The Protest Against Sinkers
The feeling of revolt sprang up at chapel during the head master’s weekly talk. Ordinarily the school awaited these moments with expectation, received them with tolerance and drew from them all the humour that could be extracted.
These little heart-to-heart talks brought joy to many an overweighted brain and obliterated momentarily the slow, dragging months of slush and hail. They also added, from time to time, picturesque expressions to the school vocabulary—and for that much was forgiven them. No one who heard it will ever forget the slashing that descended from the rostrum on the demon tobacco, in its embodied vice, the cigarette, nor the chill that ran over each of the four hundred cigarette smokers as the head master, with his boring glance straight on him, concluded:
“Yes, I know what you boys will say; I know what your plea will be when you are caught. You will come to me and you’ll say with tears in your eyes, with tears:
“‘Doctor, think of my mother—my poor mother—it will kill my mother!’
“I tell you, now is the time to think of your mother; now is the time to spare her grey hairs. Every cigarette you boys smoke is a nail in the coffin of your mother.”
It was terrific. The school was unanimous in its verdict that the old man had outdone himself. Boys, whom a whiff of tobacco rendered instantly ill, smoked up the ventilators that night with shivers of delight, and from that day to this a cigarette has never been called anything but a coffin-nail.
Only the week before, in announcing the suspension of Corkscrew Higgins (since with the ministry), for, among other offences, mistaking the initials on the hat of Bucky Oliver as his own, the head master in his determination to abolish forever such deadly practices, had given forth the following:
“Young gentlemen, it is my painful duty, my very painful duty, to announce to you the suspension of the boy Higgins. The boy Higgins was a sloth, the boy Higgins was the prince of sloths! The boy Higgins was a gambler, the boy Higgins was the prince of gamblers! The boy Higgins was a liar, the boy Higgins was the prince of liars! The boy Higgins was a thief, the boy Higgins was the prince of thieves! Therefore, the boy Higgins will no longer be a member of this community!”
The school pardoned the exaggeration in its admiration for the rhetoric, which was rated up to the oration against Catiline. But on the first Monday of that lean month of February the school rose in revolt. In a tirade against the alarming decline in the percentage of scholastic marks the head master, flinging all caution to the winds, had terminated with these incendiary words:
“I know what the trouble is, and I’ll tell you. The trouble with you boys is Inordinate and Immoderate Eating. The trouble with you boys is—You Eat Too Much!”
Such a groan as went up! To comprehend the monstrosity of the accusation it is not sufficient to have been a boy; one must have retained the memory of the sharp pains and gnawing appetites of those growing days! Four hundred-odd famished forms, just from breakfast, suddenly galvanised by that unmerited blow, roared forth a unanimous indignant:
“What!”
“Eat too much!”—they could hardly believe their ears. Had the head master of the school, with years of personal experience, actually, in his sober mind, proclaimed that they ate too much! The words had been said; the accusation had to stand. And such a time to proclaim it—in the month of sliced bananas and canned vegetables! The protest that rumbled and growled in the under-form houses exploded in the Dickinson.
It so happened that for days there had been a dull grumbling about the monotony of the daily meals and the regularity and frequency of the appearance of certain abhorrent dishes, known as “scrag-birds and sinkers.” “Scrag-bird” was a generic term, allowing a wide latitude for conjecture, but “sinker” was an opprobrious epithet dedicated to a particularly hard, doughy substance that under more favourable auspices sometimes, without fear of contradiction, achieves the name of “dumpling.”
The “sinker” was, undoubtedly, the deadliest enemy of the growing boy—the most persistent, the most malignant. It knew no laws and it defied all restraint. It languished in the spring, but thrived and multiplied amazingly in the canned, winter term. It was as likely to bob up in a swimming dish of boiled chicken as it was certain to accompany a mutton stew. It associated at times with veal and attached itself to corned beef; it concealed itself in a beefsteak pie and clung to a leg of lamb. What the red rag is to the bull, the pudgy white of the “sinker” was to the boys, who, in a sort of desperate hope of exterminating the species, never allowed one to return intact to the kitchen. Twice a week was the allotted appearance of the “sinker”; at a third visit grumbling would break out; at a fourth arose threats of leaving for Andover or Exeter, of writing home, of boycotting the luncheon.
Now, it so happened that during the preceding week the “sinker” had inflicted itself not four, but actually six, times on that community of aching voids. The brutal accusation of the head master was the spark to the powder. The revolt assumed head and form during the day, and a call for a meeting of protest was unanimously made for that very night.
The boys met with the spirit of the Boston Tea Party, resolved to defend their liberties and assert their independence. The inevitable Doc Macnooder was to address the meeting. He spoke naturally, fluently, with great sounding phrases, on any occasion, on any topic, for his own pure delight, and he always continued to speak until violently suppressed.
“Fellows,” he began, without apologies to history—“we are met to decide once and for all whether we are a free governing body, to ask ourselves what is all this worth? For weeks we have endured, supinely on our backs, the tyranny of Mrs. Van Asterbilt, the matron of this House. We have, I say, supinely permitted each insult to pass unchallenged. But the hour has struck, the worm has turned, the moment has come and, without the slightest hesitation, I ask you... I ask you... what do I ask you?” he paused, and appealed for enlightenment.
The meeting found him guilty of levity and threatened him with the ban of silence.
Macnooder looked grieved and continued: “I ask you to strike as your fathers struck. I ask you to string the bow, to whet the knife, to sharpen the tomahawk, to loose the dogs of war——”
Amid a storm of whoops and cat-calls, Macnooder was pulled back into his seat. He rose and explained that his peroration was completed and demanded the inalienable right to express his opinions.
The demand was rejected by a vote of eighty-two to one (Macnooder voting).
Butcher Stevens rose with difficulty and, clutching the shoulder of Red Dog in front of him, addressed the gathering as follows:
“Fellows, I am no silver-tongued orator and all I want to say is just a few words. I think we want to treat this thing seriously.” (Cries of “Hear! hear!” “Right.”) “I think, fellows, this is a very serious matter, and I think we ought to take some action. This food matter is getting pretty bad. I don’t think, fellows, that we ought to stand for ‘sinkers’ the way they’re coming at us, without some action. I don’t know just what action we ought to take, but I think we ought really to take some action.”
The Butcher subsided into his seat amid immense applause. Lovely Mead arose and jangling the keys in his trousers pocket, addressed the ceiling in rapid, jerky periods:
“Fellows, I think we ought to begin by taking a vote—a vote. I think—I think the sentiment of this meeting is about made up—made up. I think my predecessor has very clearly expressed the—the—has voiced the sentiments of this meeting—very clearly. I think a vote would clear the air, therefore I move we take a vote.”
He sighed contentedly and returned into the throng. Doc Macnooder sarcastically demanded what they were to vote upon. Lovely Mead, in great confusion, rose and stammered:
“I meant to say, Mr. Chairman, that I move we take a vote, take a vote to—to take some action.”
“Action about what?” said the merciless Macnooder.
Lovely Mead remained speechless. Hungry Smeed interposed glibly:
“Mister Chairman, I move that it is the sense of this meeting that we should take some action looking toward the remedying of the present condition of our daily meals.”
The motion was passed and the chairman announced that he was ready to hear suggestions as to the nature of the act, as contemplated. A painful silence succeeded.
Macnooder rose and asked permission to offer a suggestion. The demand was repulsed. Wash Simmons moved that at the next appearance of the abhorrent “sinkers,” they should rise and leave the room en masse. It was decided that the plan entailed too many sacrifices, and it was rejected.
Crazy Opdyke from the Woodhull developed the following scheme, full of novelty and imagination:
“I say, fellows, I’ve got an idea, you know. What we want is an object lesson, you know, something striking. Now, fellows, this is what I propose: We’re eighty-five of us in these dining-rooms; now, at two ‘sinkers’ each, that makes one hundred and seventy ‘sinkers’ every time; at six times that makes one thousand ‘sinkers’ a week. What we want to do is to carry off the ‘sinkers’ from table, save them up, and at the end of the week make a circle of them around the campus as an object lesson!”
Macnooder, again, was refused permission to speak in support of this measure, which had an instant appeal to the imagination of the audience. In the end, however, the judgment of the more serious prevailed, and the motion was lost by a close vote. After more discussion the meeting finally decided to appoint an embassy of three, who should instantly proceed to the head master’s, and firmly lay before him the Woodhull’s and the Dickinson’s demand for unconditional and immediate suppression of that indigestible and totally ornamental article known as “the sinker.” Hickey, Wash Simmons and Crazy Opdyke, by virtue of their expressed defiance, were chosen to carry the ultimatum. Some one proposed that Macnooder should go as a fourth, and the motion passed without opposition. Macnooder rose and declined the honour, but asked leave to state his reasons. Whereupon the meeting adjourned.
The Messrs. Crazy Opdyke, Hickey, and Wash Simmons held a conference and decided to shave and assume creased trousers in order to render the aspect of their mission properly impressive. After a short delay they united on the steps, where they received the exhortations of their comrades—to speak out boldly, to mince no words, and to insist on their demands.
The distance to Foundation House, where the head master resided, was short—thirty seconds in the darkness; and almost before they knew it the three were at the door. There, under the muffled lamp, they stopped, with spontaneous accord, and looked at one another.
“I say,” said Hickey, “hadn’t we better agree on what we’ll say to the old man? We want to be firm, you know.”
“That’s a good idea,” Opdyke assented, and Wash added, “We’ll take a turn down the road.”
“Now, what’s your idea?” said Simmons to Hickey, when they had put a safe distance between them and the residence of the Doctor.
“We’d better keep away from discussion,” replied Hickey. “The Doctor’ll beat us out there, and I don’t think we’d better be too radical either, because we want to be firm.”
“What do you call radical?” said Opdyke, with a little defiance.
“Well, now, we don’t want to be too aggressive; we don’t want to go in with a chip on our shoulder.”
“Hickey, you’re beginning to hedge!”
Hickey indignantly denied the accusation, and a little quarrel arose between them, terminated by Wash, who broke in:
“Shut up, Crazy—Hickey is dead right. We want to go in friendly-like, just as though we knew the Doctor would side with us at once—sort of take him into our confidence.”
“That’s it,” said Hickey; “we want to be good-natured at first, lay the matter before him calmly, then afterward we can be firm.”
“Rats!” said Crazy; “are we going to tell him, or not, that we represent the Dickinson and the Woodhull and that they have voted the extinction of ‘sinkers’?”
“Sure we are!” exclaimed Wash. “You don’t think we are afraid, do you?”
“Well, then, let’s tell him,” said Crazy. “Come on, if you’re going to.”
They returned resolutely and again entered the dominion of the dreary lamp.
“Say, fellows,” Wash suddenly interjected, “are we going to say anything about ‘scrag-birds’?”
“Sure,” said Crazy.
“The deuce we are!” said Hickey.
“Why not?” said Crazy, militantly.
“Because we don’t want to make fools of ourselves.”
The three withdrew again and threshed out the point. It was decided to concentrate on the “sinker.” Crazy gave in because he said he was cold.
“Well, now, it’s all settled,” said Hickey. “We make a direct demand for knocking out the ‘sinker,’ and we stand firm on that. Nothing else. Come on.”
“Come on.”
A third time they came to the terrible door.
“I say,” said Wash, suddenly, “we forgot. Who’s to do the talking?”
“Crazy, of course,” said Hickey, looking hard at Simmons, “since that clapper episode, I’m not dropping in for the dessert!”
“Sure, Crazy, you’re just the one,” Simmons agreed.
“Hold up,” said Crazy, whose fury suddenly cooled. “Let’s talk that over.”
Again they retired for deliberation.
“Now, see here, fellows,” said Crazy, “let’s be reasonable. We want this thing to go through, don’t we?”
“Who’s hedging now?” said Hickey, with a laugh.
“No one,” retorted Crazy. “I’ll talk up if you say. I’m not afraid, only I don’t stand one, two, three with the Doctor and you know it. I’ve flunked every recitation in Bible this month. What we want is the strongest pull—and Wash is the one. Why, the old man would feed out of Wash’s hand.”
Wash indignantly repelled the insinuation. Finally it was agreed that Crazy should state the facts, that Hickey should say, “Doctor, we feel strongly, very strongly, about this,” and that Wash should then make the direct demand for the suspension for one month of the “sinker,” and its future regulation to two appearances a week.
“And now, no more backing and filling,” said Hickey.
“I’ll lay the facts before him, all right,” added Crazy, clenching his fists.
“We’ll stick together, and we stand firm,” said Wash. “Now for it!”
They had reached a point about thirty feet from the threshold, when suddenly the door was flung violently open and a luckless boy bolted out, under the lamp, so that the three could distinguish the vehement gestures. The Doctor appeared in a passion of rage, calling after the retreating offender:
“Don’t you dare, young man, to come to me again with such a complaint. You get your work up to where it ought to be, or down you go, and there isn’t a power in this country that can prevent it.”
The door slammed violently and silence returned.
“He’s not in a very receptive mood,” said Wash, after a long pause.
“Not precisely,” said Hickey, thoughtfully.
“I’m catching cold,” said Crazy.
“Suppose we put it over?” continued Wash. “What do you say, Hickey?”
“I shall not oppose the will of the majority.”
“And you, Crazy?”
“I think so, too.”
They returned to the Dickinson, where they were surrounded and assailed with questions: How had the Doctor taken it?—What had he said?
“We took no talk from him,” said Crazy, with a determined shake of his head, and then Wash added brusquely, “Just keep your eyes on the ‘sinkers.’”
“You took long enough,” put in the suspicious Macnooder.
“We were firm,” replied Hickey, bristling at the recollection—“very firm!”