It required all Riddell’s authority, in the face of this splendid achievement, to keep his men from jeopardising their second innings in the field by yielding prematurely to elation.
“For goodness’ sake don’t hulloa till you’re out of the wood!” he said; “they may catch up on you yet. Seventy-five isn’t such a big score after all. If you don’t look out you’ll muddle your chance away, and then how small you’ll look!”
With such advice to hold them in check, they went out as soberly as before to field, and devoted their whole energies to the task of disposing of their enemies’ wickets for the fewest possible runs.
And they succeeded quite as well as before. Indeed, the second innings of the Parretts was a feeble imitation of their first melancholy performance. Parson, King, and Wakefield were the only three who made any stand, and even they fared worse than before. All the side could put together was twenty-one runs, and about this, even, they had great trouble.
When it became known that the Welchers had won the match by an innings and twenty-nine runs, great was the amazement of all Willoughby, and greater still was the mortification of the unlucky Parretts. No more was said about the grand concert in which they intended to celebrate their triumph. They evidently felt they had not much to be proud of, and, consequently, avoiding a public entry into their house, they slunk in quietly, and, shutting out the distant sounds of revelry and rejoicing in the victorious house, mingled their tears over a sympathetic pot of tea, to which even Telson was not invited.
Chapter Thirty Two
A Climax to Everything
Among the few Willoughbites who took no interest at all in the juniors’ match was Gilks.
It was hardly to be wondered at that he, a schoolhouse boy, should not concern himself much about a contest between the fags of Welch’s and Parrett’s. And yet, if truth were known, it would have been just the same had the match been the greatest event of the season, for Gilks, from some cause or other, was in no condition to care about anything.
He wandered about listlessly that afternoon, avoiding the crowded Big, and bending his steps rather to the unfrequented meadows by the river. What he was thinking about as he paced along none of the very few boys who met him that afternoon could guess, but that it was nothing pleasant was very evident.
At the beginning of this very term Gilks had been one of the noisiest and liveliest fellows in Willoughby. Although his principles had never been lofty, his spirits always used to be excellent, and those who knew him best could scarcely recognise now in the anxious, spiritless monitor the companion whose shout and laugh had been so familiar only a few months ago.
Among those who met him this afternoon was Wibberly. Wibberly, like Gilks, felt very little interest in the juniors’ match. He was one of the small party who yesterday had come in for such a smart snubbing from Bloomfield, and the only way to show his sense of the ingratitude of such treatment, especially towards an old toady like himself, was to profess no interest in an event which was notoriously interesting the Parretts’ captain.
So Wibberly strolled down that afternoon to the river, and naturally met Gilks.
The two were not by any means chums — indeed, they were scarcely to be called friends. But they had one considerable bond of sympathy in a common dislike for the schoolhouse, and still more for Riddell. Gilks, as the reader knows, was anything but a loyal schoolhouse man, and ever since he became a monitor had cast in his lot with the rival house. So that he was generally considered, and considered himself to be, quite as much of a Parrett as a “schoolhouser.”
“So you are not down looking at the little boys?” said Wibberly.
“No,” said Gilks.
“Awful rot,” said Wibberly, “making all that fuss about them!”
“Pleases them and doesn’t hurt us,” replied Gilks.
“In my opinion it’s all a bit of vanity on the part of Riddell. He’d like to make every one think he has been coaching his kids, and this is just a show-off.”
“Well, let him show off; who cares?” growled Gilks.
“All very well. He ought to be hooted round the school instead of flashing it there in the Big, the hypocritical cad!”
“Well, why don’t you go and do it?” said Gilks; “you’d get plenty to join you.”
“Would I? No, I wouldn’t. Even Bloomfield’s taking his part — he’s gammoned him somehow.”
“Well, that doesn’t prevent your going and hooting him, does it?” said Gilks, with a sneer. “You’ve a right to enjoy yourself as well as any one else.”
“What! have you come round to worship his holiness too?” asked Wibberly, who had at least expected some sympathy from Gilks.
“Not exactly!” said Gilks, bitterly; “but I’ve come round to letting the cad alone. What’s the good of bothering?”
“And you mean to say you’d let him go on knowing who the fellow is who cut the rudder-lines of our boat, and not make him say who it is?”
“I expect that’s all stuff about his knowing at all,” said Gilks.
“Not it! Between you and me, I fancy he’s had a tip from somewhere.”
“He has? Bah! don’t you believe it. He’d like to make believe he knows all about it. It would pay, you know.”
“But every one thinks he knows.”
“Not he! He would have told the fellow’s name long ago. Whatever object would he have in keeping it back?”
“Oh! I don’t know. He says some gammon about not being quite sure. But he’s had time enough to be sure by now.”
Gilks walked on in silence for a little, and then inquired, “And suppose you did get to know who it was, what would be the use?”
“The use!” exclaimed Wibberly, in amazement. “Why, what do you mean? By Jove, I’m sorry for the fellow when he turns up. He’ll soon find out the use of it.”
Gilks said nothing, but walked on evidently out of humour, and Wibberly having nothing better to do accompanied him.
“By the way,” said the latter, presently, seeing his companion was not disposed to continue the former conversation, “what’s up between you and Silk? Is it true you’ve had a row?”
Gilks growled out something which sounded very like an oath, and replied, “Yes.”
“What about?” inquired the inquisitive Wibberly, who seemed to have the knack of hitting upon unwelcome topics.
“It wouldn’t do you any good to know,” growled Gilks.
“I heard it was some betting row, or something of that sort,” said Wibberly.
“Eh? — yes — something of that sort,” said Gilks.
“Well,” said Wibberly, “I never cared much for Silk. He always seemed to know a little too much for me. I wouldn’t break my heart if I were you.”
“I don’t mean to,” said Gilks, but in a tone which belied the words, and even struck Wibberly by its wretchedness.
“I say,” said he, “you’re awfully down in the mouth these times. What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think anything’s wrong? I’m all right, I tell you,” said Gilks, half angrily.
Wibberly was half inclined to say that he would not have thought it if he had not been told so, but judging from his companion’s looks that this little pleasantry would not be appreciated, he forbore and walked on in silence.
It was a relief when Wibberly at length discovered that it was time for him to be going back. Gilks wanted nobody’s company, and was glad to be left alone.
And yet he would gladly have escaped even from his own company, which to judge by his miserable looks as he walked on alone was less pleasant than any.