The Ink-ball incident

Up went the cane. It came down with a crack like a rifle-shot. The dust came from Rag’s trousers. – Extracted from Fourth form at Lynwood by Frank Richards (J. B. Publications). Available to download here.

Mr. Prance jumped.

In fact, he almost bounded.

It was enough to make Prance, or any other form-master at Lynwood, jump, clear of the form-room floor. An ink-ball, landing suddenly in a beak’s eye, was absolutely certain to have a very startling effect on that beak.

Rag was the culprit. It was, as Jimmy Carroll had remarked the previous day, Rag all over. Rag had earned his nickname in the Lynwood Fourth by his propensity to rag. He was perpetually ragging. But he never had much luck with it. No fellow was oftener in the soup than Hankey of the Fourth. But this time Rag had out-done himself.

It was the third hour on Wednesday morning. Virgil was the order of the day, and Bob Rawlins was on “con”. Bob was a better man at Soccer than at the classics and just at present his thoughts were much more on the Hockley match, which was to be played that afternoon, than the great works of P. Vergilius Maro. His translation was not giving Mr. Prance satisfaction. Jimmy Carroll, who had the lesson almost be heart, would gladly have whispered a tip or two to his chum. But that was not feasible under Prance’s wrathful eyes. So Bob stumbled on, with Prance’s sarcastic attention fixed on him.

Which seemed to Rag Hankey an excellent opportunity to get going. Rag had his missile ready in his hand – compounded of blotting-paper, kneaded with ink. It was intended for Valentine Wilmot-Jones.

Hankey of the Fourth had the pleasure – or otherwise – of sharing Number Seven Study with W. J. When W. J. let his passionate temper rip – as often he did – life was a little hectic in Number Seven. And since the row in Number Five the previous day, W. J. had been at his worst. Certainly it was not Rag’s fault that W. J. was out of the Hockley match, and that fellows in the Lounge had grinned over the football list, and remarked that W. J.’s nose would be out of joint.

But Rag had most of the benefit of Wilmot-Jone’s temper, all the same. Hence the ink-ball hidden in Rag’s plump inky palm, ready for projecting at W. J.’s handsome face at the first favourable opportunity. Rag quite liked the idea of streaking that handsome face with ink.

The opportunity came, with Mr. Prance’s attention fixed on Bob Rawlings and the stumbling “con”. Wilmot-Jones was listening to Bob, with a sneering smile, which annoyed Rag. W. J. was cleaver in class, as he was clever in everything: but that was no reason why he should sneer at old Bob, who was worth a dozen of him. It was quite a joyful idea to Rag, to contemplate wiping out that sneering grin with an ink-ball.

Quietly, under his desk, Rag transferred that ink-ball from his palm to his thumb-nail, and placed his forefinger in position for flipping it, with deadly aim at W. J.’s handsome face, unseen and unsuspected by Prance.

It was as easy as winking – for any fellow but Rag. Every man in the Fourth – excepting Rag himself – knew that Rag was cack-handed. Rag had never realised it. That was how and why it happened.

The ink-ball whizzed.

Unluckily, it whizzed past Wilmot-Jones with a foot or more to spare. That was pretty good for Rag, who was more likely to miss by a yard.

In other respects, it was pretty bad! Every bullet has its billet: and the same law applies to an ink-ball. The missile, missing W. J. by a foot or more, shot on its way, and was stopped by the first object that intercepted its flight, which happened to be Mr. Prance’s eye!

It was no wonder that Prance jumped!

Up to that moment, his attention had been wholly fixed on Bob Rawlings, struggling with “Tuus, o regina, quid optes, explorare labour” – which was not really very tough, but seemed to present difficulties for Bob. But as the ink-ball landed in his eye, Prance forgot all about Aeolus and Dido, and bounded.

“What – what – what?” spluttered the Fourth-form master.

The ink-ball dropped at his feet. His hand went to his startled eye – and his fingers came away inky.

The expression that came over Mr. Prance’s face, as he realised what had happened, was simply terrific.

Rag sat frozen with horror, as he saw what he had done. He could hardly breathe. Many, if not most, of his “rags” had unfortunate endings. But this was easily the worst of all. Only one hope sustained him. Prance wouldn’t and couldn’t know who had buzzed that ink-ball.

“Upon my word!” gasped Mr. Prance.

He gazed at his form. His form gazed at him. That ink-ball had been very inky. But the Fourth-form fellows dared not to grin. The expression on Mr. Prance’s speaking countenance told only too plainly that it was no time for grinning. Streaks of ink did not hide his terrific frown.

“Who threw that ink-ball?” Prance’s voice was not loud, but deep.

There was no answer from the Fourth. Two or three fellows had seen Rag’s action: but they were not likely to mention it to Prance. Least of all was Rag Hankey likely to speak. Rag sat tight, trying to look as innocent as he could.

“Who threw that ink-ball?” Prance’s voice was louder and deeper.

Dead silence.

Mr. Prance compressed his lips in a tight line. He stepped to his high desk, and picked up his cane therefrom. Then he faced his form again.

“Every boy will stand up!” he rapped.

The Fourth Form stood up.

“Every boy will raise his right hand with the palm outward.”

“Oh, scissors!” moaned Rag.

He realised that he might have guessed it! Prance was as sharp as a razor. Rag’s palm was black as the ace of spades. His thumb and forefinger were stained with ink! He was a lost man! The moment Prince’s pin-point eye fell on that inky paw, Prance would know.

Up went a forest of hands. Prance scanned them. Rag kept his inky paw down. It was not much use, with Prance: but Rag, as a last wild hope, raised his left instead of his right.

“Hankey!” thundered the master of the Fourth.

“Oh, yes, sir!” gasped Rag.

“Hold up your right hand at once.”

“Oh, scissors!”

Up went the unhappy Rag’s right hand. Prances’s eyes fixed on the inky palm, the inky thumb and the inky forefinger, with the glare of a basilisk. His grip closed on the cane.

“Hankey! Stand out before the form!”

“I – I didn’t mean it for you, sir – I,” stammered Rag.

“Stand out!”

“I meant it for Wilmot-Jones, sir –!” groaned Rag.

“This instant, Hankey!”

Rag almost drawled before the form. His legs seemed hardly able to carry him.

“Poor old Rag!” murmured Bob. “He’s for it!”

“Rag all over!” said Jimmy Carroll. “Isn’t he the man to ask for it?”

Rag stood limply before the form-master. Mr. Prance pointed to a desk with his cane. Only too clearly Rag was “for it”.

“Bend over that desk, Hankey!”

“I – I really never meant it for you sir – it was an accident – I – meant it for that tick – I mean Wilmot- Jones – I – I.”

“BEND OVER!” thundered Mr. Prance.

Rag bent limply over the desk. Up went the cane. It came down with a crack like a rifle-shot. Prance was a rather bony gentleman: but his bony arm packed plenty of muscle. The dust came from Rag’s trousers: and from Rag himself, a yell that woke all the echoes of the form-room and the corridor outside.

Six times the cane rose and fell, and every time it was a swipe. Rag yelled at every swipe – he simply couldn’t help it. When the execution was over, it was a limp and suffering Rag that crawled back to his place – where, till the bell went for the end of third hour, he wriggled like an eel.

Picture credit: Unknown

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