CHAPTER V
COTTON AND HIS JACKAL
As I said before, the victory of the despised Biffenites over the Fifth Form eleven—a moderate one, it is true—caused quite a little breeze of surprise to circulate around the other houses, which had by process of time come to regard that slack house as hopeless in the fields or in the schools. Over all the tea-tables that afternoon the news was commented on with full details; how Chalmers had gained in deadliness just as much as he had lost in selfishness, and how Raven and Worcester had worked like horses, and mown down the opposition—"Fifth Form opposition!" said the fags, with a lift of the eyebrows—like grass, and as for Biffen's new captain, well, if there was one player who could hold a candle to him it must be Phil Bourne, and he only.
In the Rev. E. Taylor's house, Cotton senior, who answered to the name of "Jim" among his familiars, and was "Bully Cotton" to his enemies—every Amorian below the Fifth, and a good sprinkling elsewhere—and Augustus Vernon Robert Todd, who was "Gus" to every one, sat at tea together in Todd's room. Cotton had been one of the slain that afternoon on the Acres, and was still in his footer clothes, plus a sweater, which almost came up to his ears. There was a bright fire in the grate, and though Todd's room was not decorative compared with most of the other fellows' dens, yet it was cheerful enough. Cotton had come back from the match hungry and a trifle bruised from a smart upset, only to find his own fire out, and preparations for tea invisible. Having uttered dire threats against his absent, erring fag, he moved into his friend's room, and the two clubbed together their resources, and the result was a square meal, towards which Cotton contributed something like 19/20, A.V.R. Todd's share being limited to the kettle, the water, and the fire. When Cotton had satisfied his footer appetite, he turned down his stocking and proceeded vigorously to anoint with embrocation his damaged leg, the pungent scent of the liniment being almost ornamental in its strength.
"How did you get that, Jim?" said Gus, surveying the brawny limb with interest.
"Acton brought me down like a house, my boy."
"Fair?"
"Oh yes; but you've got to go down if he catches you in his swing."
"You fellows must have played beautifully to let Biffen's mob maul you to that extent."
"Gus, my boy, instead of frowsing up here all the afternoon with your books, you should have been on the touch-line watching those Biffenites at their new tricks. Your opinion then would have a little avoirdupois. As it is, you Perry Exhibit, it is worth exactly nothing."
"You're deucedly classical to-night, Jim."
"Oh, I'm sick of this forsaken match and all the compliments we've had over it. I'm going now to have a tub, and then we'll get that Latin paper through, and, thirdly, I'll have the chessmen out."
"Sorry, I can't, Jim," said Todd, discontentedly. "There is that beastly Perry Scholarship—I must really do something for that!"
"Thomas Rot, Esq.!" said Cotton. "Haven't you been a-cramming and a-guzzling for that all this afternoon? You've a duty towards your chums, Toddy, so I tell you."
"That's all very well, Jim, for you, who are going to break some crammer's heart, and then crawl into the Army through the Militia, but my pater wants me to do something in the Perry, I tell you."
"Chess!" said Cotton, disregarding Todd's bleat, and then, with a sly smile, he added, "Shilling a game, Gus, and you know you always pull off the odd one."
"All right," said Todd, swallowing the bait with forlorn eagerness; "I'll have the board set out if you must come in."
"Oh, I must!" said Cotton, with a half-sneer at Todd's anxiety to pick up a small sum. "Clear the table, and we'll make a snug evening of it."
Todd's method of clearing a table was novel, if not original. He carried it bodily into Cotton's room, and then returned with his friend's mahogany, which was undoubtedly more ornamental than his own.
Acton was absolutely right when he sneeringly called Gus "Cotton's jackal." Todd was exactly of the material which makes a good jackal, though he never became quite Jim Cotton's toady. He was a sharp, selfish individual, good-looking in an aimless kind of way, with a slack, feeble mouth, and a wandering, indecisive glance. He had a quick, shallow cleverness, which could get up pretty easily enough of inexact knowledge to pass muster in the schools. Old Corker knew his capabilities to a hair, and would now and then, when Gus offered up some hazy, specious guess-work, blister him with a little biting sarcasm. Todd feared the Doctor as he feared no one else. Todd's chief private moan was that he never had any money. His father was a rich man, but had some ideas which were rather rough on his weak-kneed son. He tipped poor Gus as though he were some thrifty hairdresser's son, and Todd had to try to ruffle it with young Amorians on as many shillings as they had crowns. Not a lad who ever had naturally any large amount of self-respect, the little he had soon went, and he became, while still a fag, a hewer of wood and drawer of water to his better-tipped cronies. His destiny finished when, on his entry into the Fifth, Jim Cotton claimed him, and subsidized him as his man.
At the beginning of the term his father had told him that if he could make a good show in the Perry Exhibition there need not be any more grumbling about his tip. Gus came back to St. Amory's hysterically anxious to cut out all competitors for the Perry, but the shackles of his old serfdom were still about him. When he showed signs of being restive to the old claims, and recommended Cotton to do his own classics and mathematics, Cotton coolly and calmly demanded repayment of sundry loans contracted of old. Todd had not the pluck to face a term of plain living and high thinking by paying his former patron all he owed him and exhausting all his present tip by so doing, but flabbily, though discontentedly, caved in, and became Cotton's jackal as before.
Cotton was by no means as bad as his endearing name might make you think. He was a tall, heavy fellow, with a large, determined-looking face. He was wonderfully stupid in the schools, but was quite clever enough to know it. He had some good qualities. He was straight enough in all extra-school affairs, did not lie, nor fear any one; kept his word, and expected you to keep yours.
"You can't beat Hodgson of the Sixth, Gus, so what is the good of sweating all the term? Hodgson's got the deuce of a pull over you to start with."
"I'm not frightened of Hodgson if you wouldn't bother, Jim."
"Can't do without you, old cock. You're just the fellow to lift my Latin and those filthy mathematics high enough out of the mud to keep the beaks from worrying me to death. I tried Philips for a week, but he did such weird screeds in the 'unseens' that Merishall smelt a rat, and was most particular attentive to me, but your leverage is just about my fighting weight."
Gus had sniffed discontentedly at this dubious compliment; but Cotton had smiled stolidly, and continued to use Gus as his classical and mathematical hack. Besides, there was something about Gus's easy-going lackadaisical temperament which exactly suited Cotton, and he felt for his grumbling jackal a friendliness apart from Gus's usefulness to him.
This afternoon had been a fair sample of Todd's usual half-holiday. Feeling no heart for any serious work for the Perry, he had spent it in reading half a worthless novel, and skimming through a magazine, and feeling muddled and discontented in consequence. He had the uneasy feeling that he was an arrant ass in thus fooling time away, but had not sufficient self-denial to seize upon a quiet afternoon for a little genuine work.
Cotton soon returned from his bath, and the two cronies spent about an hour in getting up the least modicum of their classics which would satisfy Merishall; and then they played chess, by which Gus was one florin richer. A third game was in progress, but Todd managed to tip over the board when he was "going to mate in five moves." Cotton thereupon said he had had enough, but Gus avariciously tried to reconstruct the positions. He failed dismally, and Cotton laughed sweetly. Now Cotton's laugh would almost make his chum's hair curl, so he retorted pretty sweetly himself, "I say, Jim. I can't get out of my head that awful hammering you fellows got this afternoon. Think Biffen's lot likely to shape well in the House matches?" "There's no telling, old man. But if they get moderate luck they'll be waltzing about in the final."
"That's absolute blazing idiocy!" said Todd, knocking over more chessmen in his astonishment.
"All right, Gus. To talk absolute blazing idiocy is my usual habit, of course. They may carry off the final even, but that, perhaps, is a tall order."
Todd nursed his astonishment for a full five minutes, whistling occasionally, as at some very fantastic idea. At last he said more seriously: "Aren't you now, Jim, really pulling my leg?"
"No, honour bright! Biffen's are really eye-openers."
Gus said with infinite slyness: "Look here, I'll bet you evens Biffen's don't pull off the final."
"Oh, that is rot, Gus, to talk about betting, for you can't pay if you lose."
Gus had not too much sensitiveness in his character, but this unmeant insult stung him.
"You've no right to say that. I've paid all I've ever betted with you."
Cotton considered heavily in his own mind for a moment. "That is almost true, but—"
"Well, what do you mean—" began Todd, in a paddy.
"All right," said Cotton; "shut up, confound you! I'll take you."
"Three quid Biffen's are not cock-house at 'footer.'"
"Done," said Cotton, unwillingly pulling out his note-book; "and straight, Todd, I shall expect you to pay if you lose."
"Oh, shut up, Cotton, you cad! I shall pay if I lose, man. What do you want to keep on insulting me like that for?"
"Steady, Gus. You'll have Taylor up if you howl like that. I meant nothing."
"Nothing!" said Gus in a fury, seeking for something particularly sweet to say to his patron. "I jolly well hope, then, that if our house should meet 'em in the rounds you will do your little best to put a stopper on their career. Don't, for the sake of pulling off your bet, present 'em with a few goals. You 'keep' for our house, you know."
"Oh, dash it all, Todd," said Cotton, in a white rage, "you are a bounder! Think I'd sell my side?" he demanded furiously.
"Ah!" said Gus, delighted at having got through Cotton's skin. "You don't stomach insults any more than I do. Then why do you ladle them out so jolly freely to me?"
"That was a particularly low one," said Cotton angrily; "and anyway, you avaricious beggar, you've got thundering good terms, for it is hardly likely that Biffen's can really be cock-house. There's Corker's house, with Bourne and Hodgson and a few more good men. You're a sight more likely to see my three sovs, that I am yours."
"I hope so," said Gus, with some relief at the anticipation of this pleasant prospect.
Then the anger of the two simmered down, each having given and received some very choice compliments, and as these little breezes were usual between the two, ten minutes afterwards they were amiably entertaining each other. Cotton was putting up a pair of dumb-bells three hundred times, and his crony was counting and criticising his form. The Perry Exhibition did not enter Todd's head, but his bet—"such a gilt-edged one," he chuckled—was never once out of it. And Todd's bet had some momentous consequences for him, too.
CHAPTER VI
THE LAST CAP
While Acton was thus making such strenuous exertions to lift Biffen's out of the mire, Bourne was finding out the whole unpainted beauty of the situation—as far as it concerned himself.
The experimental footer elevens were chosen in what, I believe, is the usual manner. The old members of the school eleven formed a committee, and chose fellows to play in the weekly matches, and if any one of them showed special talent he was, of course, retained, and by-and-by the captain gave him his school cap, and he was henceforth a full-blown member of the eleven, with a seat on the committee like any of the old gang.
There were left of the last year's team five players—Bourne, Mivart, Vercoe, Baines, and Roberts. The final promotion of fellows into the eleven, however, rested with the captain alone, and when he considered any fellow good enough he signified the same by presenting him with the blue and silver cap of St. Amory.
The giving away of a cap had become quite a function. Whenever there was the rumour that some one was to have a cap after a match, pretty well the whole school swarmed round the pavilion, and when the new member came out in all the glory of his new blue and silver he got the cheers which his play or popularity deserved, and especially did the new member's house distinguish themselves in the shouting.
Thus Bourne had six caps at his disposal, and since "Socker" had been introduced, the last cap was always given so that when the school played the last match—the Carthusians—the eleven would be complete.
Bourne saw at once the cloud which was rising on the horizon when, at the first committee meeting to choose the eleven against "The Cognoscenti" Mivart said, "Well, Bourne, we've got your partner for to-morrow ready made. I think we may put that new chap Acton down right off."
"Rather," said Vercoe. "He can't be left out."
"Best back we've seen for an age-barring Phil, of course," said Baines.
"And the others we'll have to fight over, as usual. My choice is Hodgson for centre."
"Too lazy, Roberts. Mine is Chalmers."
"Rot! He's a winger."
And so the selection of an eleven against the Cognoscenti went on in the usual old-fashioned style.
Bourne dropped into my study afterwards and said, gloomily; "On the whole, Carr, had I not better tell the fellows that they may elect Acton for our school fixtures, but he cannot have his cap? That will take the bull by the horns from the beginning."
"By no means. The other fellows have nothing whatever to do with giving caps away; that is your business entirely. Besides, who knows? Acton may not care to play when he knows he cannot get his cap."
"I'd be agreeably surprised if he didn't. But that won't be his little game. Take my word for it, he'll turn out on every blessed occasion, play like a master of the game, and give us no end of trouble."
"Perhaps he may. Anyhow, something may turn up between now and the last match—we'll hope so, anyhow; and until the last cap is given away the fellows generally won't spot your little game."
"'Tis only putting off the evil day, Carr," said Phil, discontentedly.
"A good day to put off."
Thus, when Hodgson was given the first cap, there was the general comment that he was pretty sure to annex a cap sooner or later, and might as well have it soon. Acton's turn—so said the school would come later, though Biffen's house sneered. "Of course, Hodgson is in the Sixth. What else but a Sixth Form fellow is wanted in a footer eleven?"
Sharpe's house secured the next two caps, and Biffen's groaned aloud. "Whatever is old Phil about? One might think he was blind in his right eye and straddled in his left. We'll send him a pair of gig lamps, and then perhaps he may discover Acton—Acton, of Biffen's."
The weeks went by, and after a spirited display by Chalmers against the Emeriti, he was given his cap, and for the first time since Biffen's was a house they had a man in the eleven. But they gasped as Chalmers came out of the pavilion with his blue and silver cap on his curls. "That ass Bourne found the house at last, and then he goes and carefully spots the wrong man. Whatever is the matter with him? To pick Chalmers before Acton! Rot!"
Over tea that night Biffen's bubbled and choked, and the other houses began to take a lively interest in the next distribution, for this constant passing of Acton was becoming exciting. But still—and I was glad to see it—the school had faith in Phil; they counted on justice being done, as it were, in the last laps. No one mentioned a word to him about the intense curiosity and even anxiety that his odd bestowal of caps had excited amongst them, for Phil has that way with him that can shut up a fellow quicker than you can snap a knife if that fellow is travelling out of bounds.
However, when Place, of Merishall's, came out of the pavilion a full-blown member of the school eleven there was a scene. The whole body of fellows now thought that the comedy was pretty nearly becoming a tragedy, and they showed their feelings unmistakably. Place was cheered by Merishall's, but not overwhelmingly, and from the other houses there was an ominous silence. Place, as he trotted out, looked rather puzzled, and a bit undecided how to take his odd reception, and glanced rather helplessly round at the sea of faces all turned anxiously towards him. There would be pretty nearly seven hundred fellows round the pavilion, for there was no end of excitement.
"Keep up your pecker, Place! You're all right, anyhow!" shouted some one.
The other members came out one by one, and were cheered to the echo, and at last Phil came out with Hodgson. He was rather pale, but had his back very straight. There was a dead silence, and, for the first time since he had been captain, Phil walked down the steps without a friendly cheer. I think even now the old school behaved itself very well—the fellows were not behind the scenes, and didn't see more than was before their eyes, but there was not a single word thrown out at Phil. Acton came out with Worcester, and the pity was that he didn't deserve the cheers he got.
The week before the Carthusian match there was but one solitary player to be promoted. The position was back, and every fellow in the place knew that, bar Bourne himself, there wasn't another man that could hold a candle to Acton there. The committee doggedly, and with meaning, elected the only player there was to elect, and Acton signified that he was willing to play. Bourne, as usual, was there, and no one felt more than he the air of distrust and constraint which hung over the meeting. When Acton was unanimously elected for back Phil stolidly wrote out the list of the team and had it pinned up on the notice-board. He had carefully drawn the line in red ink above the last name—Acton's—which showed that the pride of Biffen's was not in the eleven yet.
Probably Acton on the next day played as well as even he had ever played in his life, for he was almost impassable, and the crowd of fellows cheered him till they were hoarse. The minute the whistle blew, like one man the whole school swarmed round the pavilion. The question each asked himself and his chum was, "Would Acton get the last cap?" And the answer was, "Why, of course! Who else should have it?"
That afternoon to most of the fellows the eleven seemed an age getting into their sweaters and coats. When Acton appeared first, and it was seen that he was wearing the pink cap of Biffen's on his head there was more than astonishment, there was consternation. Whatever did it mean? Acton smiled good-naturedly at the school as they cheered him to the echo, and hurried unconcernedly along. The others of the eleven came out dejectedly, and filed up the hill in gloomy little groups. The whole school waited for Phil, and when he came out, pale and worried, they received him in icy silence. As he was coming down the steps one of Biffen's fags shouted shrilly, "Three cheers for Acton!"
Phil stalked through the shouting school, and as I joined him and we walked up together, he said, through his clenched teeth—
"I wish, old man, I had never seen that brute."
That evening Bourne wrote to Worcester offering him the remaining cap.
Worcester flew across to Acton's room, and said, "Bourne has offered me the place—the last cap. He must be stark, staring mad!"
"Take it," said Acton, coolly.
"No fear," said Worcester. "We have a stupid kind of prejudice here for having the best eleven we can get, and it isn't the best if you're out of it. Bourne has always been a most impartial fellow up to this date, so this little occurrence has thrown us off the rails. Before I go to protest, though, have you any idea what is the matter?"
"He does not consider me fit for the eleven," said Acton with a light laugh, but also with perfect truth.
"Rot!" said Dick, hurrying away.
He hunted up the other nine fellows, and said bluntly his business.
"I vote we all protest to Bourne. A round robin should meet the case."
"Good," said Mivart. "Draw one up, Dicky dear."
Dick in time produced the following:——
"We, the undersigned, think that the St. Amory eleven is incomplete without John Acton, of Biffen's house, and, consequently, that he ought to have the last cap; and we would beg the captain to offer it him unless there be very good reasons for not doing so. We would suggest that if John Acton isn't to have the cap he be told the reason. The undersigned do not wish in the smallest degree to prejudice the right of the captain to select members for the eleven, but think that in the present case the withholding of a cap from John Acton inexplicable."
"You're a ready scribe, Dick," said Chalmers. "We may all sign that, eh?"
"Yes," said Worcester. "I first, because I am undeservedly offered the cap, and the rest of you in order of membership."
No one saw any objection to signing Dick's memorandum, and forthwith, with all legal formality, the round robin was signed by the ten, and sent to Phil by Dick's fag with orders to wait for an answer.
It came within five minutes.
I have no intention of offering John Acton a place in the St. Amory's football eleven. There are good reasons for not doing so, and I have already told Acton the reasons. Please let me know whether you accept the vacant place I had the pleasure of offering you.
Yours sincerely,Philip Bourne."
This was a thunderbolt among the fellows. Then Acton knew!
Worcester posted back to Acton, lost in amazement.
"Look at this, Acton!"
Acton carefully read Bourne's letter, and Dick, who was watching him anxiously, saw him bite his lips with rage; for Phil's icy contempt stood out in every word of the letter.
"He says you know why you are not in the eleven."
Acton knew that he would have to explain something, or else Bourne would win the day yet. So he said—
"That is true. He told me so at the beginning of the season, but, of course, I never bargained for his keeping his word; and when you hear the reason he gave me—if this is his reason—you'll gasp."
"Well," said Dick, "although I've no right to ask you, I'd like to hear the plain, unvarnished tale, for, speaking out, Phil Bourne has always passed for a decent, level fellow. This business, somehow, doesn't seem his form at all, and it is only fair to him to say it."
"Did you see the match we had with Shannon's scratch team when the term began?"
"I did."
"Did you notice anything about my play?"
"You opened our eyes a bit, I remember."
"Did I play roughly?"
"No. Not quite that! You were not gentle; but you aren't that as a rule, though your game is fair enough."
"Not for Bourne. He doesn't like my game. I'm too rough. It's bad form, pace Bourne, therefore I'm barred my place in the eleven."
"Is that the explanation?"
"Yes. Honour bright! Except"—Acton paused diplomatically for a moment—"except, I don't think he likes me."
"Then Phil is a fool, and he'll find out pretty speedily that we can't stand rot of this quality. I, of course, can't take the cap."
"My dear fellow, why in the world not? If you don't, some other house will get it. Biffen's deserves two fellows in the eleven this year."
"They do, by Jove!"
"Then let us have the satisfaction of keeping out another Corker fellow."
Dick told the other fellows plainly and without any gilding, his conversation with Acton, and they pressed him to go and see Phil personally; so Dick marched heavily to Bourne's quarters.
"Sorry, Worcester, but I cannot explain anything. Not even to you. But I do hope you'll come into the eleven."
Dick said shortly, "I think I shall, for Biffen's deserves the other cap, though the right fellow isn't getting it. By the way, Bourne, you'll not be very sweet to the school generally after this. They—the fellows—to a man, are no end cut up over Acton's treatment."
"I supposed they would be. I knew it would be so."
"Look here, Phil. You always did the square thing. Let us have the reason for this," said Dick, earnestly.
"Sorry, Worcester, I can't."
"Good night, then."
"Good night."
The rage and consternation of the Biffenites when they found that Bourne was immovable in his decision can be imagined. Some were inclined to take the matter up to Corker's throne, but they were a miserable minority.
"Let Corker have a finger in our own private affairs!" said Dick, with intense disgust. "What next, gentlemen? We won't be able to blow our own noses without his permission. Keep the masters out of this, whatever we do. Can't we see the thing through ourselves? I vote we try, anyhow."
Some were inclined to blame Dick for accepting the cap; but pretty generally it was agreed that, if Acton was not to have it, Dick was the next best man, but at what a distance! The honour of having two men in the eleven was no solatium for the wounded pride of Biffen's, when they considered their great injury. The reason, though, was, naturally, what puzzled them—and, for the matter of that, the whole school. Did Bourne expect his team to play footer as though it were a game of croquet? Were drawing-room manners to be introduced on to the Acres' clay? Were the famous eleven of St. Amory's to amble about, like a swarm of bread-and-butter misses? One wit suggested wadded coats and respirators. Acton rough, indeed! Phil Bourne must be an embodiment of his grandmother, then! Most of the fags in Biffen's house sent Phil elaborate instructions for "a nice drawing-room game to take the place of 'Socker' football—nasty, rough 'Socker' footer—for one-and-six, and guaranteed to do no injury to the most delicate constitution. A child can play it!" These letters were anonymous, of course; but Biffen's house-paper was freely used. "Anyhow," said Phil, with a gentle smile to me, "the spelling is obviously Biffen's."
Acton went on his own way, serenely indifferent to his house, which would have made a god of him on the smallest provocation. He cheerfully ignored Bourne, and he had the art of never seeing Phil when they met, in school or out, though, of course, Phil minded this not at all. When the Carthusians were played, Acton spent the afternoon reading with Raven, whose exam, was now very near; and, whilst the two were grinding out all the absurd details of Horace and his patron, "and the poet's little farm, and the other rot which gains Perry Exhibitions," the shouts and cheers of the school down at the Acres came floating up the hill to their room.
The school lost their match with the Carthusians—the match which a good St. Amorian would rather win than any two others—and it was plain that Dick, though a useful fellow, could not bottle up the forwards in the Actonian style. This defeat was the last straw to break the back of the school's patience.
It was customary, after the Carthusian match, for the footer captain to give his eleven a formal tea, Phil arranged the usual preliminaries, sick at heart, and wearily certain as to the result. Three put in an appearance—Vercoe, Baines, and Roberts—and in place of the burly forms of the rest of the St. Amory's eleven, the sylph-like figures of their fags flitted to Phil's hall of entertainment with curt little notes. Worcester and the rest "regretted they were unable to avail themselves of the captain's invitation."
The tea was not a success.
The school followed the plain lead of the eleven, and as Phil hurried along to chapel the next day no one hooked in with him, as had been done "the day before yesterday!" He was left severely alone.
In plain words, St Amory's School consigned Phil Bourne to Coventry.
CHAPTER VII
THANKS TO ACTON
After the Carthusian match there was but one topic, or to be strictly accurate, perhaps, two topics of interest in the school—who would be cock-house at footer and who would get the Perry Exhibition.
The rest of the houses knew that Biffen's house was not now the unconsidered article it was once; that it wasn't the door-mat upon which any one might wipe his feet before proceeding into the inner circles of the housers' competition, and there was more than a little curiosity to see how far the "resurrected" house would mount.
But not a single soul dreamt that it would reach the final. The whole school gasped for a fortnight on end as Biffen's annihilated Dover's, Hargen's, Sharpe's, and Merishall's seriatim, and at last faced Corker's house in the final. This was a resurrected house with a vengeance! Corker's had had a bye in the first round and had been drawn against rather rickety houses since, but they were generally fancied to pull off the final as usual, for Bourne was captain, and they had Hodgson and Roberts of the eleven as well. The wonderful progress of Biffen's had thrown an awful lot of excitement into the game.
The match was fixed for the last Saturday in the term, and the result of the Perry Exhibition was to be announced on the evening of the same day, so the last Saturday was going to be the memorable day of the Michaelmas stretch.
If you want a full account of the match you had better write to the editor of The Amorian. He will send you the magazine with a page or so of description and account, but all I'm going to say is that Bourne and Acton played as they had never played before—I think I've said that before about Acton, but he really was superlative in the housers' final—and that five minutes from time the score was "one all." Then Acton showed the school a stroke of genius. He brought Raven out from centre-forward, where he was quite unable to cope with Bourne, whispered him to go "back" with Worcester, and before any one could realize what was happening he was playing forward himself. He' was a "lambent flame along the ground" if you like. In a second Biffen's were swarming round Roberts in goal, Acton passed out to Chalmers, who was ready for the pass, and in a twinkling the ball was in the net. From the row you might have imagined the school had gone mad.
The ball was kicked off again. Almost immediately Acton secured near the centre. He dribbled through the ruck of his opponents until he saw Bourne upon him. With a smile of triumph upon his lips he gently rolled the leather to Chalmers, who was hungrily waiting for the pass out on the touch-line. Chalmers waltzed beautifully for the short run almost to the corner flag. He steadied himself for one instant after his run, and then lifted the ball magnificently into the goal mouth. As the leather was skimming past, Acton just reached it with his head and deflected it high and dry out of Roberts' reach into the net. It was the supreme effort of his splendid game.
Biffen's had won by three goals to one!
They carried Acton off the field in ecstasy, and nearly scared Dame Biffen out of her wits by the "whisper" of "cock-house." Well, it certainly was unusual.
After tea the whole of St. Amory's crowded into the Speech Room to hear the result of the Perry Exhibition. There would not be a fellow away, I should fancy, bar the cripples in the hospital, for there was no end of excitement. Was this to be another Biffen's triumph? Was Raven of the Fifth to beat Hodgson, the chosen of the Sixth, for the Perry? It was not to be expected that he would, but when the whisper circled round that Acton had '"coached" him in classics it was agreed that perhaps there would be another feather in Acton's cap.
The masters were there on the platform in serried ranks, the whole fifty of them, from Corker to Pfenning who "does" the music.
Corker, as usual, went straight to the mark, whilst the entire mass of fellows kept a death-like silence. "The result of the examination for the Perry Exhibition is as follows:—
2nd. Theodore Hodgson, 591 marks.
3rd. Augustus Vernon Robert Todd, 114 marks."
Then out broke the usual uproar, "shivering the silence," as some one says, "into clamour." We all cheered for Raven, who scored a popular and unexpected victory, for why should a Fifth Form fellow beat one of the Sixth? Biffen's crowd kept up the cheering until Corker rose again.
"I can heartily congratulate Raven on his success, for his classical knowledge was distinctly good. Hodgson I can also congratulate, for his papers too were good. As for Augustus Vernon Robert Todd"—we all yelled with laughter as Dr. Moore scrambled in hot haste through Todd's awful list of names, but were again quiet when he dropped his eye-glasses from his eagle's beak, a sure sign he was going to "savage" somebody—"as for his performance in this examination, I can only regard it as a very bad practical joke, or as his ballon d'essai for some kindergarten scholarship."
Raven got up from his seat near the door. He was pale to the lips, but his voice was clear and unhesitating. "If you please, sir, may I say a word?"
"Eh, what?" said Corker. "Say a word? Oh, certainly."
"I am very glad indeed to hear that I have won the Perry Exhibition. I know in my own mind that I could never have beaten my friend Hodgson if I had not had Acton's help. I owe the winning of the Exhibition entirely to him, for he has read the whole of the classics with me and helped me in every way in his power. I cannot thank him enough for all he has done, but at least I owe him this open acknowledgment."
Corker looked no end pleased, and turned round and beamed on Biffen, whose good-natured easy face shone with pleasure and delight.
"Biffen," said good old Corker, audibly, "your house is fortunate in having Acton, and St. Amory such a good amateur coach in classics. Cock-house, too, bless me!"
And can you wonder that Biffen's, frenzied with delight, carried Raven and Acton shoulder high through the gas-lit streets?
Whilst the Biffenites were thus shouting their way home, one unhappy youth hurried to his room feeling as though the moon had fallen out of heaven and crushed him—Todd. After that night when he had made the bet with Cotton, he had neither worked for the Perry nor yet left it alone, but loafed about with Cotton as usual, and piffled with the work for the Exhibition. As a last-lap spurt, he had, in the last week or so, desperately stuffed himself with cunning tips leading twistingly to nowhere. Never had any one faced a serious examination with such a rag-bag of tips as Todd, and the examination had found him out with a vengeance. As he slunk along to his quarters, Corker's words were buzzing in his ears unendingly. "As for Augustus Vernon Robert Todd"—"ballon d'essai"—"Kindergarten!" Oh! it was a sickener, and how the fellows had laughed!
As for his bet with Cotton about cock-house, why, he had, when he saw those goals put on at the last moment, felt a cold shiver run down his back. He had crawled off the Acres a sick and sorry and miserable wretch. Cotton had, being rather riled at his chum's temper for the last month, hinted, in unmistakable terms, that the debt was to be paid on return after holidays. Todd contemplated the ravishing prospect of the future with unmixed feelings. Between the upper and nether millstones of the lost Exhibition and the lost bet he had been crashed, annihilated!
When he had shut the study door, in sheer despair of spirit, he laid his head on the table and—Well, did he blub? All I know is, the Rev. E. Taylor knocked at the door once, twice, thrice, and Todd heard him not. The house master came in and surveyed the bowed form of poor Gus with a good-natured smile, tempered with some scorn. He took the liberty of loudly poking Gus's decaying fire, whereat the young gentleman sprang up instanter.
"I knocked, Todd, but I suppose you were thinking too deeply to hear me."
"Sorry, sir," said Gus, hurriedly getting the master a chair, "and, as a matter of fact, I was thinking."
"Yes!"
"What an awful ass I've been, sir!"
"I don't know quite about the ass, but you've certainly not been an epitome of all that's wise this term. It was on that very subject that I came here to have a word with you before we go for the holidays."
Gus looked blankly into the grate.
"This exhibition of yours, Todd, in the examination is just the answer you might expect to the problem you've set yourself. 'How can I get something of value by doing nothing for it?' I must say... etc." Taylor spoke very much to the point to Todd for about half an hour, taking the ribs out of Gus's conceit one by one, until he felt very much like a damp, damaged gamp, and about as helpless. One by one he took him through the catalogue of the aimless, stupid, footling performances in the term, and Gus blankly wondered how the dickens Taylor knew quite so much of his doings, He felt that the house master was not a bad imitation of Corker on a flaying expedition. I must say that Taylor's performance was a considerable trifle above the average "beak's wigging," but the sting of his discourse was in the tail. "Now, Todd, would you like me to ask Dr. Moore to transfer you to some other house, where your very intimate friends will not absorb so much of your time?"
Todd blushed purple at this very broad hint.
"I'd rather stay where I am; I am not quite an incapable, sir."
"No; I don't think you are—not quite. Dr. Moore, however, is somewhat out of patience with you, and proposes drastic measures."
"Home?" inquired Todd, with gloomy conviction.
"Yes," said the house master. "Dr. Moore has written your father. But you are coming back next term, when you will have the chance of showing that that awful performance in the Exhibition is not your true form. I hope you'll take it."
Todd said bitterly, "I will, sir."
"I am glad of that," said Taylor, "and I believe you will. Good night, Todd."
"Good night, sir."
Todd packed up his portmanteaux that night as gloomily and as savagely as though his shirts were his deadly enemies. But there was a square, determined thrust-out of his weak chin which boded ill for Jim Cotton's classics and mathematics in the future.
CHAPTER VIII
BIFFEN'S CONCERT
It was the inalienable right of the juniors of the cock-house to give a concert the last night of the term, and to have free and undisputed possession of the concert-room. Corker made it a rule that the captain of the school should be there to see there were no riots, which, as the fags were off home on the morrow, was more than possible. So when I got a polite note from Grim about half an hour after the results of the Perry Exhibition had been announced, telling me that Corker had given the customary consent, I strolled about looking up a cohort of monitors to help me in maintaining the "sacred cause of order and decency." I knew of old those junior concerts. "Pandemonium" was nearer the word.
Biffen's juniors, red-hot from their exertions and hoarse from their shouting in the speech-room, held a meeting in their own private quarters to deliberate as to their concert.
"I vote Father Grim to the chair," said Wilson.
"Thanks, my son," said Grim, with alacrity "Somebody second that, and let's get to business."
Somebody obligingly seconded, and Grim enthroned himself with dignity in the chair, and said cheerfully, "Carried nem. con. That's the way to commence biz. Now, you fellows, I thank you for this unexpected honour, which has quite taken me by surprise. I shall always—"
"Shut up, Grim," said Brown. "You know jolly well you asked Wilson to propose you."
"All right, Brown; I'll talk with you afterwards. Sorry your Roman nose is out of joint; but nobody proposed you, you know, so shut up. Gentlemen—"
"Hear, hear!"
"Biffen's are cock-house at last" (deafening cheers) "and we must make our concert a stunner. It must go with a bang from start to finish. It must lick every other fag's concert that ever was, and 'be the bright harbinger of—'What is the rest of the quote, Wilson?"
"'Of future joys,' you ass."
"'Of future joys,' you asses."
"I'll punch your head, Grim; you said you remembered it."
"All serene, old man, never mind the cackle."
"What about our concert?" asked Brown.
"It's going to be great. Does any one happen to have a programme of that awful performance of Corker's house last year?"
"Rather!" said half a dozen of Biffen's ornaments. "Did you think we'd burn a curiosity like that?"
"Cut out and get yours, Rogers, my pet."
"My pet" bolted and came back with the year-old programme of the Corker's fags.
"Pass the abomination this way, Rogers. Gentlemen," said Grim, with intense scorn, "those unspeakable Corker asses started off with a prologue."
"We must go one better—eh, you fellows?" said Rogers.
"Rather!" they all shrieked.
"I vote," said young Cherry, "that we lead off with an epilogue. That will leave 'em standing."
"Hear, hear!" said Fruity.
"Who'll second that?" said Grim.
"I will," said Rogers, cheerfully.
"Then do it, you ass," said the chairman.
"I second," said Rogers, hurriedly, "and you needn't be so beastly strict, Grim."
"Gentlemen, the proposal before the meeting is that we lead off with an epilogue. Item number one on the programme to be 'An Epilogue.' Those in favour signify. Carried unanimously."
"I say, Grim, what is an epilogue, anyhow?" said a voice.
"Oh, I say," said the chairman, "pass that young ignoramus this way. Lamb, do you mean to say you don't know what an epilogue is?"
"No, I don't."
"This is sickening," said Grim, with disgust. "A fellow in Biffen's not know what an epilogue is! Tell him, Fruity," he added, with pathetic vexation.
"He asked you," said Cherry, hurriedly.
"I'm the chairman," said Grim, in a wax, but with great relief. "Explain away, Fruity!"
"Oh, every first-class concert starts with one," he said vaguely.
"See now, Lamb?"
Lamb professed himself satisfied, but he did not appear absolutely blinded by the light either.
"Anyhow," said Wilson, "Fruity will see to that. I propose he does."
"I second it," said Lamb, viciously, whereupon Cherry kicked the seconder on the shins, for he did not exactly thirst for that honour. "I'm an ass," he said to himself; "but, anyhow, I'll look up what the blessed word does mean, and try to do it."
"I see," said Grim, "they've got a poem on 'Cock House' for number two. That seems all right, eh?"
"Oh yes; it's always done."
"Well, we'll have one too, eh? Who's got to do the poetry, though? Somebody propose somebody"—thereupon every fag proposed his chiefest enemy, and the battles raged along the line. "And you call yourselves gentlemen!" said Grim in disgust—he had been overlooked for the time being.
"I propose Sharpe," said Wilson, dusting himself. "He does no end swell construes from 'Ovid.'"
"I second that," said Rogers. "He has long hair. Poets always have. Milton had."
"That bit is side," said the chairman, judicially. "Those who are in favour of Sharpe doing the poetry hold—Carried, nem. con."
"Nem. con. is side too, Grim," said Rogers.
"Shut up, you mule! Sharpe, you'll have to do the poem."
"I say, you fellows, it will be horse work," said Sharpe, disconsolately. "There isn't a rhyme to Biffen's."
"Oh! isn't there? What about 'spiffing'?"
Sharpe choked.
"Griffin."
"Tiffin."
Lamb squeaked out "stiff 'un," and some one gently led him out—even Biffen's fags caved in at that.
"Sharpe, you're booked for number two, old man. Gentlemen, I direct your attention to number three—Corker's did Indian clubs and the gold-fish dodge."
"Oh, well," said Wilson, "we're not going to copy Corker's, anyhow. Let's do dumb-bells and something else."
"I propose that Wilson does the something else," said Cherry, good-naturedly.
Wilson said he was ready to do something to Cherry any time that was convenient. Rogers suggested that they ask the niggers to do something on the bars, and Sharpe seconded it, so the dervishes were written to and promised a scragging if they didn't turn themselves inside out for the glory of Biffen's concert.
"I say, you fellows," said Grim, "it's to be a concert, you know, and except for Fruity's epilogue there isn't any music down yet." Cherry groaned to think he'd been let in for a song.
"What about Thurston?" asked half a dozen of the fags.
"Right, oh! Now, 'Dicky Bird,' hop up to the front, and trot out your list."
Thurston wasn't shy, and rather fancied his bleat, so he said, "Oh! I don't mind at all."
"We thought you wouldn't," said the chairman, winking.
"What do you say to 'Alice, where art thou'?"
"We don't fancy your shouting five minutes for her at all. Next, please."
"'Only to see her face again,' then?"
"Whose?" said Sharpe, irreverently.
"Why, the girl's the fellow is singing about," said Thurston, hotly.
"Oh! you'll see her the day after to-morrow, Dicky Bird, so don't you fret about that now. Do you know 'My first cigar'?"
"Do you mean the one that sent you to hospital, Grimmy?"
"No I don't. None of your cheek. I'm chairman. I mean the one Corney Grain used to sing."
"Yes."
"Well, you sing that and you'll make the fellows die with laughing. And mind you illustrate it with plenty of life-like pantomime, do you hear?"
"Carried, nem. con.," shouted all the fags with enthusiasm.
"Hear, hear, Grimmy!"
"So that's settled for you, and if you get an encore, Dicky Bird, you can trot 'Alice' out if you like."
"Which of the fellows have we to invite out of the eleven to help us?"
"Acton," was the universal yell.
"We'll see him, then, to-night."
"Three cheers for Acton," said someone, and the roof echoed.
"Well, we're getting on, and I say, you chaps, I have an idea."
"Hear, hear!" said Cherry, acidly; "Grimmy has an idea."
"A grand idea, Fruity. Your epilogue isn't in it."
"What is it, Grim?"
"We'll have a boxing competition open to St. Amory's juniors only. Rogers should pull that off, eh?"
"Rather," said they all. "One more feather in Biffen's cap.".
"But, Grimmy," said Rogers, "I don't last, you know."
"Ah!" said the chairman, brilliantly, "we'll only have one two-minutes' round each draw. It will go by points. You're safe as a house, my pet, really."
"Who'll be judge about points? I propose you, Grim," said Rogers, with intent.
"Thanks, old cock, but I really couldn't do the honourable if you were 'rocky' in the last rounds. We'll ask Carr to see us through that part. You'll be all right, I tell you."
"Who's to accompany on the P and O?"
"Oh, Brown must see to that!"
"I propose Brown key-thumper."
"I second that."
"Carried," said the chair, smartly.
"I say," said Grim, "I propose myself stage manager. I'm the only fellow who knows a ha'porth about it."
"A ha'porth is an awful lot; besides, a chairman can't propose himself," said Cherry, revengefully.
"I second the chairman's proposal," said Wilson, backing up his chum.
"Carried, nem. con."
"No, I'm hanged if it was!" said Cherry. "You're a fraud, Grimmy."
"All right now, you chaps, the meeting is over. Wilson and I will go up to Acton, and see what he'll do for us, and then we'll rough out a swagger programme."