LOVE AT A SCHOOL

A procession of schoolboys having to meet a procession of schoolgirls on the Sunday’s dead march, called a walk, round the park, could hardly go by without dropping to a hum in its chatter, and the shot of incurious half-eyes the petticoated creatures—­all so much of a swarm unless you stare at them like lanterns.  The boys cast glance because it relieved their heaviness; things were lumpish and gloomy that day of the week.  The girls, who sped their peep of inquisition before the moment of transit, let it be seen that they had minds occupied with thoughts of their own.

Our gallant fellows forgot the intrusion of the foreign as soon as it had passed.  A sarcastic discharge was jerked by chance at the usher and the governess—­at the old game, it seemed; or why did they keep steering columns to meet?  There was no fun in meeting; it would never be happening every other Sunday, and oftener, by sheer toss-penny accident.  They were moved like pieces for the pleasure of these two.

Sometimes the meeting occurred twice during the stupid march-out, when it became so nearly vexatious to boys almost biliously oppressed by the tedium of a day merely allowing them to shove the legs along, ironically naming it animal excise, that some among them pronounced the sham variation of monotony to be a bothering nuisance if it was going to happen every Sunday, though Sunday required diversions.  They hated the absurdity in this meeting and meeting; for they were obliged to anticipate it, as a part of their ignominious weekly performance; and they could not avoid reflecting on it, as a thing done over again:  it had them in front and in rear; and it was a kind of broadside mirror, flashing at them the exact opposite of themselves in an identically similar situation, that forced a resemblance.

Touching the old game, Cuper’s fold was a healthy school, owing to the good lead of the head boy, Matey Weyburn, a lad with a heart for games to bring renown, and no thought about girls.  His emulation, the fellows fancied, was for getting the school into a journal of the Sports.  He used to read one sent him by a sporting officer of his name, and talk enviously of public schools, printed whatever they did—­a privilege and dignity of which, they had unrivalled enjoyment in the past, days, when wealth was more jealously exclusive; and he was always prompting for challenges and saving up to pay expenses; and the fellows were to laugh at kicks and learn the art of self-defence—­train to rejoice in whipcord muscles.  The son of a tradesman, if a boy fell under the imputation, was worthy of honour with him, let the fellow but show grip and toughness.  He loathed a skulker, and his face was known for any boy who would own to fatigue or confess himself beaten.  “Go to bed,” was one of his terrible stings.  Matey was good at lessons, too—­liked them; liked Latin and Greek; would help a poor stumbler.