Part 16

He was a boy capable of considerable reserve. He did not, like young Winterbaum, press his every thought and idea upon those about him. He could be frank where he was confident, but this sense of difference smote him dumb. Several of his schoolfellows, old Noakley, and Mr. Mainwearing, became uncomfortably aware of an effect of unspoken comment in Peter. He would receive a sudden phrase of abuse with a thoughtful expression, as though he weighed it and compared it with some exterior standard. This irritated a school staff accustomed to use abusive language. Probyn, after Peter had hit Newton, took a fancy to him that did not in the least modify Peter’s instinctive detestation of the red nostrils and the sloppy mouth and the voluminous bellow. Peter became rapidly skilful in avoiding Probyn’s conversation, and this monstrously enhanced his attraction for Probyn. Probyn’s attention varied between deliberate attempts to vex and deliberate attempts to propitiate. He kept alive the promise of a fight with Newton, and frankly declared that Peter could lick Newton any day. Newton was as distressed as a cast mistress.

One evening the cadaverous boy discovered Peter drawing warriors on horseback. He reported this strange gift to Ames. Ames came demanding performances, and Peter obliged.

“He _can_ draw,” said Ames. “George and the Dragon, eh? It’s _good_.”

Probyn was shouted to, and joined in the admiration.

Peter drew this and that by request.

“Draw a woman,” said Ames, and then, as the nimble pencil obeyed, “No—not an old woman. Draw—you know. Draw a savage woman.”

“Draw a girl bathing—like they are in _Ally Sloper’s Half-Holiday_,” said Probyn. “Just with light things on.”

“Draw a heathen goddess,” said Ames. “With nothing on at all.”

Peter said he couldn’t draw goddesses.

“Go on,” said Ames. “Draw a savage woman.”

Peter, being pressed, tried a negress. They hung over him insisting upon details.

“Get _out_, young Newton!” cried Probyn. “Don’t come hanging round here. He’s drawing things.”

Ames pressed further requests.

“Shan’t draw any more,” said Peter with a sudden disinclination.

“Go it, Simon Peter,” said Ames, “don’t be a mammy-good.”

“Gaw! if I could draw!” said Probyn.

But Peter had finished drawing.

§ 12

No further questions were asked Peter about his father, but on Sunday night, when home-letter time came round, any doubt about the soundness of his social position was set at rest by Mr. Mainwearing himself. Home-letters from High Cross School involved so many delicate considerations that the proprietor made it his custom to supervise them himself. He distributed sheets of paper with the school heading, and afterwards he collected them and addressed them himself in his study. “You, Stubland, must write a letter to your aunt,” he said loudly across the room, “and tell her how you are getting on.”

“Aunt Phyllis?” said Peter.

“No, no!” Mr. Mainwearing answered in clear tones. “Your aunt, Lady Charlotte Sydenham.”

Respectful glances at Peter, and a stare of admiration from Probyn.

After a season of reflection Peter held up his hand. “Please, Sir, I don’t write letters to Lady Charlotte.”

“You must begin.”

Still further reflection. “I want to write to my Aunt Phyllis.”

“Nonsense! Do as I tell you.”

Peter reflected again for some minutes. He was deeply moved. He controlled a disposition to weep. (No one was going to see Peter blub in this school—ever.) Then Mr. Mainwearing saw him begin to write, with intervals of deep thought. But the letter was an unsatisfactory one.

“_Dear Aunt Phyllis_,” it began—in spite of instructions.

“_This is a very nice school and I like it very much. I have no pocket-money. We eat Toke. Please come and take me away now. Your affectionate nephew_

“PETER.”

Then Peter rubbed his eyes and it made his finger wet, and there was a drop of eye wet fell on the paper, but he did not blub. He did not blub, he knew, because he had made up his mind not to blub, but his face was flushed almost like that of a boy who has been blubbing.

Mr. Mainwearing came and read the letter. “Come, come,” he said, “this won’t do,” which was just what Peter had expected. “This is obstinacy,” said Mr. Mainwearing.

He got Peter a fresh sheet of paper and stood over him. “Write as I tell you,” said Mr. Mainwearing.

The other boys listened as this letter was dictated to a quiet but obedient Peter:

“_Dear Lady Charlotte_,

“_I arrived safely on Wednesday at High Cross School_, _which I like very much. I had a long ride in an automobile. Mr. Grimes bought me a splendid bat. Mr. Mainwearing has examined me upon my attainments, and believes that with effort I shall make satisfactory progress here. We play cricket here and do modern science as well as our classical studies. I hope you may never be disappointed by my efforts after all your kindness to me._

“_Your affectionate nephew_, “PETER STUBLAND.”

In the night Peter woke up out of an ugly and miserable dream, and his eyes were wet with tears. He believed he was caught at High Cross School for good and all. He believed that all the things he hated and dreaded were about him now for ever.

§ 13

From the first Mr. Mainwearing had been prepared for Peter’s antagonism. He had been warned by Mr. Grimes that Peter might prove “a little difficult.” The letter to Aunt Phyllis confirmed this impression he had already formed of a fund of stiff resistance in his new pupil. “I shall have to talk to that young man,” he said.

The occasion was not long in coming.

It came next morning in the general Scripture lesson. The boys were reading the Gospel of St. Matthew verse by verse, and in order to check inattention Mr. Mainwearing, instead of allowing the boys to read in rotation, was dodging the next verse irregularly from boy to boy. “Now, Pyecroft,” he would say; “Now—Rivers.”

He was always ready to pick up a nickname and improve upon it for the general amusement. “Now, Simonides,” he said.

No answer.

“Simonides!”

Peter, with his New Testament open before him, was studying the map of Africa on the end wall. That was Egypt and that was the Nile, and down that you went to Uganda, where all the people dressed in white and Nobby walked fearlessly among lions.

Peter became aware of a loud shout of “Sim-on-i-des!”

It was apparently being addressed to him by Mr. Mainwearing. He returned at a jump to Europe and High Cross School.

“Wool-gathering again,” said Mr. Mainwearing. “Thinking of the dear old Agapemone, eh? We can’t have that here, young man. We can’t allow that here. We must quicken that proud but sluggish spirit of yours. With the usual stimulus. Come out, sir.”

He moved towards the cane, which hung from a nail beside the high desk.

Obliging schoolfellows explained to Peter. “He spoke to you three times.” “He’s going to swish you.” “You’ll get it.”

Peter went very white and sat very tight.

“Now, young man,” said Mr. Mainwearing, flicking the cane. “Step out, please....

“Come out here, sir.”

No answer from Peter.

“Stubland,” roared Mr. Mainwearing. “Come out at once.”

There came a break in the traditions of High Cross School.

Peter rose to his feet. It seemed he was going to obey. And then he said in a voice, faint and small but perfectly clear, “I ain’t going to be caned. No.”

There was a great pause. There was as it were silence in Heaven. And then, his footsteps echoing through that immensity of awe, Mr. Mainwearing advanced upon Peter. Peter with a loud undignified cry fled along the wall under the map of Palestine towards the door.

“Stop him there, Ames!” cried Mr. Mainwearing.

Ames was slow to understand.

Mr. Mainwearing put down the cane on the mantelshelf and became very active; he leapt a desk clumsily, upset an inkpot, and collided with Ames at the door a moment after Peter had vanished. On the landing outside Peter hesitated, and then doubled downstairs to the boot-hole. For a moment Mr. Mainwearing was at fault. “Hell!” he said. All the class-room heard him say “Hell!” All the school treasured that cry in its heart for future use. “Young—,” said Mr. Mainwearing. It was long a matter for secret disputation in the school what particularly choice sort of young thing Mr. Mainwearing had called Peter. Then he heard a crash in the boot-hole and was downstairs in a moment. Peter was out in the area, up the area steps as quick as a scared grey mouse, and then he made his mistake. He struck out across the open in front of the house. In a dozen strides Mr. Mainwearing had him.

“I’ll thrash you, Sir,” said Mr. Mainwearing, swinging the little body by the collar, and shaking him as a dog might shake a rat. “I’ll thrash you. I’ll thrash you before the whole school.”

But two people had their blood up now.

“I’ll tell my uncle Nobby,” yelled Peter. “I’ll tell my uncle Nobby. He’s a soldier.”

Thus disputing they presently reappeared in the lower class-room. Peter was tremendously dishevelled and still kicking, and Mr. Mainwearing was holding him by the general slack of his garments.

“Silence, Sir, while I thrash you,” said Mr. Mainwearing, and he was red and moist.

“My uncle, he’s a soldier. He’s a V.C. You thrash me and he’ll kill you. He’ll kill you. He’ll _kill_ you.”

“Gimme my cane, some one,” said Mr. Mainwearing.

“He’ll _kill_ you.”

Nobody got the cane. “Probyn,” cried Mr. Mainwearing, “give me my cane.”

Probyn hesitated, and then said to young Newton, “You get it.” Young Newton had been standing up, half offering himself for this service. He handed the cane to Mr. Mainwearing.

“You touch me!” threatened Peter, “you _touch_ me. He’ll kill you,” and taking advantage of the moment when Mr. Mainwearing’s hand was extended for the cane he scored a sound kick on the master’s knee. Then by an inspired wriggle he sought to involve himself with Mr. Mainwearing’s gown in such a manner as to protect his more vulnerable area.

But now Mr. Mainwearing was in a position to score. He stuck his cane between his teeth in an impressive and terrible manner, and then got his gown loose and altered his grip on his small victim. Now for it! The school hung breathless. _Cut._ Peter became as lively as an eel. _Cut._

There were tears in his voice, but his voice was full and clear.

“He’ll kill you. He’ll come here and kill you. I’ll burn down the school.”

“You will, will you?”

_Cut._ A kick. _Cut._ Silent wriggles.

“Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten,” counted Mr. Mainwearing and stopped, and let go his hold with a shove. “Now go to your place,” he said. He was secretly grateful to Peter that he went. Peter had a way at times of looking a very small boy, and he did so now. He was tearful, red and amazingly dishevelled, but still not broken down to technical blubbing. His face was streaked with emotion; it was only too manifest that the routines of High Cross had reduced his private ablutions to a minimum. He glanced over his shoulder to see if he was still pursued. He could still sob, “My uncle.”

But Mr. Mainwearing did not mean this to be the close of the encounter. He had thought out the problems of discipline according to his lights; a boy must give in. Peter had still to give in.

“And now Stubland,” he proclaimed, “stay in after afternoon school, stay in all tomorrow, and write me out five hundred times, ’_I must not sulk. I must obey._’ Five hundred times, Sir.”

Something muffled was audible from Peter, something suggestive of a refusal.

“Bring them to me on Wednesday evening at latest. That will keep you busy—and no time to spare. You hear me, Sir? ’_I must not sulk_’ and ’_I must obey_.’ And if they are not ready, Sir, twelve strokes good and full. And every morning until they _are_ ready, twelve strokes. That’s how we do things here. No shirking. Play the fool with me and you pay for it—up to the hilt. This, at any rate, is a school, a school where discipline is respected, whatever queer Socialist Agapemone you may have frequented before. And now I’ve taken you in hand, young man, I mean to go through with you—if you have a hundred uncles Nobchick armed to the teeth. If you have a thousand uncles Nobchick, they won’t help you, if you air your stubborn temper at High Cross School....”

Perhaps Peter would have written the lines, but young Newton, in the company of two friends, came up to him in the playground before dinner. “Going to write those lines, Simon Peter?” asked young Newton.

What could a chap do but say, “No fear.”

“You’ll write ’em all right,” said Newton, and turned scornfully. So Peter sat in the stuffy schoolroom during detention time, and drew pictures of soldiers and battles and adventures and mused and made his plans.

He was going to run away. He was going to run right out of this disgusting place into the world. He would run away tomorrow after the midday meal. It would be the Wednesday half-holiday, and to go off then gave him his very best chance of a start; he might not be missed by any one in particular throughout the afternoon. The gap of time until tea-time seemed to him to be a limitless gap. “Abscond,” said Peter, a beautiful, newly-acquired word. Just exactly whither he wanted to go, he did not know. Vaguely he supposed he would have to go to his Limpsfield aunts, but what he wanted to think he was doing was running away to sea. He was going to run away to sea and meet Nobby very soon; he was going to run against Nobby by the happiest chance, Nobby alone, or perhaps even (this was still dreamier) Daddy and Mummy. Then they would go on explorations together, and he and Nobby would sleep side by side at camp fires amidst the howling of lions. Somewhere upon that expedition he would come upon Mainwearing and Probyn and Newton, captives perhaps in the hands of savages.

What would he and Nobby and Mummy and Daddy and Bungo Peter and Joan do to such miscreants?...

This kept Peter thinking a long time. Because it was beyond the limits of Peter’s generosity just now to spare Mr. Mainwearing. Probyn perhaps. Probyn, penitent to the pitch of tears, might be reduced to the status of a humble fag; even Newton might go on living in some very menial capacity—there could be a dog with the party of which Newton would always go in fear—but Mr. Mainwearing had exceeded the limits of mercy....

A man like that was capable of any treason....

Peter had it!—a beautiful scene. Mr. Mainwearing detected in a hideous conspiracy with a sinister Arab trader to murder the entire expedition, would be captured redhanded by Peter (armed with a revolver and a cutlass) and brought before Nobby and Bungo Peter. “The man must die,” Nobby would say. “And quickly,” Bungo Peter would echo, “seeing how perilous is our present situation.”

Then Peter would step forward. Mr. Mainwearing in a state of abject terror would fling himself down before him, cling to his knees, pray for forgiveness, pray Peter to intercede.

Yes. On the whole—yes. Peter would intercede.

Peter began to see the scene as a very beautiful one indeed....

But Nobby would be made of sterner stuff. “You are too noble, Peter. In such a country as this we cannot be cumbered with traitor carrion. We have killed the Arab. Is it just to spare this thousand times more perjured wretch, this blot upon the fair name of Englishman? Mainwearing, if such indeed be your true name, down on your knees and make your peace with God.”...

At this moment the reverie was interrupted by Mr. Mainwearing in cricketing flannels traversing the schoolroom. He was going to have a whack before tea. He just stood at the wickets and made the bigger boys bowl to him.

Little he knew!

Peter affected to write industriously....

§ 14

After the midday meal on Wednesday Peter loafed for a little time in the playground.

“Coming to play cricket, Simon Peter?” said Probyn.

“Got to stay in the schoolroom,” said Peter.

“He’s going to write his five hundred lines,” said young Newton. “I said he would.”

(Young Newton would know better later.)

Peter went back unobtrusively to the schoolroom. In his desk were two slices of bread-and-butter secreted from the breakfast table and wrapped in clean pages from an exercise-book. These were his simple provisions. With these, a pencil, and a good serviceable catapult he proposed to set out into the wide, wide world. He had no money.

He “scouted” Mr. Mainwearing into his study, marked that he shut the door, and heard him pull down the blind. The armchair creaked as the schoolmaster sat down for the afternoon’s repose. That would make a retreat from the front door of the school house possible. The back of the house meant a risk of being seen by the servants, the playground door or the cricket-field might attract the attention of some sneak. But from the front door to the road and the shelter of the playground wall was but ten seconds dash. Still Peter, from the moment he crept out of the main class-room into the passage to the moment when he was out of sight of the windows was as tightly strung as a fiddlestring. Never before in all his little life had he lived at such a pitch of nervous intensity. Once in the road he ran, and continued to run until he turned into the road to Clewer. Then he dropped into a good smart walk. The world was all before him.

The world was a warm October afternoon and a straight road, poplars and red roofs ahead. Whither the road ran he had no idea, but in the back of his mind, obscured but by no means hidden by a cloud of dreams, was the necessity of getting to Ingle-Nook. After he had walked perhaps half a mile upon the road to Clewer it occurred to Peter that he would ask his way.

The first person he asked was a nice little old lady with a kind face, and she did not know where the road went nor whence it came. “That way it goes to Pescod Street,” she said, “if you take the right turning, and that way it goes past the racecourse. But you have to turn off, you know. That’s Clewer Church.”

No, she didn’t know which was the way to Limpsfield. Perhaps if Peter asked the postman _he’d_ know.

No postman was visible....

The next person Peter asked was as excessive as the old lady was deficient. He was a large, smiling, self-satisfied man, with a hearty laugh.

“Where does the road go, my boy?” he repeated. “Why! it goes to Maidenhead and Cookham. Cookham! Have you heard the story? This is the way the man told the waiter to take the underdone potatoes. Because it’s the way to Cookham. See? Good, eh? But not so good as telling him to take peas _that_ was. Through Windsor, you know. Because it’s the way to Turnham Green. Ha, ha!

“How far is Maidenhead? Oh! a tidy bit—a _tidy_ bit. Say four miles. _Put_ it at four miles.”

When Peter asked for Limpsfield the large man at once jumped to the conclusion he meant Winchfield. “That’s a bit on your left,” he said, “just a bit on your left. How far? Oh! a tidy bit. Say five miles—five miles and a ’arf, say.”

When he had gone on a little way the genial man shouted back to Peter: “Might be six miles, perhaps,” he said. “Not more.”

Which was comforting news. So Peter went on his way with his back to Limpsfield—which was a good thirty miles and more away from him—and a pleasant illusion that Aunts Phyllis and Phœbe were quite conveniently just round the corner....

About four o’clock he had discovered Maidenhead bridge, and thereafter the river held him to the end. He had never had a good look at a river before. It was a glowing October afternoon, and the river life was enjoying its Indian summer. High Cross School was an infinite distance away, and all its shadows were dismissed from his mind. Boats are wonderful things to a small boy who has lived among hills. He wandered slowly along the towing-path, and watched several boats and barges through the lock. In each boat he hoped to see Uncle Nobby. But it just happened that Uncle Nobby wasn’t there. Near the lock some people were feeding two swans. When they had gone through the lock Peter went close down to the swans. They came to him in a manner so friendly that he gave them the better part of his provisions. After that he watched the operations of a man repairing a Canadian canoe beside a boat-letting place. Then he became interested in the shoaling fish in the shallows. After that he walked for a time, on past some little islands. At last, as he was now a little foot-sore, he sat down on the bank in the lush grass above some clumps of sweet rush.

He was just opposite the autumnal fires of the Cleveden woods, amidst which he could catch glimpses of Italian balustrading. The water was a dark mirror over which hung a bloom of mist. Now and then an infrequent boat would glide noiselessly or with a measured beat of rowlocks, through the brown water. Afar off was a swan....

Presently he would go on to Ingle-Nook. But not just yet. When his feet and legs were a little rested he would go on. He would ask first for Limpsfield and then for Ingle-Nook. It would be three or four miles. He would get there in time for supper.

He was struck by a thought that should have enlightened him. He wondered no one had ever brought him before from Ingle-Nook to this beautiful place. It was funny they did not know of it....

Above that balustrading among the trees over there, must be a palace, and in that palace lived a beautiful princess who loved Peter....

§ 15

It seemed at the first blush the most delightful accident in the world that the man with the ample face should ask Peter to mind his boat.

He rowed up to the wooden steps close by where Peter was sitting. He seemed to argue a little with the lady who was steering and had to back away again, but at last he got the steps and shipped his oars and held on with a boat hook and got out. He helped the lady to land.

“Here, Tommy!” he shouted, tying up the boat to the rail of the steps. “Just look after this boat a bit. We’re going to have some tea.”

“We shall have to walk miles,” said the lady.

“Damn!” said the man.

Something seemed to tell Peter that the man was cross.

Peter doubted whether he was properly Tommy. Then he saw that there was something attractive in looking after a boat.

“Don’t let any one steal it,” said the man with the ample face, with an unreal geniality. “And I’ll give you a tanner.”

Peter arose and came to the steps. The lady and the gentleman stood for a time on the top of the bank, disputing fiercely—she wanted to go one way and he another—and finally disappeared, still disputing, in the lady’s direction. Or rather, the lady made off in the direction of Cookham and the gentleman followed protesting. “Any way it’s miles,” she said....

Slowly the afternoon quiet healed again. Peter was left in solitude with the boat, the silvery river, the overhanging woods, the distant swan.

At first he just sat and looked at the boat.

It had crimson cushions in it, and the lady had left a Japanese sunshade. The name of the boat was the _Princess May_. The lining wood of the boat was pale and the outer wood and the wood of the rowlocks darker with just one exquisite gold line. The oars were very wonderful, but the boat-hook with its paddle was much more wonderful. It would be lovely to touch that boat-hook. It was a thing you could paddle with or you could catch hold with the hook or poke with the spike.

In a minute or so the call of the boat-hook had become irresistible, and Peter had got it out of the boat. He held it up like a spear, he waved it about. He poked the boat out with it and tried to paddle with it in the water between the boat and the bank, but the boat swung back too soon.

Presently he got into the boat very carefully so as to paddle with the boat-hook in the water beyond the boat. In wielding the paddle he almost knocked off his hat, so he took it off and laid it in the bottom of the boat. Then he became deeply interested in his paddling.