



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Willoughby Captains

By Talbot Baines Reed
________________________________________________________________________
This is one of this author's famous school stories.  Like a new boy or
girl at a school, you will be faced with learning the names of a great
many youngsters, and to an extent, their characters.  However, by the
time you get half-way through the book you will be familiar enough with
the principal characters.

Of course, there are numerous small dramas being acted out as the book
proceeds, but the main one concerns a boat-race between two of the
Houses.  Along the course there is a very tight bend.  The boat on the
outside of the bend is slightly in the lead but will probably lose this
due to the inside boat having less far to travel to the next straight.

At a most crucial moment, when maximum power is being exerted by the cox
on the rudder-lines, one of them snaps, and the boat goes out of
control.  The cox shouts the instructions for an emergency stop, and to
back water.  The other boat proceeds to the end of the course.  It can
now be seen that the rudder-line had been deliberately half cut through,
so that it would snap at that tight bend on the river.

For the rest of the book people are trying to work out who had done this
deed.  At one stage we think we know the answer.  We become quite
convinced we know the answer, in fact.  But we are wrong, and we do not
find out till almost the end of the book.  And it is to be hoped that at
that point the promised re-row takes place.

There is some confusion with names in respect of Merrison and Morrison,
but I suspect that to be a printer's error.  It is not of great
importance, since he is (or they are) not front-line characters in the
action.

The punctuation becomes very difficult in the reporting of the
proceedings of the school parliament, because not only do you have the
current speaker, but interspersed with it are comments by the raconteur
and by the noisier of the boys.  The printed book settled for a
simplified version here, but we have done our best to give you a
version that is more according to rule.
________________________________________________________________________
THE WILLOUGHBY CAPTAINS

BY TALBOT BAINES REED



CHAPTER ONE.

THE LAST OF THE OLD CAPTAIN.

Something unusual is happening at Willoughby.  The Union Jack floats
proudly over the old ivy-covered tower of the school, the schoolrooms
are deserted, there is a band playing somewhere, a double row of
carriages is drawn up round the large meadow (familiarly called "The
Big"), old Mrs Gallop, the orange and sherbert woman, is almost beside
herself with business flurry, and boys are going hither and thither,
some of them in white ducks with favours on their sleeves, and others in
their Sunday "tiles," with sisters and cousins and aunts in tow, whose
presence adds greatly to the brightness of the scene.

Among these last-named holiday-making young Willoughbites no one parades
more triumphantly to-day than Master Cusack, of Welch's House, by the
side of his father, Captain Cusack, R.N.  Cusack, ever since he came to
Willoughby, has bored friend and foe with endless references to "the
gov., captain in the R.N., you know," and now that he really has a
chance of showing off his parent in the flesh his small head is nearly
turned.  He puffs along like a small steam-tug with a glorious man-of-
war in tow, and is too anxious to exhibit his prize in "The Big" to do
even the ordinary honours of the place to his relative.

Captain Cusack, R.N., the meekest and most amiable of men, resigns
himself pleasantly to the will of his dutiful conductor, only too
pleased to see the boy so happy, and pardonably gratified to know that
he himself is the special object of that young gentleman's jubilation.
He had come down, hoping for a quiet hour or two to see his boy and
inspect Willoughby, but he finds that, instead, he is to be inspected
himself, and, though he wouldn't thwart the lad for the world, he would
just as soon have dropped in at Willoughby on a rather less public
occasion.

Young Cusack, as is the manner of small tugs, assumes complete control
of his parent and rattles away incessantly as he conducts him through
the grounds, past the school, towards the all-attracting "Big."

"That's Welch's," he says, pointing to the right wing of the long Tudor
building before them--"that's Welch's on the right, and Parrett's in the
middle, and the schoolhouse on the left.  Jolly rooks' nests in the
schoolhouse elms, only Paddy won't let us go after them."

"Who is Paddy?" inquires the father.

"Oh, the doctor, you know--Dr Patrick.  You'll see him down in `The
Big,' and his dame, and--"

"And what's written up over the door there?" inquires Captain Cusack,
pointing up to the coat-of-arms above the great doorway.

"Oh, some Latin bosh!  I don't know.  I say, we'd better look sharp,
father, or they'll have started the open hurdles."

"What are the open hurdles?" mildly inquires the somewhat perplexed
captain, who has been at sea so long that he is really not up to all the
modern phrases.

"Why, you know, it's the sports, and there are two open events, the
hurdles and the mile, and we've got Rawson, of the London Athletic, down
against us in both; but I rather back Wyndham.  He made stunning time in
the March gallops, and he's in prime form now."

"Is Wyndham a Willoughby boy?"

"Rather.  He's our cock, you know, and this will be his last show-up.
Hullo! you fellows," he cries, as two other small boys approach at a
trot; "what's on?  Have the hurdles started?  By the way, this is my
father, you know; he came down."

The two small boys, who are arrayed in ducks and running-shoes, shake
hands rather sheepishly with the imposing visitor and look shyly up and
down.

"And are you running in any of the races, my men?" says Captain Cusack,
kindly.

He couldn't have hit on a happier topic.  The two are at their ease at
once.

"Yes, sir, the junior hundred yards.  I say, Cusack, your gov--your
father's just in time for the final heat.  In the first I had a dead
heat with Watkins, you know," continues he, addressing the captain.
"Watkins was scratch, and I had five yards, and the ruck got ten.  It
was a beastly shame giving Filbert ten, though--wasn't it, Telson?--
after his running second to me in the March gallops; they ought to have
stuck him where I was.  But I ran him down all the same, and dead-heated
it with Watkins, and Telson here was a good second in his heat."

"I was sure of a first, but that young ass Wace fouled me," puts in
Telson.

"And now it's dead-even which of us two wins.  We both get five yards on
Watkins, and he'll be pumped with the long jump, and none of the others
are hot men, so it's pretty well between us two, isn't it, Telson?"

"Rather, and I think I back you to do it, Parson, old man," rejoins the
generous Telson.

"Oh, I don't know," says Parson, dubiously; "you're a better man on the
finish, I fancy."

"All depends on how I take off.  Gully's such a boshy starter, you know;
always puts me out.  Why can't they let Parrett do it?"

And off they rattle, forgetting all about Cusack and his gallant father,
and evidently convinced in their own minds that the flags and the
carriages and the rosettes and all the festivities are solely in honour
of the final heat of the junior hundred yards, in which they two are to
take part.

Captain Cusack, with a smile on his face, watches them trot off, and
asks his son, "Who are those two nice young fellows?"

"Oh, a couple of kids--not in our house," replies Master Cusack, by no
means cordially.  "Jolly cheek of them talking to you like that,
though!"

"Not at all," says the captain.  "I'd like to see their race, Harry."

But Harry has no notion of throwing his father away upon the "junior
hundred yards," and as they are now in "The Big," in the midst of the
festive assembly there congregated, he is easily able to shirk the
question.

An important event is evidently just over.  The company has crowded into
the enclosure, and boys, ladies, gentlemen, masters are all mixed up in
one great throng through which it is almost impossible for even so
dexterous a tug as young Cusack to pilot his worthy relative.

The band is playing in the pavilion, distant cheers are audible in the
direction of the tents, a shrill uproar is going on in the corner where
the junior hundred yards is about to begin, and all around them is such
a buzz of talking and laughing that Captain Cusack is fairly bewildered.

He would like to be allowed to pay his respects to the Doctor and Mrs
Patrick, and to his boy's master, and would very much like to witness
the exploits of those two redoubtable chums Telson and Parson; but he is
not his own master, and has to do what he is told.  Young Cusack is
shouting every minute to acquaintances in the crowd that he has got his
father here.  But every one is so wedged up that the introductions
chiefly consist of a friendly nodding and waving of the hand at the
crowd indefinitely from the gallant father, who would not for the world
be anything but gracious to his son's friends, but who cannot for the
life of him tell which of the score of youthful faces darting sidelong
glances in their direction is the particular one he is meant to be
saluting.  At last in the press they stumble upon one boy at close
quarters, whom Cusack the younger captures forthwith.

"Ah, Pil, I was looking for you.  Here's the--my father, I mean--R.N.,
you know."

"How are you, captain?" says the newcomer.  He had heard Captain Cusack
was coming over, and had mentally rehearsed several times what it seemed
to him would be the most appropriate salutation under the circumstances.

The captain says he is very well, and likes the look of Mr "Pil" (whose
real name is Pilbury), and looks forward to a little pleasant chat with
his son's friend.  But this hope is doomed to be a disappointment, for
Pil is in a hurry.

"Just going to get the house tubs ready," he says; "I'll be back in time
for the mile."

"Then is the hurdles over?"

"Rather!" exclaims Pil, in astonishment.  "Why, where have you been?  Of
course you know who won?"

"No," says Cusack, eagerly--"who?"

"Why, Wyndham!  You never saw such a race!  At the fourth hurdle from
home Wyndham, Bloomfield, Game, Tipper, and Rawson were the only ones
left in.  Game and Tipper muffed the jump, and it was left to the other
three.  Bloomfield had cut out grandly.  He was a yard or two ahead,
then Wyndham, and the London man lying out, ten yards behind.  He had
been going pretty easily, but he lammed it on for the next hurdle, and
pulled up close.  The three went over almost even, and then Bloomfield
was out of it.  My eye, Cusack! you should have seen the finish after
that!  The London fellow fancied he was going to win in a canter, but
old Wyndham stuck to him like a leech, and after the last fence ran him
clean down--the finest thing you ever saw--and won by a yard.  Wasn't it
prime?  Ta, ta!  I'm off now; see you again at the mile;" and off he
goes.

The glorious victory of Willoughby at the hurdles has evidently been as
much of a surprise as it has been a triumph, and everyone is full of
hope now that the result of the "mile" may be equally satisfactory.  In
the midst of all the excitement and enthusiasm it suddenly occurs to the
business-like Master Cusack that he had better secure a good position
for the great race without delay, and accordingly he pilots his father
out of the crush, and makes for a spot near the winning-post, where the
crowd at the cords has a few gaps; and here, by a little unscrupulous
shoving, he contrives to wedge himself in, with his father close behind,
at about the very best spot on the course, with a full view of the last
two hundred yards, and only a few feet from the finish.

It is half an hour before the race is due, and, by way of beguiling the
time, Cusack shouts to one and another of his acquaintances opposite,
and introduces his father to the crowd generally.  The course has not
yet been cleared, so there is plenty of variety as the stream of
passers-by drifts along.  Among the last, looking about anxiously for a
place to stand and watch the big race, are Telson and Parson, arm-in-
arm.

Captain Cusack hails them cheerily.

"Well, who won, my boys? who won?"

The dejected countenances of the two heroes is answer enough.

"Watkins won," says Parson, speaking in a subdued voice.  "The fact is,
my shoe-lace came undone just when I was putting it on at the end."

"And the swindle is," puts in Telson, "that just as I was spurting for
the last twenty yards Watkins took my water.  I could have fouled him,
you know, but I didn't care to."

"Fact is," says Parson, insinuating himself under the cords, greatly to
the indignation of some other small boys near, "it's a chowse letting
Watkins enter for the juniors.  I'm certain he's not under thirteen--is
he, Telson?"

"Not a bit of him!" says Telson, who has also artfully squeezed himself
into the front rank hard by; "besides, he's a Limpet, and Limpets have
no right to run as juniors."

"What is a Limpet?" asks Captain Cusack of his son.

"I don't know what else you call him," says young Cusack, rather
surlily, for he is very wroth at the way Telson has sneaked himself into
a rather better position than his own; "he's--he's a Limpet, you know."

"Limpets," says a gentleman near, "are the boys in the middle school."

"Rather a peculiar name," suggests the captain.

"Yes; it means an inhabitant of Limbo, the Willoughby name for the
middle school, because the boys there are supposed to be too old to have
to fag, and too young to be allowed to have fags."

"Ha, ha!" laughs Captain Cusack, "a capital name;" and he and the
gentleman get up a conversation about their own school days which
beguiles the time till the bell sounds for the great race of the day.

The starting-point is a little below where our friends are standing, and
the race is just three times round the course and a few yards at the end
up to the winning-post.  Only four runners are starting, three of whom
have already distinguished themselves in the hurdle-race.  Wyndham, the
school captain, is that tall, handsome fellow with the red stripe in
front of his jersey, who occupies the inside "berth" on the starting-
line.  Next to him is Ashley; also wearing the school stripe; and
between Ashley and the other schoolboy, Bloomfield, is Rawson, the
dreaded Londoner, a practised athlete, whose whiskered face contrasts
strangely with the smooth, youthful countenances of his competitors.

"Ashley's to cut out the running for Willoughby this time," says Telson,
"and he'll do it too; he's fresh."

So he is.  At the signal to start he rushes off as if the race was a
quarter of a mile instead of a mile, and the Londoner, perplexed by his
tactics, starts hard also, intending to keep him in hand.  Bloomfield
and Wyndham, one on each side of the track, began rather more easily,
and during the first lap allow themselves to drop twelve or fifteen
yards behind.  The Londoner quickly takes in the situation, but
evidently doesn't quite know whether to keep up to Ashley or lie up like
the others.  If he does the latter, the chances are the fresh man may
get ahead beyond catching, and possibly win the race; and if he does the
former--well, has he the wind to hold out when the other two begin to
"put it on"?  He thinks he has, so he keeps close up to Ashley.

The cheers, of course, all round the field are tremendous, and nowhere
more exciting than where Telson and Parson are located.  As the runners
pass them at the end of the first lap the excitement of these youths
breaks forth into terrific shouts.

"Well run, Ashley; keep it up!  He's blowing!  Put it on there, Wyndham;
now's your time, Bloomfield!"  And before the cries have left their lips
the procession has passed, and the second lap has begun.

Towards the end of the second lap Ashley shows signs of flagging, and
Bloomfield