Mr. Tinkler made no articulate reply, but sat down with a crushed
expression, and set himself to devour bread and butter with an energy
which he hoped would divert attention from his blushes; and almost
immediately the Doctor looked at his watch and said, "Now, boys, you
have half-an-hour for 'chevy'--make the most of it. When you come in I
shall have something to say to you all. Don't rise, Mr. Tinkler, unless
you have quite finished."
Mr. Tinkler preferred leaving his breakfast to continuing it under the
trying ordeal of his principal's inspection. So, hastily murmuring that
he had "made an excellent breakfast"--which he had not--he followed the
others, who clattered upstairs to put on their boots and go out into the
playground.
It was noticeable that they did so without much of the enthusiasm which
might be looked for from boys dismissed to their sports. But the fact
was that this particular sport, "chevy," commonly known as "prisoners'
base," was by no means a popular amusement, being of a somewhat
monotonous nature, and calling for no special skill on the part of the
performers. Besides this, moreover, it had the additional disadvantage
(which would have been fatal to a far more fascinating diversion) of
being in a great measure compulsory.
Football and cricket were of course reserved for half-holidays, and
played in a neighbouring field rented by the Doctor, and in the
playground he restricted them to "chevy," which he considered, rightly
enough, both gave them abundant exercise and kept them out of mischief.
Accordingly, if any adventurous spirit started a rival game, it was
usually abandoned sooner or later in deference to suggestions from
headquarters which were not intended to be disregarded.
This, though undoubtedly well meant, did not serve to stimulate their
affection for the game, an excellent one in moderation, but one which,
if played "by special desire" two or three hours a day for weeks in
succession is apt to lose its freshness and pall upon the youthful mind.
It was a bright morning. There had been a hard frost during the night,
and the ground was hard, sparkling with rime and ringing to the foot.
The air was keen and invigorating, and the bare black branches of the
trees were outlined clear and sharp against the pale pure blue of the
morning sky.
Just the weather for a long day's skating over the dark green glassy
ice, or a bracing tramp on country roads into cheery red-roofed market
towns. But now it had lost all power to charm. It was almost depressing
by the contrast between the boundless liberty suggested, and the dull
reality of a round of uninteresting work which was all it heralded.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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