."
[Illustration: "THE TOTAL LIABILITIES ARE EXACTLY TWO POUNDS," SAID
GIDEON.]
"I have spoken to her," I said, "and she says that I owe her seven
shillings and fourpence. That is the figure. I told her that I was
going to have a meeting of creditors, and she said I was beginning early
and that she wished she could let me off, but that she had an invalid
husband and twenty small children at home—or some such number."
"Then the debt ranks good," said Gideon. So he added the seven and
fourpence to the one pound twelve shillings and eightpence.
"The total liabilities are exactly two pounds," said Gideon. "Now,
Bannister, as the debts are admitted to be two pounds, the next question
is, what are the assets? I may tell you kids," he continued, turning to
Corkey minimus, and Fairlawn and Frost, who were the smallest of the
creditors in size and age, "that the word ’assets,’ which you very
likely do not know, means what Bannister has got to pay you with. You
have made him a bankrupt and he owes you two pounds; so now the simple
question is how much can he pay of that money? Of course he can’t pay
it all—else he wouldn’t be a bankrupt—but he is going to pay according
to his assets. Now, Bannister," he concluded, turning to me, "you’d
better tell the meeting what your assets are. Does everybody
understand?"
Everybody understood, or said they did, except Frost, and he kept on
saying over and over again, like a parrot, "Fivepence and a lead pencil,
five-pence and a lead pencil," till Gideon at last had to tell him to
shut up and not interfere with the meeting.
Then I spoke. I said, in finite a quiet sort of way, as if it was an
everyday thing—
"I have decided to pay something in the pound, Gideon."
But Gideon was rather impatient.
"We all know that. That’s what we’re here for," he said.
"You couldn’t all know it," I answered, "because none of you knew that
I’d got a pound. You can’t pay something in the pound unless you’ve got
one. And I thought it might interest the creditors at this meeting to
know that I have got one."
They were frightfully interested, naturally, and even Gideon was. I put
it into his hand and he looked at it and turned it over and nodded.
"The assets are a pound," said Gideon; "I’ve no doubt you’ll all be glad
to hear that."
The chaps evidently felt very different to me when they heard the assets
were a pound, because most of them, as they told me afterwards, didn’t
know there were any assets at all. They got rather excited, in fact,
and Fowle even asked if there might be any more assets.
But I said, "No. There is only this pound. When I became bankrupt I
determined that I would pay something in the pound, and I wrote to
private friends and put the position before them, and they quite agreed
with me and sent the pound; and now I am going to pay something in it.
I don’t quite know what that means, but it is an honourable and proper
thing to do; and Gideon does know what it means, and I shall be very
much obliged to him if he will say what I am to pay in it."
"It is quite easy," said Gideon. "You have a debt; you can’t pay it
all, so you pay so much in the pound."
"That’s what I’m going to do," I said.
"The question is, how much you’re going to pay in the pound," said
Forrest, who had made more row than all the rest of the creditors put
together, though I only owed him a penny.
"I know that’s the question without your telling me," I answered.
"Gideon has the pound, and he will say what I am to pay in it."
Gideon looked rather puzzled.
"You don’t seem to understand even yet, Bannister," he said. "You don’t
pay so much in the pound of the assets; you pay so much in the pound of
the debts."
I didn’t pretend to understand what Gideon meant by this complicated way
of putting it, and told him so.
"All I want," I said, "is to do the strictly honourable thing and pay so
much in the pound, which I have handed over to Gideon for that reason."
But Gideon, much to my surprise, seemed to feel rather annoyed at this.
"I wish you’d try and understand the situation," he said. "When you
speak of so much in the pound, it’s a figure of speech in a sort of way.
It isn’t a real, single, solitary pound."
"It’s real enough," I said; "Thwaites gave it to me in exchange for a
postal order."
"_This_ pound is real, but——" Then Gideon broke off in a helpless sort
of way, and then he began again.
"You owe two pounds—d’you see that?"
"Of course," I said. "That’s the whole thing."
"And you’ve got one pound—d’you see that?"
He held it up, as if he was going to do a conjuring trick with it.
Of course I said I did see it.
"Then, if you owe two pounds and can only find one, how much are you
going to pay in the pound?"
"Whatever you think would be sportsmanlike, Gideon," I said.
"It isn’t a question of being sportsmanlike, it’s a question of simple
arithmetic," he said. "You’ve got twenty shillings, and you owe forty;
you owe just twice as many as you’ve got; therefore it follows that
you’ll pay ten shillings in the pound; and that’s a good deal more than
many people can."
"I’ll pay more than that," I said. "I’ll pay fifteen shillings."
"What an ass you are, Bannister!" answered Gideon. "You _can’t_ pay
fifteen shillings, you haven’t got it to pay."
"My Dear chap," I said, "I’ve got a pound."
"You’ve got nothing at all," he said. "You pay ten shillings in each of
the two pounds you owed, and then there’s nothing left."
After that I began to see; and when we went into it all and got change,
and paid each chap exactly half of what I owed him, it turned out that
Gideon was perfectly right, and there wasn’t a farthing left over.
Everybody was fairly well satisfied except the tuck-woman, but nobody
seemed much obliged to me; and I couldn’t help thinking that though
Gideon had been awfully decent about it, and managed it all frightfully
well, nevertheless a grown man would have managed it even better.
Because, take my father’s bankruptcy and look how jolly different that
turned out to mine. I don’t know what he paid in the pound, but I do
know there was enough left over for him to buy a bottle of champagne,
and for my mother to say "Thank God!" Whereas my bankruptcy appeared to
have left me exactly where I was before, and there was nothing whatever
left over to buy even a bottle of ginger beer.
I pointed this out to Gideon, and he said—
"Of course I don’t know how much your father paid in the pound."
Presently I said, "I’m awfully obliged to you, Gideon, and I shall never
forget how kind you have been. And I wonder if you’d mind adding to
your fearful kindness by lending me a penny."
"What for?" said Gideon; "ginger beer?"
"No," I said; "for a stamp to write to my grandmother. I may tell you
privately that she sent that pound out of her own money, and it was very
sporting of her, and of course I must thank her."
Gideon didn’t much like it, I could see; but at last he brought out the
penny and entered it in his book.
"If you can pay it back by the end of the term I’ll charge no interest,"
he said.
And just to show what luck Gideon always has, the very next Sunday, at
church, I found a three-penny piece, doubtless dropped by somebody, so
Gideon had his penny back in three days, and I went so far as to offer
him a halfpenny interest, but he would not take it from me.
*THE TIGER’S TAIL*
*No. IV*
*THE TIGER’S TAIL*
*I*
Curiously enough a very curious thing happened to the other foreign
curiosity that Johnson maximus sent to Dr. Dunstan. You may remember
that Johnson, who is in the merchant service, brought the Doctor home a
parrot and a tiger’s skin, and that strange things overtook the parrot,
especially after death. Well, strange things also overtook the Bengal
tiger’s skin, owing to me and Freckles and Smythe. I am Macmullen, and
the real name of Freckles was Maine, and he came from Australia and had
a great ambition to be a bush-ranger in course of time, and revive the
practice of bushranging in New South Wales. Among other things that he
had was an important bowie-knife—the same the Chinese boy, Tin Lin Chow,
borrowed to commit ’harri-kari’ with and failed. Well, with his great
feeling for sport, Freckles naturally felt a good deal of interest in
the tiger’s skin, and often went to look at it in the Doctor’s study.
It was a good one, no doubt—white and yellow and black, with a long tail
and a very fine head. In this head were glass eyes, like life, and the
mouth was open and pink, with terrific teeth—worn smooth where the tiger
had chewed his prey.
[Illustration: FRECKLES OFTEN WENT TO LOOK AT IT IN THE DOCTOR’S STUDY.]
Then there came to Merivale a kid called Smythe. He was very small, but
pretty solid and rather decent, and keen as mustard, and fiery in colour
too.
It’s a rum thing with boys, that some get chums with the greatest ease
and some never do. And also the boys who often want to make chums never
do, for some reason or other. But this kid soon made chums, though I
couldn’t tell you why. Of course he was nothing to me, because I’m
thirteen—in fact, nearly fourteen—but for a chap just ten he was all
right, and other chaps of his own age found him interesting. He had a
lot of rather peculiar knowledge, gathered up from his father, who was a
very learned man and wrote books for libraries. And he believed in
heathen charms and old sayings, and remembered many queer things that
his father had told him. He wanted to be the caretaker of a museum some
day, but said that he hoped to be allowed to travel round the world
first, like Darwin did, and see dwarfs and giants, and write books, and
shoot a few specimens of different things not often heard of.
Of course he went through the ordinary adventures of new boys at
Merivale, and it was in the matter of the ’kid test’ that he became so
generally known as a kid out of the common.
There is, just beyond the cricket ground, and before you come to the
wood, a huge clump of rhododendrons that is covered with purple flowers
in May. It is just the sort of place that a wild beast would choose for
its lair, if there were wild beasts at Merivale, and it was a regular
thing with kids to tell them that a savage animal did live there, and
only came out at night. This beast was a test of the pluck of new kids,
and the new kid who would walk past the rhododendrons after dark alone,
was considered to be all right. Of course something was done to make it
seem more terrible, and, in fact, till he left, John Batson, the
gardener’s boy, was always told to hide in the rhododendrons, and shake
the bushes and growl when a test was being made. This he did very well,
having a chronical sore throat, and a very harsh and growling voice,
like a ferocious beast. But he had to go, owing to some row with the
servants, and the new gardener’s boy could only squeak, and was useless
for the test. Generally, however, somebody in the fifth could be got,
and for some time Freckles kindly obliged when a test had to be made. It
amused him, and he growled very fairly well, and could also imitate
wolves in a state of hunger, which he had once heard at a menagerie.
Well, young Smythe was told about the mystery of the rhododendron bed,
and seemed more interested than frightened.
"Hasn’t anybody ever seen the thing?" he asked.
"No," answered Steggles, who was there. "The sound it makes is so
frightful that chaps generally run for their lives, and never wait to
see it."
Smythe was very keen about it.
"I wish my father would come up and hear it," he said.
"The point is," explained Freckles, "that each kid must go past alone.
It only growls for kids, and doesn’t growl for grown-up people. It is a
test of bravery. There are chaps here still who have never been brave
enough to pass after the first growl. They were chaps who turned out
quite brave in every other way, too."
"What have I to do?" asked Smythe.
"You’ve got to walk out on an appointed night, after evening school, and
go round the rhododendron bed twice, no matter what happens. It is a
winter beast, and is never heard in the summer. So it is a winter test.
You’ve just come in time for it," explained Fowle, who was also there.
Smythe had been at Merivale about a fortnight when he was asked to
undergo the great kid test.
He thought a bit after this speech from Fowle. Then he asked a question.
"And what do you think the creature is?"
"Nobody knows," said Fowle. "Of course if that was really known,
something might be done."
"It ought to be shot," said Smythe; but Gideon thought not.
They all pretended to be serious, and Smythe quite believed the story,
because he was very young. In fact, only one kid had ever refused to
believe it.
"No," declared Gideon; "it may be the only beast of its kind in the
world, and to shoot it would be a thousand pities."
"Then it ought to be photographed," said Smythe.
"Impossible, because nobody ever sees it," answered Steggles.
"That’s no reason," said Smythe; "it might be done with Rontgen rays."
Which shows what a clever kid he was, though so ready to believe this
rot about the beast.
"One person did see it, however," said Fowle, "and that was Montgomery,
who went into a bank last term, and it left a great impression upon
him."
"What did he say it looked like?" asked Smythe.
"A sort of thing between a tiger and a donkey," answered Fowle very
seriously.
"Rum," said Smythe. "It might belong to the zebra family."
"Zebras don’t growl," said Freckles.
"More they do," admitted Smythe. "They bray."
Then he went on to tell us some things about zebras that we didn’t know
ourselves.
"If it could be killed, it would be a good thing," said Smythe; "and the
chap who did it would have a very precious charm, because the skin, or
part of the skin of a savage beast is a very tremendous charm to the man
or boy who gets it. The Boringos, my father said—at least, I think they
were Boringos, or if not, Kinnatoos, or some other tribe—always wear the
skin of a fierce beast next their own skin, and by so doing get the
fierceness of the beast into themselves, and so nobody ever interferes
with them, and they always have the most remarkable luck, and live to a
great age. So this fierce beast would be a good chance."
"You might have a dash at it," said Freckles, though he could hardly
help laughing. "If you killed it and skinned it, and wore a bit of the
skin, it would be a fine thing for you."
"Yes, it would," admitted Smythe. "I’d risk a good deal; but I’ve got
nothing to kill anything with except a catapult, and of course that’s no
good against a fierce and growling beast."
Everybody laughed, but young Smythe was as serious as possible.
"If anybody would lend me a decent knife, I’d have a go," he said.
"You’ll be frightened when you hear its dreadful sound," declared Fowle.
"I was, and I’m never ashamed to say so."
"Very likely I might be," admitted Smythe. "But often a jolly good thing
has been done by a man who was in funk at the time; and I’d have a dash,
anyhow; because, think if I succeeded, and got a charm that would last
for a lifetime!"
"I’ll lend you my well-known bowie-knife if you’ll be careful of it,"
said Freckles.
With that he took it out of his pocket, where it hangs suspended by a
lanyard, so that Freckles can get it in a moment, in time of need, when
he goes on his hunting expeditions on half-holidays.
Young Smythe thanked him frightfully, and took the knife.
"It’s just been sharpened for me by the gardener," explained Freckles.
"It can pretty-well cut hairs, so you’d better be careful." And Smythe
promised he would be.
Then it was decided that the test should take place that evening before
evening prep. It was a good day to choose, because the Doctor and Mrs.
Dunstan were going out to dinner somewhere, and we always felt a sort of
feeling of more freedom at such times.
When the kid had gone I warned Freckles that he might be doing a
dangerous thing; but he laughed and said not. Then Steggles had one of
his terrific ideas, that nobody gets but Steggles, and he said—
"What a lark it would be if we could fake up a fierce beast, and make it
come out of the rhodo. bed just as you let off a frightful yell,
Freckles!"
Of course Freckles admitted it would.
"With some kids one couldn’t dare," he said. "Such a thing happening to
Mathers, for instance, would certainly make him go dotty for ever; but
this kid doesn’t know what fear is. It would be a lark to see what he’d
do."
"You’d better be pretty careful, or he’ll stab you," said Gideon. "He’s
jolly quick, and you’d look rather a fool if a new kid went and ran you
through with your own bowie-knife."
"So I should," admitted Freckles; "but I’m not afraid. You forget my
great power of seeing in the dark. I’m jolly near as good as a cat at
it."
Then I suddenly had the most awfully fine idea, apart from machinery,
that ever I did have. Little did I know what would happen, but still,
looking back, it is only fair to me to admit the awful fineness of the
idea. I said—
"The Doctor being out, couldn’t we get the tiger-rug and stuff it with
pillows, and stick it up on four cricket-stumps just round the corner of
the rhodo. bed? Then, where we are all hidden behind the pavilion, we
see the fun, and after it’s over and the kid has bolted, we can take the
skin back."
Freckles whistled, and Steggles asked—
"Did you think of that all by yourself, Macmullen?"
And I said, "Certainly I did."
But Gideon thought it wouldn’t do.
"In his excitement he might actually stab the skin," he said; "and that
would lessen the value of it a great deal. The Doctor would be
frightfully annoyed."
"Not that that matters," said Steggles.
"No," admitted Gideon, "not to us; but a treasure is a treasure, and
just for the sake of swizzling a kid it seems a pity to spoil a valuable
tiger-skin worth three or four pounds at least, and perhaps more."
However, we didn’t look at it in that light. Steggles and Freckles were
a great deal taken with the idea, and Fowle, who was something of an
artist, or thought he was, promised to make the tiger-skin look alive if
somebody else got it. Of course he wouldn’t have run the risk of taking
it—such an utter footling coward as him. No more would Steggles.
I and Freckles both wanted to have the honour of getting it, and I
argued that as the idea was mine I ought to be allowed to do this; but
Freckles said that as a much more experienced hand at adventures and
dangers than me, he must do it.
He said, "If it was machinery, Mac., I should say nothing; but for
breaking rules and doing daring things after dark you are not in it with
me."
Which was true. So he got the rug, and was late for prayers in
consequence; but when Briggs reads prayers instead of the Doctor, many
are late, because Briggs is short-sighted. Besides, the other masters
generally don’t come at all when Briggs reads them, though they never
dare to stop away when the Doctor does.
Anyhow, Freckles got the rug, and Fowle, with some cricket-pads and
Thompson’s bicycle, faked up a most extraordinary and hideous monster
looking out of the rhododendrons. It glared through its glass eyes and
seemed ready to spring, and its tail was stretched into the path, with
the point, as it were, wagging like a cat wags her tail when she’s in a
bate. Even before dusk it looked terrible, but much more so when it
began to get dark.
Then the time came, and we hid behind the edge of the pavilion, and
Freckles practised a growl or two, and got into the rhodo. bed, and
Steggles found young Smythe and told him the time for the test had come.
Steggles said, "The playground is quite empty now, and I see the
rhododendrons bending in the middle, so the beast is evidently there.
You’d better be quick, and go and get it over—twice round, mind."
Smythe was pale, but firm.
"One thing," he said, "the chap called Fowle has been trying to funk me
all the afternoon, and he says the beast has killed two boys in its
time, and that they were both red-haired boys. Of course, if that’s
true, it is rather serious, me being red-haired."
"You needn’t mind what Fowle says," answered Steggles; "he never passed
the test at all. I remember when he came as a kid—the nastiest kid that
ever did come, for that matter. He is a coward to the backbone, and
would rather have paid away his pocket-money for the whole of the term
than go through the test."
"So I was told," said Smythe; "and I told him he was a coward, and that
I didn’t care for him trying to funk me. All the same, if it really and
truly killed two boys with red hair——"
"It didn’t," replied Steggles. "On my word of honour, it didn’t. It
feeds on poultry, I believe, and nobody can really prove that it ever
killed a boy. You just show what you’re made of, and you’ll soon find
you’ve got good friends up in the fifth form, including me myself. As
for Fowle, since Travers licked him with one hand tied behind him, and
since Johnson found the name of ’Maude’ written thirty-two times in
various letterings on his blotting-paper, nobody has cared to be seen
with him. He can draw angels with wings fairly well, though nobody
wants them when they are drawn; and that’s all he can do but sneak, and
tell lies, and be a cur in general."
So Smythe was comforted, and took out the bowie-knife lent him by
Freckles, and went off, as he supposed, into the empty playground. But
there were at least twenty chaps hidden there to see what he would make
of the beast that Fowle and Freckles and I had set up.
*II*
Well, young Smythe came boldly on, and only stopped when Freckles gave
his first growl. Then the kid stood still, and then he pulled out the
bowie-knife and opened it. He evidently felt that it would be better to
do the deed pretty quick, before he had time to think about it; so,
despite the sounds and howls of Freckles, he dashed round at his best
pace, and was actually past the beast before he had grasped the horror
of it. But he saw it all right, and he told me afterwards that the
moment he saw it he began to stream with perspiration strangely enough,
though the night was jolly cold. He also said that there came a very
strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he couldn’t be sure
whether he felt frightfully hungry, or merely that he was going to be
sick. He waited a moment before making the second dash round, and we
could see him dimly panting, and his breath going into the air like
steam. At the same moment the bell also rang, but nobody went
immediately, because we wanted to see if Smythe would face the beast
again. Freckles now began to imitate wolves in a state of hunger, and
Steggles bet me sixpence that Smythe wouldn’t go round again. But, of
course, nobody but new boys, who don’t know him, ever bets with
Steggles, as he has never been known to pay when he loses. So I took no
notice.
Then Smythe dashed round again, and we were just going to come out and
rot him about it, and cheer him for passing the test, when he did a
thing of the most astonishing character. He seemed now to have got a
little accustomed to the horror of the beast, and he suddenly crept
towards it with the bowie-knife of Freckles ready to strike. He
regularly stalked it, like a hunter stalks his prey, and Freckles, who
was hidden just behind the beast, growled and roared all he could; but I
think he roared rather nervously, for the kid looked frightfully keen,
and evidently meant to have a dash at the beast, whatever happened. We
were just going to rush out and stop him, but he didn’t give us time.
He suddenly screamed very loudly, partly to keep up his own courage, and
partly to distract the beast, and then he dashed forward, and stooped
down and cut the creature’s tail off at a blow! He then leapt aside
very cunningly—to avoid its spring, as he told me afterwards; but of
course it didn’t spring, but only glared. A moment later Smythe was
flying for his life—with the tail!
As if this wasn’t curious enough, still stranger things happened
afterwards. Because the next difficulty was what to do about it. In
fact, after young Smythe had hooked it with the tail of the Doctor’s
tiger-skin, the rest of us looked rather fools. Of course, the first
thing to do was to get the skin back into the study, and this Freckles
did; and the next thing to do was to get the tail back from Smythe, and
this Fowle, who was monitor in Smythe’s dormitory, promised to do that
night.
But Smythe wouldn’t give it up. He had most carefully hidden it, and
absolutely refused to give it to anybody! The next day Freckles, and
Steggles, and I had Smythe before us in the gym., and asked for an
explanation. We told him all about the test, and applauded him for his
bravery, but explained that the tail he had cut off belonged to Dr.
Dunstan’s tiger-skin, and that its loss would make an awful row in the
school, and very likely end in his being expelled. Then he said that
Dr. Dunstan couldn’t expel him, because he wouldn’t know he had had
anything to do with the tail. Which was true; besides, the Doctor being
so blind, it might be a long time before he discovered the tail was
gone. Then Smythe argued jolly well for a kid. He said that, for all
he knew, the beast that we had made was a live, and furious, and
dangerous beast; therefore his bravery in cutting the tail off
single-handed with the bowie-knife was just as great as if it _had_ been
alive. Freckles admitted this. He said that the bravery of Smythe was
undoubtedly immense, and that, so far as that went, he richly deserved
to keep the tail. He even said that if he could have spared it he would
have given Smythe the famous bowie-knife; but of course he could not do
this, for it was his most important arm in all his own adventures when
he practised to become a bushranger. Then Steggles asked Smythe what he
had done with the tail; and Smythe made us promise faithfully not to
tell, and we did so. Then he said that he was wearing it next his
skin—round his stomach, in fact—and always should do so for the rest of
his life, if it worked well.
He said, "It’s awfully uncomfortable, and scratches something frightful,
but that’s a mere nothing to the advantages. I didn’t, of course, kill
the tiger, but in a way I might have; and, anyhow, I thought it was
alive; and I’m going to give it a fair trial."
I asked him what he expected the tiger’s tail would do for him, and he
said, "Make me fierce. By rights the fierceness of the tiger ought to go
straight into me, and I ought to fear nothing, in the same way that the
tiger when it was alive feared nothing. But as I didn’t actually kill
the tiger, of course it may not work as I hope."
He assured us solemnly that he believed the beast was alive when he
dashed at it and cut its tail off; and he also assured us that he had
never seen the Doctor’s tiger’s skin, and did not so much as know that
he had a tiger’s skin. And we believed him, and let him keep the tail.
Steggles, however, warned young Smythe of one thing. He said, "Be jolly
careful that Fowle doesn’t see it when you’re getting up or going to
bed, or very likely he’ll sneak. He hates you already for scoring off
him, so mind you hide it from him."
Smythe naturally thanked Steggles a good deal for this kind advice, and
said that he would be cautious, and that he already hated Fowle a good
deal, and that if he really did become fierce pretty soon, Fowle would
be the first to know it.
So there the thing was left, and when the Doctor found that his tiger’s
tail was gone—which he did do, owing to one of his daughters pointing it
out—nobody knew anything at all about it.
The Doctor made far more fuss than we expected, and was bitterly hurt
over the loss, and seemed to be inclined to expel everybody, because
nobody would confess. But, of course, from the business point of view
he couldn’t do that, because, as Gideon said, his occupation would have
been over, and it might have taken many years for him to collect
together one hundred and three boys again. Gideon also said that the
competition was fearful among school-masters, and expelling was quite a
thing of the past, owing to the difficulty of getting new ones.
Then came the tremendous end of the whole business, and such fierceness
as young Smythe had managed to get, after wearing the tiger’s tail for
three days, was as nothing to the fierceness of the Doctor when he found
it out.
It burst upon us on a half-holiday, and the half-holiday, as such, was
ruined by it. After saying ’Grace’ at dinner, Dr. Dunstan told the
school to be in chapel—every boy—at half-past two. Leave was stopped,
and only the football team, which played a match that afternoon, was
allowed to go. Everybody had theories during dinner, but nobody was
right, or anything like right. We noticed that the Doctor seemed
thundery, and that he looked sometimes very fixedly at the bottom of the
table, where Mr. Mannering, the underest master of the lot, though a
’blue,’ presided over the dinner of the lower school.
Then we went into chapel, and those interested in the tiger’s tail were
all there, except Freckles, who is in the footer eleven.
"Boys," began the Doctor, "I have received an anonymous letter, and if
any among you should be in doubt of the meaning of that word, I may tell
you that it is derived from the Greek _a_ and _onoma_, signifying
’without a name,’ or ’nameless.’ The letter is, in fact, unsigned.
"Now, in the ordinary course of events, I should disdain to notice such
a communication. As I remarked during a newspaper controversy in ’82 to
an agnostic writer who propounded infamous opinions and hid himself
behind the _nom de plume_ of ’Lucretius,’ ’the man who fears to proclaim
himself, and lacks the courage of his own views, _ipso facto_, places
himself beneath the notice of any serious antagonist.’ The discussion,
which verged on the acrimonious, and to which two bishops contributed,
was protracted through August and the earlier part of September. Then,
having proved my points to the satisfaction of all religious men, I
withdrew from the debate. That, however, is not what you are here to
know, and, indeed, happened many years before any among you was born.
What will more directly interest you is this: that for once I have
decided to give weight to my nameless correspondent’s communication. It
is brief, and printed in capital letters. I shall rehearse it to you."
Then he read out these remarkable words—
"’_Dear Sir,—The tiger’s tail is worn by Smythe next his skin, under his
vest._’
"That is all," continued Dr. Dunstan. "There is no clue—either to the
sender or to his object in conveying this astounding information to me.
Concerning him I shall make researches anon, when we have proved the
truth or falsity of his statement; but for the present we are concerned
with the name of Smythe. Now, the name of Smythe may not be familiar to
many among you. I find that Smythe is a newcomer. He has been at
Merivale only since the beginning of this term. He is very young, and
unusually ignorant, but he is not too young, and not too ignorant to
know the meaning of such simple and straightforward Anglo-Saxon as I am
in the habit of employing when I address my boys. He is aware that I
have a tiger’s skin, and that this interesting relic is dear to me as
the gift of one who distinguished himself within these walls, and
carried the moral lessons, and even a little of the scholastic erudition
of Merivale School into the larger life beyond, when he went down to the
sea in ships. Huxley Smythe is also aware that this integument has been
mutilated by some senseless and wicked hand. Then let him come forward
and tell us more, if, indeed, he knows more than we all know. Let him
step before me and explain the significance of these words from a
nameless source. I hope with all my heart that he may proclaim them
false, and, what is more, prove them false, for Huxley Smythe’s father
is a very distinguished and learned gentleman, and a Fellow of the Royal
Society. It is impossible too highly to esteem his discoveries and
surmises respecting the customs of the Ancients. Such a man puts truth
before all things; such a man will be cut to the heart if his offspring
should prove other than honest and upright. Come hither, Huxley
Smythe!"
So Smythe went, and jolly cheap he looked. His face turned the colour
of gooseberry fool, and his hair seemed to become many shades redder
than usual as he walked up the chapel. He was naturally small, and he
seemed much smaller than he was, owing to walking up the chapel all
alone.
"Speak," said the Doctor, "and address your remarks to me. Do you, or
do you not know what has become of the caudal appendage of my
tiger-skin?"
"Yes, I do, sir," replied Smythe.
"You do, sir! Then why, when I invited information on this subject, did
you deny it to me?"
Smythe did not reply to this question. He merely said, "I cut off the
tiger’s tail, sir, in a moment of great excitement, and having once got
it, I thought I’d keep it."
"Well may you have been excited, sir, at the instant of such an outrage!
And what next, sir?" asked the Doctor.
The whole of the upper part of his body began to lift in a lump, as it
always did when he got worked into a rage.
"Next, sir, I decided to wear it round my waist."
"And will you be so good as to enlighten us as to the reason for this
extraordinary decision?"
"The Boringos do it, sir, or else the Kinnatoos. My father told me that
they——"
"Boringos, sir! Kinnatoos, sir! What are the Boringos to you, wretched
youth—or the Kinnatoos, either? Because certain heathen nations, as yet
far from the light, indulge in gross superstition for their own
benighted ends, and credit inanimate objects with imaginary virtues and
grotesque qualities which we, who are civilized, know right well that
they do not possess—because these things are so, is that any reason why
a Christian boy in a Christian school should seek to emulate their
misguided credulity? The question before us is not why the Boringos do
these things, but why you cut off my tiger’s tail, sir, and wore it
round your person?"
"To get fierce, sir," said Smythe. |
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