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Glyn Severn's Schooldays, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 37. The Sore Place In The Fence |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. THE SORE PLACE IN THE FENCE Time had gone on after his good old fashion, moving silently and insidiously, seeming to crawl to those who were waiting for something, till it suddenly dawns upon them that he has been making tremendous strides with those long legs of his which puzzled the little girl who asked her mother whether it was true that Time had those means of progression. Many will remember that the mother asked the child why she supposed that Time had legs, "Because," she replied, "people speak about the lapse of Time, and if he has laps he must have legs to make them of." The troubles connected with the disappearance of the belt, and the unpleasant weeks during which masters, scholars, and servants seemed to have been mentally poisoned by suspicion and were all disposed to look askant at each other, had passed away, and, in his busy avocations and joining in the school sports, Singh was disposed to look upon the theft of his pseudo-heirloom as something which had never happened. "Even if it had been real, Glyn," he said one night as they lay talking across the room in the dark, and the boy had grown into a much more philosophical state of mind, "what would it have mattered?" "Not a jolly bit," said Glyn drowsily. "I suppose it's being here in England," continued Singh, "where you people don't think so much about dressing up, and getting to be more English myself, that I don't seem to care about ornaments as I used. Sometimes I think it was very stupid of me to want to bring such a thing to school with me in my travelling-trunk." "Awfully," grumbled Glyn. "What!" cried Singh sharply. Glyn started. "Eh! What say?" he cried, and a yawn followed. "You said 'awfully.'" "Did I?" said Glyn, more sleepily than ever. "Why, you know you did," cried Singh petulantly. "What did I say that for?" "Ugh!" grunted Singh. "There, go to sleep. What's the good of talking to you?" "Not a bit," replied Glyn; "it only sounds like _buzz, buzz_." "I haven't patience with you," cried Singh; "when I was trying to talk quietly and sensibly about losing my belt." "Bother your old belt!" cried Glyn. "Who wants to talk quietly and sensibly now? I came to bed to sleep, and every time I'm dozing off nicely and comfortably you begin _burr, burr, burr_, and I can't understand you a bit." "I wish we were in India," said Singh angrily. "I wish you were," growled Glyn. "I should like to set a punkah-wallah to pick up a chatty of water and douse it all over you." "He'd feel very uncomfortable afterwards," said Glyn, "if I got hold of him. Oh, bother! bother! bother!" he cried, sitting up in bed. "Now then, preach away. What do you want to say about your ugly old belt?" "Go to sleep," cried Singh, and there was a dull sound of Glyn's head going bang down into the pillow, in which his right ear was deeply buried while his left was carefully corked with a finger, and a minute or two later nothing was heard in the dormitory but the steady restful breathing of two strong healthy lads. "What shall we do to-day; go out somewhere for a good walk?" asked Glyn the next morning. "No; I want to have a quiet talk. Let's go down to the jungle, as you call it," said Singh. "Thy slave obeys," cried Glyn. "But, jungle! poor old jungle! What wouldn't I give for a ride on a good elephant again--a well-trained fellow, who would snap off boughs and turn one into a _chowri_ to whisk off the flies." "Wouldn't old Ramball's Rajah do for you?" "To be sure. I wonder what has become of the old boy. Roaming round the country somewhere, I suppose. What a rum old chap he was, with his hat in one hand, yellow silk handkerchief in the other, and his shiny bald head. Yes, I wonder where he is." "Ramballing," cried Singh, with a peculiar smile on his countenance; and then he started in wonder, for Glyn made a dash at him, caught him by the wrist, and made believe to feel his pulse in the most solemn manner. "What are you doing that for?" cried Singh. "Wait a moment," replied Glyn.--"No. Beating quite steadily. Skin feels cool and moist." "Why, of course," said Singh. "What do you mean?" "I thought you must be ill to burst out with a bad joke like that." "Oh, stuff!" cried Singh impatiently. "It's just as good as yours. Yes," he continued thoughtfully, "it is very nice here; but I should like another ride through the old jungle; and this old row of elm-trees--pah! how different." The two lads remained very thoughtful as they walked slowly across the cricket-field, mentally seeing the wild forest of the East with its strange palms that run from tree to tree, rising up or growing down, here forming festoons, there tangling and matting the lower growth together, and always beautiful whenever seen. Strange musings for a couple of schoolboys, who never once connected these objects of their thoughts with the stringent master's cane--the rattan or properly _rotan_-cane or climbing-palm. They stopped at last in their favourite place beneath the elms, and stood with their hands in their pockets and their shoulders against the park-palings--the patch that looked newish, but which was gradually growing grey under the influence of the weather that was oxidising the new nails and sending a ruddy stain through the wood. Neither spoke, but stood gazing up through the elm boughs, their thoughts far away in Northern India, dwelling upon active monkeys, peacocks and other gorgeously plumaged birds, tigers haunting nullahs and crouching among the reeds. All at once there was a strange panting sound, and a scratching behind them on the park-palings which made the two lads start away and turn to gaze at their late support, for the sound suggested, if not a tiger some other savage beast trying to climb the division between the Doctor's premises and the adjoining estate. The next moment eight fat fingers appeared grasping the palings, there was the scratching of a boot on one of the supporting posts, and a round, red, fat face rose above the top of the fence like a small representation of the sun gradually topping a bank of mist upon a foggy morning. Glyn Severn's Schooldays--by George Manville Fenn _ |
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