This was addressed to Philpot, who was eagerly trying to prompt his ally.
“Go it, let out at them,” he whispered.
“Why shouldn’t old Mr Cusack go it and let out — that is — all right, Philpot, you pig, I’ll pay you out, see if I don’t. Why shouldn’t old Mr Cusack, gentlemen — er—”
“Do,” suggested Cusack himself.
“Do,” shouted Pilbury, “do, gentlemen — do? Why shouldn’t — (all right, Gus Telson, I see you chucking darts) — why shouldn’t old Mr Cusack—”
“Does any gentleman second the amendment?” asked Mr Isaacs, evidently getting hungry and anxious to be released from his post.
“Yes,” shouted Philpot, “Mr Gentlemen, yes, I do — and—”
“Wait a bit, you howling cad,” exclaimed Pilbury, in excitement. “I’ve not done yet!”
“Mr Philpot!” said Mr Isaacs.
“Philpot be blowed,” cried the irate Pilbury, “wait till I’m done.”
“Order, order,” shouted members on all sides.
“Moved by Mr Pilbury, seconded by Mr Philpot,” began Isaacs.
“Easy all,” cried Philpot, “I’ve not spoken yet.”
“Order, order,” cried Isaacs.
“Order yourself,” retorted Philpot, “I’ve got a right to speak.”
“So have I,” said Pilbury, “and I was up first.”
“Forge away,” said Philpot, “you’ll be all right.”
“Nothing to do with you if I am all right,” snarled Pilbury.
“You seem to think you’re the only fellow can talk.”
“Ays to the right, noes to the left,” said Isaacs, in a loud voice.
The House instantly divided, and before either Pilbury or Philpot could make up their minds about proceeding, the motion had been declared lost by a majority of three hundred odd to one.
In a great state of wrath the injured Welchers left the hall, making as much noise as they possibly could in doing so.
As soon as they were gone, Isaacs put the question that Bloomfield be elected Speaker, and this was carried without a division, the schoolhouse fellows not caring to demand one.
Amid loud and long-continued cheers the new Speaker took his seat, and as soon as silence could be restored, said, “I’m much obliged to you all for your vote. I hope Willoughby won’t go down. I’ll try to prevent it for one. (Loud cheers.) I’m very proud to be elected your Speaker, and feel it quite as much honour as if I was captain of the school.” (Loud cries of “So you are!”—from Parrett’s.) “In reference to what one gentleman said about me, I hope you won’t believe it. I’m twelfth in classics. (Laughter from the schoolhouse and terrific applause from Parrett’s.) That’s all I have to say.”
The remaining business of the afternoon was dull compared with what had gone before. The elections for the various posts in the Government did not excite very much enthusiasm, especially among the juniors, who deserted the meeting soon after they began. After what had occurred it is hardly to be wondered at that the partisans of Bloomfield and the Parretts had the matter pretty much in their own hands, and used it to their own advantage. When the list was finally declared, it was found that only one schoolhouse fellow, Porter, had a place in the “Cabinet.” He was appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer. Game was First Lord of the Admiralty, Wibberly, War Secretary, Ashley, Home Secretary, and Strutter, a comparatively obscure boy, Premier. All these, as well as the other officers appointed, were Parrett’s fellows, who may have flattered themselves their election was a simple recognition of merit in each case, but who, taken altogether, were a long way off being the most distinguished boys of Willoughby.
Parliament did not adjourn till a late hour that evening, and no one was particularly sorry when it did.
Chapter Nine
A Scientific Afternoon in Welch’s
“Pil,” said Cusack, a few days after the unfortunate end to that gentleman’s “motion” in Parliament—“Pil, it strikes me we can do pretty much as we like these times. What do you think?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Pil, meditatively; “I got a pot from Coates to-day for playing fives against the schoolhouse door.”
“Oh yes; of course, if you fool about out of doors you’ll get potted. What I mean is, indoors here there’s no one to pull us up that I can see.”
“Oh! I see what you mean,” said Pil. “Yes, you’re about right there.”
“Gully, you know,” continued Cusack—“Gully’s no good as master of a house; he’s always grubbing over his books. Bless his heart! it doesn’t matter to him whether we cut one another’s throats!”
“Not it! I dare say he’d be rather glad if we did,” replied Pilbury.
“Then there’s Tucker. No fear of his reporting us, eh!”
“Rather not! when he’s always breaking rules himself, and slinking down to Shellport, and kicking up rows with the other chaps. What do you think I found in his brush-and-comb bag the other day? Thirteen cigar-ends! He goes about collecting them in Shellport, I suppose, and finishes them up on the quiet.”
“Oh, he’s a beast!” said Cusack. “And old Silk’s about as bad. He doesn’t care a bit what we do as long as he enjoys himself. Don’t suppose he’d be down on us, do you?”
“No fear! He might pot us now and then for appearances’ sake, but he wouldn’t report us, I guess.”
“And suppose he did,” said Cusack; “the new captain’s as big a muff as all the lot of them put together. He’s afraid to look at a chap. Didn’t you hear what he did to the Parrett’s kids the other day?”
“Yes; didn’t I!” exclaimed Pilbury. “He let them all off, and begged their pardons or something. But I’m jolly glad Parrett was down on them. He’s stopped their river-play, and they won’t be able to show up at the regatta.”
“I’m jolly glad!” said Cusack; “chaps like them deserve to catch it, don’t they, Pil?”
“Rather!” replied Pilbury.
A silence ensued, during which both heroes were doubtless meditating upon the unexampled iniquities of the Parrett juniors.
Presently Pilbury observed somewhat dolefully, “Beastly slow, isn’t it, Cusack?”
“What’s beastly slow?”
“Oh, everything! No fun kicking up a row if there’s no one to pull you up. I’m getting sick of rows.”
Cusack stared at his friend with rather concerned looks. He could not be well, surely, or he would never come out with sentiments like those.
“Fact is,” continued Pilbury, contemplatively balancing himself on one foot on the corner of the fender, “I’ve half a notion to go in for being steady this term, old man, just for a change.”
As if to suit the action to the word, the fender suddenly capsized under him, and shot him head first into the waistcoat of his friend.
Cusack solemnly restored him to his feet and replied, “Rather a rum start, isn’t it?”
“Well,” said Pilbury, examining his shin to see if it had been grazed by the treacherous fender, “I don’t see what else there is to do. Any chap can fool about. I’m fagged of fooling about; ain’t you?”
“I don’t know,” said Cusack, doubtfully. “It’s not such a lark as it used to be, certainly.”
“What do you say to going it steady this term?” asked Pilbury.
“Depends on what you mean by ‘steady.’ If you mean never going out of bounds or using cribs, I’m not game.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that, you know,” said Pilbury. “What I mean is, shutting up rows, and that sort of thing.”
“What can a fellow do?” asked Cusack, dubiously.
“Oh, lots to do, you know,” said Pilbury—“dominoes, you know, or spellicans. I’ve got a box at home.”