A School Story.
by Henry T. Johnson.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #10 (Jan 1906).
How the drawing-master won the respect of the boys.
"Who is it?" asked Darnell Major.
Beau Ballantyne, fixing the monocle he was beginning to manage quite impressively, drawled after a pause: "What is it?"
The gawky, unkempt figure shambled towards us, still struggling with its burden of brown paper parcels, and inquired if we would be so kind as to direct him to the Headmaster's quarters.
Ballantyne fixed on him a supercilious stare, and replied:
"It would be easy enough, but I'm afraid it would waste your valuable time. The Headmaster makes it a rule not to receive canvassers."
'Pon my word, I felt quite sorry for the poor beggar; he flushed to the roots of his untidy hair, and stammered, with an awkward, forced smile:
"I—I daresay, only it happens that I'm not travelling in biographies or dictionaries. It may simplify matters, young gentleman, if I say that I'm your new drawing master!"
A drawing master! Our drawing master! We scarcely knew whether to howl or yell. It seemed so preposterous to imagine that seedy, down-at-heel, shabby chap as a master of any kind at St. Catharine's Collegiate School, generally known among public schools as "Kitts." We were at a loss for words to express our amazement, but I think our very silence was sufficiently eloquent, for the flush glowed deeper still on the angular cheekbones, and I fancied I heard a sigh as he shambled off in the direction curtly indicated by Beau Ballantyne.
We wondered what sort of a reception he would be accorded by the Reverend St. John Bolingbroke, D.D., who was almost as eminent a social celebrity as he was a scholar. Also by his staff, mainly selected from Blues and Honours' men. Darnell Major was ass enough to say he felt sorry for the poor beggar, but Beau Ballantyne, whose tailor came down to Kitts to fit him, whose people were always figuring in the Society pars, wouldn't listen to any such hankey.
"The man has no sense of proportion or correctness," he said. "There are other places for such men, and by coming here he invites the cold shoulder, and, mark my words, he'll get it."
And he did. Ballantyne himself was not more supercilious to Mr. Stephen Pontifex, the new drawing master, than were his chief and his colleagues—and scant wonder. He was as self-conscious as he was shabby; he shambled not only in his gait but in his speech. He saved the other masters the trouble of sending him to Coventry by retiring into his shell, but before he had been at Kitts a fortnight it was freely rumoured that the Head had declared he wouldn't do.
Mr. Pontifex had no weight at Kitts. The Fourth youngsters cheeked him behind his back, the Sixth and Seventh to his face.
"Doesn't know his work?" I heard Mr. Sloane, the modern history master, expostulate. "Why, my dear chap, he's a gold medallist; he draws and paints exquisitely."
Sloane was right. Ponty could draw, but he didn't make other people draw. One day, when I was feeling tired and ratty, I said to him, with a confidence I somehow never experienced in speaking to Sloane:
"Mr. Pontifex, sir. You have been saying that my work's all wrong for the last half hour. Will you have the kindness just to show me how to make it all right?"
He was such a simple chap he never saw my "sarc," though half-a-dozen of the fellows were sniggering.
"By all means, Raggles," he said quite cheerfully. "Here, give me that Bristol board. Now, just watch."
First he cleared away my smudges with crumbs, then he took his pencil and refilled in the lines, telling me where my proportions were askew, and my perspective all out. Great Caesar! the work seemed to grow like magic as his thin white hands moved over the board. I looked on spell-bound, and in about ten minutes, there, in place of my wretched smudge, was a beautiful work of art.
I blurted out: "Thank you, sir, very much indeed," and he answered: "That's all right; I'm only too pleased," with the first laugh that we had heard from him. After that, somehow, I felt quite different to him, and I pointed out to Crawley Minor that, after all, he was at Kitts to teach free-hand, not fashions; and there was no doubt that, if he wasn't exactly a champion teacher, he was a master as far as drawing and painting went.
But most of the fellows would have it that it was beastly cheek for a fellow like Ponty to come to a place like Kitts at all, and that the sooner that was impressed on him the better, and they lost neither time nor opportunity in signifying the same.
Every now and then Ponty found on his easel some crude caricature or other, with underneath it scribbled: "Antediluvian headgear. In the possession of S. Pontifex, Esq." "Early English Scarecrow Costume, lent by S.P.," and I watched him bite his lip thundering hard.
A day or two later, however, I myself ran out a sketch of Ponty and his brolly, he all skeleton outlines and gawky angles, and the brolly all bulk and bagginess, and I scribbled under it "Shadow and Substance." The fellows all yelled and clapped when I showed it, and then I felt a bit cocky about it, and I stuck it with a drawing-pin to Ponty's easel.
Presently he came in and looked round, wondering what all the tittering was about. Then his eye fell on my skit, and he stood looking at it very quietly and steadily; then, as he turned to speak, there was a hush, and I felt very peculiar.
"I don't know who did this," he said, "but one thing is certain—it's very clever—it shows the real gift of caricature. Yes, it's clever—perhaps not exactly kind, but distinctly clever, and if the boy who did it cares to apply himself to caricature I shall be most happy to give him any hints or assistance."
Do you know, somehow I never felt so cheap in all my life, never seemed to myself such an utter bounder.
I didn't own up then and there. I fancied the fellows would most likely guy the whole affair, but I felt I couldn't rest till I'd told Ponty that the sketch was mine, and that, clever as he might think it as a bit of work, I was a bit sick of it as a piece of meanness.
It happened to be a "detention half," so after dinner I searched high and low for Ponty, but footer field, five court, gym—I drew them all blank. At last, crossing the Quad, Darnell Major told me he'd seen him going into the chapel, which I approached and entered. Someone was playing the organ. I walked very quietly, and saw that it was Ponty, making the most beautiful music I had ever heard.
I wanted to speak to him, but not to hush the music, so I sat and waited. At last the strains ceased, and I was just rising to make my way up to the gallery, when I felt a tap on the shoulder and heard a whisper—"Come along, Raggles, there's a beano on."
Voice and words jarred horribly, and I wished Ballantyne further for upsetting my little scheme for owning up and apologising for my wretched caricature.
Following him out of chapel, I growled: "What's the little game?"
"Biggest lark you ever heard," he grinned. "Hurry up, or we shall lose it," and he set off at a sprint across the playing field to the corner called the "cock-pit" from time immemorial, the recognised scrapping-pitch of Kitt's College, in generations past, present and to come.
Just in the corner was a gate leading to what was known as Masters' Orchard, a strip of trim turf especially reserved for the Head and his staff, and lined with three rows of apple, pear, and plum trees. And it was a tradition with fellows at Kitts, that not an orchard in all the world bore such scrumptious apples, such melting pears, and such enormous Orleans and egg-plums. Possibly this was because Masters' Orchard was prohibited to all the fellows except the senior prefects, a restriction which was looked upon at the college as a burning injustice, so that it was made a point of honour amongst us never to miss an opportunity of gaining an entrance to and looting Masters' Orchard.
Judge, therefore, of my delight at finding that someone had left the key in the padlock securing the big spiked gate; all my resentment against Ballantyne vanished like smoke, and I acknowledged cheerfully that he was a brick to have remembered me in the moment of his gorgeous find.
"Shall I go and tell Darnell?" I whispered. "He'd like to be here."
"Shut your head!" Ballantyne answered. "He is there," and an apple fired from a tree some ten yards off caught me in the neck, affording what the newspapers call corroborative evidence.
We set to work sampling the trees, and by common consent decided that the William pear tree was the pick of the basket, and the three of us perched up in a fork of it and sat munching at our leisure.
All at once Ballantyne exclaimed: "Hush, someone's coming! Great Caesar, we're copped!" and, surely enough, we heard voices at the gate. They came nearer and nearer. To our horror, the intruders seated themselves on a bench that incircled the trunk of the tree we had perched in.
"My sainted aunt!" whispered Ballantyne. "One of 'em's a girl. Look at her hat; and the other, why, as I live, it's Ponty!"
"There's a deep 'un for you," whispered Darnell. "Let's shy three big 'uns at him."
But, I don't know why, I said, "Rats! Don't do anything of the kind!" and I spoke so sharply that Darnell looked surprised.
Peeping through the branches, we saw the girl take from Ponty one of those mysterious brown paper parcels he used to carry out with him, the contents of which used to mystify us, and we heard him say:
"More mending, Sis! What a tiresome brother I am."
"Tiresome," the girl laughed; such a musical little laugh, too, that we guessed she was pretty, though her hat and the branches hid her. "As if there was ever a dearer, braver brother! Only Stevie, dear, it seems such a shame that you should have to wear mended clothes instead of new ones!"
"Old clothes are much more comfy," he laughed, but the girl sighed. "If only I could earn a trifle we shouldn't be such a drag on you, but I'm such a helpless burden," she said.
"Helpless! A burden!" Ponty flashed out. "Why, Kitty dear, I'd like to hear anybody else say that, or, rather, I wouldn't like to. Why, but for you, mother would have to have a nurse day and night, and what would I do then? Dear little sister, without you the burden would indeed be hard for mother and me to bear!"
Darnell, Ballantyne, and I looked at each other in dismay, knowing we ought not to be hearing what was almost sacred, yet not knowing what on earth to do. The girl went on:
"But it worries mother, too, Stevie, to think of your giving us so much of your salary instead of making the appearance you ought in your position, and in such a smart school. Don't people notice it, dear?"
"Can't help it if they do," he said. "My duty to my loved ones is more than other people's criticism."
"Then they do criticise, Stevie dear?" the girl asked, and we could hear in her voice the tears we knew were in her eyes.
"Only good-naturedly," he laughed. "For instance, one young scamp made a sketch of me and my awful brolly. Called it 'Shadow and Substance'; but there was no malice in it, only boyish fun. I quite like the little chap who did it."
Scott! if ever I felt a howling cad it was listening to that! Talk about coals of fire--
"Yes, yes, I know," said the girl. "I know, and mother knows, that you have a lot of that sort of thing to undergo, and it breaks our hearts."
"But it mustn't," he said, "you must be brave. The tide's certain to turn. I shall some day be selling pictures to dealers, drawings to magazines. The one thing needful, Kitty, is that we must be stout hearted, not broken-hearted. I'm one of the happiest chaps alive, because I have my work for the present and my hopes for the future."
"Because you're the dearest, most generous fellow in the wide world, Stevie," she said. And away they walked together, and we could hear him laughing to cheer her as they went on.
For quite a long time after the sound of the closing gate had died away, Darnell, Ballantyne, and I never said a word. I couldn't have uttered one for the curious swelling in my throat. We shinned down the tree, and all of a sudden Ballantyne turned round and shouted at us quite savagely:
"Here, just punch my head, you fellows! Kick me—both of you! Hard!"
"Rats!" said Darnell. "We were as bad as you. But, I say, we have been cads, all of us, haven't we? And isn't Ponty splendid?"
"What on earth are we to do?" I stammered helplessly.
"Do!" shouted Ballantyne. "Why, we've got to undo all we've done! We've got to build up Ponty's influence; we've got to be a rampart, a bulwark for him! Here, let's get out of this, back to Common Room, and lay our plans!"
As we scooted back across Big Field, and across the Quad, who should we meet but Ponty and his sister, saying good-bye. Ballantyne was just in time to open the gate for her, which he did, cap in hand, as if she'd been a queen.
"Thanks, Ballantyne," said Ponty, as we passed him, "that was my sister," and Ballantyne, who was never off his perch or at a loss for an answer, chirped out: "Congratulate you, sir!" which seemed to please Ponty no end from the way he smiled.
We entered the Common Room and perched on a table. Up came Wollaston-Brice, sniggering: "I saw Ponty slink across Quad with another parcel under his arm just now. Wonder if it's scraps or washing?"
You should have seen Ballantyne freeze him with a look. "Do you mean Mr. Pontifex?" he said. "Oh, you do! Then allow me to tell you that you must be a blinking low bounder to wonder anything of the kind."
"My aunt!" said Wollaston-Brice, turning to Darnell. "What's it mean?" and Darnell sort of bit off his words, as he answered:
"It seems to me to mean that your dragging up hasn't taught you how to speak with respect of people who are entitled to it."
"What's the name of this game?" said Wollaston-Brice, turning to me.
"I don't know," said I. "But it strikes me, if you don't play it carefully, it's a game you'll get a thick ear at!"
That won it. There was not another word said about Ponty or his parcel. Next day I reminded him of his promise to put me up to a few wrinkles on black and white, especially caricature.
He kept his word, and my! wasn't he splendid? Seeing I was keen, he kind of came out of his shell, and in half-an-hour put me up to heaps of little dodges in line and wash drawing. I was awfully taken with some little sketches of his own, dainty bits of silver point, mezzotint, and sepia, and he would insist on giving me three or four of those I liked best.
"Can't make it out," I heard Sloane growl, as he puffed at his pipe at the gym door. "Quite a change seems to have come over our barbarians with regard to Pontifex. Ballantyne and Darnell are quite chummy with him, and they carry a lot of weight with the other fellows. Why, even that impudent little animal, Raggles, answers him quite respectfully nowadays."
"Did I hear you call me, sir?" said I, looking down from my perch on the horizontal bar.
"Yes, I called you a little animal," he grunted; so I answered, quick as lightning: "Like your thundering cheek!"—but I didn't let him hear me!
The Head noticed that Ponty seemed to get on better with his classes, and congratulated him on the progress of the work and the improvement in the discipline of the room, which he had noted recently when dropping in.
It was marvellous the other changes these changes brought about. Ponty seemed twice as cheerful and not half so awkward or shabby, and at the end of the term I heard through Sloane himself that the Head had told him that, instead of recommending Mr. Pontifex to find another post, he had decided to raise his screw.
"Now, you little rat," growled Sloane, "I've let you into a secret. Fair's fair. Tell me the reason of the alteration in you chaps towards Mr. Pontifex. Come on, honest Injun!"
And I told him—honest Injun. He didn't interrupt me with a word, only towards the end of my explanation he bit a lump clean off the mouthpiece of his briar, and growled something about grit.
But that isn't the last of it. When I went home at Christmas I showed my governor the drawings Ponty had given me. You should have seen him sit up.
"What!" he shouted, "mean to say a man who can do work like that wastes his time trying to knock sense into a pack of cubs like you, Johnnie?"
I said: "I think, sir, there's an invalid mother and a sister."
"Oho!" said the governor.
That was all he said. I saw he was thinking.
Now, my pater's right in it with the art world and publishers, and so on, and sure enough, a week or so after I got back, Ponty clapped me on the shoulder one morning and said:
"Raggles, splendid old chap! Nice thing you've done for me, you and your brick of a governor. Here's a commission from one of the best and biggest art publishers in England to illustrate a new book of smart verses—see, here's their letter, 'in the style of the work from your pen and brush shown us by that excellent connoisseur, Mr. Robert Raggles.'"
It was just like my dad.