"No, we haven't missed anything, Mr Reader," replied the curate, "but we expect to miss _somebody_--George, and that is the reason of our visit."

And then the curate explained what the business was, and one of the churchwardens made a speech (the composition of which had kept him awake all the previous night), and then I was produced and handed over. And George blushed and stammered out something which n.o.body could understand, and George's mother began to cry, and George's father, unable otherwise to express his sense of the occasion, began to whistle.

And so the little business was satisfactorily concluded, and the deputation withdrew, leaving me in the pocket of a new master. Three days afterwards both of us took our departure for Cambridge.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

HOW MY NEW MASTER MADE TRIAL OF A PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

But now let us follow Reader. My master's rooms at Saint George's College were of the poorest and meanest description; in fact it would not be too much to describe them--the bedroom and study--as being like a pair of big cupboards under a great staircase. They looked out on nothing more picturesque than a blank wall. They were carpeted with nothing better than an old drugget; and as for paper, the place would have looked better simply whitewashed. They were suffocating in summer and draughty in winter, and at nights afforded rendezvous to a whole colony of rats. Every step on the staircase above thundered down into the study; the loosely-hung windows rattled even in a light breeze, and the flavours of the college dustbins, hard by, appeared to have selected these chambers, above all others, for their favourite haunt. I am told Saint George's College has recently undergone renovation. It so, it is probable "the Mouse-trap"--for this was the designation by which George Reader's cla.s.sical domain was familiarly styled--has disappeared. Let us hope so, for a more miserable, uncomfortable, and uninviting couple of rooms I never saw.

But they had one merit, and that a great one: they were cheap, which to George Reader meant everything. He had gained a small entrance scholarship, by the help of which he hoped, with the most rigid economy, to support himself during his college career. Most other young fellows would have shrunk from the prospect, but such was my master's ambition that I believe he would have endured life in a stable if only he could have there enjoyed the advantages and encouragements of a college course.

It was, at any rate, a fine sight to see him settle down in his new dispiriting quarters, determined to make the best of everything, and suffer nothing to damp his ardour for work. He unpacked his few precious books and laid them on the shelf; he hung up the likenesses of his father and mother over the chimney-piece; he produced the cheese which the latter had insisted on his bringing with him, and, as a crowning-effect, set me up on the mantel-shelf with as much pride as if I had been a marble clock.

"That looks something like!" he said to himself. "Now for a little tea, and then--grind!"

The little tea, however, was "sooner said than done." It involved a prolonged hunt for the "gyp," or attendant, and a still more prolonged conference on the subject of hot water, tea, and bread. The suggestions thrown out by the college official, too, were so very lordly and extravagant--such, for instance, as ham and eggs, chicken, marmalade, and chocolate--that poor George's heart fluttered as much as his mouth watered while he listened. Chicken and chocolate for a poor student who had barely enough money to afford so much as the luxury of living in the "Mouse-trap" of Saint George's! Well he might be scared at the idea!

He politely declined the grand offer of his scout, and asking him to light a small fire and procure him a loaf, sallied out himself into the town and purchased a small and very cheap quant.i.ty of groceries. With these he returned in triumph to his rooms, and, with the utmost satisfaction, partook of his first college meal, with a Euclid open on the table beside him.

Then pouring out a final cup of tea to enjoy, cold, later on, he "cleared the decks for action," as he called it, which meant putting away the tea, b.u.t.ter, sugar, and bread in a cupboard, and folding up the table cloth. Poor George! he had no false pride to forbid such menial offices; he had not the brag about him which would have led another to stand on the staircase and howl "Gyp" till every one far and near should be made aware that he had had a meal which required clearing away. No; he was only a gamekeeper's son, in a hurry to get at his books; and to him it was far more natural to wait on his own frugal table than sit in state till a servant should come and clear it.

"Now," said he to himself, "I shall get a good quiet time for work.

After all it's not bad to be one's own master where reading is concerned."

And without more ado he set himself down to his books, with me on the table at his elbow, and his cup of tea within reach, when such refreshment should be desirable. It was a fine thing to see this young fellow plunging straight into his work.

a.s.suredly he had not come to college to fritter away his time--to row, play cricket, give wine-parties, or drive dog-carts; he had not even come because it was "the thing," or afforded a "good introduction into the world." No, he was here for one purpose, and one alone. That was work. To him the days were as precious mines, and every minute a nugget. It mattered nothing to him who won the cricket-match this year, who occupied the rooms next his, how many b.u.mps the Saint George's boat made on the river; far more important was the thought that perhaps the oil in his lamp would run short before the night was out, or whether the edition of Plato his friend the Muggerbridge clergyman had given him was the best, and contained the fullest notes. In short, George Reader was in earnest.

But, like the tea, the "good quiet time" he hoped for was not so easy to secure. Scarcely had he settled down when the voices of two men in loud conversation rose, immediately under his window. Now, when one is in the agony of trying to understand how it comes that a certain number of angles in one figure are equal to a certain number of angles in another, it is, to say the least of it, confusing to have to listen to a spirited account of a boxing-match between Jack Straight and the Hon. Wilfred Dodge; and when that account manages to get interwoven inextricably with the problem in hand the effect is likely to be distracting; for instance:--

"Since the solid angle at B is contained by three plane angles, BAF, FAC, and CAB, then--"

"Jack let out and got in sweetly under his man's guard," and so on.

"Therefore," persevered George, "the angles ABC and ABF--"

"Rounded on him grandly, and--"

"The angles ABC and ABF are together greater than the angle CBF; and, similarly--"

Here the conversation was continued in language far more worthy of the disgraceful prize-ring than a college, until George could bear it no longer. He leapt from his seat and sprang to the window, which he opened. Leaning out, he surveyed the two disturbers of his peace with very little affection, but controlled himself sufficiently to say politely,--

"Would you mind not talking just here? I'm reading."

One of the two scowled up at him, and replied,--

"What business is it of yours where we talk?"

"Come on, Fisher," said the other, taking his arm; "let the man read if he wants; I suppose that's the poor beggar who's come to the `trap.'"

"He's got a cool cheek of his own, whoever he is," retorted the indignant Fisher.

George was too relieved to be rid of their clatter under his window to trouble himself as to their sentiments towards himself, and he therefore once again settled down to work.

But now a new interruption occurred.

There arose a sudden rush of feet outside his door, a laughing and a cheering, in the midst of which he caught the following confused utterances:

"George's has b.u.mped Corpus!" cried a voice.

[See Note 1.]

"Hurrah!" yelled half a dozen voices.

"It was the finest bit of rowing ever you saw," continued the first speaker. "Bailey put it on from the very first stroke, and was on the top of them before the Point."

And then the three cheers and yells rose again.

"You can fancy how black and blue Corpus looked--it's the biggest sell they've had for a long time."

Once more the shouts.

"And what do you think?" resumed the first speaker. "Old Bailey vows he won't come to the supper to-night. Did ever you hear of such an old bear?"

"He'll have to come," cried the rest; "let's waylay him here and carry him off."

"All serene," said the leader; "he's sure to come here--let's hang about on the stairs."

Oh, horrors! here were six noisy men going to establish themselves on the stairs over poor George's head, and remain there until their victim arrived, when, unless college traditions were utterly false, there would certainly be a battle royal. It was impossible, with the cheering and stamping and shouting and laughing, and scuffling overhead, to do a stroke of work, and yet George did his best. He pulled his table into the corner of the room farthest away from the noise, and, burying his head in his hands, struggled desperately to abstract himself from the disturbance. But as sure as he succeeded for a minute, a clamour louder than ever would drive _every_ idea out of his head. It was vain to attempt expostulation--what would these jubilant revellers care for a poor new man like him!--and he had nowhere else to go to escape them there was nothing for it but to be patient. In due time the victorious and unsuspecting Bailey, accompanied by four of his friends, appeared on the scene, and their approach was the immediate signal for action. With a cheer and a howl the ambush sprang upon their victims; and, with equal vehemence, these, having rapidly taken in the state of affairs, prepared to defend themselves. Poor George might as well have been sitting under Niagara. Step by step, the new-comers strove to force a pa.s.sage up to Bailey's rooms, and step by step the opposing force strove to repulse them. The bal.u.s.trades creaked, the ceiling of George's room quaked, and the walls thundered with the weight of conflicting bodies. The occupants of every room on the staircase turned out to see the fun, and on hearing of Bailey's contumacy, joined with his persecutors in refusing him the shelter of his own sanctuary. Bailey's party, on the other hand, was joined by reinforcements from without, who stormed up the stairs with the noise of an earthquake. The opposing forces soon became so great that the press of battle raged even to the door of George's study, which creaked and rattled as if every moment it were about to yield and admit the whole tide of conflict.

For half an hour the tumult roared and the battle swayed, and neither party gained nor yielded a foot.

Then suddenly from the confines of the battle rose and spread a cry of "Cave canem!" on which, as if by magic, the action was suspended, and retreating footsteps betokened a panic. A rally was sounded by Bailey's foes, but too late; the hero of the day had taken advantage of the momentary pause to dash past his persecutors and gain his study, and once there no force could dislodge him. The vanquished ones stormed and raged outside his door for another ten minutes, threatening all sorts of vengeance; then with three mighty cheers they struck camp and retired, leaving the staircase in peace.

Thus ended the famous battle of Bailey's Staircase, at the end of which George, with sunken spirits but indomitable resolution, sat down again to work.

For half an hour he made good progress, without let or hindrance, when-- ah, cruel fate!--a wretch calling himself a man, in a neighbouring apartment, began to practise on the ophicleide! At the first note George bounded from his seat as if he had been shot, and literally tore his hair. This was worse than all that had gone before. To one of his musical inspiration, the human voice divine in conversation was, endurable, and the roar of battle might even be tolerable, but to hear a creature attempt to play one of the "songs without words" on an instrument he knew as little of as the music he was parodying, was beyond all bearing! Then, if ever, did my wretched master dig his fingers into his ears, and writhe and shiver and groan at each discord produced by that inhuman performer. He retreated into the innermost recess of his bedroom; he even hid his unhappy head beneath the clothes, if haply he might escape the agony of this torture. But it was hopeless. The shrieks and groans of that brutal ophicleide would have penetrated the walls of the Tower of London.

It lasted, I should not like to say how long; and when it was over, the recollection of its horrors was almost as bad as their endurance. When George set himself again to work, it was with nerves unstrung and unutterable forebodings, yet still unconquered.

"At any rate," said he to himself, with a sigh, "there can't be anything worse than that--unless, indeed, he invites a friend like himself to practise duets with him!"

Happily this climax was not reached, and for one evening the worst of George Reader's persecutions had been suffered--but not the last.

By the time the last wail of the ophicleide had wriggled away into silence it was getting late, and the college was meditating retirement to rest. This operation was not got through, as may be imagined, without a good deal of clamour and a good deal of scuffling on the staircase, and a good deal of dialogue outside the window; but in due time silence reigned, and George congratulated himself that he had a quiet time at last before him.