CHAPTER III THE GREAT TONTINE

Totty was no cricketer and groaned in spirit at the end of the school football season. It was, however, always easy to get leave of a cricket side, and I was always willing to take an afternoon off with Totty.

At first we used to play fives, but when the warm weather came we looked for something of a milder nature. A certain youth of the name of Stoker— but always known as the “Stoat “—had that summer set a new example in occupations for off-afternoons. He went birds’-nesting—indeed, he had a real passion for natural history, and has now found a good appointment at the South Kensington Museum. One day, for want of something better to do, Totty and I accompanied him, and with excellent results—not that we found, or cared to find, any birds’-nests, but we had a delightful walk and a rare sense of freedom.

“Birds’-nesting is a good egg,” said Totty. “We must work birds’-nesting for what it is worth.”

After that it was our custom to get leave off just as often as we dared, without attracting undue suspicion, and Totty with his innate passion for playing a part completely and artistically would be often seen debating with Stoat, and kept Yarrow’s British Birds lying in a prominent position in his room.

He also wrote a letter to the School Magazine suggesting the addition of a natural history wing to the museum, and having thus covered our tracks, .we got our leave off once or twice a week, and wandered about the country at our own sweet will.

It was always a pleasure to work with Totty, for there was nothing clumsy or incomplete about his methods. In truth no bird or feathered fowl had anything to fear from us. Yet it must not be supposed that we used these stolen hours for any evil purpose.

The chief of our amusements, I remember, was to race two logs of wood down a rocky stream, by means of a bombardment of stones from the bank, and we lay in the sun a good deal, and talked not a little.

One day we had wandered farther afield than usual, and discovered a river eminently suited to our new game of boat races. We were resting at the bottom of the course at the end of the third race, when Totty, stretched at full length on a mossy bank, murmured with half-closed eyes, “Didn’t you leave your knife up there, Scoop?”

I searched my pockets hastily.

“Yes, I must have done. Why didn’t you tell me, you ass?”

“I am telling you,” in a drowsy voice.

“Why didn’t you tell me at the time?”

“Why should I?”

“Well, I’ll have to go for it.” I started up.

“Come with me, Tot.”

“Not much. It is too good to be here.”

So I went alone, and it was not till I had searched the ground long and carefully that I began to reflect that Totty’s extreme drowsiness had come on very suddenly, for a moment before he had been looking through the bushes with no little eagerness.

And if he had assumed this appearance of weariness, and sent me to look for a knife which was not there, for what reason was it? Perhaps to get rid of me? I was now running at top speed down the bank. I must have been away in all a good half-hour, and as I expected, there was no sign of Totty on my return. I was beginning to hunt the bushes when a childish voice fell on my ear—” You’re hurting me!”

One glance at the river was enough to explain much. Totty stood struggling with the current in mid-stream. In his arms he carried a girl, perhaps two years younger than himself: she was clinging round his neck in evident terror, while he strode manfully forward amongst the rocks.

“By Jove!” I said, and dropped like a stone behind a gorse bush, for, though I was prepared to be surprised, I had never looked for this.

They reached the far bank in safety and sat there talking for some time, but the noise of the stream prevented their voices from reaching me. At last, they wandered into the wood. As soon as they were out of sight, I was hot on their trail. There was only one path through the wood, which led direct to an old-fashioned, high-walled garden, a distance of two or three hundred yards.

I stopped breathless and baffled before a door in the wall. I had not yet decided whether I should go on and trust to the natural cover offered by cabbages and gooseberry bushes, or try to obtain a view of proceedings from the top of the wall, when the door opened and Totty emerged. He had a small piece of cream-coloured ribbon in his hand.

Now, it was Totty’s custom when on the warpath never to appear surprised.

“I don’t want you, Scoop,” he said quietly. “Go home, I have no use for you,” and he turned abruptly off the path among the trees. I would have followed him, but it occurred to me to look at my watch, and even as I looked my hair stood on end.

“Do you know what time it is?” I shouted.

“Hang the time!” was the only reply. And then I set myself to cover two and a quarter miles in twenty minutes. With a great final sprint up the High Street and down the Woody Walk, I succeeded in reaching my place in the Upper Fourth within half a minute of time.

Totty did not appear at all the hour before tea, for which he got three. My knife, which he had found in his pocket, was duly returned to me that evening.

For a week he went birds’-nesting alone, and, in the night season, poured out his heart to me. Far be it from me to divulge what he said. One or two phrases remained in my memory, and I have used them with effect to humble him in his prouder moments ever since; but he never saw her again, and, on his third attempt, there was a painful episode with a French governess, who called him a “little lad.” It was towards the end of the second week that I found him one afternoon tying up the brake of his bicycle with—a piece of cream-coloured ribbon! Then even I knew that all was over.

“Where did you get the ribbon from, Tot?”

The answer was a curious outbreak. “You shut up, Scoop. Can’t you leave a thing alone? It’s not your ribbon, or your bicycle, or your business. Go to blazes, you rotten ass.”

But Totty’s brief romance had a sequel, which in its later developments was known to many, who never suspected its cause. On the first evening of his love-sick confidences, when he was stirred to the depths of his soul, he made (which was really very like Totty) a vow. “I will not cut my hair, nor have it cut, till I see her again, Scoop,” he said solemnly.

“That might be awkward,” I suggested.

“Or until the end of term,” he added, as a saving clause, and it so happened that at the time his hair was disgracefully long, and the term had yet eight weeks to run.

So now that these grievous passions had burned themselves out, and Totty was frankly bored with the whole question, he found himself with a useless and inconvenient vow on his hands.

“Beastly thing long hair in the summer-time,” I said, and went and had mine cut conspicuously short, and told Totty how cool I felt. For it seemed to me that he merited punishment.

But he was in a meek frame of mind.

“It has to be, Scoop,” he said piously, “and that being so, I may as well use it for my own profit and gratification. Do you know what a ‘tontine’ is?” I didn’t, and he explained that it was a fund subscribed to by a group. As each one dropped out the shares of the rest increased until the last one got the lot. “I’ve thought of a new sort of tontine,” he said. “If I’m under a vow, I may as well have other people in it. It’s always a good get out.”

To a company of ten good sportsmen, enrolled under a soon-to-be-forgotten pledge of secrecy, Totty succeeded in making his scheme thoroughly attractive.

“Every one puts in five bob,” he said, “and takes a vow which runs to the end of the term. It mustn’t be too easy, and it must be passed by the committee. I’m the committee, with power to add to my number. At the end, those who have kept it divide the pool. If no one keeps it—money returned. Scoop is banker and referee.”

In this way, one undertook to eat no salt, another to climb over gates instead of opening them, a third always to go to chapel in slippers, and Totty himself not to cut his hair. It worked like a charm, and Totty felt a great sense of relief, when he knew there were nine others, as much hampered as himself.

“Besides, I mean to win it,” he added. “It’s two pounds ten, and I want to buy a dog.”

When we first launched it, none of us had any idea of the possibilities of Totty’s tontine. It developed in a most remarkable way, till the committee had to meet every night to dispose of the business entailed, and quote the current value of shares. New members were admitted at a premium, and, in the course of two or three weeks, nearly the whole lower school was implicated. An amazing fertility of imagination was exhibited in the choice of vows registered in the books of the company. Those whose vows were easily kept were only admitted at an enormous price, while such as vowed the more impossible, got their share at nominal rates. Again, there was much trading in, and transferring of shares, and shares were divided between one or more owners where the nature of the vow permitted it. Thus Gibson, who had vowed always to go to chapel in slippers, sold half his share to Thwaites, and they wore one slipper each, till both were observed, and it appeared to Waterfield (the head of the school at that time) that May was an unusual month for chilblains, and also that it was a strange coincidence that both should be afflicted in the same way. So that share disappeared from the books. On the first of June the issue of new shares, and the transference of old ones, was stopped, and it was found that the pool amounted to £7. 14s. 6d. (Fyson was admitted for 6d.—having vowed in a rash moment to be late every morning.) There were thirty-seven boys still in, and we were rather appalled by the amount.

“It’s a terrific gamble,” said I.

“Perfectly legitimate business,” said Totty. “No one could possibly object—only keep it dark.”

It all came out later. There were painful scenes at the beginning of the following term, and the financial abilities of the Head were taxed to the utmost in justly apportioning the confiscated funds. But that has nothing to do with the present story, or with the strange wave of insanity which seemed suddenly to engulf the lower school.

Masters and prefects could make nothing of it. Even those who had spent the best years of their lives in the study of boys were at a loss to understand the freaks and foibles of that term. There were many anxious discussions among them, but they came to no conclusion. For no one boy appeared to be particularly to blame, and if it was suppressed in one place, the phenomenon broke out in another. It seemed to be an epidemic. Here was a boy who always went through every door backwards; here another who invariably appeared in an odd pair of stockings, and if one cautioned both of these that it must not happen again, it was only to find a third who was never seen without an umbrella under his arm. The most painful case was probably that of Brodlie major, who was under a vow not to wash his neck. Every one was pleased when, on the very first Sunday, Mr. Marchbank happened to sit behind him in chapel, and another share had fallen in. And Totty’s hair grew long and shaggy, and he suffered in silence through the heats of June.

One by one the competitors dropped off. Hardly a day passed without some vow being broken, for those who remained watched each other like hawks, and dogged each other’s steps, and the slightest lapse was generally fatal. Many of the more outlandish efforts (such as Pilling’s vow—always to turn round three times before he sat down) were suppressed by masters; prefects dropped on others, and most of all failed through momentary forgetfulness, or the wile of their enemies. Till by the first of July only six members were left, and the contest became really interesting.

The first to go was Pinhorn. His vow bound him to sit on the sundial in the Quad every night after dark for a quarter of an hour. He had not given the weather due consideration, and the sanatorium soon claimed him for its own. Totty caught out the “Stoat.” He was pledged to take off his hat to every lamp-post he passed. Totty took him for a long country walk and so interested him in a discussion on the habits of moles that as they came through the town, he failed to uncover on the first occasion.

“Hang moles!” shouted Totty at once. “Lamp-post!”

The Stoat was fairly bad, so he joined the growing combination against Totty.

Still there were four. No one feared Lang (who had to keep his right hand in his pocket when speaking to a master) very much. Of the other two, McLean was bound to crawl upstairs on all fours, and Bubby Thompson to wear a silver chain round his neck night and day. The betting was now on Bubby.

Just when he was congratulating himself that the epidemic of insanity had run its course, Mr. Marchbank happened to meet McLean on the stairs. McLean was, of course, crawling on his bands and knees, and Marchbank, who was in a hurry, fell over him, and with difficulty saved himself by grabbing the banisters.

“Sorry, sir,” said McLean. “I didn’t see you.”

“What in the world are you doing? Is that the way to go upstairs?”

“It’s my way, sir—I find it easier.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gives me cramp walking upstairs, sir. It’s a queer thing. I always was that way; I inherit it from my mother.”

Lang was watching this from below with a wicked triumph in his heart. McLean was still on his knees.

“Get up when you speak to me,” said March-bank, “and walk upstairs this minute. I don’t know what’s wrong with you people this term.” McLean made a last effort.

“Mayn’t I go like this, sir?” he asked plaintively, looking up like a dog into Marchbank’s face.

“Get up!” And Lang went off joyfully to report that there were now only three.

Excitement was running high. Each of the remaining trio had now his own little band of supporters, backers, and spies, whose duty it was to harass the enemy and protect their principal. It became almost unsafe for any of them to walk about. Yet day after day went on—the silver chain was still on Bubby’s neck—never did Lang speak to a master without his right hand in his pocket—. and Totty’s hair still grew.

it was easy for the others, but from my heart I pitied Totty. It was an exceptionally warm summer, and he suffered much. When he combed his hair at night it now reached to his chin, and at all times it gave him a weird appearance. His chief trouble was getting ready for chapel. By dint of brilliantine and other preparations, he strove to compress the unwieldy mop within decent proportions, but even then a stray lock would fall and blind him suddenly in one eye. And, of all things, he feared a windy Sunday most.

“I don’t know how girls live—in summer,” he said despairingly, “or what they do when it’s windy.”

“Tie it in a ribbon, old chap,” I suggested. “You used to have a bit of cream-coloured ribbon lying about. I don’t know where you got it——”

“Shut up!” Totty laid on lustily with a brush in each hand.

Another week passed, and still the three remaining competitors held on. An effort had been made by Lang’s supporters to rob Bubby of his chain while bathing. But he was a fine swimmer and very handy with his fists. The chief result of this enterprise was that one of the masters spoke to Lang, and he had to run for his clothes before replying.

Then one night Bubby came over to our camp and made overtures.

“If you’ll stand in with me, Totty,” he said, “we’ll run out Lang and halve the pool.”

“It can’t be done,” was Totty’s reply. “It’s a point of honour with me. I mean to win the lot.”

“Then it’s war.”

“War to the death,” said Totty.

Bubby strode out, and we heard the cheers of his supporters in the passage.

An alliance of a sort was, however, soon after arranged. The triangular contest remained in a condition of stalemate, and Totty agreed with Bubby to combine against Lang—after which they could fight it out together. And thus it was they lured him to his doom. Hearing that he had gone to bed early one night, they lay in wait outside his door. By good luck, Mr. Harrison came along trying to borrow a fountain pen.

“Perhaps Lang has one,” Bubby innocently suggested.

He was called out into the passage in his pyjamas. Totty cut off his retreat, and he must needs reply to Harrison without a pocket anywhere upon his person. So only two were left.

Then we struck swiftly home at Bubby’s chain. Totty’s “little corps of assassins” had tackled him already on the way to the cricket field, but had been beaten off with some loss.

“Force is no use,” said our principal. “This is a case for stratagem. Leave it to me.”

On Bubby’s window-sill that night there were all the evidences of a cat-fight of the best sort. I had nothing to do but the scratching. Totty took all the howling upon himself~ and it was finely done. Slowly the window opened and the faint outline of Bubby appeared—boot in hand. I heard a sound of tearing cloth, and Totty tossed down to me a silver chain.

“One for you, Bub,” was all he said. And next day he appeared at breakfast with his trophy round his neck. So Totty alone remained. There were yet five days to run.

Aye, only five days indeed, but we were hard put to it. Five days of constant watchfulness and frequent struggle, and five nights of terror. For so far we had been contending against one or two—but every one who had ever had a share was now in arms against us, for if Totty’s vow were broken also, all the money was returned. Bubby was the commander-in-chief of the opposing forces, and made his plans with consummate cunning. Again and again Totty and his bodyguard of four picked men were “barged” in the open and had to fight their way out, while in the inner pockets of twenty spies, a hungry pair of scissors watched for a chance.

“They are perfectly certain to try a night attack,” said Totty. “We must secure the citadel,” and down town he went, and purchased a ten-inch bolt, with which we made safe the door.

“There is yet the window,” said I.

“We can’t bolt that,” he replied, so we drew Carter’s bed across it and tied a piece of string from his toe to the latch.

But even now, Totty was not satisfied. Something else he bought down town. Something that he showed to me alone. It was his master-stroke.

No one can deny that Totty worked hard for his victory. Not only was he badgered and hunted wherever he went, and surrounded by traps and ambuscades; not only was he playing almost single-handed against half the school—but an attempt was made against him from an entirely unexpected quarter. He was sent for by the Head.

“Grahame,” he began, “I have been very well pleased to see the great improvement in your behaviour this year. You have shown me that I was right not to expel you.”

“This,” said Totty to himself, “is all right.”

“But there’s one thing that I am bound to say. I hate making personal remarks to boys, but I can’t stand your hair. What do you mean by it?”

Totty tried to look surprised. “I am afraid it is rather long, sir. One is apt to let it run on.”

“Come, come,” he said. “It isn’t that. It looks to me like a confounded piece of affectation. And that sort of thing is abominable among boys. I’ve often seen it before. You will find plenty of people ready to imitate you.”

“I think, sir,” said Totty sweetly, “that they disapprove as much as you do. A good many of them would like to see it cut.”

“Well, I am glad they have so much sense. Will you, just to oblige me, kindly have it off?”

“Certainly, sir. It isn’t affectation really, sir. The first thing I’ll do in the holidays will be to cut it off.”

“Thank you, Grahame,” said the Head. “I can quite understand you haven’t the face to go home like that! That will do.”

“Affectation!” said Totty to me, when he reported the interview. “Affectation be blowed! It’s seven pounds fourteen and sixpence halfpenny, that’s what it is!”I

The last night but one was chosen by the foe for their supreme attack, and they were assisted by an agent we had never counted on—treachery within the camp. Carter had been bribed, and opened the window to Bubby, the Stoat, and two others. The conflict was without doubt the finest rag in my whole experience. It was fought out entirely in the dark. Totty with his back to the wall, supported only by myself, against five assailants, was magnificent with the fury of despair. Again and again they tried to strike a light and he prevented it. He was above all anxious not to be seen. But Bubby was alone almost a match for him, and the contest could only have one result. Flung back upon his bed he lay with his arms pinioned at his sides, and I took up a position by the gas jet.

“We don’t need a light,” Bubby panted. “The scissors; quick!” In the darkness I heard a fatal snip.

“Good boys,” murmured Totty; “you’ve done your best.” Bubby was boiling with triumph.

“Come on,” be whispered, “we must run for it. Good night, Totty dear—sleep tight.” And the invaders drew off.

Carter was deeply mystified that night, for when he had looked for recriminations and the language of despair, he heard only smothered laughter, and these words from Tony: “All right, Scoop. Thank heaven it stuck on.”

At roll-call in the morning Bubby and his crew were swaggering intolerably. High at the top of a pole they bore a lock of hair, and when we appeared we were received with hoots of derision. But Bubby was magnanimous. “You fought a great fight, Totty,” he said, “you deserved to win.”

“And so I will,” replied Tony. “What have you got on that stick?”

“Your sacred hair, my son.”

“Not mine,” said Totty, “though it’s rather like mine.”

“That won’t do.” Bubby smiled. “You forget that I was there.”

“Well, where did it come off?” said Totty, raising his head, and certainly to all appearances his mop was quite complete. The crowd began to wonder and to doubt.

Then our hero spoke. “You fought a great fight, Bubby,” he said. “You deserved to win,” and he threw a mutilated wig at Bubby’s feet. “But you should have had a light.”

In that bitter hour of defeat, Bubby was really great. He bowed to genius. Nay, more than that he accepted Tony as his hero, and his pal. “Totty,’ he exclaimed, “you’re gentleman, a scholar, and a sportsman; I give up!”

So Totty spent the last night of term sitting grimly in his chair; a hockey stick across his knees, a maul-cap on his head; and with the dawn he knew that he had won. And we gave him a noble triumph.

Just as the procession was about to start came one with the news that the whole thing had been given away, and the Head had confiscated the pool. But our victory was not sullied by any sordid motives.

“The pool? Blow the pool!” said Bubby. “Don’t come here and insult us! Do you think he was playing for the pool ?“

So we decorated him with garlands—Bubby and I. We combed out his hair and tied it with many ribbons; we mounted him on the top of two closed cab. Bubby drove the horse, and I sat (in an opera hat) by his side. With music and shouting we bore him to the station, both friends and foes joining the throng. There had not been such a day in Tykewell for years.

But there was a wilder scene still to follow, when, seated on the top of a red pillar-box in the station, scissors in hand, Totty distributed locks of his hair to his trusty lieutenants. They brought their offerings to him and heaped them at his feet. Bubby led the way with his chain, Gibson followed with his slippers, then came Carter’s umbrella and many more. The railway officials looked on in helpless wonder—and away of out sight of the crowd stood the Head and Mr. Marchbank. There was one other who saw it—though unseen by Totty—a little girl travelling with a French governess. I wonder what she thought. If she was bewildered, she was not the only one, for I heard the Head’s remark to Mr. Marchbank, “No, I have never seen anything like it. Boys are indeed magnificent.”

And for myself, looking back now on the amazing story of Tony’s tontine, I don’t know what to think. It seems almost incredible, and yet it is strictly true. I can only say that I have somewhere, stowed away among my trophies, a lock of Totty’s hair.