Reginald Cruden - A Tale of City Life

Talbot Baines Reed

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• Publié par: nusig
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 42
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Reginald Cruden, by Talbot Baines Reed This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Reginald Cruden A Tale of City Life Author: Talbot Baines Reed Release Date: April 12, 2007 [EBook #21043] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REGINALD CRUDEN *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Talbot Baines Reed "Reginald Cruden" Chapter One. An interrupted Bathe. It was a desperately hot day. There had been no day like it all the summer. Indeed, Squires, the head gardener at Garden Vale, positively asserted that there had been none like it since he had been employed on the place, which was fourteen years last March. Squires, by the way, never lost an opportunity of reminding himself and the world generally of the length of his services to the family at Garden Vale; and on the strength of those fourteen years he gave himself airs as if the place belonged not to Mr Cruden at all, but to himself. He was the terror of his mistress, who scarcely dared to peep into a greenhouse without his leave, and although he could never exactly obtain from the two young gentlemen the respect to which he considered himself entitled, he still flattered himself in secret “they couldn’t do exactly what they liked with his garden!” To-day, however, it was so hot that even Squires, after having expressed the opinion on the weather above mentioned, withdrew himself into the coolest recess of his snug lodge and slept sweetly, leaving the young gentlemen, had they been so minded, to take any liberty they liked with “his” garden. The young gentlemen, however, were not so minded. They had been doing their best to play lawn tennis in the blazing sun with two of their friends, but it was too hot to run, too hot to hit, and far too hot to score, so the attempt had died away, and three of them now reclined on the sloping bank under the laurel hedge, dividing their time between lazily gazing up at the dark-blue sky and watching the proceedings of the fourth of their party, who still remained in the courts. This last-mentioned youth, who, to judge by his countenance, was brother to one of those who lolled on the bank, presented a curious contrast to the general languor of the afternoon. Deserted by his companions in the sport, he was relieving himself of some of his superfluous energy by the novel diversion of playing tennis with himself. This he accomplished by serving the ball high up in the air and then jumping the net, so as to take it on the other side, following up his return by another leap over the net, and so on till either he or the ball came to grief. On an ordinary day the exertion involved in this pastime would be quite enough for any ordinary individual, but on a day like the present, with the thermometer at ninety in the shade, it was a trifle too much even to watch. “For goodness’ sake shut up, Horrors,” said the elder brother. “We might as well be playing ourselves as watch you at that sort of thing.” The young gentleman addressed as Horrors was at that moment in the midst of one of his aerial flights, and had neither leisure nor breath to answer. “Do you hear?” repeated the other. “If you want to keep warm, go indoors and put on a great-coat, but don’t fag us to death with that foolery.” “Eight!” exclaimed the young athlete, scoring the number of times the ball had crossed the net, and starting for another jump. “Shut up, Reg, till I’ve done.” He soon was done. Even Horace Cruden could not keep it up for ever, and at his tenth bound his foot caught in the net, and he came all fours on to the court. “There, now you’re happy!” said his brother. “Now you may as well come and sit here out of the cold.” Horace picked himself up, laughing. “All very well,” said he. “I’m certain I should have done it twelve times if you hadn’t put me off my jump. Never mind, I’ll do it yet.” “Oh, Horace,” interposed one of the others, beseechingly, “if you love us, lie down now. I’m quite ill watching you, I assure you. We’ll all vow we saw you do it twelve times; we’ll put it in the Times if you like, and say the net was five feet ten; anything, as long as you don’t start at it again.” This appeal had the effect of reducing the volatile Horace to a state of quiescence, and inducing him to come and share the shade with his companions. “Never saw such a lazy lot,” said he, lying flat on his back and balancing his racquet on his finger; “you won’t do anything yourselves and you won’t let any one else do anything. Regular dogs in the manger.” “My dear fellow,” said the fourth of the party in a half drawl, “we’ve been doing nothing but invite you in to the manger for the last hour, and you wouldn’t come. Can’t you take a holiday while we’ve got one?” “Bad luck to it,” said Reginald; “there’s only a week more.” “I don’t see why you need growl, old man,” said the visitor who had spoken first; “you’ll get into the sixth and have a study to yourself, and no mathematics unless you like.” “Poor Harker,” said Horace, “he’s always down on mathematics. Anyhow, I shan’t be sorry to show up at Wilderham again, shall you, Bland?” “Depends on the set we get,” drawled Bland (whose full name was Blandford). “I hear there’s a crowd of new fellows coming, and I hate new fellows.” “A fellow must be new some time or other,” said Horace. “Harker and I were new boys once, weren’t we, Harker?” Harker, who had shared the distinction of being tossed with Horace in the same blanket every night for the first week of his sojourn at Wilderham, had not forgotten the fact, and ejaculated,— “Rather!” “The mischief is,” continued Blandford, “they get such a shady lot of fellows there now. The school’s not half as respectable as it was—there are far too many shopkeepers’ sons and that sort of—” “Sort of animal, he’d like to say,” laughed Horace. “Bland can’t get over