"Well, go on!"
"Your governor may feel that we want a fellow like you."
John was blushing because he remembered what the Head of the House had said about the Verneys. Desmond glanced at him keenly. He detested flattery laid on too thick. But this was a genuine tribute. For the first time he smiled.
"Thank you, Verney," he said, more genially. "What you say is utter rot; but it was decent of you to say it, and I'm glad that you and I are going to be in the same house."
For his life John could not help adding, "And Scaife, you forget
Scaife?" Jealousy pierced him as Scaife's name slipped out.
"Yes, there's the Demon. I always liked him."
"And he likes you."
"Does he? Good old Demon! I like to be liked. That's the Irish in me. I'm half Irish, you know. I want fellows to be friendly to me. I'd forgotten Scaife. That's rum too, because he's not the sort one forgets, is he? No. I wonder if I could get into the Demon's room next term?"
"I'm to his room. It's a three-room."
"A two-room is much jollier."
"Our room is not bad."
Caesar was hardly listening. John caught a murmur: "The old Demon and
I would get along capitally."
[1] The racquet Professional.
[2] The cap of honour worn by the House Football Eleven.
[3] The Goose Match, the last cricket-match of the year, played between the Eleven and Old Boys, on the nearest half-holiday to Michaelmas Day.
[4] A fashionable "tuck"-shop.
[5] H.R.H. Prince Thomas of Savoy, Duke of Genoa, was elected King by the Cortes of Spain, October 3, 1869, while he was a boy at Harrow. The crown was finally declined January 1, 1870. The Prince was nick-named "King Tom."
[6] To "turf," i.e. to kick.
[7] Calling over.
[8] John Lyon founded Harrow School, 1571.
[9] Boys who have not been more than two years in the school are eligible as "Torpids;" out of each house a Torpid football Eleven is chosen.
CHAPTER III
KRAIPALE [1]
"Life is mostly froth and bubble;
Two things stand like stone—
Kindness in another's trouble,
Courage in your own."
Some five years afterwards John Verney learned what had passed between Cabinet Minister and Head Master upon that eventful day which sent Caesar to curse and swear upon the Sudbury road. The Head Master was not an Harrovian, and on that account was the better able to perceive time-honoured abuses. At Harrow the dominant chord among masters and boys is a harmony of strenuousness and sentiment. Inevitably, the sentiment becomes, at times, sentimental; and then strenuousness pushes it into a corner. When honoured veterans are wearing out, loyalty, gratitude for past service, reluctance to inflict pain, keep them in positions of responsibility which mentally and physically they are unfit to administer. It is almost as difficult to turn an Eton or Harrow master out of his house, as to turn a parson of the Church of England out of his pulpit. More, in selecting a house-master as in selecting a parson, a man's claims to preferment are too often determined by scholarship, by length of former service, by interest with authority, rather than by ability to govern a body of boys made up of widely different parts. A capable form-master may prove an incapable house-master. Richard Rutford, to give a concrete example, came to Harrow knowing nothing about Public Schools, and caring as little for the traditions of the Hill, but with the prestige of being a Senior Classic. Nobody questioned his ability to teach Greek. In his own line, and not an inch beyond, the Governors were assured that Rutford was a success. In due time he accepted a Small House, so small that its autocrat's incapacity as an administrator escaped notice. Rutford waited patiently for a big morsel. He wrote a couple of text-books; he married a wife with money and influence; he entertained handsomely. It is true he became popular neither with masters nor boys, but his wine was as sound as his scholarship, and his wife had a peer for a second cousin. Eventually he accepted the Manor. Within a month, those in authority suspected that a blunder had been made; within a year they knew it. The house began to go down. Leaven lay in the lump, but not enough to make it rise, because the baker refused to stir the dough. First and last, Rutford disliked boys, misunderstood them, insulted them, ignored those who lacked influential connections, toadied and pampered the "swells."
Just before John Verney came to Harrow, the Manor was showing unmistakable signs of decay. A new Head Master, recognizing "dry-rot," realizing the necessity of cutting it out, was confronted with that bristling obstacle—Tradition. He possessed enough moral courage to have told Rutford to resign, because in a thousand indescribable ways the man had neglected his duty; but, so said the Tones, such a step might provoke a public scandal, and if Rutford refused to go—what then? Nothing definite could be proved against the man. His sins had been of omission. Dismayed, not defeated, the Head Master considered other methods of regenerating the Manor. Very quietly he made his appeal to the Old Harrovians, many of whom were sending their sons and nephews to other houses. He invited co-operation. John Verney, the Rev. Septimus Duff, Colonel Egerton—half a dozen enthusiastic Manorites—stepped forward. Lastly, for Charles Desmond the Head Master baited his hook.
"The reform which we have at heart," said he, "must come from within and from below. The house wants a Desmond in it. I was not allowed to wield the axe; but, after all, there are more modern methods of decapitation. And, believe me, I am not asking any man more than I am prepared to do myself. My own nephew goes to the Manor after next holidays."
"Um!" said Mr. Desmond, stroking his chin.
"Lawrence, the Head of the House, is a tower of strength, like all the
Lawrences."
"How did you beguile the Duke of Trent?"
"Fortune gave me that weapon. The duke"—he laughed genially——
"Yes?"
"Will turn scales which my heaviest arguments won't budge. A bit of luck! The duke wanted to send his son, a delicate lad, to Harrow, and I did mention to him that Rutford had a vacancy."
"O Ulysses! And Scaife? How did you handle that large bale of bank-notes?"
"Rutford captured Scaife."
"Handsome boy—his son. Lunched with us this morning. Well, well, you have persuaded me. But what an unpleasant quarter of an hour I shall have with Harry!"
As a new boy, John slaved at "footer," and displayed a curious inaptitude for squash racquets. At all games Caesar and Scaife were precociously proficient. John's clumsiness annoyed them. Often the Caterpillar joined him and Fluff, giving them to understand that this must be regarded as an act of grace and condescension which might be suitably acknowledged at the Tudor Creameries.
The Caterpillar mightily impressed the two small boys. He had acquired his nick-name from the very leisurely pace at which he advanced up the school. He wore "Charity tails," as they were called, the swallow-tail coat of the Upper School mercifully given to boys of the Lower School who are too tall to wear with decency the short Eton jacket; he possessed a trouser-press; and his "bags" were perfectly creased and quite spotless. From tip to toe, at all seasons and in all weathers, he looked conspicuously spick and span. Chaff provoked the solemn retort: "One should be well groomed." He spoke impersonally, considering it bad form to use the first person singular. Amongst the small boys he ranked as the Petronius of the Lower School.
One day the Caterpillar said grandiloquently, "You kids will oblige me by not shouting and yelling when you speak to me. I've a bit of a head."
"What's wrong with it?" said Fluff.
"It looks splendid outside," said John, in his serious voice.
The Caterpillar, detecting no cheek, answered gravely—
"Some of us had a wet night of it, last night."
"Wet?" exclaimed the innocent Fluff. "Why, all the stars were shining."
"Your brothers at Eton know what a 'wet night' means," said the Caterpillar, "I was talking with one of the Fifth, when a fellow came in with a flask. A gentleman ought to be able to carry a few glasses of wine, but one is not accustomed to spirits."
"Spirits?"
"Whisky, not prussic acid, you know."
"But where do they get the whisky?" demanded John.
"Comparing it with my father's old Scotch, I should say at the grocer's," replied the Caterpillar. "There's some drinking going on in our house, and—and other things. One mentions it to you kids as a warning."
"Thanks," said John.
"Not at all; you're rather decent little beggars. They" (the Fifth Form was indicated), "they've let you alone so far, but you may have trouble next term, so look out! And if you want advice, come to me."
Beneath his absurd pompous manner beat a kindly heart, and the small boys divined this and were grateful. None the less the word "spirits" frightened them. Next day John happened to find himself alone with Caesar. Very nervously he asked the question—
"I say, do any of the big fellows at Damer's drink?"
"Drink? Drink—what?"
"Well, spirits."
Caesar snorted an indignant denial. The fellows at Damer's were above that sort of thing. The house prided itself upon its tone. Tone constituted Damer's glory, and was the secret of its success. John nodded, but two days afterwards the Demon took him by the arm, twisted it sharply, and said—
"What the deuce did you mean by telling Caesar that the Manorites drink?"
"Oh, Scaife—I didn't."
"You gave us away."
"Us?" John's eyes opened. "You don't drink with 'em?" he faltered.
"Don't bother your head about what I do, or don't do," Scaife answered roughly; "and because you took the Lower Remove don't think for an instant that you are on a par with Caesar and me, or even the old Caterpillar—for you ain't."
"I know that," said John, humbly.
"Don't forget it, or there may be ructions."
"I shan't forget it."
"That's right. And, by the way, you're getting into the habit of hanging about Caesar, which bores him to death. Stop it."
But to this John made no reply. He read dislike in Scaife's bold eyes, detected it in his clear peremptory voice, felt it in the cruel twist of the arm. And he had brains enough to know that Scaife was not the boy to dislike any one without reason. John crawled to the conclusion that Scaife had become jealous of his increasing intimacy with Desmond.
However, when the three boys were preparing their Greek for First School, Scaife seemed his old self, friendly, amusing, and cool as a cucumber. Long ago he had initiated John into Manorite methods of work.
"Our object is," he explained to the new boy, "to get through the 'swat' with as little squandering of valuable time as possible. It doesn't pay to be skewed. We must mug up our 'cons' well enough to scrape along without 'puns' and extra school."
The three co-operated. Out of forty lines of Vergil, Scaife would do fifteen, John fifteen, and the Caterpillar ten; ten, because, as he pointed out, he had been nearly three years in the school. Then each fellow in turn construed his lines for the benefit of the others. A difficult passage was taken by Scaife to a clever friend in the Fifth. Sometimes Scaife would be absent twenty minutes, returning flushed of face, and slightly excited. John wondered if he had been drinking, and wondered also what Caesar would say if he knew. About this time fear possessed his soul that Caesar would come into the Manor and be taught by Scaife to drink. An occasional nightmare took the form of a desperate struggle between himself and Scaife, in which Scaife, by virtue of superior strength and skill, had the mastery, dragging off the beloved Caesar, to plunge with him into fathomless pools of Scotch whisky. Somehow in these horrid dreams, Caesar played an impressive part. Scaife and John fought for his body, while he looked on, an absurd state of affairs, never—as John reflected in his waking hours—likely to happen in real life. Of all boys Caesar seemed to be the best equipped to fight his own battles, and to take, as he would have put it, "jolly good care of himself."
After the first of the football house-matches, Scaife got his "fez" from Lawrence, the captain of the House Eleven, and the only member of the School Eleven in Dirty Dick's. Some of the big fellows in the Fifth seized this opportunity to "celebrate," as they called it. Scaife was popular with the Fifth because—as John discovered later—he cheerfully lent money to some of them and never pressed for repayment. And Scaife's getting his "fez" before he was fifteen might be reckoned an achievement. Caesar, in particular, could talk of nothing else. He predicted that the Demon would be Captain of both Elevens, school racquet-player, and bloom into a second C. B. Fry.
John, upon this eventful evening, soon became aware of a shindy. It happened that Rutford was giving a dinner-party, and extremely unlikely to leave the private side of the house. John heard snatches of song, howls, and cheers. Ordinarily Lawrence (in whose passage the shindy was taking place) would have stopped this hullabaloo; but Lawrence was dining with his house-master, and Trieve, an undersized, weakly stripling, lacked the moral courage to interfere. John was getting a "con" from Trieve when an unusually piercing howl penetrated the august seclusion.
"What are they doing?" asked Trieve, irritably.
John hesitated. "It's the Fifth," he blurted out. "They've got Scaife in there, you know."
"Oh, indeed! Scaife is an excuse, is he, for this fiendish row? Go and tell Scaife I want to see him."
John looked rather frightened. He felt like a spaniel about to retrieve a lion. And scurrying along the passage he ran headlong into the Duffer, to whom he explained his errand.
"Phew-w-w!" said that young gentleman. "I'd sooner it was you than me,
Verney. They're pretty well ginned-up, I can tell you."
John tapped timidly at the door of the room whence the songs and laughter proceeded. Then he tapped again, and again. Finally, summoning his courage, he rapped hard. Instantly there was silence, and then a furtive rustling of papers, followed by a constrained "Come in!"
John entered.
Most of the boys—there were about six of them—gazed at him in stupefaction. Scaife, very red in the face, burst into shrill shouts of laughter. Somehow the laughter disconcerted John. He forgot to deliver his message, but stood staring at Scaife, quaking with a young boy's terror of the unknown. Upon the table were some siphons, syrups, and the remains of a "spread."
"What the blazes do you want?" said Lovell, the owner of the room.
"I want Scaife," said John. "I mean that Trieve wants Scaife."
"Oh, Miss Trieve wants Master Scaife, does she? Well, young 'un, you tell Trieve, with my compliments, that Scaife can't come. See? Now—hook it!"
But John still stared at Scaife. The boy's dishevelled appearance, his wild eyes, his shrill laughter, revealed another Scaife.
"You'd better come, Scaife," he faltered.
"Not I," said Scaife. He spoke in a curiously high-pitched voice, quite unlike his usual cool quiet tone. "Wait a mo'—I'm not Trieve's fag. I'm nobody's fag now, am I?"
He appealed to the crowd. It was an unwritten rule at the Manor, that members of the House cricket- or football-Elevens were exempt from fagging. But the common law of fagging at Harrow holds that any lower boy is bound to obey the Monitors, provided such obedience is not contrary to the rules of the school. In practice, however, no boy is fagged outside his own house, except for cricket-fagging in the summer term.
"Fag? Not you! Tell Miss Trieve to mind her own business."
John departed, feeling that an older and wiser boy might have tact to cope with this situation. For him, no course of action presented itself except delivering what amounted to a declaration of war.
"Won't come? Is he mad?"
"'Can't come,' they said."
"Oh, can't come? Has he hurt himself—sprained anything?"
John was truthful (more of a habit than some people believe). He told the truth, just as some boys quibble and prevaricate, simply and naturally. But now, he hesitated. If he hinted—a hint would suffice—that Scaife had hurt himself—and what more likely after the furious bit of playing which had secured his "fez"?—Trieve, probably, would do nothing. John felt in his bones that Trieve would be glad of an excuse to do—nothing.
"No; he hasn't sprained himself."
"Then why don't he come?"
"I—I——" Then he burst into excited speech. "He looks as if he was a little mad. Oh, Trieve, won't you leave him alone? Please do! They must stop before prayers, and then Lawrence will be here."
O unhappy John—thou art not a diplomatist! Why lug in Lawrence, who has inspired mordant jealousy and envy in the heart of his second in command?
"Tell Scaife to come here at once," said Trieve, eying a couple of canes in the corner. "And if he should happen to ask what I want him for, say that I mean to whop him."
John fled.
"Whop him?"
The Fifth howled rage and remonstrance. Scaife fiercely announced his intention of not taking a whopping from Trieve. None the less, the announcement had a sobering effect upon the elder boys. The consequence of a refusal must prove serious. Sooner or later Scaife would be whopped, probably by Lawrence, no ha'penny matter that!
"You'd better go, Demon," said Lovell. "Trieve can't hurt you. I'd speak to the idiot, only he hates me so poisonously, just as I hate him."
"I'll go," said the Caterpillar.
John had not noticed the Caterpillar before. He stood up, spick and span, carefully adjusting his coat, pulling down his immaculate cuffs.
"Good old Caterpillar," said somebody. "By Jove, he really thinks that
Trieve will listen to—him!"
"Any one who has been nearly three years in this house," said the Caterpillar, "has the right to tell Miss Trieve that she is—er—not behaving like a lady."
"And he'll tell you you're screwed, you old fool."
"I am not screwed," replied the Caterpillar, solemnly. "Whisky and potass does not agree with everybody; but I am not screwed, not at all." So speaking he sat down rather suddenly.
Lovell shrugged his shoulders, glanced at the Caterpillar and Scaife, and left the room. Within two minutes he returned, chapfallen and frowning.
"I knew it would be useless. Look here, Demon, you must grin and bear it."
"No," said Scaife, "not from Miss Trieve."
He laughed as before. The Fifth exchanged glances. Then Scaife said thickly, "Give me another drink, I want a drink; so does young Verney. Look at him!"
John was white about the gills and trembling, but not for himself.
"Do go, Scaife!" he entreated.
The Fifth formed a group; holding a council of war, engrossed in trying to find a way out of a wood which of a sudden had turned into a tangled thicket. And so what each would have strenuously prevented came to pass. Scaife pulled a bottle from under a sofa-cushion, and put it to his lips—John, standing at the door, could not see what was taking place.
When the bottle was torn from Scaife's hands, the mischief had been done. The boy had swallowed a quantity of raw spirit. Till now the whisky had been much diluted with mineral water.
"I'm going to him," yelled Scaife, struggling with his friends. "And
I'm going to take a cricket stump with me. Le'me go—le'me go!"
The Caterpillar surveyed him with disgust. After a brief struggle
Scaife succumbed, helpless and senseless.
"One is reminded sometimes," said the Caterpillar, solemnly, "that the poor Demon is the son of a Liverpool merchant, bred in or about the Docks."
Nobody, however, paid any attention to Egerton, who, to do him justice,
was the only boy present absolutely unmindful of his own peril.
Expulsion loomed imminent. The window was flung wide open, eau de
Cologne liberally applied. Scaife lay like a log.
And then, in the middle of the confusion, Trieve walked in.
"Scaife has had a sort of fit," explained an accomplished liar. "You know what his temper is, Trieve? And when he heard that you meant to 'whop' him, he went stark staring mad."
This explanation was so near the truth that Trieve accepted it, probably with mental reservations.
"You had better send for Mrs. Puttick," he replied coldly.
The Caterpillar was despatched for the matron; but before that worthy woman panted upstairs, Scaife had been carried to his own room, hastily undressed and put into bed, where he lay breathing stertorously. The matron, good easy soul, accepted the boys' story unhesitatingly. A fit, of course, poor dear child! Mr. Rutford must be summoned.
With the optimism of youth, those present began to hope that dust might be thrown into the eyes of Dirty Dick. And, with a little discreet delay, the Demon might recover, when he could be relied upon to play his part with adroitness and ability. Accordingly, the matron was urged to try her ministering hand first, amid the chaff, which, even in emergencies, slips so easily out of boys' mouths.
"Mrs. Puttick, you're better than any doctor—Scaife is all right, really. We knew that he was subject to fits—Rather! Some one was telling me that one of his aunts died in a fit.—Shut up, you silly fool," this in a whisper, emphasized by a kick; "do you want to send her out of this with a hornets' nest tied to her back hair?—That's a lie, Mrs. Puttick. He's humbugging you. Scaife told me that his fits were nothing. Yes; he had a slight sunstroke when he was a kid, you know, and the least bit of excitement affects him."
"Perhaps I'd better fetch a drop of brandy," said Mrs. Puttick, staring anxiously at Scaife. "He looks very bad."
"Yes, please do, Mrs. Puttick."
She bustled away.
"Now we must bring him to," said the Fifth Form.
Everything was tried, even to the expedient of flicking Scaife's body with a wet towel; but the boy lay motionless, his face horribly red against the white pillow, his heavy breathing growing more laboured and louder. And despite the perfume of the eau de Cologne which had drenched pillow and pyjamas, the smell of whisky spread terror to the crowd. If Rutford came in, he would swoop on the truth.
"We'll souse the brandy all over him," said the Caterpillar; "and then no one can guess."
"How about burnt feathers?" suggested Lovell. He had seen a fainting housemaid treated with this family restorative.
Mrs. Puttick appeared with the brandy, which Lovell administered externally. Still, Scaife remained unconscious. Then a pillow was ripped open, and enough feathers burned to restore—as the Caterpillar put it afterwards—a ruined cathedral. The stench filled the passage and brought to No. 15 a chattering crowd of Lower Boys. And then the conviction seized everybody that Scaife was going to die.
"Make way, make way, please!"
It was Rutford, who, followed by Lawrence, strode down the passage into
No. 15, and up to the bed.
"If you please, sir," said Lovell, "Scaife has had a fit."
"It looks like a fit," said Rutford, gravely. "I have telephoned for the doctor. You've tried," he sniffed the air, "all the wrong remedies, of course. Feathers—phaugh!—perfume—brandy! The boy must be propped up and the blood drawn from his head by applying hot water to his feet."
The Fifth exchanged glances. Why had this not occurred to them? What a fool Mrs. Puttick was!
"A rush of blood to the head!" Rutford like to hold forth, and he had been told that he was a capital after-dinner speaker. He had just risen from an excellent dinner; he was not much alarmed; and his audience listened with flattering attention. Scaife was lifted into a chair; ice was applied to his head; his feet were thrust into a "tosh" filled with steaming water.
"Note the effect," said Rutford. Already a slight change might be perceived; the breathing became easier, the face less red. Rutford continued in his best manner: "Mark the vis medicatrix naturae. Nature, assisted by hot water, gently accomplishes her task. Very simple, and not one of you had the wit to think of a remedy close at hand, and so easy to administer. The breathing is becoming normal. In a few minutes I predict that we shall have the satisfaction of seeing the poor dear fellow open his eyes, and he will tell us that he is but little the worse. Yes, yes, a rush of blood to the head producing cerebral disturbance."
He smiled blandly, receiving the homage of the Fifth.
"And now, Lovell, what do you know about this? Did this fit take place here?"
"In my room, sir."
"In your room—eh? What was Scaife, a Lower Boy, doing in your room?"
"Lawrence gave him his 'fez' to-day, sir."
Lawrence nodded.
"Ah! And Scaife was excited, perhaps unduly excited—eh?"
The Fifth joined in a chorus of, "Yes, sir.—Oh, yes, sir—awfully excited, sir.—Never saw a boy so excited, sir."
"That will do. Now, Lovell, go on!"
"We had some siphons in our room, sir." A stroke of genius this—for the siphons were still on the table and the syrups, and the débris of cakes and meringues. Rutford would be sure to examine the scene of the catastrophe; and the whisky bottle was carefully hidden. "We were having a spread, sir, and we asked Scaife to join us. His play to-day made him one of us."
The other boys gazed admiringly at Lovell. What a cool, knowing hand!
"Yes, yes, I see nothing objectionable about that."
"Well, sir—we were rather noisy——"
"Go on."
"To speak the exact truth, sir, I fear we were very noisy; and
Trieve, it seems, heard us. Instead of sending for me, sir, he sent
Verney for Scaife—"
"Ah!"
Lovell's hesitation at this point was really worthy of Coquelin cadet.
"Of course you know, sir, that Scaife's getting his 'fez' releases him from house-fagging. We thought Trieve had forgotten that, sir; and that it would be rather fun—I'm not excusing myself, sir—we thought it would be a harmless joke if we persuaded Scaife not to go."
"Um!"
"We were very foolish, sir. And then Trieve sent another message saying that Scaife was to go to his room at once to be—whopped."
"To be whopped. Um! Rather drastic that, very drastic under the circumstances."
"So we thought, sir; and I went to represent the facts to Trieve——"
"Well?"
"I'm not much of a peacemaker, I fear, sir. Trieve refused to listen to me. He insisted upon whopping Scaife for what he called disobedience and impudence. Upon my honour, sir, I tried, we all tried, to persuade Scaife to take his whopping quietly, but he seemed to go quite mad. He has a violent temper, sir——"
"Yes, yes."
"A very violent temper. He—he——"
"Frothed at the mouth," put in a bystander. "I particularly noticed that."
"Really, really——"
"Yes," said Lovell, nodding his head reflectively. "He frothed at the mouth, and then——"
"Grew quite black in the face," interpolated a third boy, who was determined that Lovell should not carry off all the honours.
"I should say—purple," amended Lovell. "And then he gave——"
"A beastly gurgle——"
"A sort of snort, and fell flat on his face. I'm not sure that he didn't strike the edge of the table as he fell."
"He did," said one of the boys. "I saw that."
At this moment Scaife moved in his chair, drawing all eyes to his face. John, peering from behind the circle of big boys, could see the first signs of returning consciousness, a flicker of the eyelids, a convulsive tremor of the limbs. Rutford bent down.
"Well, my dear Scaife, how are you? We've been a little anxious, all of us, but, I ventured to predict, without cause. Tell us, my poor boy, how do you feel?"
Scaife opened his eyes. Then he groaned dismally. Rutford was standing to the right of the chair and footbath. The fifth were facing Scaife. He met their anxious, admonishing glances, unable to interpret them.
Lovell senior repeated the house-master's question—
"How are you, old chap?"
But, in his anxiety to convey a warning, he came too near, obscuring Rutford's massive figure. Scaife groaned again, putting his hand to his head.
"How am I?" he repeated thickly. "Why, why, I'm jolly well screwed, Lovell; that's how I am! Jolly well screwed—hay? Ugh! how screwed I am. Ugh!"
The groans fell on a terrifying silence. Rutford glanced keenly from face to face. Then he said slowly—
"The wretched boy is—drunk!"
At the sound of his house-master's voice, Scaife relapsed into an insensibility which no one at the moment cared to pronounce counterfeit or genuine. Rutford glared at Lovell.
"Who was in your room, Lovell?"
Without waiting for Lovell to answer, the other boys, each in turn, said, "I, sir," or "Me, sir." John came last.
"Anybody else, Lovell?"
A discreet master would not have asked this question, but Dirty Dick was the last man to waive an advantage. Now, the Caterpillar had quietly left No. 15, as soon as Rutford entered it. Not from any cowardly motive, but—as he put it afterwards—"because one makes a point of retiring whenever a rank outsider appears. One ought to be particular about the company one keeps." It says something for the boy's character, that this statement was accepted by the house as unvarnished truth. Lovell glanced at the other Fifth Form boys, as Rutford repeated the question.
"Anybody else, Lovell? Be careful how you answer me!"
"Nobody else," said Lovell.
"On your honour, sir?"
"On my honour, sir."
And, later, all Manorites declared that Lovell had lied like a gentleman. Rutford and he stared at each other, the boy pale, but self-possessed, the big burly man flushed and ill at ease.
"You will all go to my study. A word with you, Lawrence."
The boys filed quietly out. Rutford looked at John and Fluff. Large fat tears were trickling down Fluff's cheeks. Somehow he felt convinced that John was involved in a frightful row.
"Run away, Kinloch," said his house-master. "I wish to speak with
Lawrence and Verney."
He turned to Lawrence as he spoke. John glanced at Scaife. His eyes were open. Silently, Scaife placed a trembling finger upon his lips. The action, the expression in the eyes, were unmistakable. John understood, as plainly as if Scaife had spoken, that silence, where expulsion impended, was not only expedient but imperative. Kinloch crept out of the room. Rutford examined Scaife, who feigned insensibility. Then he addressed Lawrence.
"Go to Lovell's room, Lawrence, and institute a thorough search. If you find wine or spirits, let me know at once."
Lawrence left the room.
"Now, Verney, I am going to ask you a few questions." He assumed his rasping truculent tone. "And don't you dare to tell me lies, sir!"
John was about to repudiate warmly his house-master's brutal injunction, when the habit of thinking before he spoke closed his half-opened lips. Immediately, his face assumed the obstinate, expressionless look which made those who searched no deeper than the surface pronounce him a dull boy. Rutford, for instance, interpreted this stolidity as unintelligence and lack of perception. John, meantime, was struggling with a thought which shaped itself slowly into a plan of action. He had just heard Lovell lie to save the Caterpillar. John knew well enough that he might be called upon to lie also, to save not himself, but Scaife. If he held his tongue and refused to answer questions, Rutford would assume, and with reason, that Scaife had been made drunk by the Fifth Form fellows.
Then John said quietly, "I am not a liar, sir."
"Certainly, I have never detected you in a lie," said Rutford.
"All the same," continued John, in a hesitating manner, "I would lie, if I thought a lie might save a friend's life."
Rutford was so unprepared for this deliberate statement, that he could only reply—
"Oh, you would, would you?"
"Yes," said John; then he added, "Any decent boy or man would."
"Oh! Oh, indeed! This is very interesting. Go on, Verney."
"Scaife said he felt as if he was jolly well screwed, sir; but he isn't. I'm quite sure he isn't. He may feel like it; but he isn't."
John could see Scaife's eyes, slightly blood-shot, but sparkling with a sort of diabolical sobriety. At that moment, one thing alone seemed certain, Scaife had regained full possession of his faculties. Rutford stared at John, frowning.
"You dare to look me in the face and tell me that Scaife is not drunk?"
Very seriously, John answered, "I'm sure he's not drunk, sir."
Rutford eyed the boy keenly.
"Have you ever seen anybody drunk?" he demanded.
"I live in the New Forest," said John, as gravely as before, "and on Whit-Monday——" He was aware that he had made an impression upon this big, truculent man.
"Don't try to be funny with me, Verney."
"Oh no, sir, as if I should dare!"
"Well, well, we are wasting time. Trieve sent you to Lovell's room to fetch Scaife?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what was Scaife doing when you went into the room? Be very careful!"
John considered. "He was laughing, sir."
"Laughing, was he?"
"But he stopped laughing when I gave him Trieve's message, and then he said what Lovell told you, sir."
"Never mind what Lovell told me. Give me your version of the story."
"Scaife asked the other fellows if Trieve had any right to fag him, now that he had got his 'fez.' If he had been drunk, sir, he wouldn't have thought of that, would he?"
"Um," said Rutford, slightly shaken. John described his return to
Trieve's room, and Trieve's threat.
"Lovell and you tell the same story."
"Why, yes, sir." John made no deliberate attempt to look simple; but his face, to the master studying it, seemed quite guileless.
Just then, Dumbleton ushered in the doctor. To him Rutford recited what he knew and what he suspected. He had hardly finished speaking, when Scaife opened his eyes for the second time. By a curious coincidence, the doctor used the words of the house-master.
"Well, sir, how do you feel?"
And then Scaife answered, in the same dazed fashion as before—
"I feel as if I was jolly well screwed, sir."
Rutford nodded portentously.
"I feel," continued Scaife, "as I did once long ago, when I was a kid and got hold of some curacoa at one of my father's parties."
"Just so," said the doctor.
"Same buzzing in the head, same beastly feeling, same—same old—same old—giddiness." He closed his eyes, and his head fell heavily upon his chest.
"It looks like concussion," said the doctor, doubtfully. "You say he fell?" He turned to John.
"I was just outside the door," said John.
"We'll put him into the sick-room, Mr. Rutford. And in a day or two he'll be himself again."
"Are you sure that what I—er—feared—er——?"
The doctor frowned. "The boy has had brandy, of course."
"Mrs. Puttick and Lovell gave him plenty of that," John interpolated.
"I believe you can exonerate the boy entirely," said the doctor.
John saw that Rutford seemed relieved.
"I have ordered Lovell's room to be searched. If no wine or spirits are found, I shall be glad to believe that I have made a very pardonable mistake."
While Scaife was being removed, Lawrence came in with his report. Nothing alcoholic had been discovered in Lovell's room. After prayers, which were late that night, Dirty Dick made a short speech.
"I had reason to suspect," said he, "that a gross breach of the rules of the school had been made to-night by certain boys in this house. It appears I was mistaken. No more will be said on the subject by me; and I think that the less said by you, big and small, the better. Good night."
He strode away into the private side.
Two days later, Scaife came back to No. 15. John wondered why he stared at him so hard upon the first occasion when they happened to be alone. Then Scaife said—
"Well, young Verney. I sha'n't forget that, if it hadn't been for you, I should have been sacked. And I sha'n't forget either that you're not half such a fool as you look."
John exhibited surprise.
"The way you handled the beast," continued Scaife, "was masterly. I heard every word, though my head was bursting. I shall tell Lovell that you saved us. Oh, Lord—didn't I give the show away?"
He never tried to read the perplexity upon the other's face, but went away laughing. He came back with the Caterpillar half an hour later, and the three boys sat down as usual to prepare some Livy. John was sensible that his companions treated him not only as an equal—a new and agreeable experience—but as a friend. In the course of the first ten minutes Scaife said to the Caterpillar—
"He told Dick to his face that he would lie to save a pal."
And the Caterpillar replied seriously, "Good kid, very good kid.
Lovell says he's going to give a tea in his honour."
"No he isn't. It's my turn."
Accordingly, upon the next half holiday, Scaife gave a tea at the Creameries. Of all the strange things that had happened during the past fortnight, this to our simple John seemed the strangest. He was not conscious of having done or said anything to justify the esteem and consideration in which Scaife, the Caterpillar, and Lovell seemed to hold him.
"You've forgotten Desmond," he said to Scaife, when the latter mentioned the names of his guests.
"Caesar isn't coming. By the way, Verney, you've not been talking to
Caesar about the row in our house?"
"No," said John. "Lawrence came round and said that I must keep my mouth shut."
"And naturally you did what you were told to do?"
The half-mocking tone disappeared in a burst of laughter as John answered—
"Yes, of course."
"And I suppose it never entered your head that Lawrence would not have been so particular about shutting your mouth without good reason."
"Perhaps," said John, after a pause, "Lawrence was in a funk lest, lest——"
"Go on!"
"Lest the thing would be exaggerated."
"Exactly. Lots of fellows would go about saying that I was dead drunk—eh?"
"They might."
"And that would be coming dangerously near the truth."
"Oh, Scaife! Then you really were——"
Scaife laughed again. "Yes, I really was, my Moses in the bulrushes! Don't look so miserable. I guessed all along that you weren't quite in the know. Well, I'm every bit as grateful. You stood up to Dick like a hero. And my tea is in your honour."
"Oh, Scaife—you—you won't do it again?"
"Get screwed?" said Scaife, gravely. "I shall not. It isn't good enough. We've chucked the stuff away."
"If they'd found it——"
"Ah—if! The old Caterpillar attended to that. He's a downy bird, I can tell you. When Dick came into our room, he slipped back to Lovell's room, carried off the whisky, hid it, washed the glasses, and then dirtied them with siphon and syrup. The Caterpillar and you showed great head. We shall drink your healths to-morrow—in tea and chocolate."
John wondered what Scaife had said to the Fifth. At any rate, they asked John no questions, and treated him, with distinguished courtesy and favour; but that evening, when John was fagging in Lawrence's room, the great man said abruptly—
"I saw you walking with Lovell senior this afternoon."
John explained. Lawrence frowned.
"Oh, you've been celebrating, have you? Thanksgiving service at the Creameries. Now, look here, Verney, I've met your uncle, and he asked me to keep an eye on you. Because of that I made you my fag—you, a green hand, when I had the pick of the House."
"It was awfully good of you," said John, warmly.
"We'll sink that. I'm five years older than you, and I know every blessed—and cursed"—he spoke with great emphasis—"thing that goes on in this house. I know, for instance, that dust was thrown, and very cleverly thrown, into Rutford's eyes, and you helped to throw it. Don't speak! You didn't quite know what you were up to. Well, it's lucky for Lovell and Co. that one innocent kid was mixed up in that affair. But it's been rather unlucky for you. I'd sooner see you kicked about a bit by those fellows than petted. I'm sorry—sorry, do you hear?—the whole lot were not sacked. And now you can hook it. I've said enough, perhaps too much, but I believe I can trust you."
After this John showed his gratitude by painstaking attention to fagging. Lawrence became aware of faithful service: that his toast was always done to a turn, that his daily paper was warmed, as John had seen the butler at home warm the Times, that his pens were changed, his blotting-paper renewed, and so forth. In John's eyes, Lawrence occupied a position near the apex of the world's pyramid of great men.
[1] kraipale is translated by Liddell and Scott as "the result of a debauch."
[Transcriber's note: "kraipale" was transliterated from the Greek characters kappa, rho, alpha, iota, pi, alpha (with soft-breathing mark), lambda, eta.]
CHAPTER IV
TORPIDS
"Again we rush across the slush,
A pack of breathless faces,
And charge and fall, and see the ball
Fly whizzing through the bases."
The remainder of the term slipped away without further accident or incident. Apart from the preparation of work, John saw little of Scaife or Egerton. The Fifth nodded to him in a friendly fashion when he passed them in the street, and, greater kindness on their part, left him alone. Possibly, Lawrence had said a word to Lovell. Such leisure as John enjoyed (a new boy at Harrow has not much) he spent with the devoted Fluff. Desmond and Scaife walked together on Sunday afternoons. But the fact that Desmond seemed to be vanishing out of his horizon made no difference to John's ever-increasing affection for him. Very humbly he worshipped at a distance. On clear, dry days Fluff and he would climb to the top of the wall of the squash racquet-courts to see Scaife and Desmond play a single. They were extraordinarily well-matched in strength, activity, and skill. John noticed, however, that the Demon lost his temper when he lost a game, whereas Caesar only laughed. Somehow John divined that the Demon was making the effort of his life to secure Desmond's friendship. And Caesar had ideals, standards to which the Demon pretended to attain. Good simple John made sure that Caesar would elevate the Demon to his plane, that evil would be exorcised by good. Only in his dreams did the Demon have the advantage.
Just before the end of the term, Caesar said to him—
"After all, I'm jolly glad I'm coming into your House, because the old Demon is such a ripper; and he and I have been talking things over. He's as mad keen as I am about games, and although the Manorites have not played in a cock-house match at cricket or footer for years, still there is a chance for us at Torpids next term. You'll play, Verney. You've improved a lot, so the Demon says, and he'll be captain. Then there are the sports. If only Dirty Dick could be knocked on the head, the Manor might jump to the front again."
"It will," said John.
When the School reassembled after Christmas, Desmond entered the Manor, and found himself with Scaife in a two-room. A civil note from the man of millions had arranged this. To John was given a two-room, also, with the Duffer as stable companion. Fluff remained in No. 15. The Duffer had got his remove from the Top Shell into John's form. Scaife and Desmond were elevated into the Upper Remove. It followed, therefore, that Scaife and Desmond prepared work in their own room, the Caterpillar joining the Duffer and John. Thus it will be seen that, although Desmond had become a Manorite, he was, practically speaking, out of John's orbit.
The Caterpillar had now been three years in the school, and he governed himself accordingly. He put on a "bar-maid" [1] collar and spent much time on the top step of the boys' entrance to the Manor. No mere two-year-old presumed to occupy this sacred spot. Had he dared to do so, the Caterpillar would have made things very sultry for him. Also, he informed the Duffer and John that, by virtue of his position, he proposed to prepare no work at all. Each "con" was divided into two equal parts: the Duffer "mugged" up one; John the other. Then the Caterpillar would be summoned, and glean the harvest. The Duffer had a crib or two, but the Caterpillar forbade their use.
"You kids," said he, "ought not to use 'Bohns.' Besides, it's dangerous."
The Caterpillar's deportment and coolness filled John and the Duffer with respect and admiration. The master in charge of the Lower Remove happened to be short-sighted. The Caterpillar took shameful advantage of this. At repetitions, for instance, he would read Horace's odes off a torn-out page concealed in the palm of his hand, or—if practicable—pin the page on to the master's desk.
He had genius for extricating himself (and others) out of what boys call tight places. One anecdote, well known to the Lower School and repeated as proof of the Caterpillar's masterly methods, may serve to illustrate the sort of influence Egerton wielded. When he was in the Fourth, his form met in the Old Schools in a room not far from that august chamber used by the Head Master and Upper Sixth. One day, the master in charge of the form happened to be late. The small boys in the passage celebrated his absence with dance and song. When the belated man arrived, a monitor awaited him. The Head Master presented his compliments to Mr. A—— and wished to learn the names of the boys who had created such a scandalous disturbance. Mr. A—— invited the roysterers to give up their names under penalties of extra school. Hateful necessity! Silence succeeded. A—— grew irate. The monitor tried to conceal a smile.
"Any boy who was making any noise at all—stand up."
The Caterpillar rose slowly, long and thin, spick and span.
"If you please, sir," said he, "I was whispering!"
A——'s sense of humour was tickled.
"My compliments to the Head Master," said he, "and please tell him that
I find, on careful inquiry, that Egerton was—whispering."
A shout of laughter from Olympus proclaimed that the message had been delivered. The Caterpillar had saved the situation.
John became a disciple of this accomplished young gentleman and tried to imitate him. For Egerton represented, faithfully enough, traditions to which John bowed the knee. Upon any point of schoolboy honour his authority ruled supreme. He told the truth among his peers; he loathed obscenity; he disliked and condemned bad language.
"The best men don't swear much," he would say. "It's doosid bad form. I allow myself a 'damn' or two, nothing more. My great-grandfather, who was one of the Regency lot, was known as Cursing Egerton, but nowadays we leave that sort of thing to bargees."
Quite unconsciously, John assimilated the Caterpillar's axioms.
"We're not sent here at enormous expense to learn only Latin and Greek. At Harrow and Eton one is licked into shape for the big things: diplomacy, politics, the Services. One is taught manners, what? I'm not a marrying sort of man, but if I do have sons I shall send 'em here, even if I have to pinch a bit."
This was the side of Egerton which appealed so strongly to John. The
Caterpillar was an Harrovian to the core, like the Duffer and Caesar
Desmond. He deplored the increasing predominance of sons of very rich
men. And he anathematized Harrovian fathers who were persuaded by
Etonian wives to send their sons to the Plain instead of to the Hill.
That some of the famous Harrow families, who owed so much to the
School, should forsake it, seemed to Egerton the unpardonable sin.
During this term, regretfully must it be recorded that John scamped his "prep" and "ragged" in form whenever a suitable chance presented itself. The Duffer and he bribed a "Chaw" [2] to throw gravel against the windows of the room where the boys were supposed to be mastering the problems of Euclid and algebra. The "tique" [3] master had been Third Wrangler, but he couldn't tackle his Division properly. Upon this occasion the "chaw" created such a disturbance that (on audacious demand) leave was granted to the Duffer and John to capture the offender. The young rascals pursued the "chaw" as far as the Metropolitan Station, and presented that conscientious youth with another sixpence. Then it occurred to John that it might be expedient to capture some bogus prisoner; so by means of talk, sugared with chocolates, they persuaded a little girl to impersonate the thrower of gravel. The little girl, carefully coached in her part, was led to the Wrangler, but stage-fright made her burst into tears at the critical moment. Somehow or other the truth leaked out; the Duffer and John were sent up to the Head Master and "swished." Each collected a few twigs of the birch, carefully preserved to this day.
Meantime, the Torpid house-matches were coming on, and the School agreed, wonderingly, that Dirty Dick's had a chance of being cock-house. The fact that the Manor had lost caste brought about this possibility. Boys just under fifteen found room at the Manor when other houses were full. All the Manorites in the Shell and Removes were fellows who had come to Harrow rather over than under fourteen years of age.
And when the list of the Torpid Eleven was posted, didn't John's heart boil with pride when he read his own name at the bottom of it?
The Manor won the first and the second of the matches. Then came the semi-finals with Damer's. When the teams met in the playing-fields the difference in the size of the players was remarked. Damer's Torpids were small boys, not much bigger than John or the Duffer. But they had behind them that stupendous force which is fashioned out of pride, esprit de corps, self-confidence begotten of long-continued success, and, strongest of all, the conviction that every man-Jack would fight till he dropped for the honour and glory of the crack house at Harrow. Not a boy in Damer's team was Scaife's equal as a player, but in Scaife's strength lay the weakness of the Manorites. They relied upon one player; Damer's pinned faith to eleven.
As it happened to be a fine day, the School turned out in force to witness the match. Most of the masters were present, and some ladies. Rutford, however, had business elsewhere. The School commented upon his absence with sly smiles and shrugs of the shoulder. Some of the Manorites were indifferent; the better sort raged. The Caterpillar appeared upon the ground in a faultless overcoat, carrying a large bag of lemons. His straw hat was cocked at a slight angle.
"One is really uncommonly obliged to Dirty Dick for staying away," he told everybody. "Speaking personally, the mere sight of him is very upsetting to me. Keen as one feels about this match, one can't deny that there is not room in a footer field for Dirty Dick and a self-respecting person."
None the less, the absence of their house-master had a bad effect upon the Torpids. Damer, you may be sure, had come down, prepared to cheer louder than any boy in his house; Damer, it was whispered, had been known to shed tears when his house suffered defeat; Damer, in fine, inspired ardours—a passion of endeavour.
Scaife won the toss and kicked off.
For the first five minutes nothing of interest happened. Damer's played collectively; the Manorites rather waited upon the individual. When Scaife's chance came, so it was predicted, he would go through the Damer's centre as irresistibly as a Russian battleship cuts through a fleet of fishing-smacks.
Rutford being absent, Dumbleton, the butler, stood well to the fore. He never missed a house-match, and no one could guess, looking at his wooden countenance, how the game was going; for he accepted either defeat or victory with dignified self-restraint. A smart bit of work provoked a bland, "Well played, sir, very well played, sir!" uttered in the same respectful tone in which he requested Lovell, let us say, to go to Mr. Rutford's study after prayers. The fags believed that "Dumber," who had begun his career as boot-boy at the Manor in the glorious days of old, had given notice to leave when he learned that Dirty Dick was about to assume command; but had been prevailed upon to stay by the promise of an enormous salary. Nothing disturbed his equanimity. On the previous Saturday evening, John had heated the wrong end of the poker in No. 15, knowing that Dumber's duty constrained him to march round the House after "lights out," to rake out any fires that might be still burning. Snug under his counterpane, the practical joker awaited, chuckling, a choleric word from the impassive and impeccable butler. How did Dumber divine that the poker was unduly hot and black with soot underneath? Who can answer that question? The fact remains that he seized John's best Sunday trousers which were laid out on a chair, and holding the poker with these, accomplished his task without remark or smile. The trousers had to be sent to the tailor's to be cleaned.
Not far from Dumber stood a group of small boys, including the unhappy Fluff—unhappy because he was not playing, despite arduous training (entirely to please John) and systematic coaching. His failure meant further separation from John, whom, it will be remembered, he would have been allowed to call by his Christian name, had he been included amongst the Torpids. Of late, Fluff had not seen much of John, and in his dark hours he allowed his thoughts to linger, not unpleasantly sometimes, upon premature death and John's subsequent remorse.
Meantime, Scaife and Desmond were playing a furious game which must have proved successful had it not been for the admirable steadiness of the enemy. Lawrence watched their efforts with compressed lips and frowning brows. He knew—who better?—that his cracks were tearing themselves to tatters; but his protests were drowned by the shrill cheers of the fags.
"Rutfords—Rutfor-r-r-r-r-ds! Go it, old Demon!—Jolly well played, Caesar!—Sky him![4]—Well skied, sir!—Ah-h-h-h! Well given—well taken!"
The last, long-drawn-out exclamation proclaimed that "Yards" [5] had been given to Scaife right in front of Damer's base. Damer's retreated; Scaife, with heaving chest, balanced the big ball between the tips of his fingers.
"Oh-h-h-h-h!"
Scaife had missed an easy shot. Lawrence could see that the boy was trembling with disappointment and mortification. Barbed arrows from Damer's small boys pierced Manorite hearts.
"Jolly well boshed, Scaife!—Good, kind, old Demon!—Thank you,
Scaife!—" and like derisive approbation rolled from lip to lip. The
Caterpillar turned to Lovell.
"Showing temper, ain't he?"
"Yes," said Lovell.
"Clever chap," said the Caterpillar, reflectively; "but one is reminded that a stream can't rise higher than its source. Not mine that—the governor's! Caesar is facing the chaff with a grin."
The game began again. But soon it became evident that Scaife had lost, not only his temper, but his head. He rushed here and there with so little judgment that the odds amongst the sporting fellows went to six to four against the Manor. At the beginning of the game they were six to four the other way. And, inevitably, Scaife's wild and furious efforts unbalanced Desmond's play. Both boys were out of their proper places to the confusion of the rest of the team. Within half an hour Damer's had scored two bases to nothing.
The Caterpillar distributed halves of lemons. Lawrence went up to Scaife. The captain of the Torpids was standing apart, not far from Desmond, who was sucking a lemon with a puzzled expression. Gallant, sweet-tempered, and always hopeful, Caesar could not understand his friend's passion of rage and resentment. With the tact of his race, however, he held aloof, smiling feebly, because he had sworn to himself not to frown. Had he looked to his right, he would have seen John, also sucking a lemon, but understudying his idol's nonchalant attitude and smile. John was sensible of an overpowering desire to fling himself upon the ground and howl. Instead he sucked his lemon, stared at Desmond, and smiled—valiantly.
"Scaife," said Lawrence, gravely, "you're not playing the game."
Scaife scowled. "I only know I've half killed myself," he muttered.
Lawrence continued in the same steady voice, "Yes; because you missed an easy base which has happened to me and every other player scores of times. Come here, Desmond."
Desmond joined them. Lawrence's face brightened when he saw hopeful eyes and a gallant smile.
"You don't despair?"
"We'll knock 'em into smithereens yet."
"That's the Harrow spirit, but temper your determination to win with a little common sense. You've overdone it, both of you. Take my tip: they'll play up like blazes. Defend your own base; and then when they're spent, trample on 'em."
"Thank you," said Desmond.
Scaife nodded sulkily.
None the less he had too great respect for Lawrence's ability and experience as a captain to disregard his advice. After the kick-off, Damer's did play up, and the Manor had to defend its base against sustained and fierce attack. Again and again a third base was almost kicked, again and again superior weight prevailed in the scrimmages. Within ten minutes Damer's were gasping and weary. And then, the ball was forced out of the scrimmage and kicked to the top side, Desmond's place in the field. Comparatively fresh, seeing the glorious opportunity, grasping it, hugging it, Caesar swooped on the ball. He had the heels of any boy on the opposite side. Down the field he sped, faster and faster, amid the roars of the School, roars which came to his ears like the deep booming of breakers upon a lee shore. To many of those watching him, the sight of that graceful figure, that shining ardent face, revealing the promise which youth and beauty always offer to a delighted world, became an ineffaceable memory. Damer turned to the Head of his house.
"And Desmond ought to be one of us," he groaned.
And now Caesar had passed all forwards. If he keep his wits a base is certain. The full back alone lies between him and triumph. But this is the moment, the psychological moment, when one tiny mistake will prove irrevocable. The Head of Damer's whispers as much to Damer, who smiles sadly.
"His father's son will not blunder now," he replies.
Nor does he. The mistake—for mistake there must be on one side or t'other—is made by Damer's back. As the ball rolls halfway between them, the back hesitates and falters.
One base to two—and eighteen minutes to play!
The second base was kicked by Scaife five minutes later.
By this time the School knew that they were looking on at a cock-house match, not a semi-final. It was the wealth of Dives against the widow's mite that the winner of this match would defeat easily either of the two remaining houses. And not a man or boy on the ground could name with any conviction the better eleven. The betting languished at evens.
Moreover, both sides were playing "canny," risking nothing, nursing their energies for the last furious five minutes. Damer began to fidget; then he dropped out of the front rank of spectators. He couldn't stand still to see his boys win—or lose. He paced up and down behind the fags, who winked at each other.
"Damer's got the needle," they whispered.
Dumbleton, however, stood still; a graven image of High Life below
Stairs.
"What do you think, Dumber?" asked Fluff.
"I think, my lord," replied Dumber, solemnly, "that every minute improves our chance, but if it goes on much longer," he added phlegmatically, "I shall fall down dead. My 'eart's weak, my lord."
This was an ancient joke delivered by Dumber as if it were brand-new, and received by the fags in a like spirit.
"Bless you, you've got no heart, Dumber. It's turned into tummy long ago," or, in scathing accents, "It's not your heart that's out of whack, Dumber, but your blithering old headpiece. What a pity you can't buy a new one!" and so on and so forth.
Very soon, however, this chaff ceased. Excitement began to shake the spectators. They felt it up and down their spinal columns; it formed itself into lumps in their throats; it gave one or two cramp in the calves of their legs; It reddened many cheeks and whitened as many more. The Caterpillar pulled out his watch.
"Three and a half minutes," he announced in a voice which fell like the crack of doom upon the silent crowd. If they could have cheered or chaffed! But the absolute equality of the last desperate struggle prevented any demonstration. The ball was worried through a scrimmage, escaped to the right, slid out to the left, only to be returned whence it came. It seemed as if both sides were unable to kick it, and when kicked it seemed to refuse to move as if weighted by the ever-increasing burden of suspense. . . .