Digby Heathcote: The Early Days of a Country Gentleman's Son and Heir

“Oh, there’s no fear of that. I have not got half the things you speak of,” said Digby, rather inclined to laugh at the collection of valuables his box was supposed to contain.

“What have you got, then?” asked Spiller, point blank.

Digby, who had not suspected his new acquaintance’s object in introducing the subject, was going to tell him, when Paul Newland came back to his desk.

Spiller did not see him. He started, and seemed very much annoyed when Paul put his hand on his shoulder, and said, quietly —

“Well, what do you find that he has got?”

Spiller looked big enough to keep in awe a dozen such little fellows as Paul Newland, but he seemed in no way inclined to pick a quarrel with him.

“Nothing that I know of,” he answered. “We have been merely talking about things in general; have we not, Heathcote? It will soon be bed-time, or I should like to have heard more about your part of the country. I’ll get you to tell me to-morrow. Good-night, Heathcote.” Saying this, he moved away.

“I’m glad I came back when I did,” sail Newland. “That fellow is the most notorious sponge in the school. We call him Spongy Spiller. He makes friends with all the new fellows, and sticks like a leech to them as long as they have a piece of cake, or a lump of barley-sugar, or anything else in their boxes, which he can get hold of. His desk is full of things, which, he says, were given him, but which he has, in reality, sponged out of fellows. About your box; unless there is anything in it which won’t keep, just don’t open it for a day or two, till you are able to judge for yourself a little of fellows. To-morrow is a half-holiday, and you will better see what the different fellows really are.”

Digby said he would take his advice, for he felt sure that he might trust him. Both Newland and Spiller were strangers, but, when comparing the two, he did not for a moment hesitate as to which was most worthy of his confidence.

Just then the bell rang; and Paul told him they were to have prayers. He expected to see Mr Sanford; but instead, Mr Yates entered the head-master’s desk, and saying that he was too unwell to come into the schoolroom, read a very brief form of prayer, while the boys knelt up on the forms at their desks.

Digby was not surprised to find very little attention or reverence, for though Mr Yates read slowly, in a loud voice, there was a something in his tone which showed that the devotional spirit was not there.

The moment prayers were over, the boys rushed off upstairs. The lamps were put out by a man in a fustian coat, whom Digby had not seen before. Digby found Paul by his side.

“Come along quickly, or you will have an apple-pie bed made,” he said, in a low voice. “You ought to have been out one of the first.”

“Never mind,” answered Digby, laughing. “I know how to unmake it fast enough. I have done such a thing as make one myself.”

“Very well, then,” said Paul, “we need not hurry. You are to sleep in our room, I find. I have gone through a good deal from the fellows there, though they now let me alone. You’ll not have a pleasant night of it, I am afraid. I wish that I could help you.”

“You can help me,” exclaimed Digby, who had been been silent for some time, as they went upstairs. “I have made up my mind how to act. Is there no one who would support you?”

“Yes; I think that there is one, Farnham. He is a good sort of fellow, but he generally sides with the majority. However, if he sees anything done in a spirited way, it would take with him.”

“Then I’ll do it,” cried Digby. “There are no very big fellows who could thrash me easily.”

“There are two or three a good deal bigger than you are; and I don’t think that you could thrash them.”

“I don’t mind that,” answered Digby. “They would find me very tough, at all events, if they attempt to thrash me. You go into the room first; it won’t do to let it appear as if we had formed any plan together.”

Newland seemed highly delighted at Digby’s proposal, and ran on into the room, which was at the end of a long passage.

Digby followed in a few seconds. He had noted well the position of the bed Mrs Pike had told him was to be his, so he walked straight up to it. Susan had placed his night-shirt and night-cap on the pillow. A lamp, with a tin reflector, placed against the wall, over the wash-hand places, gave light to the room. Most of the boys had already got their clothes off, and had tumbled into bed; they were laughing, and talking, and cutting jokes with each other.

Paul had begun to undress. Presently one of them, directly opposite Digby’s bed, put up his head, and said —

“Ah, Master Digby Heathcote, son of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme Hall, how are you?”

“That’s me,” answered Digby, firmly; “I’m very well, I thank you, in very good condition, and not bad training; and I am strong, though not very big. And now I’ll tell you what I am going to do: I am going to make my bed, to see that it is comfortable, and then I am going to say my prayers, as I always do; and I beg that you fellows will not make a row till I have done. I shall not be long; then I intend to undress, and get into bed. After the candle is put out, if anything is shied at me, or any other trick is played, I’ll tell you what I intend to do. I have fixed upon one of the beds, with a fellow in it, and, big or little, as he may be, I’ll pay him off in such a way that he will be glad to help me another night in keeping order. I am not a greenhorn; I just want you to understand that.”

There was something in Digby’s well-knit figure, sunburnt, honest countenance, and firm voice, which, as the boys, one after the other, popped up their heads to look at him, inspired them, if not with respect for him, at all events with a dislike to bring down on their heads the chastisement he threatened. The bigger boys, though they might have thrashed him in open daylight, could not tell what means he might have for attacking them; and those of his own size saw that he was very likely to thrash them, even on fair terms, if they attempted to try their strength together. No answer was made; so, whistling a merry tune, he set to work: first, he carefully and systematically undid his bed, which had been made into an apple-pie, and smoothing down the sheets, and tucking in the feet, he said – “Ah, now that will do.” Then he knelt down by the side of the bed, and most earnestly and sincerely repeated the prayers he had been accustomed to use. Several attempts were made to disturb him.

“Shame, shame!” cried Paul Newland from beneath the bedclothes.

Another voice said, “Shame! Let him at least say his prayers.”

Digby very soon rose from his knees.

“I am much obliged to those who cried shame,” he said, firmly. “It is a shame. It is an insult, not to me, but to Him to whom I was trying to pray. To morrow night I shall know most of the voices of our fellows, and I am resolved not to be interrupted. Now, make as much row as you like; I can sleep through it all; but you remember what I said.”

Digby began undressing, and stowing his clothes away at the head of his bed, so that they could not be removed, jumped into bed.

Just then an usher entered, to put out the light. It was the French master, Digby concluded, for one or two of the boys exchanged salutations with him, calling him Monsieur Guillaume. “Bon nuit, bon nuit – va dormir, mes enfants.” There was a great deal of chattering and noise as he went out.

“Remember,” said Digby, in a firm voice; and then put his head on the pillow.

“Oh, he’s a crowing little cock,” cried some one. “A regular bantam,” observed another. “I wonder if there are more like him at Bloxholme Hall?” exclaimed a third.

But Digby made no answer. Similar remarks were made for some minutes, but he kept silence, till his persecutors began to grow sleepy. One after the other they dropped off, and so did he, at last; and never slept more soundly in his life.

If all right-thinking boys would exercise the same firmness and resolution as Digby did on this occasion, the better disposed would soon gain the upper hand, and there would be much less bullying and general bad conduct than is too often to be found even at the best-regulated schools.

Chapter Twelve

Digby’s Trials and Triumph – The Bully and the Sponge – A Dinner at Grangewood – Digby’s Fight with Bully Scarborough – A Friend in Need

Digby had gained a great triumph – more important, probably, than he was aware of. That first night of his arrival at Grangewood had been the turning-point of his school life. Had he yielded in the first instance, been terrified by threats, lost his temper, shown the white feather in any way, he would, insensibly, have become like one of the rest – leavened with their leaven, addicted to their bad habits, a thoughtless, idle little tyrant; too likely, on entering the world, to become a useless profligate. As it was, in consequence of his conduct, he had inspired some of his new companions with admiration, and others with respect; while even those of baser nature felt that he was likely to prove a person with whom it would be disagreeable and inconvenient to contend; and so it became impressed on their minds, that it would be better to let him alone. Of course, these feelings were only shared among the boys of his room. He had still to make his way in the school. Like a knight-errant of old, there were many giants for him to overcome; many castles, surrounded by enchantments, to enter, before he could hope to establish himself on a proper footing in the school. Of course he did not think all this; he only felt that he had altogether acted in a perfectly satisfactory way, and was contented, and pretty happy. He slept soundly, but was the first to awake in the room. He jumped up, put on some of his clothes, said his prayers, and then went to the wash-hand basin, and began sousing his face away in the cold water, as was his custom.

Slowly the cold, grey light of a February morning drew on. A bell now sounded loudly through the house, to rouse the inmates from their slumbers. The other boys awoke, and lifted up their heads to see how the new boy looked by daylight. They saw him standing in his trousers and shirt, with his sleeves tucked up, his face glowing with the cold water, his hair brushed back, and scrubbing away at his hands in a basin full of lather, with an energy which showed that cold water had no terrors for him. His well-knit frame, broad chest, and muscular little arms, appeared to considerable advantage. Some of the boys, who were unable to appreciate higher qualifications, could not fail to feel respect for these; though Digby had not thought about them, nor was he aware of the strength which he possessed, which, for his size, was considerable. He brushed his hair with the same sort of energy with which he had washed his hands, and then went to the drawer which had been awarded to him, to put away his things. He was rather disgusted than amused at seeing the dawdling way in which the boys put on their clothes, and the mode in which they dabbed their faces over with the cold water, and hurriedly dipped their hands in, though some only half dried them, after all. Paul and Farnham were an exception to the rule.

“Well, Heathcote, I hope that you have slept soundly in this, to you, strange place,” said Paul, in his usual brisk tone.

“As sound as a top. It is all the same to me, when I have my head on a comfortable pillow. It takes a good deal to keep me awake,” answered Digby, in the same tone. “I sleep fast, and get it over the sooner. I hate to be long about what can be well done quickly.”

“So do I,” answered Newland. “Slow coaches are apt to break down as often as fast ones.”

Another bell now rang loudly, and the boys all hurried away downstairs to the schoolroom. Digby accompanied Paul. He felt several fellows push against his back, to throw him downstairs, but he was on his guard; and one of them, to the fellow’s surprise, he lifted up on his shoulders, and, without difficulty, carried him down to the next landing-place, where he bumped him pretty hard against the wall. Another, not seeing what had occurred, tried the same trick. Digby, putting his hands suddenly behind his back, seized him, and had carried him down, holding the boy’s arms tight, and was beginning to bump him, when he felt his own ears pulled, and a voice exclaiming —

“Vat you do dat for? Is dat de way you new boy is going to behave here?”

Digby guessed that it was Monsieur Guillaume, the French master, who was thus addressing him.

“He tried to push me downstairs, sir; and I wish to show him that two can play at most games of that sort,” answered Digby, quietly.

“Ah, I do not tink you say de truth, you,” exclaimed the French master, angrily. “He is a good boy; my protégé; speak French well. Put him down, I say. Tommy Bray, come here; you not hurt, my poor boy?”

Digby put Tommy Bray on his feet, who accompanied Monsieur Guillaume into the schoolroom, where Paul and Digby followed.

“The Frenchman has given you a fair specimen of himself. He is the most uncertain, fickle little fellow I ever met. He bullies all the little fellows except his favourites, or protégés, as he calls them, and makes up to the older ones, who are big enough to thrash him, if they like. He spites those who don’t learn French, because he is not paid for them. He is always trying, therefore, to get new pupils. However, I do not believe that he is really bad tempered when he has his own way. He has been soured by loss of property; and having to live out of la belle France. And do you know, Heathcote, I really do believe that an usher at a school like this, when no one is exactly master, and the big boys have it much their own way, has a good deal to put up with.”

“I should think so,” observed Digby, as they entered the schoolroom.

They went to their desks. Mr Yates read prayers, and though everybody was cold and hungry, lessons began.

Mr Tugman had not yet had time to examine Digby, so he sat at his desk reading the Swiss Family of Robinson, which he confessedly preferred to lessons. Each master had a class up before him; there were some crying; a good deal of caning on the fingers – a particularly disagreeable punishment, in cold weather especially – and a considerable amount of blundering and hesitation. A few quick runs round the playground would have saved a great deal of suffering and discontent; but Mr Sanford never went out in the morning, and it never occurred to him that the blood in his pupils’ veins would circulate more freely with a little brisk exercise, and give vivacity to their intellects.

Breakfast was at last announced by the constant sounding bell. It varied little from tea, except that those who liked bread-and-milk might have it. It was served out in large basins.

Digby, however, preferred the tea. He kept his eye sharply on his mug, to see that it was not tampered with. He observed Tommy Bray take a pinch of salt, and then ask for a cup of tea, though he had a basin of bread-and-milk before him.

“Tommy Bray,” cried Digby, in an undertone, “you had better not. Susan, bring me that mug of tea, please. He does not want it.”

Susan, remembering John Pratt’s half sovereign, brought Digby the tea intact; and Tommy was disappointed of his trick.

Several other boys, however, commenced their jokes on the new comer as soon as their spirits had revived a little, by their appetites being satisfied; but none of those in his room attempted anything of the sort; and it soon became whispered about that the new boy was a plucky little cock, and that his arm had a great lump of muscle in it, as big almost as Scarborough’s, which he was so fond of exhibiting.

After breakfast, the boys went into the playground. It was cold enough to make everybody wish to run about as much as they could. Hoops were the order of the day; and Farnham came up and asked Digby if he had got a hoop.

“No; I never trundled one in my life, but I will try,” he answered. “I did not know that gentlemen used them. I have only seen the boys in the streets at Osberton play with them.”

Farnham thought that he was supercilious in his remark. “Oh, then, I suppose you would not condescend to trundle a hoop?” he exclaimed, turning away.

“But I would though, gladly,” cried Digby; “if you can lend me one, and just show me the knack of the thing, I shall like it very much.”

Farnham was satisfied, and brought him a good strong hoop which he had wished to offer him. His first attempts were not very successful; but he saw how Farnham pressed the stick against the hoop rather than beat it, and kept his eye on it and not on his stick, watching every deviation from the direct line, so he was soon able to drive it along at a fair rate, with tolerable satisfaction to himself.

Soon after returning into school, Mr Tugman called him up to undergo the threatened examination. It was not very severe, and he managed to get through it pretty well. He had a vague suspicion, indeed, that the usher himself was not an over-ripe scholar. He found afterwards that his suspicions were correct, and that poor Mr Tugman had to get up every night the lessons he had to hear his head class the following day. No wonder that his temper was not over-sweet, and that he was awfully afraid of the big boys, lest they should find out how much more they knew than he did. He was placed in Paul Newland’s class, but as it was Saturday he did not go up with it; so that, with Paul’s assistance, he was able to prepare his lessons for Monday. He determined to do his best, and set to work to get them up thoroughly.

Boys in a private school have an advantage over those at a public one. If they wish to study during school hours they can do so, under the eye of the masters, without any fear of interruption. In a public one, excellent as the system of most of the great ones is, the boys, working in their own studies with one or two companions only, are liable to the practical jokes and tricks of various sorts of the idly disposed, who may have resolved to prevent them altogether from getting up their lessons, and, of course, then it is very difficult work to do so. School was over at half-past twelve, and then for a short time they all rushed into the playground.

Spiller was on the watch for Digby at the door. “I am glad to find you, Heathcote,” he said, in a soft, quiet voice. “You remember what I told you about your play-box last night. If you come with me I will show you where to put it, and what to do with the things you have got.”

“Shall I call him spongy to his face, and so show him that I know his character?” thought Digby. “No; I don’t like to do that, it’s scarcely right. – Thank you, Spiller,” he said aloud, “I am not certain that I shall unpack my things to-day. I have nothing that won’t keep, I believe; and I want to become better acquainted with fellows before I cut up my cake.”

This was a poser for Spiller, who had never before received such an answer. He looked very hard at Digby, to try and find out whether he knew anything about his character; but Digby had said simply what he had intended to do, and Spiller was completely puzzled. Still he was determined to try again. “Most fellows like to open their boxes at once, to give away some of the good things they have got, to prove their generosity,” he observed. “A fellow can’t expect to have friends unless he does something to win them, you know. I only tell you this as a hint, just that you may know how to act.”

“I don’t fancy buying friends in that way,” answered Digby, laughing; “I should not trust much to a fellow who said he was my friend for a piece of cake or a spoonful of jam. If anybody else offered him a bigger piece, or more jam, he would very quickly leave me. I like fellows not for what they have got, but for what they are; and I want to be liked for the same reason myself.”

“Oh, I see that you are a radical,” said Spiller, sneeringly; “those are regular chartists’ sentiments; but they won’t go down with me, let me tell you.”

Digby burst out into a regular fit of laughter.

“Well, I never should have supposed that it could be considered radical to like a fellow with a number of good qualities who was poor, in preference to a bad fellow who happened to be rich. I must repeat it, that I hope to find friends among the boys here, whom I shall like for their good qualities.”

“As you please,” remarked Spiller; “of course I can’t force you to do as I recommend; but if, on thinking the matter over, you change your mind, come to me and I will help you. Those are my principles; I’m not ashamed of them, let me tell you.”

What Spiller meant by his principles, Digby could not tell. Perhaps he might have explained more clearly, but he saw Paul Newland approaching, and he knew that he must abandon his designs for the present on Digby’s strong box.

Digby told Paul how he had managed Spiller.

“Capital,” exclaimed Paul. “I wish that we could get rid of all the disagreeable fellows in the school as easily as you have, for the present, of Spiller; but I want to tell you to be on your guard against that big bully, Scarborough. The fellows were talking about you just now, and mentioning the plucky way in which you behaved last night; instead of saying, as I am sure he ought, that you acted very rightly, he sneered and vowed that he would very soon take the pride out of you.”

“Let him try, if he wishes,” answered Digby, not particularly alarmed, for he never had been imbued with any especial dread of big fellows; his fearlessness, however, in reality, arose from his want of experience of the evil they had the power of inflicting; “if he knocks my nose off, he certainly will prevent me from feeling proud of my face, but otherwise, I don’t see how he can very well alter my character.”

Paul thought Digby a perfect hero, and wished for the time when he would be big enough to be cock of the school. While they were speaking, Scarborough lounged by with his hand on the shoulder of another fellow, very much of his own character. There is a great similarity in the look of all bullies, not so much in figure as in expression of countenance; some are big, burly fellows, like Scarborough, others are tall and thin. Of course, they all have more or less physical strength; some are dark and some are fair, but they one and all have an inexpressible resemblance to each other. Scarborough passed close to Digby, and as he did so he put out his foot, and tried to trip him up; but Digby observed the action, and, guessing the intention, jumped off the ground, and escaped even being touched. He felt inclined to make some remark, but he restrained his temper, and left the bully without any excuse for picking a quarrel with him. Scarborough strolled to the end of the playground, and when he came back, he stopped, and looking hard at Digby, said —

“I suppose you are the new fellow who is going to do such mighty things in the school – well, I want you to understand that I shall not allow you to play any of your tricks with me; remember that.”

Digby looked at the bully very steadily; he felt that he ought to answer him, if he could do so, quietly, so he said —

“I don’t know of any tricks which I wish to play; but if you will just tell me what you don’t like of what I have done, or have been said to have done, I will do my best not to offend you.”

“It’s very well for you to talk in that way,” said the bully, disarmed for the moment; for even he could not venture to thrash a fellow without some pretext; “just remember to keep up to it, or you’ll find yourself in the wrong box with me, my lad, that’s all.”

With this ambiguous threat, the bully moved on.

“Well done again,” exclaimed little Paul, who had been trembling with alarm all the time for the result of the meeting; “he won’t let you off without many another attack; but manage him as you have already done, and I do not think that he will annoy you much.”

The moment the dinner-bell rang, there was another general rush into the dining-room. This was that the first comers might secure the best pieces of bread and mugs of beer, arranged up and down the tables. Digby found only half a mugful of beer and a very small piece of bread remaining to his share; but he was not at all put out, and made no remark, resolving another day to be earlier in the field.

Grangewood School had existed for a number of years, and things were carried on there very much in the old-fashioned style in most respects. Mr Sanford was a very good scholar and a gentleman, but he had no talent for the economical arrangements of a school. It is a favourite saying with some people, that boys are better fed than taught. He had resolved that, as far as he had the power, they should be well taught; but it did not occur to him, that it was incumbent on him to see that they were well fed and well looked after.