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Sleight-of-hand at the Expense of my Feet—Filling a Man’s Pockets as Great an Offence as picking them, and punished accordingly—A Turn out, a Turn up, and a Turn in—Early Impressions removed, and Redundancy of Feeling corrected by a Spell of the Rattan.
I did not quit Mr. Knapps until I had run through the alphabet, and then returned to my place, that I might con it over at my leisure, puzzling myself with the strange complexity of forms of which the alphabet was composed. I felt heated and annoyed by the constraint of my shoes, always an object of aversion from the time I had put them on. I drew my foot out of one, then out of the other, and thought no more of them for some time. In the meanwhile the boys next me had passed them on with their feet to the others, and thus were they shuffled along until they were right up to the master’s desk. I missed them, and perceiving that there was mirth at my expense, I narrowly and quietly watched up and down till I perceived one of the head boys of the school, who sat nearest the Dominie, catch up one of my shoes, and the Dominie being then in an absent fit, drop it into his coat-pocket. A short time afterwards he got up, went to Mr. Knapps, put a question to him, and while it was being answered, he dropped the other into the pocket of the usher, and tittering to the other boys, returned to his seat. I said nothing; but when the hours of school were over, the Dominie looked at his watch, blew his nose, which made the whole of the boys pop up their heads, like the clansmen of Roderick Dhu, when summoned by his horn, folded up his large pocket-hankerchief slowly and reverently, as if it were a banner, put it into his pocket, and uttered in a solemn tone, “Tempus est ludendi.” As this Latin phrase was used every day at the same hour, every boy in the school understood so much Latin. A rush from all the desks ensured, and amidst shouting, yelling, and leaping every soul disappeared except myself, who remained fixed to my form. The Dominie rose from his pulpit and descended, the usher did the same, and both approached me on their way to their respective apartments.
“Jacob Faithful, why still porest thou over thy book—didst thou not understand that the hours of recreation had arrived? Why risest thou not upon thy feet like the others?”
“ ’Cause I’ve got no shoes.”
“And where are thy shoes, Jacob?”
“One’s in your pocket,” replied I “and t’other’s in his’n.”
Each party placed their hands behind, and felt the truth of the assertion.
“Expound, Jacob,” said the Dominie, “who hath done this?”
“The big boy with the red hair, and a face picked all over with holes like the strainers in master’s kitchen,” replied I.
“Mr. Knapps, it would be infra dig on my part, and also on yours, to suffer this disrespect to pass unnoticed. Ring in the boys.”
The boys were rung in, and I was desired to point out the offender, which I immediately did, and who as stoutly denied the offence; but he had abstracted my shoe-strings, and put them into his own shoes. I recognised them and it was sufficient.
“Barnaby Bracegirdle,” said the Dominie, “thou art convicted, not only of disrespect towards me and Mr. Knapps, but further of the grievous sin of lying. Simon Swapps, let him be hoisted.”
He was hoisted: his nether garments descended, and then the birch descend with all the vigour of the Dominie’s muscular arm. Barnaby Bracegirdle showed every symptom of his disapproval of the measures taken; but Simon Swapps held fast, and the Dominie flogged fast. After a minute’s flagellation, Barnaby was let down, his yellow tights pulled up, and the boys dismissed. Barnaby’s face was red, but the antipodes were redder. The Dominie departed, leaving us together—he adjusting his inexpressibles, I putting in my shoe-strings. By the time Barnaby had buttoned up and wiped his eyes, I had succeeded in standing in my shoes. There we were tête-à-tête.
“Now, then,” said Barnaby, holding one fist to my face, while, with the other open hand he rubbed behind, “come out in the play-ground, Mr. Cinderella, and see if I won’t drub you within an inch of your life.”
“It’s no use crying,” said I, soothingly: for I had not wished him to be flogged. “What’s done can’t be helped. Did it hurt you much?”
This intended consolation was taken for sarcasm. Barnaby stormed.
“Take it coolly,” observed I.
Barnaby waxed even more wroth.
“Better luck next time,” continued I, trying to soothe him.
Barnaby was outrageous—he shook his fist and ran into the play-ground, daring me to follow him. His threats had no weight with me; not wishing to remain indoors, I followed him in a minute or two, when I found him surrounded by the other boys, to whom he was in loud and vehement harangue.
“Cinderella, where’s your glass slippers?” cried the boys, as I made my appearance.
“Come out, you water-rat,” cried Barnaby, “you son of a cinder!”
“Come out and fight him, or else you’re a coward!” exclaimed the whole host, from Number 1 to Number 62, inclusive.
“He has had beating enough already to my mind,” replied I; “but he had better not touch me—I can use my arms.”
A ring was formed, in the centre of which I found Barnaby and myself. He took off his clothes, and I did the same. He was much older and stronger than I, and knew something about fighting. One boy came forward as my second. Barnaby advanced and held out his hand, which I shook heartily, thinking it was all over: but immediately received a right and left on the face, which sent me reeling backwards. This was a complete mystery, but it raised my bile, and I returned it with interest. I was very strong in my arms, as may be supposed; and I threw them about like sails of a windmill, never hitting straight out, but with semicircular blows, which descended on or about his ears. On the contrary, his blows were all received straightforward, and my nose and face were soon covered with blood. As I warmed with pain and rage I flung out my arms at random, and Barnaby gave me a knock-down blow. I was picked up and sat upon my second’s knee, who whispered to me as I spat the blood out of my mouth, “Take it coolly, and make sure when you hit.”
My own—my father’s maxim—coming from another, it struck with double force, and I never forgot it during the remainder of the fight. Again we were standing up face to face; again I received it right and left, and returned it upon his right and left ears. Barnaby rushed in—I was down again.
“Better luck next time,” said I to my second, as cool as a cucumber.
A third and a fourth round succeeded, all apparently in Barnaby’s favour, but really in mine. My face was beat to a mummy, but he was what is termed groggy, from the constant return of blows on the side of the head. Again we stood up panting and exhausted. Barnaby rushed at me, and I avoided him: before he could return to the attack I had again planted two severe blows upon his ears, and he reeled. He shook his head, and with his fists in the attitude of defence, asked me whether I had had enough.
“He has,” said my second; “stick to him now, Jacob, and you’ll beat him.”
I did stick to him; three or four more blows applied to the same part finished him, and he fell senseless on the ground.
“You’ve
