Greyfriars Herald special flogging edition 4. A bad boy’s diary

Posted by Traditional School Discipline July 03, 2021

Greyfriars Herald special flogging edition 4. A bad boy’s diary

I was feeling too sorer after yesterday’s flogging to play any pranks today. The Head laid on the birch with cruel severity, and I doubt if I shall be able to sit down for a week. “Your conduct is very bass, Nugent,” said the Head, “and I shall give you treble the number of strokes you had before. That ought to be a lesson to you.” - A Bad Boy’s Diary, the latest extract from the Greyfriars Herald special flogging edition: read online or download free-of-charge here.

A Bad Boy’s Diary

By Dicky Nugent (of the Third Form)

MONDAY

My New Year rezzerlutions have all gone to pot! I tried hard to be Good Little Georgie, and kept it up for a day or two. Then I saw mister twigg, my Form master, strutting across the Close, and I shied a snowball at him. It was such a tempting targitt, mister twigg turned round and saw me before I could scuttle off to safety. “Nugent,” he roared. “How dare you! You have the ordassity to herl a snowball at your Form master! I will give you a severe flogging, and then you will probably mend your ways.”

But twigg was an optermist. My ways aren’t mended yet – not by a long chalk.

TEWSDAY

I said to yung Gatty “Let’s get up to larx.” “What can we do, Dicky?” says he. “Follow me,” says !. So we toddle off to the porter’s lodge, and, peeping threw the window, we see old Gossy asleep in front of the fire. “Let’s barricade the door,” says I, “so that he won’t be able to get out. There’s plenty of snow hear, and we’ll pile it mountain-high, so that old Gosling will be a prizzoner in his own lodge.”

“Ripping!” says Gatty. So we piled in with alackritty.

Other fellows came along to help us, and in less than half an hour, as the crow flies, we had built up a solid wall of snow on Gosling’s doorstep. His door opens inwardly, so that when he opened it he would be confronted with that gigantick mass of snow.

Pressantly old Gosling wakes up. “I must go an’ feed my chickings!” says he. “Pore little fouls! They will be perished in this ’ere snow.”

He shuffles to the door of his lodge, and opens it. Then he staggers back with an orrified eggsclamation.

“My heye!” he gasps. “This ’ere lodge must ’ave been caught in a snowdrift! I can’t get out nowhow!”

Gosling had to fetch a poker, and hack and hew his way threw the wall of snow. We stood looking on, fairly splitting our sides with larfter. Then who should come along but old Quelch!

“What is the meening of this?” he cried. “Who has imprizzened Gosling inhis lodge in this manna?”

Of course, Gatty and me owned up to being the ringleeders, and Quelch reported us to mister twigg. Result – a flogging!

I suppose old Gosling mannidged to get out somehow to feed his chikings. Wish we could have seen him! The eggspression on his face must have been worth a ginny a box.!

WENSDAY

No high jinx today. Devvoted the afternoon to footer, and the evening to a Grand Kinsert. But there were no rags or japes, so I trussed, kind reader, you will give me 100 marks for my good konduct.

THERSDAY

Young Myers says to me, “Dicky,” says he, “what can we do to make our mizzerable lives happy?”

“We can take a grammarphone into the Form-room, and set it going in the middle of lessons,” I replied.

“But twigg will twigg!”

“Let him,” I said carelessly.

So we took the grammarphone into the Form-room, and the history lessen was enlivened by the stranes of Who Were You With Last Nite?

Old twigg had several sorts of fit. The grammarphone was konsealed under one of the desks, so he didn’t see it for a minnit.

“Who is responsibul for this unseemly mellerdy?” asked twigg. Then he broke off in astonishment. “Why – bless my sole! – it is a grammarphone! Who brought this discordant instrument into the Form-room. Anser me at once!”

“Gilty, sir!” I said, in a low toan.

“You again, Nugent!” says twigg. “I am sick and tired of asking you to mend your ways. I will take you before the headmaster.”

He did too. And I got it in the neck good and proper.

FRIDAY

I was feeling too soar after yesterday’s flogging to play any pranx today.

The Head laid on the berch with creol severity, and I doubt if I shall be able to sit down for a week.

“Your conduct is very bass, Nugent,” said the Head, “and I shall give you treble the number of strokes you had before. That alto be a lessen to you.”

Sounds very mewsical duzzent it? So did my yells of angwish!

SATTERDAY

“What’s the programme for today, Dicky?” says yung Myers.

“A snowfite,” says I.

“Who with?” says he.

“With the Third, of corse!” says I.

So we all marched out into the Close, and slung snowballs until our arms aked.

Unforchunittly, my aim was rather erratick, and in the corse of the proseedings I nocked the Head’s mortar-board off.

“Sorry, sir!” I stammers.

“Boy!” he thunders. “You are konstantly getting into mischeef, and this is the last stror! You will be gated for a weak, awarded a thowsand lines, and made to fourfeet the next half-hollerday. I cannot flogyou any more, bekawse you have already been flogged nearly every day this weak.”

“On that principle, sir,” says I “you can’t give me a thowsand lines, bekawse I’ve already been given an impot every day this weak!”

And then I turned and skuttled away, without waiting to here the Head’s reply!