CHAPTER IX
THE END OF TERM
The two worthies, Grim and Wilson, after seeing Acton, began to get out their programme. Here it is:—
| Biffen's Junior's Concert. | |
| Cock House, December, 1898. | |
| (1) | Epilogue. B.A.M. Cherry. |
| (2) | Poem on the subject of Cock House. B. Sharpe. |
| (3) | Bar Act. |
| (4) | First Round Junior Boxing Competition. Prince Runjit Mehtah and Ram Singh. |
| (5) | Song. "My First Cigar." R.E. Thurston. |
| (6) | Pianoforte Solo.. "Oh! listen to the band." O. Brown. |
| (7) | Second Round Boxing. |
| (8) | Song.. "Jim." J. Acton, Esq. |
| (9) | Third and Concluding Rounds Boxing. |
| (10) | Song.. "Well, suppose you did?" R.E. Thurston. |
| God Save The Queen. | |
| Accompanist. O.E. Brown. | |
| Stage Manager. W.E. Grim. | |
|
|
This was printed on paper blushing pink—Biffen's colours—and Grim and Wilson, when they got the advance proof last thing on Saturday night, almost embraced in their jubilation. There was such a swagger look about the "N.B."
Meanwhile B.A.M. Cherry had consulted his dictionary, and therein found that an "epilogue" was defined as "a concluding speech in an oration or play." He broke into a cold sweat of horror. That was an epilogue, then! Where could he find one? What would be the good of one if he did find it? And supposing he had one and could recite it, it was at the wrong end of the programme—the programme which had already been printed in such hot haste? It was too late to tell Grim, who would have instantly summoned all the strength of Biffen's to scrag him. The wretched Cherry shuddered at his awful plight.
Nothing could he do or dare he do. In desperation he determined to fall ill on the concert night. B.A.M. Cherry hadn't the heroic soul, and when Grim asked him cheerfully how the epilogue was going on, he said "spiffing," in the tone of a martyr at the stake.
On the Monday Grim scuttled about all day—now on the stage, listening to Thurston going over his songs with Brown, now getting entries for his boxing competition, now encouraging Sharpe, who was in the throes of composition, and now criticizing the Dervishes with much force. Acton put in an appearance in the concert-room, and gave Brown the accompaniment to "Jim;" and, after hearing him play it through, went and read his novel the rest of his spare time.
At 7.30 the juniors of St. Amory's began to stroll in, Biffen's lot collaring the front seats as per custom. The programmes were distributed to each one as he came in, and created no end of sensation, and W.E. Grim was allowed to have come out very strong in the programme line. St. Amory's fags did not spot anything wrong about item one, but the older fellows chuckled a little and said "the manager was a funny ass." This opinion was instantly conveyed to Grim by one of his cronies, and made that young gentleman think himself no end of a sly dog.
Punctually to the minute Grim rang his bell, and, darting into the dressing-room, said, "Now, Cherry, come along with your epilogue, They're all waiting. Where is that ass?"
"Cherry has not turned up yet, Grim."
"What?" he said in horror.
"Not turned up yet!"
"I'll go and fetch the beggar at once."
Grim darted out of the room, tore along the street, and was hammering at Cherry's door within the minute.
"Fruity, hurry up, they're all waiting."
"I'm not well, Grim."
"What?"
"I'm not well—I'm in bed."
"You miserable beast!" shouted Grim. "I'll massacre you. You'll make us the laughing stock of the whole school. Get up, man, Be a man."
"I'm ill," moaned Cherry from within.
"You miserable beast! You'll be dead to-morrow." He shook the door violently, but Cherry was not quite the utter fool Grim took him for, for he had locked the door. Grim stood outside on the corridor for some seconds, petrified with rage and disgust, and then flew like a madman back to the concert-room. He cannoned up against some one leisurely strolling up to the dressing-room, and was darting on again sans apology. A hand gently closed upon his collar and pulled him back.
"Hallo, young shaver! Little boys used to apologize when they—Why, it's Grim! What in the name——"
Grim, almost blubbing with anger and shame, poured out his tale, and Acton listened with an amused smile. "Sheer funk, Grim. Well, go on, and tell 'em their Cherry has rotted, but that I'll come and tell 'em a little tale instead."
Grim would have embraced Acton if he'd been a little taller, but he gurgled, "Acton, you are a brick," and darted on to the stage.
He was received with deafening cheers, and shrieks of "No waits!" "Manager!" "Don't hurry, Grim!" "We'll send out for supper!" "We want Cherry!" "Go off," etc.
When Grim could get a word in he panted, "Gentlemen, I am sorry to say B.A.M. Cherry is indisposed and cannot favour you with the epilogue."
"Funked it!" roared all the delighted juniors.
"He says he is unwell," said Grim, anger getting the better of him, "but he'll be a jolly sight worse in the morning."
There was a hurricane of thunderous cheers at this sally, but Grim managed to shout above the laughing, "I have great pleasure in announcing that John Acton, Esq., will take Fruity's—I mean Cherry's—place and tell you a little tale; even Corker fags will understand it," added Grim, viciously.
Acton came on and received his hearty welcome with easy good nature. He plunged right into his contribution: "A London cabby's account of his different fares"—from the double-superfine gilt-edged individual to the fat old dowager who will have the parrot inside with her. Acton gave it perfectly. Grim, who had his ears glued to the exit door, vowed he could almost hear the swell drop his eyeglass.
Sharpe stepped on to the stage amid the polite attentions of his natural enemies. "Be a man, Sharpe." "Don't cry." "You'll see mamma soon." "Speak up." "He did it all alone, remember." "No help." "Oh, dear no!"
That's shaded o'er by trees in greenest dress,
Upon its breast of snow its gem of gold
The water lily swims——"
The juniors howled with dismay at this commencement, and Corker juniors instantly began to keep time to Sharpe's delivery in the organ-grinder's fashion. But Sharpe toiled remorselessly on. He compared Biffen's house to a water lily growing in a muddy pond, and again as a Phoenix risen from the ashes; and he gave us, with circumstantial details, every round of the footer housers, their two eleven caps, and the Perry Exhibition, and darkly hinted at Acton's exclusion from the eleven.
He wound up his awful farrago in one glorious burst of solemn fury—
As thunders to the icy pole the glorious name of Biffen's."
When Sharpe finally made his bow, according to the invariable custom, every junior except a Biffenite imitated with rare fidelity the mixed sensations of channel passengers after a stormy passage.
Sharpe, cheered to the echo by the Biffenites on the front row, went proudly off.
The Dervishes were received with enthusiasm, and went through their performance to the shouts of "Well wriggled, Java!" "Why don't you oil!" "Do it again—orang-outang!" They amiably smiled acknowledgments as they backed away.
Then I myself stepped on to the stage, prepared to judge the two-minutes' rounds. Grim had whipped up sixteen fags, each willing to do battle for the honour of his house. The rounds proceeded to the accompaniment of ear-splitting encouragement, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that not a solitary one of the defeated heroes thought he had really been beaten on points.
No mistake about it, Biffen's had a fag who could sing. Thurston's "My First Cigar" only lacked one thing—it should have lasted a little longer to suit the audience.
It had spots of a yellowish hue,
She said the best brands always had,
And I firmly believed it was true."
A good number of the fellows knew "The Soldiers in the Park," and Brown hammered it out in a good old breezy style.
As he was racing home, and the jolly chorus was crashing out from the piano, one fag started "Oh, listen to the band!"
Instantly the whole school, juniors and seniors as well, joined in the chorus, keeping time with their feet.
Who doesn't love to hark
To the shout of 'Here they come'
And the banging of the drum—
Oh, listen to the soldiers in the park."
When the dust had settled, every one acknowledged that Biffen's concert was going with a bang. I am not going to bore you with a longer account of Biffen's concert. Thurston sang "Alice, where art thou?" the fellows telling him between the verses that "She wasn't going to come," "Spoony songs barred," etc., and Rogers carried off the fags' boxing competition with a big rush in the final round, and Biffen's crew howled with delight.
Finally the bell rang for Acton's song. Brown rattled through the preliminary bars, and the song commenced. The singer held himself slightly forward, in a rather stiff and awkward fashion, and his eyes were staring intently into vacancy. There was not the shadow of a shade of any expression in his face. A feeling of pity for Acton was the universal sensation when the first words fell from his lips. Acton had not the ghost of a singing voice, and the school shuddered at the awful exhibition. There was an icy silence, but Acton croaked remorselessly on. This is the song:—
Best of chums for many years were we;
I had no luck—was, alas! a Jonah;
Jim, my chum, was lucky as could be.
Oh, lucky Jim! How I envied him!
Left his widow, and she married me;
Now we're married oft I think of Jim, boys,
Sleeping in that churchyard by the sea.
Oh, lucky Jim! How I envy him!"
As the words followed on there was a suggestion of oddity in that awful voice singing a comic song, and there were a few suppressed laughs at the idea. As the song progressed, the utter dreary weariness of the voice, and the rather funny words, compelled the fellows to laugh in uncontrollable bursts; but still Acton never turned a hair. When he arrived at the churchyard lines there was one universal howl of delight. Brown stopped dead at the end of the second last line, and Acton stopped dead too. Instantly all the fellows became as mute as fish. The singer straightened himself up, looked round the room with a mocking smile while one might count a dozen, and then winked to Brown, who recommenced softly on the piano. Then Acton sang slowly and deliberately—sang with a voice as clear and as tunable as a silver bell—
His croak was a pretence—he had hoaxed us all! Before we recovered from our stupefaction he had vanished. The school clamoured for his return, but though they cheered for three minutes on end Acton did not reappear, and Brown struck up "God save the Queen!" Biffen's concert was at an end!
Grim held a five minutes' meeting among the Biffenites before bed.
"There's never been a fellow like Acton in St. Amory's. He goes away at nine to-morrow. The Great Midland are going to stop their express to pick up St. Amory fellows, and Acton goes up to his place by that. I vote we all go in a body to the station and cheer him off. We keep it dark, of course." This staccato oration was agreed to with acclamation, and Biffenites went to bed happy.
On the morrow Acton strolled into the station and espied the Biffenites, who were scattered up and down the platform with careful carelessness. The train came in, and at once the juniors crowded en masse round the carriage in which Acton had secured a corner seat, and stood talking to Grim, who was in fine feather.
At that very moment Phil Bourne and young Jack Bourne bustled into the station. An idea struck Rogers, and he said to all his chums, "Here's Bourne, you fellows; let him know we see him."
The fags were delighted, and when Bourne entered the carriage next Acton's there was a long-drawn-out hoot for his especial benefit.
"Another," said Rogers, whereat more soulful groans.
"The last," said Rogers, and Bourne took his seat to a chorus of hisses and tortured howls. He smiled a little and opened his paper, while the people in the carriage looked curiously at him.
The guard's whistle went and Acton sprang in. "Good-bye."
As the train moved, Grim said, "Three cheers for Acton!"
"Hip, hip, hurrah! Hip, hip, hurrah!"
"A groan for Bourne!" Acton smiled good naturedly to his henchmen. As he glided past he said to himself softly, "And yet I have not quite hoed all my row out either, Bourne. Wait, my friend, wait!"
CHAPTER X
THE YOUNG BROTHER
When St. Amory's reassembled after the holidays Acton found himself firmly established in the good graces of the fellows, and, indeed, he was not far from being the most popular fellow in the place, but poor Phil was looked coldly upon by those who had been his chiefest friends, and, by those who knew little of him, he passed for a jealous bounder. Acton played up to his cards in beautiful style, and acted the forgiving innocent splendidly; but Phil, who was only a very honest fellow, did not play anything to speak of. Those who gave him the cold shoulder once never had a second chance of showing it him, for Phil was no end proud; but he had still one or two friends, who condoned his passing of Acton for the "footer" cap on the ground of "insufficient information" thereon. Roberts and Baines and Vercoe were not a bad trio to have for friends either. Acton was now in the Sixth, and a monitor.
His main idea was to keep Bourne in the bad books of the school until such time as he could direct their ill-favour into channels favourable to himself and unfavourable for Phil. A lucky chance seemed to open to him an easy method of striking at Bourne, and Acton almost hugged himself with joy at his windfall.
About a week after the holidays Acton had been skating on the Marsh, and as he was returning he came across Jack Bourne engaged in a desperate fight with a young yokel. There was a small crowd of loafers, who were delighted at this little turn up, and were loud in their advice to the fellow to give "the young swell a good hiding."
This little crowd, as I said, caught Acton's eye, and when he perceived that one of the fighters was a St. Amory fellow, he hurried up to see what was the little game.
Young Bourne was getting the worst of it. The yokel was a year or two older, was taller, and stones heavier. It was an unequal fight. Bourne was standing up to his man pluckily, and, thanks to the "agricultural" style of the clodhopper, was not taking nearly so much harm as he should have done. He was, however, pretty low down in the mouth, for there was not a friendly eye to encourage him, nor a friendly shout to back him up. On the contrary, the mob howled with delight as their man got "home," and encouraged him: "Gow it, Dick! Knock the stuffin' out of 'im!"
Acton had not been noticed, but he thrust himself into the mob, and said, "Stand back, you little beggars, or I'll massacre the lot of you. Give the boy room, you filthy pigs!" The "pigs" scuttled back, and for the first time Bourne really had fair play.
Acton took out his watch and assumed the direction of the fight.
"Time!" he shouted out. "You fellow, that's your corner, and if you stir out of it before I give the word I'll thrash you within an inch of your life. This will be ours, Bourne." He strode in between the two, and pushed the yokel among his friends, whilst he dragged Bourne a little apart.
"Thanks awfully, Acton. That beast knocked me off the path into the snow-heap when he saw I was one of the school. I struck him, but he's a big handful."
"Don't talk, Bourne," said Acton, grimly. "It's only wasting breath. Keep cool, man, and you will pull it off yet."
Thanks to Acton's encouragement, young Bourne worked along ever so much better, so that when time was called he had taken no damage practically, but had scored a little on his own account.
"Sit down on my coat. You're doing famously. Whatever you do, don't let him swing you one in the face. You'll be snuffed out if you do. Keep him out at any cost, and try an upper cut after he swings. Waste no time after he's missed."
But although young Bourne scored no end in the next few rounds by following Acton's advice, his good efforts seemed wasted. The lout's face was as hard as a butcher's block. Acton saw that Bourne was visibly tiring, and that it was an almost foregone conclusion that in the end he would be beaten. He could hardly stall off the fellow's attack.
After the seventh round Acton saw that he must put all to the touch, or Bourne would lose. "Listen carefully, young 'un. You're jolly game, and that's a fact, but there's no good hammering on the fool's face—he can't feel. You must try another trick. It's the last in your box, too, Bourne, so make no mistake. St. Amory's for ever! When he swings, duck. Don't try to ward him off—he'll beat you down. Then, for all you're worth, drive home with your left on the jaw. On the jaw for all you're worth. You've seen the sergeant do it dozens of times in the gym. Keep cool, and look when you hit—on the very peak. Understand?"
"Rather!" said Jack, coolly but wearily.
"Time!"
The yokel came on in all the pride of his beefy strength, for ha knew that he was going to finish the "swell" this round. He swung. Bourne ducked, and then, quick as lightning, the lad closed in, and, with the last ounce he had in him, drove his left on the jaw. He was true to a hair.
"Habet!" shouted Acton. "Don't give him time, Jack. Send him down if you can."
Bourne's "point" had the usual effect; the lout's head swam, he felt sick and sorry, and could not even ward off Jack's blows. He backed, Jack scoring like mad all the time, and when Acton finally called "time!" he dropped on to the ground blubbing. The fellow's eye was visibly swelling, his lips were cut, and his nose bled villainously.
"The pig bleeds," said Acton, cheerfully. "You have him now, Bourne; he's too sick to have an ounce of fight left in him. Time!"
The next round wasn't a round really; it was a procession, with Bourne, as fresh as paint from his success, following up the other blubbing with rage, pain, and sickness. Before Acton called, the fellow dropped to the ground and howled dismally.
"Get your coat, Jack, and then come here. He's done. Stand back, you others."
Jack came back.
"Now, you pig, get up and apologize to this gentleman for having knocked him into the snow-heap. I suppose your pig's eyes couldn't see he was only half your size." Acton got hold of the fellow by the collar and jerked him to his feet. "Apologize."
The fellow would not understand; he snivelled obstinately, and struggled aimlessly in Acton's grasp.
"Apologize."
"I wown't."
"Good," said Acton, grimly. With his flat hand he gave the fellow a thundering cuff which sent him sprawling. Acton then caught him by the scruff of his neck and threw him headlong into the snow-heap.
"Come along, Bourne," he said, with a smile. "You have fought a good fight this day, and no mistake. That fellow will have a fit the next and every time he sees the smallest St. Amory's fag's cap."
"I say, Acton, you're an awful brick to back me up like that."
"Don't mention it, Bourne. Come and have some tea with me, and I'll pour oil into your wounds, or at any rate, I'll paint 'em."
So young Bourne had tea with Acton, and his host went out afterwards to Dann's the chemist's and brought back a camel's-hair brush and some lotion. Thanks to this, Jack's scars appeared as very honourable wounds indeed.
From that day Jack thought Acton the finest fellow in St. Amory's.
"He did not spread-eagle that fool," he said to himself, "but let me have the glory of pounding the ugly brute into jelly, and made me go in and win when I was ready to give in to the cad. Why did not Phil give him his cap? There's something rotten somewhere."
As for Acton, as I said before, he regarded this little incident as a treasure trove upon which he could draw almost unlimitedly in his campaign against Bourne. "I'll strike at Bourne, senr., through his young brother. I'll train him up in the way he should go, and when our unspeakable prig of a Philip sees what a beautiful article young Jack finally emerges, he'll wish he'd left me alone. Jack, my boy, I'm sorry, but I'm going to make you a bad boy, just to give your elder brother something to think about. You're going to become a terrible monster of iniquity, just to shock your reverend brother."
Acton took not the smallest interest in the usual Easter Term games. Footer was only played occasionally, but there was one blessing, the fellows need not play the usual Thursday Old Game. As for cross-country running, paper chases, et hoc genus omne, Acton refused to have anything to do with them. "That sort," he said to Dick Worcester, "isn't in the same street with footer."
"Why not try and lift the Public School Heavy at Aldershot?" suggested Worcester.
"There's Hodgson in for it, Dick."
"A good man; but if you would only apply yourself seriously to the business I'd back you. You're a good weight, and got a longer reach than Hodgson."
"There's Bourne, too."
"Personally, I believe Phil is only pacing Hodgson to take him along quicker."
"It's an awful fag, and I believe Eton have got the Heavy safe and sure this year. A cousin of mine there says that their pet, Jarvis, would walk right through the best man we've ever turned out."
"Oh, that's their usual brag!"
"Personally, I don't think so. They have got a young Bermondsey professor—who is up to all the latest dodges—to coach. Our sergeant is a bit old-fashioned—good, but old-fashioned. Does not do enough with his right."
"I'm quite an amateur," said Dick. "Don't understand the finer shades of the arts. Should have thought the sergeant good enough."
"Dubito! Anyhow, Dick, I'll think it over; and if I think I can make a decent show I'll have a shot. When does it come off?" "At Aldershot? Oh!—last week in March."
"That gives me nearly two months. One can turn round in two months; and if I'm satisfied as to my coaching I'll certainly try at Aldershot. But what has a fellow to do on the half-holidays now? No footer, and one might do enough practice after tea for the Heavy. I wish Kipling would write a book every week. He is the only fellow in England who can write."
So Acton, on the half-holidays, prepared to read his novels by his fireside. Not that he was particularly fond of toasting himself, but because, for him, it was all he could do.
But Corker came to his rescue. The old man, after having had his back to the wall for an age, consented to monitors being allowed to cycle by themselves, and even to be chaperon to any fags who cared to run with them, and—important proviso—whom the monitors did not object to. Otherwise the old rule of no cycling sans house-master was in force.
Acton thereupon invested in a swell machine, and he and young Bourne, or Grim, or Wilson on the hired article, would cover no end of country between dinner and roll call.
By-and-by Phil noticed that his brother was getting pretty thick with Acton.
"Rather thick with Acton, Jack? I don't think he'll do you any good."
"He has, anyhow, Phil."
"How?"
Jack explained.
"I'm glad you licked the animal, young 'un; but, all the same, I wish some other fellow had seen you through."
"I don't!" said Jack, hotly.
"I wonder," said Phil, dryly, "what is the great attraction which a Sixth Form fellow sees in a fag? Above all, a fag of the name of Bourne?"
"Fact is, I don't see it myself," said Jack, shortly. "Better ask him."
"No, I don't think I shall. All the same, I would not dog Acton's footsteps quite so much."
"He's a monitor."
"Who'll make you useful. Take my word for it."
"We'll see."
"Oh! Certainly we shall."
Jack was thoroughly unhinged by his brother's dry bantering tone, and said hotly—
"I cannot understand, Phil, why he didn't get his cap. He deserved it."
"There's no need for you to understand it, young 'un."
"My opinion is——"
"Not worth the breath you're going to waste."
"It's considered a shame pretty generally."
"I've heard so; but, still, that does not alter matters. However, I did not want to talk politics with you, Jack. Don't put your innocent little toes into any scrape—that is all I wanted to tell you. Here is half a crown for you to buy butterscotch, and while you're sucking it think over what I've said. What! Little boys given up toffee? Then I'd better say good night, Jack." Jack went out pretty sore.
About a week or so after this, Acton and young Bourne sped down to the old Lodestone Farm, and as they pedalled in at the gate young Hill, the farmer's son, said to Acton—
"The man's been here since twelve, sir."
"That's all right," said Acton. "Has he got the stable ready?"
"He's been putting it to rights the last hour."
"I say, Bourne," said Acton, turning to Jack, "ever heard of the Alabama Coon?"
"The fellow who won that fight in Holland? The prize-fighter?"
"The very same."
"Rather!"
"Well, I've engaged him to give me a few lessons here. I'm going to try for the Heavy at Aldershot. Like to see the fun?"
"Rather!"
"Then come along."
Together they went into the stable, and therein found "The Coon," a coal-black negro, busily shovelling sand upon the floor, smoking an enormous cigar the while.
"Making ready the cockpit," said Acton to Jack, who was staring open-eyed at the worker. "Lusty looking animal, eh?"
"My aunt!" said Jack.
"Hallo, Coon, you're about ready!"
"Yaas, sir," said the negro. "I'm almost through."
"Brought the mittens with you, too?"
"Yaas, sir, I have the feather beds."
"Then when you've peeled we'll start."
The Coon put down his spade and slipped behind a stall.
"You see, young 'un, the sergeant at the gym is a good old hand, but he is an old hand, so to speak—hasn't got the polish. Seeing that at Aldershot they tie us down to a very few rounds, if St. Amory's have to make any show at all they must get all the points they can first round or so. That's why I've got the Coon down here. He is the most scientific boxer we have."
"The figure will be pretty stiff, Acton, eh?"
"No matter about that if I can beat Jarvis. By the way, Bourne, you need not say anything about this to any one. I have particular reasons for keeping this quiet."
"All serene. I'm mum, of course."
"Thanks. You watch the Coon, and you'll pick up no end of wrinkles."
The Coon came out from behind the stall dressed in a vest, trousers, and thin boots; his black arms were bare, and he had exchanged his cigar for a straw, which he chewed vigorously. Acton changed his shoes and took off his coat, and the lesson began.
Acton's opinion of the Coon's knowledge was, in Jack's mind, absolutely corroborated by the display. His marvellous parrying of Acton's attentions; his short step inwards, which invariably followed a mis-hit by Acton; his baits to lure his opponent to deliver himself a gift into his hands; his incredible ducking and lightning returns, held Bourne fascinated. Everything was done so easily, so lithely, so lightly, and so surely, that Jack gasped in admiration. Acton in the hands of the nigger was a lamb indeed.
"This is an eye-opener," said Jack. "I'll try that left feint on Rogers, the cocky ass!"
The negro stopped now and then to show Acton where and how to avail himself of opportunities; and Acton, who was in grim earnest, applied himself whole-heartedly to the business in hand, and, in consequence, as Jack afterwards told us, "you could almost hear old Acton travelling on the right road."
After about half an hour of instruction, Acton said—
"That is enough of jawing for the afternoon, Coon. Let us have three rounds to finish up with. Take the time, young 'un."
Jack, with immense pride, took out his watch and prepared to act as timekeeper.
"Better take it easily first two, sir, and put in all you know for the last. A little hurricane in the third round is my advice."
Jack had an ecstatic ten minutes, the final round putting him in the seventh heaven of enjoyment.
"All I could make out was Acton's white arms mixed with Alabama's black ones, and the sand flying in all directions. Stunning isn't the word for it!"
As Acton and young Bourne pedalled leisurely home for roll call, Jack said—
"I think Jarvis' chance of collaring the Heavy for his place is a trifle 'rocky.'"
"I hope so."
"Crumbs! How Alabama does get home!"
CHAPTER XI
TODD PAYS THE BILL
Another youth had come back to St. Amory's with resolutions as fixed and steady, though more legitimate than Acton's. Augustus Vernon Robert Todd returned to school with pockets more scantily lined than ever from the parental source, with his mind constantly fixed on the conversation which he had had with his house-master on that awful concluding day last term, and his chin still thrust out valiantly. Gus's square chin meant an undeviating attention to serious study, and Gus, armed cap-à-pie, against all his old friends.
For Todd had taken his precautions. His watch—a gold one, "jewelled in numberless holes," as its owner pathetically remarked—had been left with the family jeweller for three bright golden sovereigns, an eight-and-six brass turnip, which went jolly well, although its tick was a trifle vigorous under Gus's pillow, and an agreement. This document, drawn up by himself, Gus regarded as a very masterpiece of business-like acumen. Gus could have his gold watch back again within the year by paying three sovereigns, and buying the brass turnip for half a sovereign, the profit accruing on this latter transaction being, as Gus explained proudly, the jeweller's percentage on the loan. The family jeweller had informed Gus casually that he couldn't keep a wife and growing family on such percentages, but to oblige, etc.
Todd received Mr. James Cotton blandly and politely, and Jim, in his heavy way, mistook this airiness for non-paying symptoms on Gus's part.
"Had a good time, old cock, during the holidays?"
"Beastly," said Gus.
"Governor rusty?"
"No end. Been making the will again, and leaving me out."
"Perry fiasco, eh?"
"Yes, and other things."
"Well, I hope you can pay up all you owe me, old chap."
"Oh yes!" said Gus. "I said I would keep my word, although you were so good as to have your doubts."
"All right, glad you can manage it."
"Here you are," said Gus, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing up his coins. "Three three for that rotten bet, and the other fifteen bob I owed you. It's all there."
Cotton opened his eyes.
"You said the governor was rusty, Gus?"
"So he was, beastly; but I can pay you all the same."
"Well," said Cotton, after a little awkward pause, "I don't want to clean you out quite, so pay half now and the rest next term. Would that suit you better, Gus?"
"Thanks, I don't mind," said Gus, airily. "Here's half, then."
Cotton left his friend's room considerably puzzled, but when he came next night with his books for his old jackal's attentions as before, he was more than puzzled, for Gus said—
"Can give you half an hour, Jim."
"We won't be able to screw up enough for Merishall in that time, old man."
"Then you'll have to do the rest yourself, Jim. I'm not going to piffle about any more."
"Oh, don't be an ass, Gus! I've heard that footle before," said Cotton, with his heavy selfishness.
"Not quite, for this time I mean what I say."
"Oh no, you don't!"
"Oh yes, I do!"
"You wouldn't leave a fellow in the lurch like this, after all I—"
"I was left in the lurch last term, Jim, dear, and I'd rather you had a taste of it this go. Do you remember when old Corker was savaging me before all the school!"
The ghost of a smile flitted over Cotton's lips as he said—
"Rather!"
"The entire school, from the meanest fag up to Carr, was laughing at me, and, by Jove! Jim, your laugh was the loudest and longest."
"It was your tips I was thinking of, and Corker's frothing through your list of names," said Cotton, apologetically.
"All right," said Todd, acidly. "If you had left me alone I wouldn't have wanted those tips, and as for my names, I did not christen myself. If you want half an hour to shake out your work roughly I'll do it, but I can't do more, Jim, honour bright."
"I don't want that!" said Cotton, angrily, gathering up his books."
"Am deucedly glad you don't. And here, Jim, is the other half of the money. Since I'm not obliging you in any way, why should you me?"
"You're logical, Todd, at any rate," said Jim, with half a sneer.
"Didn't know you could spot logic when you heard it, Cotton," said Gus, with an equal amount of acid, and yet good-naturedly too.
"I suppose I clean you out?"
"You do. I've got a shilling to look at when you've taken up that heap."
"Is that your last word?"
"It is, but there's no need to quarrel—we're as we were before I began to take your hire, Jim."
"Not quite," said Cotton, who was hit by Gus's decision. "I'll leave you to your odd shilling and your forsaken tips."
He stumped off to his own room, and called Todd pet names till bedtime. What made Cotton so angry was that, deep down in his own mind, he knew that Gus was about to do a sensible and a manly thing, and just because he himself was going to suffer by it he had not moral courage enough to speak out openly his better mind.
But Gus, smiling at Cotton's bad temper, took out his books, drew up a scheme for study, bolted his door, and commenced to work. He slacked off when the bell went half an hour before lights out, and spent the time left him in boring a hole in his solitary shilling. He then slipped it on his watch-guard, prepared boldly to face a term of ten weeks without a stiver.