Chapter III (2)

“I know, I know,” said Fisher, “and what she said about your friends being lucky—that went a great way with many,” added he, with a sagacious nod of his head; “I can tell you _that_—more than you think. Do you know,” said he, laying hold of Archer’s button, “I’m in the secret. There are nine of us have crooked our little fingers upon it, not to stir a step till we get her advice; and she has appointed me to meet her about particular business of my own at eight. So I’m to consult her and to bring her answer.”

Archer knew too well how to govern fools, to attempt to reason with them; and, instead of laughing any longer at Fisher’s ridiculous superstition, he was determined to take advantage of it. He affected to be persuaded of the wisdom of the measure; looked at his watch; urged him to be exact to a moment; conjured him to remember exactly the words of the oracle; and, above all things, to demand the lucky hour and minute when the Barring Out should begin. With these instructions Archer put his watch into the solemn dupe’s hand, and left him to count the seconds, till the moment of his appointment, whilst he ran off himself to prepare the oracle.

At a little gate which looked into a lane, through which he guessed that the gipsy must pass, he stationed himself, saw her, gave her half a crown and her instructions, made his escape, and got back unsuspected to Fisher, whom he found in the attitude in which he had left him, watching the motion of the minute hand.

Proud of his secret commission, Fisher slouched his hat, he knew not why, over his face, and proceeded towards the appointed spot. To keep, as he had been charged by Archer, within the letter of the law, he stood _behind_ the forbidden building, and waited some minutes.

Through a gap in the hedge the old woman at length made her appearance, muffled up, and looking cautiously about her. “There’s nobody near us!” said Fisher, and he began to be a little afraid. “What answer,” said he, recollecting himself, “about my Livy?”

“Lost! lost! lost!” said the gipsy, lifting up her hands; “never, never, never to be found! But no matter for that now; that is not your errand to-night; no tricks with me; speak to me of what is next your heart.”

Fisher, astonished, put his hand upon his heart, told her all that she knew before, and received the answers that Archer had dictated: “That the Archers should be lucky as long as they stuck to their manager, and to one another; that the Barring Out should end in woe, if not begun precisely as the clock should strike nine on Wednesday night; but if begun in that _lucky_ moment, and all obedient to their _lucky_ leader, all should end well.”

A thought, a provident thought, now struck Fisher; for even he had some foresight where his favourite passion was concerned. “Pray, in our Barring Out shall we be starved?”

“No,” said the gipsy, “not if you trust to me for food, and if you give me money enough. Silver won’t do for so many; gold is what must cross my hand.”

“I have no gold,” said Fisher, “and I don’t know what you mean by ‘so many.’ I’m only talking of number one, you know. I must take care of that first.”

So, as Fisher thought it was possible that Archer, clever as he was, might be disappointed in his supplies, he determined to take secret measures for himself. His Aunt Barbara’s interdiction had shut him out of the confectioner’s shop; but he flattered himself that he could outwit his aunt; he therefore begged the gipsy to procure him twelve buns by Thursday morning, and bring them secretly to one of the windows of the schoolroom.

As Fisher did not produce any money when he made this proposal, it was at first absolutely rejected; but a bribe at length conquered his difficulties; and the bribe which Fisher found himself obliged to give—for he had no pocket money left of his own, he being as much _restricted_ in that article as Archer was _indulged_—the bribe that he found himself obliged to give to quiet the gipsy was half a crown, which Archer had intrusted to him to buy candles for the theatre. “Oh,” thought he to himself; “Archer’s so careless about money, he will never think of asking me for the half-crown again; and now he’ll want no candles for the _theatre_; or, at anyrate, it will be some time first; and maybe, Aunt Barbara may be got to give me that much at Christmas; then, if the worst comes to the worst, one can pay Archer. My mouth waters for the buns, and have ’em I must now.”

So, for the hope of twelve buns, he sacrificed the money which had been intrusted to him. Thus the meanest motives, in mean minds often prompt to the commission of those great faults, to which one should think nothing but some violent passion could have tempted.

The ambassador having thus, in his opinion, concluded his own and the public business, returned well satisfied with the result, after receiving the gipsy’s reiterated promise to tap _three times_ at the window on Thursday morning.

The day appointed for the Barring Out at length arrived; and Archer, assembling the confederates, informed them, that all was prepared for carrying their design into execution; that he now depended for success upon their punctuality and courage. He had, within the last two hours, got all their bars ready to fasten the doors and window shutters of the schoolroom; he had, with the assistance of two of the day scholars who were of the party, sent into the town for provisions, at his own expense, which would make a handsome supper for that night; he had also negotiated with some cousins of his, who lived in the town, for a constant supply in future. “Bless me,” exclaimed Archer, suddenly stopping in this narration of his services, “there’s one thing, after all, I’ve forgot, we shall be undone without it. Fisher, pray did you ever buy the candles for the playhouse?”

“No, to be sure,” replied Fisher, extremely frightened; “you know you don’t want candles for the playhouse now.”

“Not for the playhouse, but for the Barring Out. We shall be in the dark, man. You must run this minute, run.”

“For candles?” said Fisher, confused; “how many?—what sort?”

“Stupidity!” exclaimed Archer, “you are a pretty fellow at a dead lift! Lend me a pencil and a bit of paper, do; I’ll write down what I want myself! Well, what are you fumbling for?”

“For money!” said Fisher, colouring.

“Money, man! Didn’t I give you half a crown the other day?”

“Yes,” replied Fisher, stammering; “but I wasn’t sure that that might be enough.”

“Enough! yes, to be sure it will. I don’t know what you are _at_.”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Fisher, “here, write upon this, then,” said Fisher, putting a piece of paper into Archer’s hand, upon which Archer wrote his orders. “Away, away!” cried he.

Away went Fisher. He returned; but not until a considerable time afterwards. They were at supper when he returned. “Fisher always comes in at supper-time,” observed one of the Greybeards, carelessly.

“Well, and would you have him come in _after_ supper-time?” said Townsend, who always supplied his party with ready _wit_.

“I’ve got the candles,” whispered Fisher as he passed by Archer to his place.

“And the tinder-box?” said Archer.

“Yes; I got back from my Aunt Barbara under pretence that I must study for repetition day an hour later to-night. So I got leave. Was not that clever?”

A dunce always thinks it clever to cheat even by _sober lies_. How Mr. Fisher procured the candles and the tinder box without money, and without credit, we shall discover further on.

Archer and his associates had agreed to stay the last in the schoolroom; and as soon as the Greybeards were gone out to bed, he, as the signal, was to shut and lock one door, Townsend the other. A third conspirator was to strike a light, in case they should not be able to secure a candle. A fourth was to take charge of the candle as soon as lighted; and all the rest were to run to their bars, which were secreted in a room; then to fix them to the common fastening bars of the window, in the manner in which they had been previously instructed by the manager. Thus each had his part assigned, and each was warned that the success of the whole depended upon their order and punctuality.

Order and punctuality, it appears, are necessary even in a Barring Out; and even rebellion must have its laws.

The long expected moment at length arrived. De Grey and his friends, unconscious of what was going forward, walked out of the schoolroom as usual at bedtime. The clock began to strike nine. There was one Greybeard left in the room, who was packing up some of his books, which had been left about by accident. It is impossible to describe the impatience with which he was watched, especially by Fisher, and the nine who depended upon the gipsy oracle.

When he had got all his books together under his arm, he let one of them fall; and whilst he stooped to pick it up, Archer gave the signal. The doors were shut, locked, and double-locked in an instant. A light was struck and each ran to his post. The bars were all in the same moment put up to the windows, and Archer, when he had tried them all, and seen that they were secure, gave a loud “Huzza!”—in which he was joined by all the party most manfully—by all but the poor Greybeard, who, the picture of astonishment, stood stock still in the midst of them with his books under his arm; at which spectacle Townsend, who enjoyed the _frolic_ of the fray more than anything else, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. “So, my little Greybeard,” said he, holding a candle full in his eyes, “what think you of all this?—How came you amongst the wicked ones?”

“I don’t know, indeed,” said the little boy, very gravely: “you shut me up amongst you. Won’t you let me out?”

“Let you out! No, no, my little Greybeard,” said Archer, catching hold of him, and dragging him to the window bars. “Look ye here—touch these—put your hand to them—pull, push, kick—put a little spirit into it, man—kick like an Archer, if you can; away with ye. It’s a pity that the king of the Greybeards is not here to admire me. I should like to show him our fortifications. But come, my merry men all, now to the feast. Out with the table into the middle of the room. Good cheer, my jolly Archers! I’m your manager!”

Townsend, delighted with the bustle, rubbed his hands, and capered about the room, whilst the preparations for the feast were hurried forward. “Four candles!—Four candles on the table. Let’s have things in style when we are about it, Mr. Manager,” cried Townsend. “Places!—Places! There’s nothing like a fair scramble, my boys. Let everyone take care of himself. Hallo! Greybeard, I’ve knocked Greybeard down here in the scuffle. Get up again, my lad, and see a little life.”

“No, no,” cried Fisher, “he sha’n’t _sup_ with us.”

“No, no,” cried the manager, “he shan’t _live_ with us; a Greybeard is not fit company for Archers.”

“No, no,” cried Townsend, “evil communication corrupts good manners.”

So with one unanimous hiss they hunted the poor little gentle boy into a corner; and having pent him up with benches, Fisher opened his books for him, which he thought the greatest mortification, and set up a candle beside him—“There, now he looks like a Greybeard as he is!” cried they. “Tell me what’s the Latin for cold roast beef?” said Fisher, exultingly, and they returned to their feast.

Long and loud they revelled. They had a few bottles of cider. “Give me the corkscrew, the cider sha’n’t be kept till it’s sour,” cried Townsend, in answer to the manager, who, when he beheld the provisions vanishing with surprising rapidity, began to fear for the morrow. “Hang to-morrow!” cried Townsend, “let Greybeards think of to-morrow; Mr. Manager, here’s your good health.”

The Archers all stood up as their cups were filled to drink the health of their chief with a universal cheer. But at the moment that the cups were at their lips, and as Archer bowed to thank the company, a sudden shower from above astonished the whole assembly. They looked up, and beheld the rose of a watering-engine, whose long neck appeared through a trap door in the ceiling. “Your good health, Mr. Manager!” said a voice, which was known to be the gardener’s; and in the midst of their surprise and dismay the candles were suddenly extinguished; the trap-door shut down; and they were left in utter darkness.

“The _Devil_!” said Archer.

“Don’t swear, Mr. Manager,” said the same voice from the ceiling, “I hear every word you say.”

“Mercy upon us!” exclaimed Fisher. “The clock,” added he, whispering, “must have been wrong, for it had not done striking when we began. Only, you remember, Archer, it had just done before you had done locking your door.”

“Hold your tongue, blockhead!” said Archer. “Well, boys! were ye never in the dark before? You are not afraid of a shower of rain, I hope. Is anybody drowned?”

“No,” said they, with a faint laugh, “but what shall we do here in the dark all night long, and all day to-morrow? We can’t unbar the shutters.”

“It’s a wonder _nobody_ ever thought of the trap-door!” said Townsend.

The trap-door had indeed escaped the manager’s observation. As the house was new to him, and the ceiling being newly white-washed, the opening was scarcely perceptible. Vexed to be out-generalled, and still more vexed to have it remarked, Archer poured forth a volley of incoherent exclamations and reproaches against those who were thus so soon discouraged by a trifle; and groping for the tinder-box, he asked if anything could be easier than to strike a light again. {262} The light appeared. But at the moment that it made the tinder-box visible, another shower from above, aimed, and aimed exactly, at the tinder-box, drenched it with water, and rendered it totally unfit for further service. Archer in a fury dashed it to the ground. And now for the first time he felt what it was to be the unsuccessful head of a party. He heard in his turn the murmurs of a discontented, changeable populace; and recollecting all his bars and bolts, and ingenious contrivances, he was more provoked at their blaming him for this one only oversight than he was grieved at the disaster itself.

“Oh, my hair is all wet!” cried one, dolefully.

“Wring it, then,” said Archer.

“My hand’s cut with your broken glass,” cried another.

“Glass!” cried a third; “mercy! is there broken glass? and it’s all about, I suppose, amongst the supper; and I had but one bit of bread all the time.”

“Bread!” cried Archer; “eat if you want it. Here’s a piece here, and no glass near it.”

“It’s all wet, and I don’t like dry bread by itself; that’s no feast.”

“Heigh-day! What, nothing but moaning and grumbling! If these are the joys of a _Barring Out_,” cried Townsend, “I’d rather be snug in my bed. I expected that we should have sat up till twelve o’clock, talking, and laughing, and singing.”

“So you may still; what hinders you?” said Archer. “Sing, and we’ll join you, and I should be glad those fellows overhead heard us singing. Begin, Townsend—

“‘Come now, all ye social Powers,
Spread your influence o’er us’—

Or else—

“‘Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never will be slaves.’”

Nothing can be more melancholy than forced merriment. In vain they roared in chorus. In vain they tried to appear gay. It would not do. The voices died away, and dropped off one by one. They had each provided himself with a great-coat to sleep upon; but now, in the dark, there was a peevish scrambling contest for the coats, and half the company, in very bad humour, stretched themselves upon the benches for the night.

There is great pleasure in bearing anything that has the appearance of hardship as long as there is any glory to be acquired by it: but when people feel themselves foiled, there is no further pleasure in endurance; and if, in their misfortune, there is any mixture of the ridiculous, the motives for heroism are immediately destroyed. Dr. Middleton had probably considered this in the choice he made of his first attack.

Archer, who had spent the night as a man who had the cares of government upon his shoulders, rose early in the morning, whilst everybody else was fast asleep. In the night he had resolved the affair of the trap-door, and a new danger had alarmed him. It was possible that the enemy might descend upon them through the trap-door. The room had been built high to admit a free circulation of air. It was twenty feet, so that it was in vain to think of reaching to the trap-door.

As soon as the daylight appeared, Archer rose softly, that he might _reconnoitre_, and devise some method of guarding against this new danger. Luckily there were round holes in the top of the window-shutters, which admitted sufficient light for him to work by. The remains of the soaked feast, wet candles, and broken glass spread over the table in the middle of the room, looked rather dismal this morning.

“A pretty set of fellows I have to manage!” said Archer, contemplating the group of sleepers before him. “It is well they have somebody to think for them. Now if I wanted—which, thank goodness, I don’t—but if I did want to call a cabinet council to my assistance, whom could I pitch upon? not this stupid snorer, who is dreaming of gipsies, if he is dreaming of anything,” continued Archer, as he looked into Fisher’s open mouth. “This next chap is quick enough; but, then, he is so fond of having everything his own way. And this curl pated monkey, who is grinning in his sleep, is all tongue and no brains. Here are brains, though nobody would think it, in this lump,” said he, looking at a fat, rolled up, heavy breathing sleeper; “but what signify brains to such a lazy dog? I might kick him for my football this half hour before I should get him awake. This lank jawed harlequin beside him is a handy fellow, to be sure; but, then, if he has hands, he has no head—and he’d be afraid of his own shadow too, by this light, he is such a coward! And Townsend, why, he has puns in plenty; but, when there’s any work to be done, he’s the worst fellow to be near one in the world—he can do nothing but laugh at his own puns. This poor little fellow that we hunted into the corner has more sense than all of them put together; but then he is a Greybeard.”

Thus speculated the chief of a party upon his sleeping friends. And how did it happen that he should be so ambitious to please and govern this set, when, for each individual of which it was composed, he felt such supreme contempt? He had formed them into a _party_, had given them a name, and he was at their head. If these be not good reasons, none better can be assigned for Archer’s conduct.

“I wish ye could all sleep on,” said he; “but I must waken ye, though you will be only in my way. The sound of my hammering must waken them; so I may as well do the thing handsomely, and flatter some of them by pretending to ask their advice.”

Accordingly, he pulled two or three to waken them. “Come, Townsend, waken, my boy! Here’s some diversion for you—up! up!”

“Diversion!” cried Townsend; “I’m your man! I’m up—_up to anything_.”

So, under the name of _diversion_, Archer set Townsend to work at four o’clock in the morning. They had nails, a few tools, and several spars, still left from the wreck of the playhouse. These, by Archer’s directions, they sharpened at one end, and nailed them to the ends of several forms.

All hands were now called to clear away the supper things, to erect these forms perpendicularly under the trap-door; and with the assistance of a few braces, a _chevaux-de-frise_ was formed, upon which nobody could venture to descend. At the farthest end of the room they likewise formed a penthouse of the tables, under which they proposed to breakfast, secure from the pelting storm, if it should again assail them through the trap-door. They crowded under the penthouse as soon as it was ready, and their admiration of its ingenuity paid the workmen for the job.

“Lord! I shall like to see the gardener’s phiz through the trap-door, when he beholds the spikes under him!” cried Townsend. “Now for breakfast!”

“Ay, now for breakfast,” said Archer, looking at his watch; “past eight o’clock, and my town boys not come! I don’t understand this!”

Archer had expected a constant supply of provisions from two boys who lived in the town, who were cousins of his, and who had promised to come every day, and put food in at a certain hole in the wall, in which a ventilator usually turned. This ventilator Archer had taken down, and had contrived it so that it could be easily removed and replaced at pleasure; but, upon examination, it was now perceived that the hole had been newly stopped up by an iron back, which it was impossible to penetrate or remove.

“It never came into my head that anybody would ever have thought of the ventilator but myself!” exclaimed Archer, in great perplexity. He listened and waited for his cousins; but no cousins came, and at a late hour the company were obliged to breakfast upon the scattered fragments of the last night’s feast. That feast had been spread with such imprudent profusion, that little now remained to satisfy the hungry guests.

Archer, who well knew the effect which the apprehension of a scarcity would have upon his associates, did everything that could be done by a bold countenance and reiterated assertions to persuade them that his cousins would certainly come at last and that the supplies were only delayed. The delay, however, was alarming.

Fisher alone heard the manager’s calculations and saw the public fears unmoved. Secretly rejoicing in his own wisdom, he walked from window to window, slily listening for the gipsy’s signal. “There it is!” cried he with more joy sparkling in his eyes than had ever enlightened them before. “Come this way, Archer; but don’t tell anybody. Hark! do ye hear those three taps at the window? This is the old woman with twelve buns for me. I’ll give you one whole one for yourself, if you will unbar the window for me.”

“Unbar the window!” interrupted Archer; “no, that I won’t, for you or the gipsy either; but I have heard enough to get your buns without that. But stay; there is something of more consequence than your twelve buns. I must think for ye all, I see, regularly.”

So he summoned a council, and proposed that everyone should subscribe, and trust the subscription to the gipsy, to purchase a fresh supply of provisions. Archer laid down a guinea of his own money for his subscription; at which sight all the company clapped their hands, and his popularity rose to a high pitch with their renewed hopes of plenty. Now, having made a list of their wants, they folded the money in the paper, put it into a bag, which Archer tied to a long string, and, having broken the pane of glass behind the round hole in the window-shutter, he let down the bag to the gipsy. She promised to be punctual, and having filled the bag with Fisher’s twelve buns, they were drawn up in triumph, and everybody anticipated the pleasure with which they should see the same bag drawn up at dinner-time. The buns were a little squeezed in being drawn through the hole in the window-shutter; but Archer immediately sawed out a piece of the shutter, and broke the corresponding panes in each of the other windows, to prevent suspicion, and to make it appear that they had all been broken to admit air.

What a pity that so much ingenuity should have been employed to no purpose!

It may have surprised the intelligent reader that the gipsy was so punctual to her promise to Fisher, but we must recollect that her apparent integrity was only cunning; she was punctual that she might be employed again, that she might be intrusted with the contribution which, she foresaw, must be raised amongst the famishing garrison. No sooner had she received the money than her end was gained.

Dinner-time came; it struck three, four, five, six. They listened with hungry ears, but no signal was heard. The morning had been very long, and Archer had in vain tried to dissuade them from devouring the remainder of the provisions before they were sure of a fresh supply. And now those who had been the most confident were the most impatient of their disappointment.

Archer, in the division of the food, had attempted, by the most scrupulous exactness, to content the public, and he was both astonished and provoked to perceive that his impartiality was impeached. So differently do people judge in different situations! He was the first person to accuse his master of injustice, and the least capable of bearing such an imputation upon himself from others. He now experienced some of the joys of power, and the delight of managing unreasonable numbers.

“Have not I done everything I could to please you? Have not I spent my money to buy you food? Have not I divided the last morsel with you? I have not tasted one mouthful to-day! Did not I set to work for you at sunrise? Did not I lie awake all night for you? Have not I had all the labour, and all the anxiety? Look round and see _my_ contrivances, _my_ work, _my_ generosity! And, after all, you think me a tyrant, because I want you to have common sense. Is not this bun which I hold in my hand my own? Did not I earn it by my own ingenuity from that selfish dunce” (pointing to Fisher), “who could never have gotten one of his twelve buns, if I had not shown him how? Eleven of them he has eaten since morning for his own share, without offering anyone a morsel; but I scorn to eat even what is justly my own, when I see so many hungry creatures longing for it. I was not going to touch this last morsel myself. I only begged you to keep it till supper-time, when perhaps you’ll want it more, and Townsend, who can’t bear the slightest thing that crosses his own whims, and who thinks there’s nothing in this world to be minded but his own diversion, calls me a _tyrant_. You all of you promised to obey me. The first thing I ask you to do for your own good, and when, if you had common sense, you must know I can want nothing but your good, you rebel against me. Traitors! fools! ungrateful fools!”

Archer walked up and down, unable to command his emotion, whilst, for the moment, the discontented multitude was silenced.

“Here,” said he, striking his hand upon the little boy’s shoulder, “here’s the only one amongst you who has not uttered one word of reproach or complaint, and he has had but one bit of bread—a bit that I gave him myself this day. Here!” said he, snatching the bun, which nobody had dared to touch, “take it—it’s mine—I give it to you, though you are a Greybeard; you deserve it. Eat it, and be an Archer. You shall be my captain; will you?” said he, lifting him up in his arm above the rest.

“I like you now,” said the little boy, courageously; “but I love De Grey better; he has always been my friend, and he advised me never to call myself any of those names, Archer or Greybeard; so I won’t. Though I am shut in here, I have nothing to do with it. I love Dr. Middleton; he was never unjust to _me_, and I daresay that he has very good reasons, as De Grey said, for forbidding us to go into that house. Besides, it’s his own.”

Instead of admiring the good sense and steadiness of this little lad, Archer suffered Townsend to snatch the untasted bun out of his hands. He flung it at a hole in the window, but it fell back. The Archers scrambled for it, and Fisher ate it.

Archer saw this, and was sensible that he had not done handsomely in suffering it. A few moments ago he had admired his own generosity, and though he had felt the injustice of others, he had not accused himself of any. He turned away from the little boy, and sitting down at one end of the table, hid his face in his hands. He continued immovable in this posture for some time.

“Lord!” said Townsend; “it was an excellent joke!”

“Pooh!” said Fisher; “what a fool, to think so much about a bun!”

“Never mind, Mr. Archer, if you are thinking about me,” said the little boy, trying gently to pull his hands from his face.

Archer stooped down, and lifted him up upon the table, at which sight the partisans set up a general hiss. “He has forsaken us! He deserts his party! He wants to be a Greybeard! After he has got us all into this scrape, he will leave us!”

“I am not going to leave you,” cried Archer. “No one shall ever accuse me of deserting my party. I’ll stick by the Archers, right or wrong, I tell you, to the last moment. But this little fellow—take it as you please, mutiny if you will, and throw me out of the window. Call me traitor! coward! Greybeard!—this little fellow is worth you all put together, and I’ll stand by him against anyone who dares to lay a finger upon him; and the next morsel of food that I see shall be his. Touch him who dares!”

The commanding air with which Archer spoke and looked, and the belief that the little boy deserved his protection, silenced the crowd. But the storm was only hushed.

No sound of merriment was now to be heard—no battledore and shuttlecock—no ball, no marbles. Some sat in a corner, whispering their wishes that Archer would unbar the doors, and give up. Others, stretching their arms, and gaping as they sauntered up and down the room, wished for air, or food, or water. Fisher and his nine, who had such firm dependence upon the gipsy, now gave themselves up to utter despair. It was eight o’clock, growing darker and darker every minute, and no candles, no light could they have. The prospect of another long dark night made them still more discontented.

Townsend, at the head of the yawners, and Fisher, at the head of the hungry malcontents, gathered round Archer and the few yet unconquered spirits, demanding “How long he meant to keep them in this dark dungeon? and whether he expected that they should starve themselves for his sake?”

The idea of _giving up_ was more intolerable to Archer than all the rest. He saw that the majority, his own convincing argument, was against him. He was therefore obliged to condescend to the arts of persuasion. He flattered some with hopes of food from the town boys. Some he reminded of their promises; others he praised for former prowess; and others he shamed by the repetition of their high vaunts in the beginning of the business.

It was at length resolved that at all events they _would hold out_. With this determination they stretched themselves again to sleep, for the second night, in weak and weary obstinacy.

Archer slept longer and more soundly than usual the next morning, and when he awoke, he found his hands tied behind him! Three or four boys had just got hold of his feet, which they pressed down, whilst the trembling hands of Fisher were fastening the cord round them.

With all the force which rage could inspire, Archer struggled and roared to “_his Archers_!”—his friends, his party—for help against the traitors. But all kept aloof. Townsend, in particular, stood laughing and looking on. “I beg your pardon, Archer, but really you look so droll. All alive and kicking! Don’t be angry. I’m so weak, I cannot help laughing to-day.”

The packthread cracked. “His hands are free! He’s loose!” cried the least of the boys, and ran away, whilst Archer leaped up, and seizing hold of Fisher with a powerful grasp, sternly demanded “What he meant by this?”

“Ask my party,” said Fisher, terrified; “they set me on; ask my party.”

“Your party!” cried Archer, with a look of ineffable contempt; “you reptile!—_your_ party? Can such a thing as _you_ have a party?”

“To be sure!” said Fisher, settling his collar, which Archer in his surprise had let go; “to be sure! Why not? Any man who chooses it may have a party as well as yourself, I suppose. I have nine Fishermen.”

At these words, spoken with much sullen importance, Archer, in spite of his vexation, could not help laughing. “Fishermen!” cried he, “_Fishermen_!”

“And why not Fishermen as well as Archers?” cried they. “One party is just as good as another; it is only a question which can get the upper hand; and we had your hands tied just now.”

“That’s right, Townsend,” said Archer, “laugh on, my boy! Friend or foe, it’s all the same to you. I know how to value your friendship now. You are a mighty good fellow when the sun shines; but let a storm come, and how you slink away!”

At this instant, Archer felt the difference between _a good companion_ and a good friend, a difference which some people do not discover till late in life.

“Have I no friend?—no real friend amongst you all? And could ye stand by, and see my hands tied behind me like a thief’s? What signifies such a party—all mute?”

“We want something to eat,” answered the Fishermen. “What signifies _such_ a party, indeed? and _such_ a manager, who can do nothing for one?”

“And have _I_ done nothing?”

“Don’t let’s hear any more prosing,” said Fisher; “we are too many for you. I’ve advised my party, if they’ve a mind not to be starved, to give you up for the ringleader, as you were; and Dr. Middleton will not let us all off, I daresay.” So, depending upon the sullen silence of the assembly, he again approached Archer with a cord. A cry of “No, no, no! Don’t tie him,” was feebly raised.

Archer stood still, but the moment Fisher touched him he knocked him down to the ground, and turning to the rest, with eyes sparkling with indignation, “Archers!” cried he. A voice at this instant was heard at the door. It was De Grey’s voice. “I have got a large basket of provisions for your breakfast.” A general shout of joy was sent forth by the voracious public. “Breakfast! Provisions! A large basket! De Grey for ever! Huzza!”

De Grey promised, upon his honour, that if he would unbar the door nobody should come in with him, and no advantage should be taken of them. This promise was enough even for Archer. “I will let him in,” said he, “myself; for I’m sure he’ll never break his word.” He pulled away the bar; the door opened, and having bargained for the liberty of Melson, the little boy, who had been shut in by mistake, De Grey entered with his basket of provisions, when he locked and barred the door instantly.

Joy and gratitude sparkled in every face when he unpacked his basket, and spread the table with a plentiful breakfast. A hundred questions were asked him at once. “Eat first,” said he, “and we will talk afterwards.” This business was quickly despatched by those who had not tasted food for a long while. Their curiosity increased as their hunger diminished. “Who sent us breakfast? Does Dr. Middleton know?” were questions reiterated from every mouth.

“He does know,” answered De Grey; “and the first thing I have to tell you is, that I am your fellow-prisoner. I am to stay here till you give up. This was the only condition on which Dr. Middleton would allow me to bring you food, and he will allow no more.”

Everyone looked at the empty basket. But Archer, in whom half vanquished party spirit revived with the strength he had got from his breakfast, broke into exclamations in praise of De Grey’s magnanimity, as he now imagined that De Grey had become one of themselves.

“And you will join us, will you? That’s a noble fellow!”

“No,” answered De Grey, calmly; “but I hope to persuade, or rather to convince you, that you ought to join me.”

“You would have found it no hard task to have persuaded or convinced us, whichever you pleased,” said Townsend, “if you had appealed to Archers fasting; but Archers feasting are quite other animals. Even Cæsar himself, after breakfast, is quite another thing!” added he, pointing to Archer.

“You may speak for yourself, Mr. Townsend,” replied the insulted hero, “but not for me, or for Archers in general, if you please. We unbarred the door upon the faith of De Grey’s promise—_that_ was not giving up. And it would have been just as difficult, I promise you, to persuade or convince me either that I should give up against my honour before breakfast as after.”

This spirited speech was applauded by many, who had now forgotten the feelings of famine. Not so Fisher, whose memory was upon this occasion very distinct.

“What nonsense,” and the orator paused for a synonymous expression, but none was at hand. “What nonsense and—nonsense is here! Why, don’t you remember that dinner-time, and supper-time and breakfast-time will come again? So what signifies mouthing about persuading and convincing? We will not go through again what we did yesterday! Honour me no honour. I don’t understand it. I’d rather be flogged at once, as I have been many’s the good time for a less thing. I say, we’d better all be flogged at once, which must be the end of it sooner or later, than wait here to be without dinner, breakfast, and supper, all only because Mr. Archer won’t give up because of his honour and nonsense!”

Many prudent faces amongst the Fishermen seemed to deliberate at the close of this oration, in which the arguments were brought so “home to each man’s business and bosom.”

“But,” said De Grey, “when we yield, I hope it will not be merely to get our dinner, gentlemen. When we yield, Archer—”

“Don’t address yourself to me,” interrupted Archer, struggling with his pride; “you have no further occasion to try to win me. I have no power, no party, you see! And now I find that I have no friends, I don’t care what becomes of myself. I suppose I’m to be given up as a ringleader. Here’s this Fisher, and a party of his Fishermen, were going to tie me hand and foot, if I had not knocked him down, just as you came to the door, De Grey; and now perhaps you will join Fisher’s party against me.”

De Grey was going to assure him that he had no intention of joining any party, when a sudden change appeared on Archer’s countenance. “Silence!” cried Archer, in an imperious tone, and there was silence. Someone was heard to whistle the beginning of a tune, that was perfectly new to everybody present, except to Archer, who immediately whistled the conclusion. “There!” cried he, looking at De Grey, with triumph; “that’s a method of holding secret correspondence whilst a prisoner, which I learned from ‘Richard Cœur de Lion.’ I know how to make use of everything. Hallo! friend! are you there at last?” cried he, going to the ventilator.

“Yes, but we are barred out here.”

“Round to the window then, and fill our bag. We’ll let it down, my lad, in a trice; bar me out who can!”

Archer let down the bag with all the expedition of joy, and it was filled with all the expedition of fear. “Pull away! make haste, for Heaven’s sake!” said the voice from without; “the gardener will come from dinner, else, and we shall be caught. He mounted guard all yesterday at the ventilator; and though I watched and watched till it was darker than pitch, I could not get near you. I don’t know what has taken him out of the way now. Make haste, pull away!” The heavy bag was soon pulled up.

“Have you any more?” said Archer.

“Yes, plenty. Let down quick! I’ve got the tailor’s bag full, which is three times as large as yours, and I’ve changed clothes with the tailor’s boy; so nobody took notice of me as I came down the street.”

“There’s my own cousin!” exclaimed Archer, “there’s a noble fellow! there’s my own cousin, I acknowledge. Fill the bag, then.” Several times the bag descended and ascended; and at every unlading of the crane, fresh acclamations were heard.

“I have no more!” at length the boy with the tailor’s bag cried.

“Off with you, then; we’ve enough, and thank you.”

A delightful review was now made of their treasure. Busy hands arranged and sorted the heterogeneous mass. Archer, in the height of his glory, looked on, the acknowledged master of the whole. Townsend, who, in his prosperity as in adversity, saw and enjoyed the comic foibles of his friends, pushed De Grey, who was looking on with a more good-natured and more thoughtful air. “Friend,” said he, “you look like a great philosopher, and Archer a great hero.”

“And you, Townsend,” said Archer, “may look like a wit, if you will; but you will never be a hero.”

“No, no,” replied Townsend; “wits were never heroes, because they are wits. You are out of your wits, and therefore may set up for a hero.”

“Laugh, and welcome. I’m not a tyrant. I don’t want to restrain anybody’s wit; but I cannot say I admire puns.”

“Nor I, either,” said the time serving Fisher, sidling up to the manager, and picking the ice off a piece of plum-cake, “nor I either; I hate puns. I can never understand Townsend’s _puns_. Besides, anybody can make puns; and one doesn’t want wit, either, at all times; for instance, when one is going to settle about dinner, or business of consequence. Bless us all, Archer!” continued he, with sudden familiarity; “_what a sight of good things are here_! I’m sure we are much obliged to you and your cousin. I never thought he’d have come. Why, now we can hold out as long as you please. Let us see,” said he, dividing the provisions upon the table; “we can hold out to-day, and all to-morrow, and part of next day, maybe. Why, now we may defy the doctor and the Greybeards. The doctor will surely give up to us; for, you see, he knows nothing of all this, and he’ll think we are starving all this while; and he’d be afraid, you see, to let us starve quite, in reality, for three whole days, because of what would be said in the town. My Aunt Barbara, for one, would be _at him_ long before that time was out; and besides, you know, in that case, he’d be hanged for murder, which is quite another thing, in law, from a _Barring Out_, you know.”

Archer had not given to this harangue all the attention which it deserved, for his eye was fixed upon De Grey. “What is De Grey thinking of?” he asked, impatiently.

“I am thinking,” said De Grey, “that Dr. Middleton must believe that I have betrayed his confidence in me. The gardener was ordered away from his watch-post for one half-hour when I was admitted. This half-hour the gardener has made nearly a hour. I never would have come near you if I had foreseen all this. Dr. Middleton trusted me, and now he will repent of his confidence in me.”

“De Grey!” cried Archer, with energy, “he shall not repent of his confidence in you—nor shall you repent of coming amongst us. You shall find that we have some honour as well as yourself, and I will take care of your honour as if it were my _own_!”

“Hey-day!” interrupted Townsend; “are heroes allowed to change sides, pray? And does the chief of the Archers stand talking sentiment to the chief of the Greybeards? In the middle of his own party too!”

“Party!” repeated Archer, disdainfully; “I have done with parties! I see what parties are made of! I have felt the want of a friend, and I am determined to make one if I can.”

“That you may do,” said De Grey, stretching out his hand.

“Unbar the doors! unbar the windows!” exclaimed Archer. “Away with all these things! I give up for De Grey’s sake. He shall not lose his credit on my account.”

“No,” said De Grey, “you shall not give up for my sake.”

“Well, then, I’ll give up to do what is _honourable_,” said Archer.

“Why not to do what is _reasonable_?” said De Grey.

“_Reasonable_! Oh, the first thing that a man of spirit should think of is, what is _honourable_.”

“But how will he find out _what is_ honourable, unless he can reason?” replied De Grey.

“Oh,” said Archer, “his own feelings always tell him what is honourable.”

“Have not _your feelings_,” asked De Grey, “changed within these few hours?”

“Yes, with circumstances,” replied Archer; “but right or wrong, as long as I think it honourable to do so and so, I’m satisfied.”

“But you cannot think anything honourable, or the contrary,” observed De Grey, “without reasoning; and as to what you call feeling, it’s only a quick sort of reasoning.”

“The quicker, the better,” said Archer.

“Perhaps not,” said De Grey. “We are apt to reason best when we are not in quite so great a hurry.”

“But,” said Archer, “we have not always time enough to reason _at first_.”

“You must, however, acknowledge,” replied De Grey, smiling, “that no man but a fool thinks it honourable to be in the wrong _at last_. Is it not, therefore, best to begin by reasoning to find out the right _at first_?”

“To be sure,” said Archer.

“And did you reason with yourself at first? And did you find out that it was right to bar Dr. Middleton out of his own schoolroom, because he desired you not to go into one of his own houses?”

“No,” replied Archer; “but I should never have thought of heading a Barring Out, if he had not shown partiality; and if you had flown into a passion with me openly at once for pulling down your scenery, which would have been quite natural, and not have gone slily and forbid us the house out of revenge, there would have been none of this work.”

“Why,” said De Grey, “should you suspect me of such a mean action, when you have never seen or known me do anything mean, and when in this instance you have no proofs?”

“Will you give me your word and honour now, De Grey, before everybody here, that you did not do what I suspected?”

“I do assure you, upon my honour, I never, indirectly, spoke to Dr. Middleton about the playhouse.”

“Then,” said Archer, “I’m as glad as if I had found a thousand pounds! Now you are my friend indeed.”

“And Dr. Middleton—why should you suspect him without reason any more than me?”

“As to that,” said Archer, “he is your friend, and you are right to defend him; and I won’t say another word against him. Will that satisfy you?”

“Not quite.”

“Not quite! Then, indeed you are unreasonable!”

“No,” replied De Grey; “for I don’t wish you to yield out of friendship to me, any more than to honour. If you yield to reason, you will be governed by reason another time.”

“Well; but then don’t triumph over me, because you have the best side of the argument.”

“Not I! How can I?” said De Grey; “for now you are on _the best side_ as well as myself, are not you? So we may triumph together.”

“You are a good friend!” said Archer; and with great eagerness he pulled down the fortifications, whilst every hand assisted. The room was restored to order in a few minutes—the shutters were thrown open, the cheerful light let in. The windows were thrown up, and the first feeling of the fresh air was delightful. The green playgound opened before them, and the hopes of exercise and liberty brightened the countenances of these voluntary prisoners.

But, alas! they were not yet at liberty. The idea of Dr. Middleton, and the dread of his vengeance, smote their hearts. When the rebels had sent an ambassador with their surrender, they stood in pale and silent suspense, waiting for their doom.

“Ah!” said Fisher, looking up at the broken panes in the windows, “the doctor will think the most of _that_—he’ll never forgive us for that.”

“Hush! here he comes!” His steady step was heard approaching nearer and nearer. Archer threw open the door, and Dr. Middleton entered. Fisher instantly fell on his knees.

“It is no delight to me to see people on their knees. Stand up, Mr. Fisher. I hope you are all conscious that you have done wrong?”

“Sir,” said Archer, “they are conscious that they have done wrong, and so am I. I am the ringleader. Punish me as you think proper. I submit. Your punishments—your vengeance ought to fall on me alone!”

“Sir,” said Dr. Middleton, calmly, “I perceive that whatever else you may have learned in the course of your education, you have not been taught the meaning of the word punishment. Punishment and vengeance do not with us mean the same thing. _Punishment_ is pain given, with the reasonable hope of preventing those on whom it is inflicted from doing, _in future_, what will hurt themselves or others. _Vengeance_ never looks to the _future_, but is the expression of anger for an injury that is past. I feel no anger; you have done me no injury.”

Here many of the little boys looked timidly up to the windows. “Yes, I see that you have broken my windows; that is a small evil.”

“Oh, sir! How good! How merciful!” exclaimed those who had been most panic-struck. “He forgives us!”

“Stay,” resumed Dr. Middleton; “I cannot forgive you. I shall never revenge, but it is my duty to punish. You have rebelled against the just authority which is necessary to conduct and govern you whilst you have not sufficient reason to govern and conduct yourselves. Without obedience to the laws,” added he, turning to Archer, “as men, you cannot be suffered in society. You, sir, think yourself a man, I observe; and you think it the part of a man not to submit to the will of another. I have no pleasure in making others, whether men or children, submit to my _will_; but my reason and experience are superior to yours. Your parents at least think so, or they would not have intrusted me with the care of your education. As long as they do intrust you to my care, and as long as I have any hopes of making you wiser and better by punishment, I shall steadily inflict it, whenever I judge it to be necessary, and I judge it to be necessary _now_. This is a long sermon, Mr. Archer, not preached to show my own eloquence, but to convince your understanding. Now, as to your punishment!”

“Name it, sir,” said Archer; “whatever it is, I will cheerfully submit to it.”

“Name it yourself,” said Dr. Middleton, “and show me that you now understand the nature of punishment.”

Archer, proud to be treated like a reasonable creature, and sorry that he had behaved like a foolish schoolboy, was silent for some time, but at length replied, “That he would rather not name his own punishment.” He repeated, however, that he trusted he should bear it well, whatever it might be.

“I shall, then,” said Dr. Middleton, “deprive you, for two months, of pocket-money, as you have had too much, and have made a bad use of it.”

“Sir,” said Archer, “I brought five guineas with me to school. This guinea is all that I have left.”