The juniors, disappointed in the hope of publicly displaying their anti-radical sentiments before all Shellport, looked about for consolation indoors that evening, and found it in a demonstration against the unlucky Bosher, who, against his will, had been forced to personate the Radical at the recent meeting, and now found it impossible to retrieve his reputation. He was hissed all round the playground, and finally had to barricade himself in his study to escape further persecution. But even there he was not safe. The youthful Whigs forced their way into his stronghold, and after much vituperation and reproach, proceeded to still more violent measures. “Howling young Radical cad!” exclaimed Telson, who, carried away by the excitement of the hour, had forgotten all Mr Parrett’s prohibitions, and had come to visit his old allies; “you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Indeed, I’m Yellow,” pleaded the unhappy Bosher. “They forced me to be Cheeseman at the meeting, but it wasn’t my fault.”
“Don’t tell crams,” cried the others. “It’s bad enough to be a Radical without trying to deceive us.”
“I’m not trying to deceive you, really I’m not,” protested Bosher.
“I’ll be anything you like. I hate the Radicals. Oh, I say, don’t be cads, you fellows. Let me be a Whig, do!”
“No,” cried the virtuous Parson. “We’ll have no Radical cads on our side.”
“But I’m not a Radical cad,” cried Bosher; “at least not a Radical.”
At that moment King made a sudden grab at a small black book which lay on the mantelpiece.
“Oh, you fellows,” cried he, “here’s a lark. Here’s his diary.”
A mighty Whig cheer followed the discovery, amidst which Bosher’s wild protests and entreaties were quite drowned.
“His diary!” exclaimed Parson. “That’ll show if he’s a Radical or not. Hand it over, King. That’ll show up his jolly gross conduct, eh?”
“No, no!” cried Bosher. “Give it up, you fellows; it’s mine. Don’t be cads, I say; it’s private.” And he made a wild dash for his treasure.
But it was no use. Parson gravely addressed his prisoner.
“Look here, young Bosher, it’s no use making a row. We must look at the diary to see if you’re really a Radical or not. It’s our painful duty, so you’d better be quiet. We’re sorry to have to do it, you know, but it can’t be helped. If we find nothing Radical in the diary we’ll let you off.”
It was no use protesting, and poor Bosher had to submit with the best grace he could to hear his inmost thoughts read out in public.
“Here, Telson, old man,” said Parson, “you read it. Speak out, mind. Better go backwards; start at yesterday.”
Telson took the precious volume solemnly and began, frequently interrupted by the protests of the author, and more frequently by the laughter of his audience.
“‘Thursday, the 4th day of the week.’” (“I always thought it was the fifth,” observed Cusack). — “Rose at 6:13. Time forbad to shave down in the Big. N.B. — The world is big, I am small in the world, I sawest Riddell who is now in Welch’s playing cricket with the little boys. Pilbury sported too, ugly in the face. (Here all but Pilbury seemed greatly amused.) Also Cusack, who thinks a great deal,”—(“Hear, hear,” from Cusack)—“about himself. (Laughter.) I attend an election at 10:2 in the Big. Parson taketh the chair. Parson is a f — l and two between.”
“Oh!” broke in the outraged Parson. “I knew he was a Radical cad. All right, Bosher, my boy; you’ll catch it! Steam away, Telson!”
“‘It was a gross meeting, Pringle being much stuck-up. He maketh a speech. Meditations while Pringle is making a speech. The grass is very green. (Great laughter at Pringle’s expense.) I will aspire up Telson thinketh he is much, but thou ist not oh, Telson, much at all I spoke boldly and to the point. I am the Radical.’”
“There you are!” exclaimed Parson, triumphantly: “didn’t I tell you so? Bosher! What do you mean by telling such howling crams, Bosher?”
“I only meant—”
“Shut up! Fire away, Telson!”
“‘I am the Radical. I desire to smash everything the little Welchers make noises. Meditations: let me be noble dinner at 3:1 stew. The turnips are gross. I request leave of Riddell to go to the town to-morrow but he sayeth no. I am roused’—that’s all of yesterday.”
“About enough too!” exclaimed the wrathful Parson. “Just read the day before, before we start hiding him.”
“Oh, please don’t lick me!” cried the unhappy author: “I’ll apologise, you know, Parson, Telson; please don’t!”
“‘Wednesday — rose at 8:13. Sang as I shaved the Vicar of Bray. I shall now describe my fellows which are all ugly and gross. Parson is the worst.’”
“Eh?” exclaimed the wrathful owner of that name.
“‘Parson is the worst,’” read Telson, with evident glee, “‘and — and—’ oh, let’s see,” he added, hurriedly turning over the page.
“No, no; read fair; do you hear?” cried Parson. “No skipping.”
“I’ll crack your skull, Bosher,” said Telson, indignantly, handing the diary across to Parson and pointing to the passage.
“‘—And Telson is the most conceited ignorant schoolhouse frog I ever saw at breakfast got thirty lines for gross conduct with the abominable King.’”
“There!” exclaimed Telson, in a red heat; “what does he mean by it? Of course, I don’t care for myself; it’s about the schoolhouse.”
“What’s that he says about me?” said King.
“‘The abominable King,’” cried Telson, reading with great relish; “‘thirty lines for gross conduct with the abominable King.’”
“Oh, I say, this is too much, you fellows,” cried King.
“Not a bit too much. Just finish that day, Telson,” said Parson, handing back the diary.
“Please give it up,” pleaded Bosher, but he was immediately sat upon by his outraged companions, and forced to listen to the rest of the chronicle.
“‘Wyndham hath not found his knife. I grieve for Wyndham thinking Cusack and the little Welchers to be the thiefs. I smile when Cusack goes to prison in the Parliament a gross speech is made by Riddell I reply in noble speech for the Radicals.’”
“That’ll do, that’s enough; he is a Radical then; he says so himself!” cried Telson, shutting up the book, and flinging it across the room at Bosher, who was standing near the door and just dodged it in time. A regular scramble ensued to secure the “gross” volume, in the midst of which the unhappy author, seeing his chance, slipped from the room, and bolted for his life down the passage.
His persecutors did not trouble to pursue him, and a sudden rumour shortly afterwards that Mr Parrett was prowling about sent Telson and the few Welchers slinking back to their quarters. And so ended the eve of the great election.