Chapter 12

BULLYING.

"Gas out."--The new boy's turn--"To err is human"--Resistance--Persecution--I'll run away.

"Well, there now," ejaculated Miss Parker, "I never! That boy's not a bit brought down by his mother's death. He sticks to it, just as indignant as ever."

But Harry was out of hearing, and was sitting on his bed, staring into his box which he had just opened. Presently, there was a sound of footsteps scurrying up-stairs and along the passages, and the door of No. 7 dormitory burst open, and its sixteen boys rushed in one after another, huddling together like a flock of sheep.

The first thing that met their eyes was Harry, who didn't quite know whether they would speak to him or not. So he waited till one or two greeted him with a shake of the hand, and a "how-de-do, Campbell?" two or three more with a cold "hallo, Campbell!" and the rest with only a stare.

Amongst the latter were Egerton and Warburton. In about five minutes a step was heard on the landing-place below.

"Gas out," cried Egerton, "there's Lea coming."

"Lea" was a house-master.

No one moved to obey the order.

"Now, then," cried Warburton, "who's new boy?" Harry, where he knelt at his bedside saying his prayers, knew he was meant; but he had not jumped up from his knees to obey the order, when a slipper came hard at him. He, however, first put out the gas, and was on his knees again, finishing his prayers, when Mr Lea entered. All being quiet, and the light out, he retired. As soon as his last step was heard below, one or two voices exclaimed--

"I say, Jackson, go on with your story, where you left off last night."

"Oh, no," answered Jackson, the boy appealed to, "I ain't new boy now. I've done my turn."

The majority of the boys did not quite like to tell Harry plainly it was his turn to provide the usual nightly amusement of a story, for they felt some sort of compunction towards him, because of his mother's death, even though they had not spoken to him; but they did not hesitate to talk pointedly about its being the new boy's turn; that Jackson had done his turn; _he_ was the last new boy, and so on.

But as Harry took no notice of these remarks, Egerton solved the difficulty by saying curtly,--

"Campbell, it's your turn to tell a story, so look sharp, and begin."

"I haven't got one to tell," answered Harry, as he sat, still undressed, on his bed, unlacing his boots.

"Can't help that," said Egerton, "you must make up one. You're a good hand at that, aren't you?" he sneered, brutally.

Those few words clenched the feeling of hatred that had been gradually growing in Harry's breast towards Egerton. Then first sprang up within him a great desire of revenge, which in after years increased with Harry's growth--of revenge on one who had thus blasted his reputation, it seemed for ever. It is true, he had but shortly risen from his knees. But do not call his prayers hypocritical, because these angry, revengeful thoughts had taken such root in him so soon. If we had not these passions we should be divine. The only strange thing is, he was so young; for "vengeance" is usually only the cry of those of mature age. But a consideration of the circumstances in which he was placed, and the advanced temperament of his mind, will make the wonder vanish.

Harry took no notice of Egerton's speech as far as an answer was concerned. He went on unlacing his boots in silence; but he felt his face burn white with anger.

"Now then, Campbell," cried Egerton, "none of your sulks; it won't do. Are you going to tell a story or not?"

"No," answered Harry, bluntly and firmly.

"But it's your turn, Campbell," expostulated some of the others, wanting the story, but yet not wanting a row.

"I'd have tried to, if Egerton hadn't said that," answered Harry to the last speakers, whose tone seemed somewhat consolatory to him.

"Hadn't said what?" they asked.

"Why, said that I knew how to tell stories. You know what he meant, and it's beastly bullying, it is," went on Harry, impetuously and indignantly, "and he knows he's the liar, and not me," waxing bold from the apparent sympathy the silence of the room seemed to augur. But in that silence the anger of Egerton, and of a number of his special friends, was gathering; and the words were scarcely out of Harry's mouth, when a boot came through the darkness, hitting him on the shoulder, and then another, and another.

Harry sat on his bed, boiling with rage. He did not feel in the mood for fighting, and besides, in the dark it was impossible.

Then came another ominous silence; and suddenly a scuffle of feet sounded near his bed, and before he knew where he was, his bed was suddenly dragged out into the middle of the room, turned over, and clothes, boots, sponges, wet towels, and pillows heaped upon him.

Harry was maddened: he longed to find some one to hit, but the darkness prevented that. He heard suppressed voices laughing at him, but could see not a sign of any one; the bedclothes entangled his movements; he was wet with the sponges and bruised from the boots. What could he do? Where could he find help? "Not at school, not at school," he said to himself. "If I tell, I shan't be believed;" and then the idea came across him--"I'll run away." The thought was no sooner in his head, than his mind was firmly resolved. Yes, he would run away from this horrid place; anywhere, anywhere, rather than stay here.