The Bradshaw who appears in the following tale is the same youth who figures as the hero—or villain1, label him as you like—of the preceding equally veracious2 narrative3. I mention this because I should not care for you to go away with the idea that a waistcoat marked with the name of Bradshaw must of necessity cover a scheming heart. It may, however, be noticed that a good many members of the Bradshaw family possess a keen and rather sinister4 sense of the humorous, inherited doubtless from their great ancestor, the dry wag who wrote that monument of quiet drollery5, Bradshaw's Railway Guide. So with the hero of my story.
Frederick Wackerbath Bradshaw was, as I have pointed6 out, my contemporary at St Austin's. We were in the same House, and together we sported on the green—and elsewhere—and did our best to turn the majority of the staff of masters into confirmed pessimists7, they in the meantime endeavouring to do the same by us with every weapon that lay to their hand. And the worst of these weapons were the end-of-term examination papers. Mellish was our form-master, and once a term a demon8 entered into Mellish. He brooded silently apart from the madding crowd. He wandered through dry places seeking rest, and at intervals9 he would smile evilly, and jot10 down a note on the back of an envelope. These notes, collected and printed closely on the vilest11 paper, made up the examination questions.
Our form read two authors a term, one Latin and one Greek. It was the Greek that we feared most. Mellish had a sort of genius for picking out absolutely untranslatable passages, and desiring us (in print) to render the same with full notes. This term the book had been Thucydides, Book II, with regard to which I may echo the words of a certain critic when called upon to give his candid13 opinion of a friend's first novel, 'I dare not say what I think about that book.'
About a week before the commencement of the examinations, the ordinary night-work used to cease, and we were supposed, during that week, to be steadily14 going over the old ground and arming ourselves for the approaching struggle. There were, I suppose, people who actually did do this, but for my own part I always used to regard those seven days as a blessed period of rest, set apart specially15 to enable me to keep abreast16 of the light fiction of the day. And most of the form, so far as I know, thought the same. It was only on the night before the examination that one began to revise in real earnest. One's methods on that night resolved themselves into sitting in a chair and wondering where to begin. Just as one came to a decision, it was bedtime.
'Bradshaw,' I said, as I reached page 103 without having read a line, 'do you know any likely bits?'
Bradshaw looked up from his book. He was attempting to get a general idea of Thucydides' style by reading Pickwick.
'What?' he said.
I obliged with a repetition of my remark.
'Likely bits? Oh, you mean for the Thucydides. I don't know. Mellish never sets the bits any decent ordinary individual would set. I should take my chance if I were you.'
'What are you going to do?'
'I'm going to read Pickwick. Thicksides doesn't come within a mile of it.'
I thought so too.
'But how about tomorrow?'
'Oh, I shan't be there,' he said, as if it were the most ordinary of statements.
'Not there! Why, have you been sacked?'
This really seemed the only possible explanation. Such an event would not have come as a surprise. It was always a matter for wonder to me why the authorities never sacked Bradshaw, or at the least requested him to leave. Possibly it was another case of the ass12 and the bundles of hay. They could not make up their minds which special misdemeanour of his to attack first.
'No, I've not been sacked,' said Bradshaw.
A light dawned upon me.
'Oh,' I said, 'you're going to slumber17 in.' For the benefit of the uninitiated, I may mention that to slumber in is to stay in the House during school on a pretence18 of illness.
'That,' replied the man of mystery, with considerable asperity19, 'is exactly the silly rotten kid's idea that would come naturally to a complete idiot like you.'
As a rule, I resent being called a complete idiot, but this was not the time for asserting one's personal dignity. I had to know what Bradshaw's scheme for evading20 the examination was. Perhaps there might be room for two in it; in which case I should have been exceedingly glad to have lent my moral support to it. I pressed for an explanation.
'You may jaw,' said Bradshaw at last, 'as much as you jolly well please, but I'm not going to give this away. All you're going to know is that I shan't be there tomorrow.'
'I bet you are, and I bet you do a jolly rank paper too,' I said, remembering that the sceptic is sometimes vouchsafed21 revelations to which the most devout22 believer may not aspire23. It is, for instance, always the young man who scoffs24 at ghosts that the family spectre chooses as his audience. But it required more than a mere25 sneer26 or an empty gibe27 to pump information out of Bradshaw. He took me up at once.
'What'll you bet?' he said.
Now I was prepared to wager28 imaginary sums to any extent he might have cared to name, but as my actual worldly wealth at that moment consisted of one penny, and my expectations were limited to the shilling pocket-money which I should receive on the following Saturday—half of which was already mortgaged—it behoved me to avoid doing anything rash with my ready money. But, since a refusal would have meant the downfall of my arguments, I was obliged to name a figure. I named an even sixpence. After all, I felt, I must win. By what means, other than illness, could Bradshaw possibly avoid putting in an appearance at the Thucydides examination?
'All right,' said Bradshaw, 'an even sixpence. You'll lose.'
'Slumbering29 in barred.'
'Of course.'
'Real illness barred too,' I said. Bradshaw is a man of resource, and has been known to make himself genuinely ill in similar emergencies.
'Right you are. Slumbering in and real illness both barred. Anything else you'd like to bar?'
I thought.
'No. Unless—' an idea struck me—'You're not going to run away?'
Bradshaw scorned to answer the question.
'Now you'd better buck30 up with your work,' he said, opening his book again. 'You've got about as long odds31 as anyone ever got. But you'll lose all the same.'
It scarcely seemed possible. And yet—Bradshaw was generally right. If he said he had a scheme for doing—though it was generally for not doing—something, it rarely failed to come off. I thought of my sixpence, my only sixpence, and felt a distinct pang32 of remorse33. After all, only the other day the chaplain had said how wrong it was to bet. By Jove, so he had. Decent man the chaplain. Pity to do anything he would disapprove34 of. I was on the point of recalling my wager, when before my mind's eye rose a vision of Bradshaw rampant35 and sneering36, and myself writhing37 in my chair a crushed and scored-off wreck38. I drew the line at that. I valued my self-respect at more than sixpence. If it had been a shilling now—. So I set my teeth and turned once more to my Thucydides. Bradshaw, having picked up the thread of his story again, emitted hoarse39 chuckles40 like minute guns, until I very nearly rose and fell upon him. It is maddening to listen to a person laughing and not to know the joke.
'You will be allowed two hours for this paper,' said Mellish on the following afternoon, as he returned to his desk after distributing the Thucydides questions. 'At five minutes to four I shall begin to collect your papers, but those who wish may go on till ten past. Write only on one side of the paper, and put your names in the top right-hand corner. Marks will be given for neatness. Any boy whom I see looking at his neighbour's—where's Bradshaw?'
It was already five minutes past the hour. The latest of the late always had the decency41 to appear at least by three minutes past.
'Has anybody seen Bradshaw?' repeated Mellish. 'You, what's-your-name—' (I am what's-your-name, very much at your service) '—you are in his House. Have you seen him?'
I could have pointed out with some pleasure at this juncture42 that if Cain expressed indignation at being asked where his brother was, I, by a simple sum in proportion, might with even greater justice feel annoyed at having to locate a person who was no relative of mine at all. Did Mr Mellish expect me to keep an eye on every member of my House? Did Mr Mellish—in short, what did he mean by it?
This was what I thought. I said, 'No, sir.'
'This is extraordinary,' said Mellish, 'most extraordinary. Why, the boy was in school this morning.'
This was true. The boy had been in school that morning to some purpose, having beaten all records (his own records) in the gentle sport of Mellish-baiting. This evidently occurred to Mellish at the time, for he dropped the subject at once, and told us to begin our papers.
Now I have remarked already that I dare not say what I think of Thucydides, Book II. How then shall I frame my opinion of that examination paper? It was Thucydides, Book II, with the few easy parts left out. It was Thucydides, Book II, with special home-made difficulties added. It was—well, in its way it was a masterpiece. Without going into details—I dislike sensational43 and realistic writing—I may say that I personally was not one of those who required an extra ten minutes to finish their papers. I finished mine at half-past two, and amused myself for the remaining hour and a half by writing neatly44 on several sheets of foolscap exactly what I thought of Mr Mellish, and precisely45 what I hoped would happen to him some day. It was grateful and comforting.
At intervals I wondered what had become of Bradshaw. I was not surprised at his absence. At first I had feared that he would keep his word in that matter. As time went on I knew that he would. At more frequent intervals I wondered how I should enjoy being a bankrupt.
Four o'clock came round, and found me so engrossed46 in putting the finishing touches to my excursus of Mr Mellish's character, that I stayed on in the form-room till ten past. Two other members of the form stayed too, writing with the despairing energy of those who had five minutes to say what they would like to spread over five hours. At last Mellish collected the papers. He seemed a trifle surprised when I gave up my modest three sheets. Brown and Morrison, who had their eye on the form prize, each gave up reams. Brown told me subsequently that he had only had time to do sixteen sheets, and wanted to know whether I had adopted Rutherford's emendation in preference to the old reading in Question II. My prolonged stay had made him regard me as a possible rival.
I dwell upon this part of my story, because it has an important bearing on subsequent events. If I had not waited in the form-room I should not have gone downstairs just behind Mellish. And if I had not gone downstairs just behind Mellish, I should not have been in at the death, that is to say the discovery of Bradshaw, and this story would have been all beginning and middle, and no ending, for I am certain that Bradshaw would never have told me a word. He was a most secretive animal.
I went downstairs, as I say, just behind Mellish. St Austin's, you must know, is composed of three blocks of buildings, the senior, the middle, and the junior, joined by cloisters47. We left the senior block by the door. To the captious48 critic this information may seem superfluous49, but let me tell him that I have left the block in my time, and entered it, too, though never, it is true, in the company of a master, in other ways. There are windows.
Our procession of two, Mellish leading by a couple of yards, passed through the cloisters, and came to the middle block, where the Masters' Common Room is. I had no particular reason for going to that block, but it was all on my way to the House, and I knew that Mellish hated having his footsteps dogged. That Thucydides paper rankled50 slightly.
In the middle block, at the top of the building, far from the haunts of men, is the Science Museum, containing—so I have heard, I have never been near the place myself—two stuffed rats, a case of mouldering51 butterflies, and other objects of acute interest. The room has a staircase all to itself, and this was the reason why, directly I heard shouts proceeding52 from that staircase, I deduced that they came from the Museum. I am like Sherlock Holmes, I don't mind explaining my methods.
'Help!' shouted the voice. 'Help!'
The voice was Bradshaw's.
Mellish was talking to M. Gerard, the French master, at the moment. He had evidently been telling him of Bradshaw's non-appearance, for at the sound of his voice they both spun53 round, and stood looking at the staircase like a couple of pointers.
'Help,' cried the voice again.
Mellish and Gerard bounded up the stairs. I had never seen a French master run before. It was a pleasant sight. I followed. As we reached the door of the Museum, which was shut, renewed shouts filtered through it. Mellish gave tongue.
'Bradshaw!'
'Yes, sir,' from within.
'Are you there?' This I thought, and still think, quite a superfluous question.
'Yes, sir,' said Bradshaw.
'What are you doing in there, Bradshaw? Why were you not in school this afternoon? Come out at once.' This in deep and thrilling tones.
'Please, sir,' said Bradshaw complainingly, 'I can't open the door.' Now, the immediate54 effect of telling a person that you are unable to open a door is to make him try his hand at it. Someone observes that there are three things which everyone thinks he can do better than anyone else, namely poking55 a fire, writing a novel, and opening a door.
Gerard was no exception to the rule.
'Can't open the door?' he said. 'Nonsense, nonsense.' And, swooping56 at the handle, he grasped it firmly, and turned it.
At this point he made an attempt, a very spirited attempt, to lower the world's record for the standing57 high jump. I have spoken above of the pleasure it gave me to see a French master run. But for good, square enjoyment58, warranted free from all injurious chemicals, give me a French master jumping.
'My dear Gerard,' said the amazed Mellish.
'I have received a shock. Dear me, I have received a most terrible shock.'
So had I, only of another kind. I really thought I should have expired in my tracks with the effort of keeping my enjoyment strictly59 to myself. I saw what had happened. The Museum is lit by electric light. To turn it on one has to shoot the bolt of the door, which, like the handle, is made of metal. It is on the killing60 two birds with one stone principle. You lock yourself in and light yourself up with one movement. It was plain that the current had gone wrong somehow, run amock, as it were. Mellish meanwhile, instead of being warned by Gerard's fate, had followed his example, and tried to turn the handle. His jump, though quite a creditable effort, fell short of Gerard's by some six inches. I began to feel as if some sort of round game were going on. I hoped that they would not want me to take a hand. I also hoped that the thing would continue for a good while longer. The success of the piece certainly warranted the prolongation of its run. But here I was disappointed. The disturbance61 had attracted another spectator, Blaize, the science and chemistry master. The matter was hastily explained to him in all its bearings. There was Bradshaw entombed within the Museum, with every prospect62 of death by starvation, unless he could support life for the next few years on the two stuffed rats and the case of butterflies. The authorities did not see their way to adding a human specimen63 (youth's size) to the treasures in the Museum, so—how was he to be got out?
The scientific mind is equal to every emergency.
'Bradshaw,' shouted Blaize through the keyhole.
'Sir?'
'Are you there?'
I should imagine that Bradshaw was growing tired of this question by this time. Besides, it cast aspersions on the veracity64 of Gerard and Mellish. Bradshaw, with perfect politeness, hastened to inform the gentleman that he was there.
'Have you a piece of paper?'
'Will an envelope do, sir?'
'Bless the boy, anything will do so long as it is paper.'
Dear me, I thought, is it as bad as all that? Is Blaize, in despair of ever rescuing the unfortunate prisoner, going to ask him to draw up a 'last dying words' document, to be pushed under the door and despatched to his sorrowing guardian65?
'Put it over your hand, and then shoot back the bolt.'
'But, sir, the electricity.'
'Pooh, boy!'
The scientific mind is always intolerant of lay ignorance.
'Pooh, boy, paper is a non-conductor. You won't get hurt.'
Bradshaw apparently66 acted on his instructions. From the other side of the door came the sharp sound of the bolt as it was shot back, and at the same time the light ceased to shine through the keyhole. A moment later the handle turned, and Bradshaw stepped forth—free!
'Dear me,' said Mellish. 'Now I never knew that before, Blaize. Remarkable67. But this ought to be seen to. In the meantime, I had better ask the Headmaster to give out that the Museum is closed until further notice, I think.'
And closed the Museum has been ever since. That further notice has never been given. And yet nobody seems to feel as if an essential part of their life had ceased to be, so to speak. Curious. Bradshaw, after a short explanation, was allowed to go away without a stain—that is to say, without any additional stain—on his character. We left the authorities discussing the matter, and went downstairs.
'Sixpence isn't enough,' I said, 'take this penny. It's all I've got. You shall have the sixpence on Saturday.'
'Thanks,' said Bradshaw.' Was the Thucydides paper pretty warm?'
'Warmish. But, I say, didn't you get a beastly shock when you locked the door?'
'I did the week before last, the first time I ever went to the place. This time I was more or less prepared for it. Blaize seems to think that paper dodge68 a special invention of his own. He'll be taking out a patent for it one of these days. Why, every kid knows that paper doesn't conduct electricity.'
'I didn't,' I said honestly.
'You don't know much,' said Bradshaw, with equal honesty.
'I don't,' I replied. 'Bradshaw, you're a great man, but you missed the best part of it all.'
'What, the Thucydides paper?' asked he with a grin.
'No, you missed seeing Gerard jump quite six feet.'
Bradshaw's face expressed keen disappointment.
'No, did he really? Oh, I say, I wish I'd seen it.'
The moral of which is that the wicked do not always prosper69. If Bradshaw had not been in the Museum, he might have seen Gerard jump six feet, which would have made him happy for weeks. On second thoughts, though, that does not work out quite right, for if Bradshaw had not been in the Museum, Gerard would not have jumped at all. No, better put it this way. I was virtuous70, and I had the pleasure of witnessing the sight I have referred to. But then there was the Thucydides paper, which Bradshaw missed but which I did not. No. On consideration, the moral of this story shall be withdrawn71 and submitted to a committee of experts. Perhaps they will be able to say what it is.
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1
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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scoffs
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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50
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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52
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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53
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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54
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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55
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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56
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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57
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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58
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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59
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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60
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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61
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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62
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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63
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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64
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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65
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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66
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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67
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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68
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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69
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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70
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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71
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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