Soldiers of the Queen Part 18

_Neg._, Mr. SHEPHERD.

The members turned up in force, for this time the openers of the discussion were the two leading lights of the society, and the contest between them was certain to prove an intellectual treat which ought not to be missed. Carter's style of oratory was of the impa.s.sioned order; he thumped on the desk, and went through the "extension motions," with the exception of that awful movement where you bend double and try to touch your toes. It was rumoured that he wrote deep, unintelligible poetry that did not rhyme; and if the school rules had not forbidden the practice, he would have worn long hair and a fly-away necktie.

Shepherd, on the other hand, went in for logic, unadorned by any movements suggestive of setting-up drill. His style bore a suspicious resemblance to that of Augustus Powler, Esq., M.P. He stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and pushed forward that portion of his body which it would have been unfair to strike at in a fight. It would be impossible to give here anything like a detailed report of the proceedings. From the moment when the chairman rose to introduce the first speaker, every one felt that the meeting would be one of unusual interest; and in one sense they were certainly destined not to be disappointed. Carter was in great form; he dealt the desk such terrific blows that the ink spurted out of the ink-pots, and ran down on to the secretary's breeches. War, he declared, was legalized murder, and the soldier little better than a hired a.s.sa.s.sin. Napoleon Bonaparte was far more roughly handled than at Leipsic or Waterloo; and a long list of conquerors, ranging back to Alexander the Great, were, figuratively speaking, torn from their graves and hung in chains. At length, having dwelt on the enormous cost of standing armies, and other more practical aspects of the subject, the speaker concluded with a vivid picture of the horrors of a battlefield, and was in the act of quoting a verse of poetry, when he was suddenly silenced by an unlooked-for interruption.

"The bursting sh.e.l.l, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clas.h.i.+ng blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The--"

Bang!

Every one started; something like a miniature representation of the "bursting sh.e.l.l" had just exploded in the neighbourhood of the blackboard. A boy sitting close by stooped down and picked up from the floor a small fragment of burnt tissue-paper.

"Who threw that?" he exclaimed.

"What is it?" asked the chairman.

"Why, one of those 'throw-downs.'"

Redbrook glanced round the room in angry astonishment.

"Look here," he said sharply, "I don't know who did it, but if any of you have come to play the fool, you'd better leave the room at once, for we aren't going to have any more nonsense like we had the other night."

The audience turned in their seats, and stared at one another in amazement. Most of my readers will probably have some practical knowledge of the small, round paper pellets known as "throw-downs,"

which explode when flung against anything; and it was difficult to imagine that any member of the select and decorous Melchester School Debating Society would cause an interruption by flinging such things about in the middle of an important discussion.

"Go on, Carter," said the chairman.

"Shan't!" returned the other, snappishly. "I've finished."

Shepherd was now called upon to open on the side of the negative.

"War," he began, a.s.suming his accustomed att.i.tude, and beaming round on his listeners with a very good imitation of the Powler smile--"war is like surgery. When drugs are of no avail, we are often forced to resort to the use of the knife, and so--"

Another mimic bomb exploded in the very centre of the speaker's waistcoat, causing him to jump nearly out of his skin. Redbrook sprang to his feet in a towering rage, and as he did so another projectile burst on the open pages of the minute book.

"Who threw those things? I will find out!"

A babel of voices rose in reply. No one had done it. The door was shut, the windows were fastened, a hasty search was made in the cupboards and under the back desks, in the hope of discovering a lurking enemy; but even while the search was in progress another missile went off under the secretary's chair.

"Who is it?" shouted Redbrook. "Where do they come from?"

"That seemed to fall from the ceiling," answered Heningson; "yes--look there!"

Above the hanging gas-jet in the centre of the room was an ornamental iron grating, between the apertures of which there now appeared about an inch and a half of bra.s.s tube, like the end of a big peashooter. A moment later there was a prodigious puff, and four "throw-downs"

exploded with a simultaneous crash in the centre of the chairman's table.

"There's some one up on the roof!" cried several voices.--"Stop it, you villain!"

"How could any one get there?"

"There's a trap-door at the end of the pa.s.sage," exclaimed Shepherd.

"Quick! we shall cut him off."

A rush was made for the door, but it refused to open; some one had evidently blocked the exit from the outside, by placing a short form lengthways across the pa.s.sage. The drawing cla.s.sroom formed part of a one-storied building which bounded one side of the school quadrangle.

Finding the door closed, Shepherd dashed to the nearest window, and flinging it open dropped out on to the gravel, an example which was speedily followed by the chairman and several members of the audience.

Breathing out all manner of threats, they ran round through the nearest door and gained the entrance to the pa.s.sage. The trap-door in the ceiling was wide open, and communicating with it was a curious, home-made ladder, consisting of an old post, with half a dozen rough cross pieces fastened to it with stout nails. A candle end was lying on the floor, and with its aid Shepherd climbed up and explored the roof; but the bird had flown.

After such an interruption it was no use attempting to continue the debate, and Redbrook and his companions spent the remainder of the evening trying to discover the authors of this outrage.

The culprits, however, had made good their escape; no one remembered having seen the ladder before, and it was impossible to say to whom it belonged. The members of the debating society were clearly outwitted; and not wis.h.i.+ng to make the story of their discomfiture too public, they determined for the present to let the matter drop, at the same time announcing their intention of taking dire vengeance on any irreverent jokers who should rashly attempt to disturb their meetings in future. Two days later, Valentine was sitting at his desk reading, when he was joined by his cousin.

"I borrowed your bra.s.s ruler the other afternoon," said the latter, producing something from under his coat.

"Yes, I know all about it, you villain!"

"I only used it as a sort of pea-shooter."

"Oh, I've heard all about your little game; Preston told me."

Jack tried to look innocent, and then laughed.

"It's no use, Val, old chap, you'll never make a good boy of me. It's the old story of the silk purse and the sow's ear."

Valentine laughed too.

"I'm afraid I never shall," he answered. "The joke is that you're always ready to bring the whole place about your ears with some mad prank, and then when a cartload of bricks does fall on your head, you say, 'It's just your luck, and that--'"

"A collection will be taken at the door in aid of the poor fund at the close of the present service," interrupted the other. "Good-bye--I'm off!"

He moved away a step or two, then came softly back, and began to rumple his cousin's hair; whereupon an exciting struggle ensued, which brought them both down on to the floor, and ended with the edifying spectacle of the preacher sitting flushed and triumphant on the congregation's chest.

CHAPTER XI.

"OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN--"

"Above all, beware of the cat."--_The Ugly Duckling_.

"Here, Val, you're just the man I want! Tell me something to say."

It was a broiling afternoon. The summer term had once more come round, and Jack, with his coat off, was sitting in a shady corner of the schoolroom wrestling with a letter to Queen Mab.

"I write to her nearly every blessed week," he continued, "and the consequence is I've never got anything to say. I've told her how jolly it is to think that in four weeks' time we shall be at Brenlands again; and now I'm stuck, and I can't get any further."

"Have you told her how well you've been doing in cricket this season?"