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  Ruskin Bond has been writing for over sixty years, and has now over 120 titles in print—novels, collections of stories, poetry, essays, anthologies and books for children. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, received the prestigious John Llewellyn Rhys award in 1957. He has also received the Padma Shri, and two awards from the Sahitya Akademi—one for his short stories and another for his writings for children. In 2012, the Delhi government gave him its Lifetime Achievement award.

  Born in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Shimla, New Delhi and Dehradun. Apart from three years in the UK, he has spent all his life in India, and now lives in Mussoorie with his adopted family.

  A shy person, Ruskin says he likes being a writer because 'When I'm writing there's nobody watching me. Today, it's hard to find a profession where you're not being watched!'

  School Times

  Edited by

  Ruskin Bond

  RUPA

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2010

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

  New Delhi 110002

  Selection copyright © Ruskin Bond 2010

  Copyright of individual stories remain with the individual authors

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-81-291-1649-9

  Sixth impression 2014

  10 9 8 7 6

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher's prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  Contents

  The Four Feathers

  Ruskin Bond

  Frank Fairleigh Sees the Macintosh Wonder, and Rides Mad Bess

  Francis Edward Smedley

  A Fest of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles at St. Dominic's

  Talbot Baines Reed

  The Last Lesson

  Alphonse Daudet

  Schooldays: Raising the Wind

  Gilbert Harding

  My Grandmother and the Dirty English

  Aubrey Menen

  Prep School

  Lord Berners

  A Pair of Steel Spectacles

  Richard Church

  The Phantom Ship Steered by A Dead Man's Hand

  Matthew Henry Barker

  What Happened to a Father Who Became a Schoolboy

  F. Anstey

  Nino Diablo

  W.H. Hudson

  Undershorts and Roses

  Muzaffer Izgu

  Til Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks

  Ullie's Dream

  Heisel Anne Allison

  Dreams of Elephants

  Thomas Palakeel

  The Mountain

  Charles Mungoshi

  Snails

  Dibakar Barua

  Charge!

  Stephen Crane

  Boy Among the Writers

  David Garnett

  The Old Jug-Dodge has an Unexpected Victim

  Talbot Baines Reed

  Getting Granny's Glasses

  Ruskin Bond

  The Four Feathers

  Ruskin Bond

  OUR SCHOOL DORMITORY WAS A VERY LONG ROOM WITH ABOUT thirty beds, fifteen on either side of the room. This was good for pillow fights. Class V would take on class VII (the two senior classes in our Prep-school) and there would be plenty of space for leaping, struggling small boys, pillows flying, feathers flying, until there was a cry of 'Here comes Fishy!' or 'Here comes Olly!' and either Mr Fisher, the headmaster, or Mr Oliver, the senior master, would come striding in, cane in hand, to put an end to the general mayhem. Pillow fights were allowed, up to a point; nobody got hurt. But parents sometimes complained if, at the end of the term, a boy came home with a pillow devoid of cotton-wool or feathers.

  In that last year at Prep-school in Simla, there were four of us who were close friends – Bimal, whose home was in Bombay; Riaz, who came from Lahore; Brian, who hailed from Vellore; and your narrator, who lived wherever his father (then in the Air Force) was posted.

  We called ourselves 'four feathers' – the feathers signifying that we were companions in adventure, comrades in arms, knights of the round table, etc. Bimal adopted a peacock's feather as his emblem; he was always a bit showy. Riaz chose a falcon's feather – although we couldn't find one. Brian and I were at first offered crows or murghi feathers, but we protested vigorously and threatened a walk-out. Finally, I settled for a parrot's feather (taken from Mr Fisher's pet parrot), and Brian found a woodpecker's, which suited him, as he was always knocking things about.

  Bimal was all thin legs and arms, so light and frisky that at times he seemed to be walking on air. We called him 'Bambi', after the delicate little deer in the Disney Film. Riaz, on the other hand, was a sturdy boy, good at games but not very studious; but always good-natured, always smiling. Brian was a dark, good-looking boy from the south; he was just a little spoilt – hated being given out in a cricket match and would refuse to leave the crease! – but he was affectionate and a loyal friend. I was the 'scribe' – good at inventing stories in order to get out of scrapes – but hopeless at sums, my highest marks being 22 out of 100.

  On Sunday afternoons, when there were no classes or organised games, we were allowed to roam about on the hillside below the school. The four feathers would laze about on the short summer grass, sharing the occasional food parcel from home, reading comics (sometimes a book), and making plans for the long winter holidays. My father, who collected everything from stamps to sea-shells to butterflies, had given me a butterfly-net and urged me to try and catch a rare species which, he said, was found only near Chotta Simla. He described it as a large purple butterfly with yellow and black borders on its wings. A 'Purple Emperor', I think it was called. As I wasn't very good at identifying butterflies, I would chase anything that happened to flit across the school grounds, usually ending up with common 'red admirals', 'clouded yellows', or 'cabbage whites'. But that 'Purple Emperor' – that rare specimen being sought by collectors the world over – proved elusive. I would have to seek my fortune in some other line of endeavour.

  One day, scrambling about among the rocks and thorny bushes below the school, I almost fell over a small bundle lying in the shade of a young spruce tree. On taking a closer look, I discovered that the bundle was really a baby, wrapped up in a tattered old blanket.

  'Feathers, feathers!' I called, 'come here and look. A baby's been left here!'

  The feathers joined me, and we all stared down at the infant, who was fast asleep.

  'Who would leave a baby on the hillside?' asked Bimal of no one in particular.

  'Someone who doesn't want it,' said Brian.

  'And hoped some good people would come along and keep it,' said Riaz.

  'A panther might have come along instead,' I said. 'Can't leave it here.'

  'Well, we'll just have to adopt it,' said Bimal.

  'We can't adopt a baby,' said Brian.

  'Why not?'

  'We have to be married.'

  'We don't.'

  'Not us, you dope. The grown-ups who adopt babies.'

  'Well, we can't just leave it here for grown-ups to come along,' I said.

  'We do
n't even know if it's a boy or a girl,' said Riaz.

  'Makes no difference. A baby's a baby. Let's take it back to school.'

  'And keep it in the dormitory?'

  'Of course not. Who's going to feed it? Babies need milk. We'll hand it over to Mrs Fisher. She doesn't have a baby.'

  'Maybe she doesn't want one. Look, it's beginning to cry. Let's hurry!'

  Riaz picked up the wide-awake and crying baby and gave it to Bimal who gave it to Brian who gave it to me. The four feathers marched up the hill to school with a very noisy baby.

  'Now it has done potty in the blanket,' I complained, 'and some of it is on my shirt.'

  'Never mind,' said Bimal. 'It's in a good cause. You're a Boy scout, remember. You're supposed to help people in distress.'

  The headmaster and his wife were in their drawing-room, enjoying their afternoon tea and cakes. We trudged in, and Bimal announced, 'We've got something for Mrs Fisher.'

  Mrs Fisher took a look at the bundle in my arms and let out a shriek. 'What have you brought here, Bond?'

  'A baby ma'am. I think it's a girl. Do you want to adopt it?'

  Mrs Fisher threw up her arms in consternation, and turned to her husband. 'What are we to do, Frank? These boys are impossible. They've picked up someone's child!'

  'We'll have to inform the police,' said Mr Fisher, reaching for the telephone, 'we can't have lost babies in the school.'

  Just then there was a commotion outside, and a wild-eyed woman, her clothes disheveled, entered at the front door accompanied by several men-folk from one of the villages. She ran towards us, crying out, 'My baby, my baby! Mera bachcha! You've stolen my baby!'

  'We found it on the hillside,' I stammered.

  'That's right,' said Brian. 'Finders keepers!'

  'Quiet, Adams,' said Mr Fisher, holding up his hand for order and addressing the villagers in a friendly manner. 'These boys found the baby alone on the hillside and brought it here before—before—'

  'Before the hyaenas got it,' I put in.

  'Quite right, Bond. And why did you leave your child alone?' he asked the woman.

  'I put her down for five minutes so that I could climb the plum tree and collect the plums. When I came down, the baby had gone! But I could hear it crying up on the hill. I called the men-folk and we came here looking for it.'

  'Well, here's your baby,' I said, thrusting it into her arms. By then I was glad to be rid of it! 'Look after it properly in future.'

  'Kidnapper!' she screamed at me.

  Mr Fisher succeeded in mollifying the villagers. 'These boys are good scouts,' he told them. 'It's their business to help people.'

  'Scout Laws Number Three, Sir,' I added. 'To be useful and helpful.'

  And then the headmaster turned the tables on the villagers. 'By the way, these plum trees belong to the school. So do the peaches and apricots. Now I know why they've been disappearing so fast!'

  The villagers, a little chastened, went their way. Mr Fisher reached for his cane. From the way he fondled it I knew he was itching to use it on our bottoms.

  'No, Frank,' said Mrs Fisher, intervening on our behalf. 'It was really very sweet of them to look after that baby. And look at Bond – he's got baby-goo all over his clothes.'

  'So he has. Go and take a bath, all of you. And what are you grinning about, Bond?' asked Mr Fisher.

  'Scout Law Number Eight, Sir. A scout smiles and whistles under all difficulties.

  And so ended the first adventure of the four feathers.

  Frank Fairleigh Sees the Macintosh Wonder, and Rides Mad Bess

  Francis Edward Smedley

  Francis Edward Smedley, the novelist, explaining how he came to write Frank Fairleigh, says 'it struck me that, while volume after volume had been devoted to "Schoolboy Days", and "College Life", the mysteries of that paradise of public-school-fearing mammas – a Private Tutor's – yet continued unrevealed.' And so he resolved 'to enlighten these tender parents as to the precise nature of the rosebud into which they were so anxious to transplant their darlings.' Here then is a picture of a 'rosebud' of the early nineteenth century. Many of the incidents of Frank Fairleigh were based on the author's actual experiences. The story of the Macintosh has some historical interest. That useful garment was the result of an invention of Charles Macintosh, a Scottish chemist, who in 1823 took out a patent for his water-proof, or 'mackintosh' clot: here Frank Fairleigh sees it for the first time.

  ON RETURNING TO THE PUPILS' ROOM, LAWLESS COMMENCED (TO my great delight, as I thereby enjoyed a complete immunity from his somewhat troublesome attentions) a full, true, and particular account of the pigeon-match, in which his friend Clayton had, with unrivalled skill, slain a sufficient number of victims to furnish forth pies for the supply of the whole mess during the ensuing fortnight. At length, however, all was said that could be said, even upon this interesting subject, and the narrator, casting his eyes around in search of wherewithal to amuse himself, changed to espy my new writing-desk, a parting gift from my little sister Fanny, who, with the self-denial of true affection, had saved up her pocket-money during many previous months, in order to provide funds for this munificent present.

  'Pinafore, is that desk yours?' demanded Lawless.

  Not much admiring the sobriquet by which he chose to address me, I did not feel myself called upon to reply.

  Are you deaf, stupid? Don't you hear me speaking to you? Where did you get that writing-desk?'

  Still I did not answer.

  'Sulky, eh? I shall have to lick him before long, I see. Here you, what's your name? Fairleigh, did your grandmother give you that writing-desk?'

  'No,' I replied, 'my sister Fanny gave it to me the day before I left home.'

  'Oh, you have got sister Fanny, have you? How old is she, and what is she like?'

  'She is just thirteen, and she has got the dearest little face in the world,' I answered, earnestly, as the recollection of her bright blue eyes and sunny smile came across me.

  'How interesting!' sighed Coleman; 'it quite makes my heart beat; you could not send for her, could you?'

  'And she gave you that desk, did she? – how very kind of her,' resumed Lawless, putting the poker in the fire.

  'Yes, was it not?' I said eagerly. 'I would not have any harm happen to it for more than I can tell.'

  'So, I suppose,' replied Lawless, still, devoting himself to the poker, which was rapidly becoming red-hot. 'Have you ever,' continued he, 'seen this new way they have of ornamenting things? Encaustic work, I think they call it; it's done by the application of heat, you know.'

  'I never even heard of it,' I said.

  'Ah! I thought not,' enjoined Lawless. 'Well, as I happen to understand the process, I'll condescend to enlighten your ignorance. Mullins, give me that desk.'

  My design was, however, frustrated by Cumberland and Lawless, who, both throwing themselves upon me at the same moment, succeeded, despite my struggles, in forcing me into a chair, where they held me, while Mullins, by their direction, with the aid of sundry neckcloths, braces, etc., tied my hand and foot; Coleman, who attempted to interfere in my behalf, receiving a push which sent him reeling across the room, and a hint that if he did not mind his own business he would be served in the same manner.

  Having thus effectually placed me horse de combat, Lawless took possession of my poor writing-desk, and commenced tracing on the top thereof, with the red-hot poker, what he was pleased to term a 'design from the antique,' which consisted of a spirited outline of that riddle-loving female, the Sphinx, as she appeared when dressed in top-boots and a wide-awake, and regaling herself with a choice cigar! He was giving the finishing touch to a large pair of moustaches, with which he had embellished her countenance, and which he declared was the only thing wanting to complete the likeness to an old aunt of Dr Mildman's, whom the pupils usually designated by the endearing appellation of 'Growler', when the door opened, and Thomas announced that 'Smithson' was waiting to see Mr Lawless.

  'Oh yes, to b
e sure, let him come in; no, wait a minute. Here, you, Coleman and Mullins, untie Fairleigh; be quick! – confound that desk, how it smells of burning, and I have made my hands all black too. Well, Smithson, have you brought the things?"

  The person to whom this query was addressed, was a young man, attired in the extreme of the fashion, who lounged into the room, with a 'quite at home' kind of air, and nodding familiarly all around, arranged his curls with a ring-adorned hand, as he replied in a drawling tone:

  'Ya'as, Mr Lawless, we're all right – punctual to a moment – always ready "to come to time," as we say in the ring.'

  'Who is he?' I whispered to Coleman.

  'Who is he?' replied Coleman 'why the best fellow in the world, to be sure. Don't know Smithson, the prince of tailors, the tailor par excellence! I suppose you never heard of the Duke of Wellington, have you?'

  I replied humbly, that I believed I had heard the name of that illustrious individual mentioned in connection with Waterloo and the Peninsula – and that I was accustomed to regard him as the first man of the age.

  'Aye, well then, Smithson is the second; though I really don't know whether he is not quite as great in his way as Wellington, upon my honour. The last pair of trousers he made for Lawless were something sublime, too good for this wicked world, a great deal.'

  During this brief conversation, Smithson had been engaged in extricating a somewhat voluminous garment from the interior of a blue bag, which a boy, who accompanied him, had just placed inside the study-door.

  'There, this is the new invention I told you about; a man named Macintosh hit upon it. Now, with this coat on, you might stand under a water-fall without getting even damp. Try it on, Mr Lawless; just the thing, eh, gents?'

  Our curiosity being roused by this panegyric, we gathered around Lawless to examine the garment which had called it forth. Such of my readers as recollect the first introduction of Macintoshes, will doubtless remember that the earlier specimens of the race differed very materially in form from those which are in use at the present day. The one we were now inspecting was of a whity-brown colour, and though it had sleeves like a coat, hung in straight folds from the waist to the ankles, somewhat after the fashion of a carter's frock, having huge pockets at sides, and fastening round the neck with a hook and eye.