pressing his left hand hard against the taut muscles of his stomach.
“You ... you snatched it!” he gibbered, “you ... you snatched it from me?”
“He wasn't moving, he stopped when the whistle blew,” repeated Bernard, doggedly.
Boxer had now straightened up, and was massaging his crimson ear.
“I wasn't, neither,” he corroborated flatly.
A strangled, inarticulate sound issued from Mr. Little's moist lips. It sounded vaguely like the word “snatch”, but it might have been anything.
Suddenly, unexpected corroboration came from another source. The small boy whom Boxer had flattened decided to defend his own honour, and deny in advance any possible claim of “weak horses”, a claim that would have undoubtedly been made by Boxer's team, had the whistle not sounded when it did.
“He fell off,” said the small boy, adding grudgingly, “but he stopped falling, soon as the whistle blew, I sore it!”
For a moment it seemed to those watching that Mr. Little was considering the scientific aspect of this remarkable assertion, that he was, in effect, trying very hard to picture to himself a boy's body defying the laws of gravity in a praiseworthy attempt to obey his headmaster's injunction to the very letter.
Then two things happened simultaneously. Mr. Little's first spasm doubled him up like a jack-knife, and the ranks surrounding the group suddenly found courage in their numbers and anonymity.
They began to groan and hiss, first a few, well away at theback, and then all of them, even those standing directly under Mr. Little's eye.
The sound of their own voices encouraged them. In a moment the groans became shouts and catcalls; then they stopped hissing, and began to laugh, and thump one another, to hop about exultantly, point directly at the gasping figure of Mr. Little in their midst, and vie with one another in the violence of the personal abuse they hurled at him.
Then, as the first wave of pain receded, and Mr. Little half-straightened himself, a tall boy, known as Lofty Gibson, recognised as one of the more daring spirits, sang out:
“Shorty's got the belly-ache! Shorty's got the belly-ache!”, and the cry was immediately taken up on all sides, until every boy in the enclosure was hopping up and down to the rhythm of “Shorty's got the belly-ache!”, shouted at the top of his voice.
For a period of about five minutes the entire school drank deeply of the wine of revolution. It was very intoxicating, and they savoured every sip. For all who were present it was to prove the high spot of their stay at Havelock Park School, and those that took part never forgot the incident. Years afterwards, when one Havelock Road old boy of this cadre encountered another he would always say: “Remember the revolution?” It became a kind of pass-word among them, and those who were too old or too young to have witnessed it regarded it as having established an epoch in the history of the school, so that Havelock Road events were always labelled “Before the Revolution”, and “After the Revolution”.
Yet it all ended rather lamely.
From the staff-room window, Mr. Porless, the second master, and deputy Head during Mr. Little's periodical spells of absence, put through a panic telephone call to one of the regular inspectors, with whom he had recently had a guarded conversation on the subject of Mr. Little's fitness to command. The inspector, who lived in the Lower Road, owned a motor-cycle, and arrived on the spot within ten minutes of the outbreak. He was an ex-regular officer in the Buffs, and his experienced eye took in the scene the moment he had parked his machine against the railings. The boys nearest the road ceased to chant as soon as the inspector appeared, andwhen he climbed upon the brick base of the iron gates, and roared “Shut up!”, in a voice that had terrified recruits in a dozen base camps, and on hill-station parade-grounds, the chanting ceased altogether and there was a general scuttle
“You ... you snatched it!” he gibbered, “you ... you snatched it from me?”
“He wasn't moving, he stopped when the whistle blew,” repeated Bernard, doggedly.
Boxer had now straightened up, and was massaging his crimson ear.
“I wasn't, neither,” he corroborated flatly.
A strangled, inarticulate sound issued from Mr. Little's moist lips. It sounded vaguely like the word “snatch”, but it might have been anything.
Suddenly, unexpected corroboration came from another source. The small boy whom Boxer had flattened decided to defend his own honour, and deny in advance any possible claim of “weak horses”, a claim that would have undoubtedly been made by Boxer's team, had the whistle not sounded when it did.
“He fell off,” said the small boy, adding grudgingly, “but he stopped falling, soon as the whistle blew, I sore it!”
For a moment it seemed to those watching that Mr. Little was considering the scientific aspect of this remarkable assertion, that he was, in effect, trying very hard to picture to himself a boy's body defying the laws of gravity in a praiseworthy attempt to obey his headmaster's injunction to the very letter.
Then two things happened simultaneously. Mr. Little's first spasm doubled him up like a jack-knife, and the ranks surrounding the group suddenly found courage in their numbers and anonymity.
They began to groan and hiss, first a few, well away at theback, and then all of them, even those standing directly under Mr. Little's eye.
The sound of their own voices encouraged them. In a moment the groans became shouts and catcalls; then they stopped hissing, and began to laugh, and thump one another, to hop about exultantly, point directly at the gasping figure of Mr. Little in their midst, and vie with one another in the violence of the personal abuse they hurled at him.
Then, as the first wave of pain receded, and Mr. Little half-straightened himself, a tall boy, known as Lofty Gibson, recognised as one of the more daring spirits, sang out:
“Shorty's got the belly-ache! Shorty's got the belly-ache!”, and the cry was immediately taken up on all sides, until every boy in the enclosure was hopping up and down to the rhythm of “Shorty's got the belly-ache!”, shouted at the top of his voice.
For a period of about five minutes the entire school drank deeply of the wine of revolution. It was very intoxicating, and they savoured every sip. For all who were present it was to prove the high spot of their stay at Havelock Park School, and those that took part never forgot the incident. Years afterwards, when one Havelock Road old boy of this cadre encountered another he would always say: “Remember the revolution?” It became a kind of pass-word among them, and those who were too old or too young to have witnessed it regarded it as having established an epoch in the history of the school, so that Havelock Road events were always labelled “Before the Revolution”, and “After the Revolution”.
Yet it all ended rather lamely.
From the staff-room window, Mr. Porless, the second master, and deputy Head during Mr. Little's periodical spells of absence, put through a panic telephone call to one of the regular inspectors, with whom he had recently had a guarded conversation on the subject of Mr. Little's fitness to command. The inspector, who lived in the Lower Road, owned a motor-cycle, and arrived on the spot within ten minutes of the outbreak. He was an ex-regular officer in the Buffs, and his experienced eye took in the scene the moment he had parked his machine against the railings. The boys nearest the road ceased to chant as soon as the inspector appeared, andwhen he climbed upon the brick base of the iron gates, and roared “Shut up!”, in a voice that had terrified recruits in a dozen base camps, and on hill-station parade-grounds, the chanting ceased altogether and there was a general scuttle
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