The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic's Part 26

inquired the Sixth Form boy, half good-humouredly, and little guessing what was in the wind. "I'm not idle," said Stephen.

"Then what do you mean by not doing your work?"

"It's not my work."

Loman opened his eyes in amazement, and stared at this bold young hero as if he had dropped from the clouds. "What!" he cried; "what do you say?"

"It's not my work," repeated Stephen, blus.h.i.+ng, but very determined.

"Look here, young fellow," said Loman, when he was sure that he had really heard correctly, "don't you play any of your little games with me, or you'll be sorry for it."

Stephen said nothing, and waited with a tremor for what was to follow.

Loman was hardly a bully naturally. It was always easier for him to be civil than to be angry, especially with small boys, but this cool defiance on the part of his f.a.g was too much for any one's civility, and Loman began to be angry.

"What do you mean by it?" he said, catching the boy by the arm.

Stephen wrenched away his arm and stood dogged and silent.

Nothing could have irritated Loman more. To be defied and resisted by a youngster like this was an experience quite new to him.

"Just come to my room," said he, gripping his f.a.g angrily by the shoulder. "We'll see who's master of us two!"

Stephen was forced to submit, and allowed himself to be dragged to the study.

"Now!" said Loman shutting the door.

"Now!" said Stephen, as boldly as he could, and wondering what on earth was to become of him.

"Are you going to do what you're told, or not?" demanded Loman.

"Not what _you_ tell me," replied Stephen, promptly, but not exactly cheerfully.

"Oh!" said Loman, his face becoming crimson, "you're quite sure?"

"Yes," said Stephen.

"Then take that!" said Loman.

It was a sharp box on the ears, suddenly administered. Stephen recoiled a moment, but only a moment. He had expected something a good deal worse. If that was all, he would brave it out yet.

"Don't you hit me!" he said, defiantly.

Loman could not stand to be defied. His vanity was his weak point, and nothing offended his vanity so much as to find any one as determined as himself.

He took up a ruler, and in his pa.s.sion flung it at the luckless Stephen's head. It struck him hard on the cheek. The blood flushed to the boy's face as he stood a moment half-stunned and smarting with the pain, confronting his adversary. Then he rushed blindly in and flung himself upon the bully.

Of course it was no match. The small boy was at the mercy of the big one. The latter was indeed taken aback for a moment at the fury of his young a.s.sailant, impotent as it was, but that was all. He might have defended himself with a single hand; he might have carried the boy under one arm out into the pa.s.sage. But the evil spirit had been roused within him, and that spirit knew no mercy. He struck out and fought his little foeman as if he had been one of his own size and strength. For every wild, feeble blow Stephen aimed, Loman aimed a hard and straight blow back. If Stephen wavered, Loman followed in as he would in a professional boxing match, and when at last the small boy gave up, exhausted, bleeding, and scarcely able to stand, his foe administered a parting blow, which, if he had struck no other, would have stamped him as a coward for ever.

"Now!" exclaimed Loman, looking down on his victim, "will you do what you're told now, eh?"

It was a critical moment for poor Stephen. After all, was the "strike"

worth all this hards.h.i.+p? A single word would have saved him; whereas if he again defied his enemy, it was all up with him.

He did waver a moment; and lucky for him he did. For just then the door opened, and Simon entered. Stephen saw his chance. Slipping to the open door, he mustered up energy to cry as loud as he could, "No, I won't;" and with that made good his escape into the pa.s.sage, as done up as a small boy well could be without being quite floored.

A dozen eager friends were at hand to aid in stopping the bleeding of their hero's nose, and to apply raw steak to his black eye. The story of his desperate encounter flew on the wings of fame all over the school, and the glory and pride of the youngsters reached its climax when, that afternoon, Stephen with his face all on one side, his eye a bright green and yellow, and his under lip about twice its ordinary thickness, took his accustomed place in the arithmetic cla.s.s of the Fourth Junior.

"Why, Greenfield," exclaimed Mr Rastle, when in due time the young hero's turn came to stand up and answer a question, "what have you been doing to yourself?"

"Nothing, sir," remarked Stephen, mildly.

"How did you come by that black eye?" asked the master.

"Fighting, sir," said Stephen, rather pompously.

"Ah! what did you say forty-eight sixths was equal to?"

This was Mr Rastle's way. He very rarely hauled a boy over the coals before the whole cla.s.s.

But after the lesson he beckoned Stephen into his study.

"I'm afraid you got the worst of that fight," he said.

Stephen, who by this time knew Mr Rastle too well to be afraid of him, and too well, also, not to be quite frank with him, answered meekly, "The fellow was bigger than me."

"I should guess that by the state of your face. Now, I don't want to know what the fight was about, though I dare say you'd like to tell me [Stephen was boiling to tell him]. You small boys have such peculiar reasons for fighting, you know, no one can understand them."

"But this was because--"

"Hus.h.!.+ Didn't I tell you I won't hear what it was about, sir!" said Mr Rastle, sharply. "Did you shake hands afterwards?"

"No, I didn't, _and I won't_!" exclaimed Stephen, forgetting, in his indignation, to whom he was speaking.

"Then," said Mr Rastle, quietly, "write me out one hundred lines of Caesar, Greenfield; and when you have recollected how to behave yourself, we will talk more about this. You can go."

Mr Rastle _was_ a queer man; he never took things as one expected.

When Stephen expected him to be furious he was as mild as a lamb. There was no making him out.

But this was certain: Stephen left his room a good deal more crestfallen than he entered it. He had hoped to win Mr Rastle's sympathy and admiration by an account of his grievances, and, instead of that, he was sent off in disgrace, with an imposition for being rude, and feeling anything but a hero.

Even the applause of his friends failed to console him quite. Besides, his head ached badly, and the bruise on his cheek, which he had scarcely felt among his other wounds, now began to swell and grow painful.

Altogether, he was in the wars.

He was groaning over his imposition late that evening in the cla.s.s-room, feeling in dreadful dumps, and wis.h.i.+ng he had never come to Saint Dominic's, when a hand laid on his shoulder made him start. He looked up and saw Mr Rastle.

"Greenfield," said the master, kindly, "how much of your imposition have you done?"

"Seventy lines, sir."