There was not much general conversation at the masters' table. Dr Ponsford rarely encouraged it, and resented it when it arose without his initiative.

The buzz and clatter at the boys' tables, however, growing occasionally to a hubbub, amply made up for any sombreness in the meal elsewhere; and Railsford, having exhausted his inquiries, and having failed to engage one of his neighbours in conversation, resigned himself to the enjoyment of the animated scene. He was not long in discovering the whereabouts of his youthful kinsman, whose beaming face shone out from the midst of a bevy of particular friends, while ever and again above the turmoil, like a banner in the breeze, waved the tawny mane of Sir Digby Oakshott.

It amused Railsford to watch the group, and when now and then they looked his way, to speculate on what was the subject of their conversation. Perhaps Arthur had been telling them of the new master's athletic achievements at Cambridge, and how he had rowed his boat to the head of the river; or possibly he had been describing to them some of the big football-matches which he, Mark, had taken his young friend to see during the holidays; or maybe they were laying down some patriotic plan for the future good of Railsford's house. His heart warmed to the boys as he watched them. It was a pity, perhaps, he could not catch their actual words.

"Seems jolly green," said Dig.

"So he is. Blushes like a turkey-c.o.c.k when you talk about spoons.

Never mind, he's bound to be civil to us this term, eh, Dig? We've got the whip hand of him, I guess, over that summer-house business at Lucerne."

Here Dig laughed.

"Shut up! He'll hear!"

"What's the joke?" demanded a bullet-headed, black-eyed boy who sat near.

"What, didn't I tell you, Dimsdale? Keep it close, won't you? You see that chap with the eyegla.s.s next to Grover. That's Railsford, our new master--Marky, I call him. He's engaged to Daisy, you know, my sister.

Regular soup-ladles they are."

Here Dig once more laughed beyond the bounds of discretion.

"What an a.s.s you are, Dig!" expostulated Arthur; "you'll get us in no end of a mess."

"Awfully sorry--I can't help. Tell Dimsdale about--you know."

"Don't go spreading it, though," said Arthur, shutting his eyes to the fact that he was confiding his secret to the greatest gossip in Grandcourt, and that one or two other heads were also craned forward to hear the joke. "I caught them going it like one o'clock in the hotel garden at Lucerne--it was the first time I twigged what was up; and what do you think he called my sister?"

"What?" they all demanded.

"Keep it close, I say. Ha, ha!--give you a guess all round; Dig knows."

"p.u.s.s.y cat," suggested one.

"Jumbo," suggested another.

"Cherubim," suggested a third.

Arthur shook his head triumphantly.

"Out of it, all of you. You can tell 'em, Dig."

Dig composed his features once or twice to utter the word, but as many times broke down. At last in high falsetto he got it out,--

"Chuckey!"

The laugh which greeted this revelation penetrated to the upper region, and caused Dr Ponsford to rise on his seat and look in the direction of the uproar.

At the same moment the Sixth-Form boy at the head of the table left his place and bore down on the offenders.

"_Cave_!" muttered Arthur, purple in the face; "here's Ainger."

Instantly the party was thoroughly buried in its bread and cheese.

"Was that you, Oakshott, making that row?"

"I was only saying something to Herapath," replied the innocent; "I'm sure _I_ didn't make a row."

"Don't tell falsehoods. Do fifty lines, and next time you'll be sent up."

"That's a nice lark," muttered the baronet as the senior retired. "It was you chaps made the row, and I get potted for it. But I say," added he, as if such a mishap were the most common of incidents, "that isn't a bad joke, is it? Fancy calling Herapath's sister--"

"_Cave_, shut up!" exclaimed Arthur, dealing his friend a ferocious kick under the table; "they've got their eyes on us. Don't play the fool, Dig."

Railsford was aroused from the pleasant contemplation of this little comedy by a general rising, in the midst of which the doctor, followed by his staff, filed out of the hall into the governor's room adjoining, which was ordinarily used as a masters' withdrawing-room. Here Railsford underwent the ordeal of a series of introductions, some of which gave him pleasure, some disappointment, some misgivings, and one at least roused his anger.

"Mr Bickers," said Dr Ponsford, "let me introduce Mr Railsford. You will be neighbours, and ought to be friends."

"I am proud to know Mr Railsford," said Mr Bickers, holding out his hand; "Grandcourt, I am sure, is fortunate."

Railsford flushed up at the tone in which this greeting was offered; and touching the proffered hand hurriedly, said, with more point than prudence--

"I heard of Mr Bickers from my predecessor, Mr Moss."

It was some satisfaction to see Mr Bickers flush in his turn, as he replied, with a hardly concealed sneer--

"Ah, poor Moss! He was a great flatterer. You must not believe half he says about his absent friends."

"Railsford," said Grover, taking his friend by the arm, and anxious to interrupt what promised to be an uncomfortable dialogue, "I must introduce you to Roe. He had charge of the Sh.e.l.l for some years, and can give you some hints which will be useful to you. You'll like him."

Railsford did like him. Mr Roe was one of the best masters at Grandcourt, and his university career had been as brilliant in athletics, and more brilliant in scholarship, than his younger colleagues. He had a quiet voice and manly bearing, which bespoke a vast fund of power latent beneath the surface; and Railsford, for once in his life, experienced the novel sensation of standing in the presence of a superior. Mr Roe accepted Mark's apologies for his non-appearance the evening before with great good-humour, and invited him to his rooms to spend an evening and talk over school-work.

"You are not likely to have much leisure at first. I wish you had a quieter house; but a little good government and sympathy will go a long way towards bringing it up to the mark. As to the Sh.e.l.l, you will find that pretty easy. It wants more management than teaching--at least, I found so. If once the boys can be put on the right track, they will go pretty much of their own accord. It's easier to guide them than drive them; don't you think so?"

"I have no experience yet; but that is my idea, certainly."

"Then you'll succeed. Have you been introduced to Monsieur Lablache?

This is Mr Railsford, the new Master of the Sh.e.l.l, monsieur."

Monsieur shrugged himself ceremoniously. He had a big moustache, which curled up in an enigmatical way when he smiled; and Railsford was at a loss whether to like him or dislike him.

"We shall be friends, Meester Railsford, I hope," said the foreigner; "I have much to do wiz ze young gentlemen of the Sell. Helas! they try my patience; but I like them, Meester Railsford, I like them."

"I only wish I knew whether I liked you," inwardly e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the new master, as he smiled in response to the confession.

A bell put an end to further conference, and Mark went off in a somewhat excited state of mind to his own house.

Mr Roe's few words stuck in his mind--especially one of them.

What did he mean by cla.s.sing sympathy and good government together in the way he had? How can you reduce a disorderly house to order by sympathy?