CHAPTER V
CHEATING
§1
Time carried us a year nearer the shadow of the Great War. It brought us to our fourteenth year, at which period Doe's mysterious intrigue with Freedham still awaited solution, and my Armageddon with Fillet still languished in a sort of trench-warfare.
It was now that our abominable form took to cheating once a week in Fillet's class-room. A Roman History lesson left invitingly open the opportunity to do so. For Fillet's method of examining our acquaintance with the chapter he had set to be learnt in Preparation was invariably the same. He asked twenty questions, whose answers we had to write on paper. He would then tell us the answers and allow us to correct our own work. After this he would take down our marks.
Now, our form had been organised by the all-powerful statesman, Pennybet, who had lately been reading the Progressive Papers, into a Trade Union, of which the President was Mr. Archibald Pennybet. He had decided (as it is the business of all trade unions to decide) that we were worked too hard. We must organise to effect an improvement in the conditions of living. To demand from the Head Master an instant reduction in the hours of labour didn't seem feasible to our union of twenty members, but it would be quite easy by a co-operative effort to modify the extent of our Preparation. At a mass-meeting of the workers Penny outlined his scheme—Penny loved scheming, moving forces, and holding their reins.
It was a marvellous scheme. We were to leave undone our Preparation for the Roman History lesson, and, when Fillet told us the answers, we were to write them down and credit ourselves with the marks. "It's not cheating," explained our leader in his speech (and we were all very glad, I think, to hear that it wasn't cheating), "because it's not an effort to take an unfair advantage of each other. It's just a cordial understanding, by which we all lessen one another's burdens.
"I and my executive," continued Penny, "have all the details worked out to a nicety. Here is a table for the whole term, showing how many marks each worker will give up week by week. It is so graduated that the clever fellows will end up at the top, and those who would naturally slack will end up at the bottom. My executive has decided that Doe is about the brainiest, so he comes out first"—blushes from Doe—"and I myself am willing to stand at the bottom."
By this revelation of astonishing magnanimity Penny came out of the transaction, as he did out of most things that he put his hand to, with nothing but credit.
For half a term this comfortable scheme ran as merrily as a stream down hill. And then a strange thing happened to me. I was talking one afternoon to Penny on the absurdities of the Solar System, when I became conscious that my mind had closed upon seven words: "That Rupert, the best of the lot."
"That Rupert, the best of the lot." What on earth had resuscitated those words? I politely bowed them out and continued my conversation. But the phrase had entered like a bailiff into possession of my mind. Even as I put it from me, believing it would be lost in the flow of an absorbing conversation, I knew that there had appeared upon the horizon a cloud no bigger than a man's hand.
"That Rupert, the best of the lot." The words, as first told to me by my mother, had been the dying words of my grandfather, Colonel Rupert Ray, with which he asked repeatedly for his dead son, my father. So the words were uttered by the first Rupert Ray, applied to the second, and recalled by the third at a most inopportune moment. And the third would have bowed them out. Why? Because he was a cheat? No—let us not be ridiculous—because he was in the midst of an important conversation.
I pretended to listen to Penny, but really I was reasoning something else. I was admitting that, now that this little phrase had popped up through some trap-door of my mind, my conscience, long dormant on the cheating theme, would have to be talked round again. And, as something like suspense set in, I was anxious to join issue at once.
I left Penny abruptly and retired to a window (as you will have observed it was my fashion to do), where I leant upon the sill and prepared to argue out the problem.
Our co-operative effort to avoid preparing our lesson, was it wrong? Yes. In spite of the old sophistry I knew it to be so. But what attitude should one adopt? To refuse publicly to have any part in the system would seem like mock-heroics. The only course open was to learn the work and earn the marks. Inevitably I had arrived at the conclusion which I dreaded. To learn the work seemed a task surprisingly difficult and menacing after half-a-term's freedom. I hugged that freedom. I wished my calm acquiescence in the system had not been ruffled.
To learn the work—it was a little thing surely: to learn it unseen and alone, while other boys went free of the labour, and gave themselves the marks, notwithstanding. But no, I could no more persuade myself that it was a little thing than I could believe that any other course was the right one. I felt it was big—too big for me.
Then the old thought, probably not an hour younger than sin itself, was quick to take advantage of my indecision: I would go on as I was a little while longer—till the end of the term—and then begin with a clean sheet. There was much to be said in favour of this: for see, if I were to do the thing thoroughly this term, I ought to forgo all the marks that I had already come by dishonestly. To do that was impossible. The confession involved would court expulsion. Expulsion! As the word occurred to me, I realised the enormity of my offence. How could I go on with that which, if detected, would mean expulsion? To answer this question I went the whole dreary round of reasoning once more and arrived at the conviction that the straight action was incumbent upon me; which conviction I hastened to explain away with the same dull casuistry. Sick and weary, I left the window-sill and ceased to think any more. My conscience had given battle to evil and neither lost nor won. Indecisive as the issue was, I knew in my heart of hearts that it partook of the nature of a defeat.
Later on, I wrote to my mother quite an effective analysis of this spiritual difficulty: and I wrote it, so she loves to say, on a postcard, and signed it "yours truly, Rupert Ray." Her reply I could not expect till Wednesday morning, the morning of the lesson. Of that I was glad. For to this extent I had temporised: I would wait till I heard from her before attempting to learn the work. If necessary, I could cram it up on Wednesday morning. And with this settlement I was satisfied in a sickly way.
§2
While Tuesday is passing in silence and inaction, and the issue of this crisis is in the bag of the postman, let me tell you something of my relations with my mother. Her love for me, I have said, was of the extravagant kind. It was ever and actively present. Though she discharged her social duties with a peculiar grace, yet I am certain that the thought she bestowed on them was an intruder amongst her thoughts of me. My figure was present to her in the drawing-room, the ball-room, or the theatre.
I fear I was not demonstrative in my affection for her. Perhaps, when we sat alone at dinner on holiday evenings, and her dress was one that left her arms bare, I would think that the softness of the limbs was such as to make one wish to touch them; and I would stroke them; or, when she laid her hand upon the table, I would rest my own hot palm upon it. But I am certain that it was not till our stories marched into the shadow of the Great War that I became at all demonstrative.
Enough of that, then—the postman's feet are on the steps of Bramhall House. May I just ask you to think of my mother as a very gracious lady, gracious in form and feature and character?
§3
When breakfast was over on Wednesday morning, I repaired to the Steward's Room, where letters had to be sought. I was attacked by a feverish nervousness, which increased as I passed other boys returning with letters in their hands. Anxiety seemed to be a physical thing deflating my breast and loins. My heart, too, was affected when I asked the Steward with feigned unconcern if there were any letters for Ray. It beat rapidly as I awaited the reply.
None. I was stupefied: but soon stupefaction became anger; anger hardened into sulkiness; and, as more sinister feelings grew, sulkiness lost itself in guilty belief. Now I knew what course I would take—I would go on cheating.
I turned to go out. Since that afternoon when the choice between good and evil came so plainly before me, I had been dilly-dallying at the spot where the two ways met. The more I hesitated, the greater had become the desire to take the easier road. And now in open rebellion against my scruples I stepped firmly upon it. My reasoning was played out, and, as I walked back along the corridor, I felt like one released from irksome fetters. Oh, it was good to be free! At the same time, however, with the obstinacy of one who seeks to justify himself, I muttered: "She might have written, I think, she might have written."
Then a step sounded behind me, a hand touched my shoulder, so that my heart jumped like a startled frog, and Radley said:
"Come and have a talk with me a minute."
§4
My mother had written, but not to her son. The postman, who disappointed me, brought a graceful note to Radley:
"I am most sorry for this trespass upon your time, and yet I have little hesitation in asking your help in a matter that concerns my son. Rupert, in his talks during the holidays, so often mentions your name, that it is not difficult to see that he owes you a good deal. Although he is too reserved to say so, I fancy he is quite devoted to you. His postcard, which I enclose, will explain all.
"May I take this opportunity of expressing my thanks, and of saying how grateful his father would have been for all that you are doing for our son?"
Radley, when we reached the privacy of his room, took up his favourite position of sitting on the edge of the table. Before him stood I, all reasoning suspended.
"Well, how's the cheating going on?" he asked.
"What ch—?"
"Stop! Don't say 'What cheating?' because that would be acting a lie. I tell you what we'll do. We'll wait a whole minute before you answer me. We'll collect our thoughts and think whether we'll act straightly or crookedly." He took his watch off his chain and placed it upon the table beside him. "Right, we're off."
As the seconds sped by I tried to find some excuses. But, bewildered and sick, I could only wonder how he came to know of it all. I had found no answer when I saw him replacing his watch on his chain.
"Well, Ray, how's the cheating going on?"
"I didn't think it exactly cheating."
"Ray, don't." Radley protruded and withdrew his lower jaw with irritation. "You know it was cheating. If you didn't, why did you know what I was referring to? Well, we'll have another sixty seconds' interval. We must have time to think, or else we lie."
Out came the watch again. The pantomime of waiting in silence and of replacing the watch was re-enacted. Then Radley, half smiling, as if he knew the worst was over, took up his question once more.
"Well, how's the cheating going on?"
Since I was not allowed to prevaricate, all that remained for me to do was to return no reply. But there was stubbornness in my silence; I should have liked to say pettishly: "But you won't let me explain, you won't let me explain."
And then—quickly—Radley grasped me by the elbow and looked straight down at me. For a second I resisted and tried to pull the elbow away. His grip, however, was too strong, and I yielded.
I know now that his feeling for all the boys, as he gazed down upon them from his splendid height, was love—a strong, active love. We were young, human things, of soft features gradually becoming firmer as of shallow characters gradually deepening. And he longed to be in it all—at work in the deepening. We were his hobby. I have met many such lovers of youth. Indeed, I think this is a book about them.
And, as I am certain of his feelings for us all, so am I certain of his feelings for myself. Those who were most pliant to his touch loomed, of course, largest in his thoughts: and my mother's letter, giving him the proof of my affection, which, since it was less obtrusive than Doe's, had been probably less clear to him, brought me in the foreground of his view. Be it right or wrong, this man with the hard chin and kind eyes had his favourites; and I date from this moment my usurping of Doe's position as Radley's foremost favourite. The way in which he took hold of my elbow, my willing submission of the army to his grasp told me that something was given by him and taken by me. And my eyes, as was to be expected of them, became suddenly moist and luminous.
"Time's going," he said, "and this Roman History lesson is upon us. Have you learnt it?"
"No, sir."
"Well, the issue is simple: either you continue cheating, or you give up no marks. Shall you cheat any more?"
"N-no, sir."
"Good, then you give up no marks."
"All right, sir."
"Well, hurry away. And if, when the big moment comes, you succeed in doing what's right, come and see me again."
§5
The big moment came. Fillet opened his mark-book and read the names in the order of last term's examination-list, which brought Doe's name first. Doe was mending a nib when his name was called, and, without raising his head, replied "100, sir."
Other names followed, and the boys gave up the marks allotted them by Penny's system. Then came mine.
"Ray?"
For a second my voice or will failed me, so I pretended I had not heard, and let him ask again.
"Ray?"
"None, sir."
Every boy turned towards me, and my cheeks burned to maroon. I caught mutters of "Well, I'm hanged!" "Ye gods!" "Good-night!"
"Wh-what did you say?" stuttered Carpet Slippers.
I was irritated and nervous and replied rather too loudly:
"None, sir."
"None? Why none?"
"I didn't learn it."
The mutterings began again: "Oh, I say, stow it!" "Lie down."
"You didn't learn it? St-stand up when I question you. Wh-why didn't you learn it?"
Here I failed. I had answered the first two questions truthfully because I had reasoned about them. The third took me unawares. And, such is the result of trifling with conscience, I had lost the knack of doing right without premeditation. "We must have time to think," Radley had said bitterly, "or else we lie." Obliged to answer without delay, I lied.
"I hadn't time, sir."
No sooner had I uttered the words than the dull and sickening sense of failure came over me. In spite of all—in spite of the fact that I had dealt honourably with the first two questions—I had ended by lying. I sat down slowly, and stared vacantly in front of me. The big moment had come and passed, and I had missed it. I couldn't believe it. I had been determined, and yet I had failed. My breath became tremulous, and across my brows went the sudden invasion of a headache.
Little it matters what Fillet said. Destiny ordains for our correction that there shall be some people before whom we shall always appear at our worst. Fillet occupied that place in my schooldays.
Little would it matter, either, what my fellow trade-unionists thought of this black-leg in the camp, were it not for the remarkable deed of Pennybet. He, I am convinced, felt that he must rise to the occasion. There were few things he liked better than rising to an occasion. Here was an opportunity for a coup d'état. Here, praise the gods, were circumstances to be tamed. So he at once threw all his weight on my side, knowing full well that he had but to do that to secure me from all persecution or contempt.
"P-pennybet?"
"Oh—er—none, sir."
"None? Another boy with none? Why none?"
Penny admired the nails on his right hand and then said:
"I didn't exactly learn it."
"Oh, indeed? And wh-why, pray?"
As though deploring such tactless persistency, Penny pursed up his mouth, laid his head on one side, shrugged his shoulders, and held his peace.
"Had you, too, no time?"
"Well, not a great deal, sir."
There were some titters, and Penny looked deprecatingly in the direction whence they came. Fillet passed judgment so severe that Penny made a shocking grimace and said: "Thank you, sir. It shall not occur again," which, to be sure, might have meant anything.
I think the characters of both my friends stood out, clearly defined, in the words with which they referred to this incident afterwards. Doe was generous in his praise. "Golly," he said, "I wish I could feel I had done it as you can now. I cursed my luck that my name didn't come after yours, so that I could have stood by you, as Penny did. I could have throttled him with jealousy. Do you know, I almost wished the other boys had mobbed you a bit, so that I could have stuck by you." And Penny said: "You didn't really think I was going to throw the weight of my trade union on to the side of that foul, caitiff knave of a Carpet Slippers? Why, the man's a low fellow—the sort of person one simply doesn't know. He'd drink his own bath-water."
§6
"If you succeed in doing what is right, come and see me again." I decided to stay away. Many times that morning I passed Radley in the school buildings, and, pretending not to have seen him, went by with a hum or a whistle. In the afternoon he came and coached our game at cricket; and after tea he bowled at the Bramhall Nets where I was practising. When he instructed me he spoke as though there were nothing between us. But he was watching me, I knew; wondering why I had not come, and longing for me: and I rather overplayed my part.
It had been a grey, dull day, but, just before retiring, the sun came out and shamed the clouds into a sullen withdrawal. Then it went under, leaving behind it a glorious red glow and the hope of better things in the morning. All this I was in the mood to notice, for, though trying to be indifferent to destiny, I was heavy and dispirited. I did not see how I could ever do right again, since Radley's determination and my own had been insufficient to brace me for the onslaught. It was evident that mine was the stuff from which criminals were made.
And, as the red glow departed and the darkness gathered, if there was one lonely boy in the world, languidly despairing, it was I. Many times I found myself uttering aloud such slang expressions as: "Oh, my hat! If only I had told the beastly truth for the third time! Dash it, why didn't I? Why the deuce didn't I?" I addressed myself as: "You blithering, blithering fool!" And my temples began to ache and now and then to hammer. For, always in these my early days of puberty, excitement and worry produced such immediate sensuous results.
Radley sent for me at last, and it was a relief to go. He was very kind. Frankly, I believe he was pleased to have his new favourite in his room again. I was indeed his hobby at present.
"Have I ever bullied you at the nets," he said, "for stepping back to a straight ball?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, the universal habit of 'stepping back' is exactly parallel to that of arguing with conscience. The habit grows; one's wicket always falls after a few straight balls; and one's batting goes from bad to worse. Never mind, you stood up splendidly to the first two straight balls and scored boundaries off both. That shows you are getting into your old form. You are out of practice a bit, that's all."
And I went out of his room, feeling sure that for some time I would be very good.
§7
I always left Radley's room, feeling that I could blast a way through every mountain. And it was not long after he had received my mother's letter with its allusion to my lack of a father, that he addressed himself to a bigger mountain than any of these little trumpery hills that you have watched me conquering. He invited me to his room one evening, and sat me in an armchair opposite him: and then he talked, while I watched the fire getting redder, as the room grew darker. Soon he came unhesitatingly to a subject that I was just at an age to understand. He spoke so fearlessly as to be quite unrestrained and natural. Nevertheless, I was glad that the room was getting darker, as I felt that my cheeks were red and hot. And when he said: "You mustn't mind my talking to you like this," I could only reply: "Oh, it's all right, sir."
But, once again, I left his room feeling that, though already I had had my reverses in the moral contest of which he spoke, I would win through in the end.
CHAPTER VI
AN INTERLUDE
In the summer holidays of that year I received a letter from Doe inviting me to spend a few days with him at his Cornish home on the Fal. Radley, he told me, was already his guest.
There was some excitement the morning I left home for this adventure into the West Country. My mother had clothed me in a new dark-blue suit. Her son must look his best, she said. She insisted on my wearing a light-blue tie, for "it matched the colour of my eyes." I rather opposed this on the ground that it was "all dashed silly." But she disarmed me by pointing out that I was her doll and not my own, and the only one she had had since she was my age, which was a century ago—a terrible lie, as she looked about twenty-seven. She carried her point with a kiss, called me her Benjamin, tied the tie very gingerly, and subsequently disarranged it completely by hugging me to say good-bye, as though I were off for a lifetime.
Alone in my corner seat I was rolled over the Trail of Beauty that the line of the Great Western follows. And I watched the telegraph wires switchbacking from post to post, as we sped along.
When we steamed into Falmouth station, I easily distinguished Radley's majestic figure standing on the platform, with Doe actually hanging on his arm—a thing I would never have dared to do. In fact, I guessed that Doe was doing it for my benefit. Our young host was in a light grey suit that would have brought tears to the eyes of Kensingtowe's administrators, who stipulate for dark garments only: and, evidently, he had been allowed to dictate to his tailor, for the suit was an exact copy of one that Radley had worn during the previous term. He looked more than ever like his nickname, "the Gray Doe."
Next morning the sun blazed out over England's loveliest stream, the Fal, as, widening, it flowed seaward. We hurried down to the foot of Doe's garden, where a rustic boat-house sheltered his private vessel, the Lady Fal. Doe stepped into its stern, and I into its bows, and Radley took the oars. With a few masterly manœuvres he turned the boat into midstream, and then pulled a rapid and powerful stroke towards Tresillian Creek, where we had decided to bathe. We touched the bank at a suitable landing-place, disembarked, and prepared to undress.
The events of this day linger with me like a string of jewels; and the bathe was one of the brightest of them all. There was a race between Doe and myself to be first in the water. As I tossed off my clothes, the excitement of anticipation was inflating me. I would surprise them with my swimming.
My mother had taught me to swim. We began our studies in the bath, when I was still a baby, she leaning over the side and directing my splashing limbs. We achieved the desired result some years later in the French seas off Boulogne. She never could swim a stroke herself, but was splendid in the book-work of the thing. Since those days she had given me unlimited opportunities to acquire perfection. So now, Radley and Doe, my masters, you should learn a thing or two!
The undressing race resulted in a dead-heat, but whereas Doe contented himself with a humble jump into the stream, I contrived to execute a racing dive. Glorious immersion! It was lovely, oh, lovely! The embrace of the cool river seemed entrancing, and I remained a fathom down, experiencing one continuous delight. Unfortunately I was under water longer than my breath would hold out, and came to the view of Radley and Doe, choking and spluttering and splashing. Anxious to retrieve my reputation, for I was detestably conceited about my art, I started off for a long, speedy swim, displaying my best racing stroke. Back again, at an even faster pace, I got entangled with Doe, who greeted me a little jealously with: "Gracious! Where did you learn to swim like that?" Radley's mouth was set, and he remained mercilessly silent. He wasn't going to teach me conceit.
Soon we were clothed again, and back in the boat with untidy wet hair and stinging eyes, but with the glow of health warming our bodies.
Throughout the day we plied our craft over the Fal, lunching up King Harry Reach, and taking tea not far from Truro. When we turned the head of the Lady Fal for home, the sun was sinking fast, and Radley pulled his swiftest, as he wished to be at Graysroof before dark. So I lay in the bows and wondered at the straightness of his back, and Doe nestled in the stern and admired the width of his chest.
We glided over the surface: and there were no sounds anywhere, save the rushes kissing the reeds, the water lapping the sides of the boat, the little fishes chattering beneath, and the rhythmic music of Radley's graceful feathering, which sounded like the flutter of a bird upon the wing.
To dwell upon this beautiful evening is to recover a little of its serene exaltation. I like to recall it as one of those days about which we ask ourselves why we did not value them more when we had them. I speak of it here, because, in the soothing peace of the Fal that twilight, the Æsthetic seemed to stir in me—not so as to wake, but so as to wake soon. I felt some vague premonition of all the love, the sentiment, and the sorrow which would be mine in the manhood that was brightening to a pale, but tinted, dawn.
Part II: Long, Long Thoughts
CHAPTER VII
CAUGHT ON THE BEATEN TRACK
§1
I am sixteen now, and the marks on the dormitory wall show me that I am many inches nearer the height of my ambition, which is the height of Radley. Second in importance, Kensingtowe has a new headmaster, an extraordinary phenomenon in the scholastic heavens, a long man of callow years and restless activity, with a stoop and a pointing forefinger. He has a quaint habit, when addressing a bewildered pupil, of prefacing his remarks, be they gracious or damnatory, with the formula: "Ee, bless me, my man." (Nowadays none of us speaks to a schoolfellow without beginning: "Ee, bless me, my man.") "Salome" we call the entertaining creature. This nickname adhered like a barnacle to him, immediately after he had employed, in his exegesis of the Greek narrative of Herodias' daughter, the expression: "Now, if I had been Salome—"
Ill fares it with a youth, if he has his hands in his pockets and is seen by Salome. Before he is aware of the great presence, that stoop overhangs him, that forefinger points to the tip of his nose, and a drawling voice says with rhythmic emphasis: "Ee, bless me, my man, you've got—your hands—in your pockets. Take off your spectacles, sir. I'm going—to smack—your face."
And he can put his foot down, too. The Bramhallites recently organised a very successful punitive raid on the local errand boys, who were getting too uppish, and now he has stopped all "exeats" for the members of Bramhall House. The town is out of bounds.
Third in importance is my quarrel with Edgar Doe. It began, I think, with his jealousy of me as Radley's new favourite. Then he has apparently thrown over all desire for glory in the cricket world and decided that, for an elect mind such as his, a reputation for intellectual brilliance is the only seemly fame. He delights to shock us by boldly saying that he would rather win the Horace Prize than his First Eleven Colours; and is actually at work, I believe, on a translation of the Odes into English verse. At any rate, he is two forms ahead of Penny and me, and has joined the Intellectuals. He has views on the Pre-Raphaelites, Romanticism, and the Housing Question.
Maybe, too, I have been very willing for the quarrel to proceed, because he will persist in his collusion with that mystery-man, Freedham.
Archibald Pennybet is the same as ever, unless, perhaps, his eyelids are drooping a little more in satisfaction with himself, and his nostrils becoming more sensitive to the inferiority of everybody else.
In a rash moment, one half-holiday, Penny and I made use of the privilege, to which we became entitled when we completed two years at Kensingtowe, of strolling across to the Preparatory School and organising a cricket match between some of the younger "Sucker-boys." Not being allowed to go down to the town, we thought there might be fun in playing the heavy autocrat at the "Nursery."
"We'll make these beastly little maggots sit up, unless they play properly," said Penny. "There shall be no fooling when we umpire."
The Suckers received us with gratifying awe. One of them in a moment of forgetfulness called Pennybet "sir." He accepted it without remark, as his due.
For half-an-hour we did well. Six balls went to every "over," no more and no less. Our decisions, when we were appealed to, were given promptly and decisively. But the boys were so small, and the play was so bad, that the novelty soon wore off. Our feeling of importance died away, when we realised we were umpiring in a match where the stumps were kept in position by the bails, and there was no one who could bowl a straight ball, or anyone who could hit it, if he did. The wicket-keeper, also, gave Penny much trouble; and sulked because he had been forbidden to stop the swift bowler's deliveries by holding a coat in front of him and allowing the ball to become entangled in its folds. My fellow-umpire had occasion to speak very seriously to him. "Really," he said, "you're a stench in my nostrils. Mr. Ray, who's kindly umpiring for you at the other end, never gave me half the cheek you do, when he was a kid." For a second the little boy wondered if he had made a mistake and Penny was really a master.
Having given eight balls to an over, I got bored and retired to my position at square-leg, displeased with the condition on which our privilege was granted that, having organised a game, we were to remain at our posts to the end. Someone awoke Penny, who walked with a yawn to the bowler's wicket, and, graciously putting into his mouth a huge green fruit-ball, offered by one of the more minute players, said with this obstruction on his tongue:
"Plo-ay."
When the twenty-eighth ball of that over had been bowled, I went across to Penny, presented my compliments, and intimated that six balls constituted an over. In a reply of some length he showed that he had a sucked fruit-ball in his mouth, which he must of necessity finish before he called "over," as the word required a certain rounding of the lips, and the confectionery might shoot out of his mouth at the effort. An impertinent little junior echoed my criticism.
"Yes," he protested, "there are six balls to an over."
Penny placed the fruit-ball between his gums and his cheek, and answered magnificently:
"There are not. There are just as many as I choose to give."
Then he took the fruit-ball on his tongue again and added:
"We-soom your plo-ay."
The bowler having exerted himself twenty-nine times, was a little tired and erratic, and the thirtieth ball hit Square-leg in the stomach.
"Wide," announced Penny, without a smile.
The thirty-first ball, amid disorderly laughter, was caught by Point before it pitched. The batsman meanwhile sat astride his bat: he was the only person who seemed out of harm's way. Point held up the ball triumphantly and yelled to Penny: "What's that, umpire?"
"I think it would not be unreasonable," answered Penny, "to call that a wide."
This was a long sentence, and the fruit-ball shot out about half-way through.
Relieved of this confectionery, Penny proceeded to give a practical illustration of "How to bowl." I fear he intended to show off, and to send down a ball at express speed which should shatter the stumps. At any rate, while the Suckers watched with breathless interest, he took a long run and let fly. One thing in favour of Penny's ball was that it went straight. But it flew two feet over the head of the batsman, who flung himself upon his face. It pitched opposite Long-stop.
"Run!" yelled the batsman, picking himself up. "Bye! Run, you fool! Bye, idiot!" This was addressed to the batsman at the other end, who was swinging his bat like an Indian club and paying no attention to the game. He pulled himself together on being appealed to, and ran, but it was evident that he could not reach his crease, as Long-stop had accidentally stopped the lightning-ball—much to his own chagrin—and was hurling it back to the wicket-keeper with all the enthusiasm of acute agony.
Our unhappy batsman did what excitable little boys always do—flung in his bat and sprawled on the ground. The bat struck the wicket-keeper, who had just knocked off the bails. It hit him, so he said, on his bad place.
"Out," ruled I.
"Over," proclaimed Penny victoriously, as who should say: "There! I've got a man out for you"; and he retired honourably to the leg position, where he composed himself for a happy day-dream.
The new bowler at my end began by bowling swift. The wicket-keeper jumped out of the way, as his mother would have wished him to do, and Long-stop shut his eyes and hoped for the best. The batsman blindly waved his bat, and, inasmuch as the ball hit it, and rebounded some distance, called to his partner, who was mending the binding on his bat-handle.
"Will you come? Osborne, you fool! Yes. Yes. YES! No, no. YE-E-ES! No—go back, you fool. All right, come. No-no-no. O, Osborne, why didn't you run that? It was an easy one."
"Silly ass, Osborne," roared Cover-point, quite gratuitously, for no one had addressed him for the last twenty minutes.
The batsman ran wildly out to the next ball and missed it. The wicket-keeper successfully stumped him. It was a clear case of "out," and a shout went up: "How's that?"
"That," said Penny, who had been in a dream and seen nothing, "is Not Out."
I was disheartened to learn on this occasion that little boys could be so rude to those who were sacrificing their spare time to teach them cricket.
"Really," sighed Penny, adjusting his tie, "unless you treat me with due respect, I will not come and coach you again."
This was greeted with an unmannerly cheer.
"Resume your play," commanded Pennybet. "It was Not Out."
"Why?" loudly demanded the bowler.
Penny seized the only escape from his sensational error.
"Because, you horrid little tuberculous maggot, it was a no-ball. Besides, you smell."
The little boy looked defiantly at him, and, pointing to me, said:
"Bowler's umpire didn't give 'no-ball.'"
"Then," said Penny promptly, "he ought to have done."
I was so shocked at this unscrupulous method of sacrificing me to save his reputation that I shouted indignantly: "You're a liar!"
Later a warm discussion arose between the batsman and the bowler as to whether the former could be out, if "centre" had not been given to him properly. I took no part in it, but looked significantly at Pennybet. He gazed reproachfully at me, as much as to say: "How could you suggest such a thing?" I walked over to him, ostensibly to ask his advice. The quarrel continued, most of the fieldsmen asserting that the batsman was out: they wanted an innings. Unperceived, we strolled leisurely away and disappeared round a corner. The last thing that I heard was the batsman's voice shouting: "I'm not an ass. I haven't got four legs, so sucks for you!"
§2
Reaching the road, we linked arms with the affection born of sharing a crime and the risk of detection.
"Where are we going to?" asked I.
"Ee, bless me, my man. Down town, of course."
"But it's out of bounds."
"Ee, bless me, my man, don't you know that to me all rules are but gossamer threads that I break at my will? I'm off to buy sausages. I haven't had anything worth eating since the holidays."
And so, arm in arm, we marched briskly down the Beaten Track. The Beaten Track, I must tell you, was a route into the town which Penny, Doe, and I regarded as our private highway. We would have esteemed it disloyalty to an inanimate friend to approach the town by any other channel. It led through the residential district of Kensingtowe, past a fashionable church, and down a hill. Dear old Beaten Track! How often have I mouched over it, alone and dreamy, adjusting my steps to the cracks between its pavement-flags! How often have I sauntered along it, arm in arm with one of my friends, talking those great plans which have come to nothing!
We always became confidential on the Beaten Track; and to-day I suddenly pressed Penny's arm and opened the subject that, though I would not have admitted it, was the most pressing at the moment.
"I say, why does Doe avoid us now?"
"The Gray Doe," sneered Penny. "Oh, he—She's in love, I suppose. With Radley."
"Don't drivel," I commanded; "why does he hang about with that awful Freedham?"
"When you're my age, Rupert," began Penny, in kind and accommodating explanation, "you'll know that there are such things as degenerates and decadents. Freedham is one. And very soon Doe will be another."
"Well, hang it," I said, "if you think that, how can you joke about it, and leave him to go his way?"
"Oh, the young fellow must learn wisdom. And he's not in any danger of being copped. I'm the only one that suspects; and I guessed because I'm exceptionally brilliant. Besides, if he wants to go to the devil for a bit, you can't take his arm and go with him."
"No," said I, "but you can take his arm and lug him back."
"There are times, Rupert," conceded Penny graciously, "when you show distinct promise. I have great hopes of you, my boy."
"Oh, shut up!" I said, mentally overthrown to find that, without forewarning of any kind, something had filled my throat like a sob of temper. What was the matter with me? I unlinked my arm and walked beside Penny in moody silence, determining that at an early opportunity I would bring about a quarrel between us which should not be easily repaired. He, however, was disposed to continue being humorous, and frequently cracked little jokes aloud to himself. "Here's the butcher's shop," he explained, pointing to an array of carcasses; "hats off! We're in the presence of death." And, when he had purchased his sausages, he stepped gaily out of the place, saying: "Come along, Rupert, my boy. Home to tea! Trip along at Nursie's side." Just as I, thoroughly sulky, was wondering how best to break with him, and deciding to let him walk on alone a hundred yards, before I resumed my homeward journey, I heard his voice saying:
"Talking about Doe, there he is. And the naughty lad has been strictly forbidden to enter the town. Dear, dear!"
It was an acute moment. There, far ahead of us, was Doe in the company of Freedham, with whom he was turning into a doorway. A pang of jealousy stabbed me, and with a throb, that was as pleasing as painful, I realised that I loved Doe as Orestes loved Pylades.
The truth is this: ever since our form had been engaged on Cicero's "De Amicitia," I had wanted to believe that my friendship for Doe was on the classical models. And now came the gift of faith. It was born of my sharp jealousy, my present weariness of Pennybet, and my heroic resolution to rescue Doe from the degenerate hands of Freedham. Only go nobly to someone's assistance, and you will love him for ever. Love! It was an unusual word for a shy boy to admit into his thoughts, but I was even taking a defiant and malicious pleasure in using it. I was Orestes, and I loved Pylades.
In the glow of this romantic discovery, I no longer thought Penny worth any anger or resentment, so I slipped my arm back into his. He patted my hand with just such an action as an indulgent father would use in welcoming a sulky child who has returned for forgiveness. After this we climbed the slope of the Beaten Track at a faster pace. And then—what an afternoon of strange moods and tense moments this was!—I encountered on the other side of the road the surprised gaze of Radley.
It was a very awkward recognition, and I hope he felt half as uncomfortable as I did. I pinched Penny's arm and hurried him on quickly.
"Don't push me," he grumbled. "The damage is done. And it's all your fault for leading me astray. Radley'll tell. He never spares anyone; least of all, his pets, like you. There's one comfort; I can't be whacked; I'm too old. But you'll get it, Rupert. Salome's already done several of the sixteen-year-olds. Cheer up, Rupert!"
"Hang you, I don't want your sympathy," I retorted sullenly. And as I said it, I passed through Kensingtowe's gates to the punishment that awaited me within.
§3
We were not summoned for judgment for several uneasy hours. It was dreary, waiting. About six o'clock I paid a lonesome visit to the swimming baths, and was glad to find them deserted. Even Jerry Brisket, the professional instructor, was not in his little private room. Jerry Brisket, that supreme swimmer, loomed as an heroic figure to me who fancied myself no common devotee of his art. I had often thought that my ideal would be to build a private swimming bath and to employ Jerry at a salary of some thousands as my own particular coach. But to-night, in spite of this lavish worship, I was relieved to find him absent. I flung off my clothes and took a long, splashless dive into the shallow end.
Water was my favourite element, especially the clear, green water of the baths. I loved to feel that it was covering every part of my body. With my breast nearly touching the tiled bottom, I swam under water for a long spell. And, moving down there, like a young eel, I compared this dip with that in the beautiful Fal of a year ago. Certainly there was still pleasure, glorious pleasure, in complete submersion, but on that bejewelled day there was joy above as well as below the surface. This evening all that awaited me, when I rose from the transparent water, was punishment and indignity.
"Hang it," I said to myself. "I think I'll stay in the baths. They can't dive after me here."
With the unreasonableness of guilt I stigmatised all those plotting my hurt as "they." I did not specialise individuals, possibly because Radley was one. They were "they"—a contemptible "they."
"They are brutes," I concluded, "and I don't care a hang for any of them."
Then, in the luxury of defiance, I swam my fastest and most furious racing-stroke, till my breath gave out with a gasp, my breast felt like bursting, and my heart beat heavily on my ribs. So I lay supine upon the water, closed my eyes, and derived a surfeit of joy from this rest after fatigue.
And, while I was doing that, I suffered a queer thing. Through my closed lids I saw a yellow atmosphere that was fast whitening. It seemed to smell very sweet; and the sensation of seeing it and smelling it was intoxicatingly delightful. It was like an opiate. What Freedham was doing in the atmosphere I know not, but I saw him, as one would in a dream. An exquisite sleepiness was entrancing me, when the cold water rushed in at my ears and mouth, and with an "Oh!" and a choking, I struggled to the rope. Dizzily, and feeling a pain in my head and neck, I scrambled out and lay upon the cold sides of the baths.
"Heavens!" thought I. "That was a close shave. I must have strained myself and nearly fainted. Why have I got that ass, Freedham, on the brain?"
At that moment the sound of Jerry Brisket's return caused me to jump up and dress. I was quite recovered, but tired and depressed. And, as a result of the curious conditions of the evening, there seemed to be gathering about me a presentiment of disaster.
When I passed Jerry's door on my way out of the building, I thought I would like to hear a friendly voice, so I called:
"Good-night, Jerry."
He came to the door in his white sweater and white trousers.
"Good-night, Mr. Ray. Where are you off to now?"
"Well, to tell the truth, I'm off to be walloped."
Jerry was too courteous to seek particulars.
"Oh, bad luck," he said. "Come to the baths this time to-morrow, and it'll be all over."
"Oh, I don't mind, it, Jerry," I replied. "Good-night"; and, letting the door swing behind me, I passed out of the baths.
"Good old Jerry," I murmured sentimentally. "By Jove, if I could only swim like him! Dear—old—Jerry."
An unaccountable melancholy overcame me, as I rambled in this strain. I sighed: "I think I'm getting too old to be whacked."
And, as I phrased the thought, walking dreamily outside the baths, the strangest thing of this evening happened. There seemed to be thrown over me, far more heavily than on that evening up the Fal, the shadow of my oncoming manhood. And with it came ineffable longings—longings to live, and to feel; to do, and to be. The vague wish to avoid the indignity of corporal punishment threw off its cloak and showed itself to be Aspiration. There, outside the baths, the Æsthetic awoke in me. The sensation, infinitely sad and yet pleasing, was so complete that it left me hot-cheeked and wondering....
In truth, so warm and all-pervading was it that the other day, when during a short leave from France I stood on the gravel that sweeps to the entrance of the baths, I felt the memory of that moment of yearning egoism hanging over the spot like a restless spirit of the past.
§4
The whole period of Preparation passed in suspense. And, when the bell had gone, Penny and I found our way to one of the Bramhall class-rooms, where I sat upon the hot-water pipes (the wisdom of which proceeding I have since doubted). After about five minutes there rushed in a bad little boy who, having more relish in the thought of his message than breath to deliver it, puffed out: "Oh, there you are. I've searched for you everywhere." Then he paused, recovered his breath, and actually pointed a finger at us, saying:
"Ee, bless me, my men, Salome wants you in Radley's room."
Penny took the small boy's head and banged it three times on a desk.
In Radley's familiar room we found Salome, who no sooner saw me than he cried:
"Ee, bless me, my man. Will you take—your hand—out of your pocket?"
This was such a surprise that I blushed and—oh, accursed nervousness!—began to giggle. My terror at giggling in the Presence was so real that I compressed my lips to secure control. But control was as impossible as concealment. Salome came very close, pointed at my mouth, and said:
"I think you're giggling. Take off that ridiculous expression, my man. I'm going—to smack—your face."
Sobered in a moment, I composed my features for the punishment and received it, stinging and burning, on my reddened cheek.
Salome again pointed at me.
"You're a sportsman, sir, a sportsman, and I like you," an affection which I at once reciprocated.
"Ee, bless me, my man," he pursued. "What's your horrible name?"
"Ray, sir."
"Well, Ray, I'm going to cane you hard"—(rather crudely expressed, I thought)—"because your offence is serious, bless me, my man"—(an unreasonable request at this stage).
He took out his cane and turned first to Pennybet.
"I find, Mr. Pennybet, that, when you were breaking bounds, you should have been with your company—your company, sir—at shooting practice. It's desertion, sir—and punishable by death. But I shan't shoot you. You're not worth it—not worth it. I shan't even cane you, sir. You're too old—too old."
Penny looked at him, as much as to say he thought his point of view was very sensible.
"But ee, bless me, my man, take off that complacent expression, or I feel I may certainly smack your face."
Poor Penny, for once in a way, was rather at a loss, which was all Salome desired, so he turned to me.
"Ray—I think that was your detestable name—I shall now cane you. Get over, my man—get over."
When the ceremony was completed, Salome talked to us so nicely, although periodically asking us to bless him, that I told myself I would never break bounds again; thereby making one of those good resolutions which pave, we are told, another Beaten Track.