The Loom of Youth

CHAPTER VII: WHEN ONE IS IN ROME ...

One morning just after breakfast Gordon discovered that he had done the wrong maths for Jenks. He rushed in search of Fletcher.

"I say, Archie, look here, be a sport. I have done the wrong stuff for that ass Jenks. Let's have a look at yours."

In ten minutes four tremendous howlers in as many sums had been reproduced on Gordon's paper. The work was collected that morning, and nothing more was heard of it till the next day. Gordon thought himself quite safe and had ceased to take any interest in the matter. The form was working out some riders more or less quietly. Suddenly Jenks's tired voice murmured:

"Caruthers, did you copy your algebra off Fletcher?"

"No, sir."

Jenks was rather fond of asking such leading questions.

Caruthers had got tired of it. The man was a fool; he must know by this time that he was bound to get the same answer.

"Fletcher, did you copy off Caruthers?"

"No, sir."

"Caruthers, did you see Fletcher's paper?"

"No, sir."

How insistent the ass was getting.

"Fletcher, did you see Caruther's paper?"

"No, sir."

"Oh, you silly fellows. Then I shall have to put both your papers before the Headmaster. I'm afraid you will both be expelled."

Jenks had a strange notion of the offences that merited expulsion. Every time he reported a boy he expected to see him marching sadly to the station to catch the afternoon train. Once Collins had stuck a pin into a wonderful mercury apparatus and entirely ruined it.

"Oh, Collins, you stupid boy. I shall have to report you to the Headmaster, and you know what that means. We sha'n't see you here any more."

Gordon had, of course, not the slightest fear of getting "bunked." But still it was a nuisance. He would have to be more careful next time.

"Now look here, you two," Jenks went on, after a bit. "If either of you cares to own up, I won't report you at all. I will deal with you myself."

Slowly Gordon rose. It was obviously an occasion where it paid to own up.

"I did, sir."

"Oh I thought as much. You see yours was in pencil, and if possible a little worse than Fletcher's. Sit down."

Betteridge afterwards said that to watch Jenks rushing across the courts to see the Chief during the minute interval between the exit of one class and the arrival of the next was better than any pantomime. He was very small; he had a large white moustache; his gown was too long; it blew out like sails in the wind. Besides, it was the first time Jenks had ever been seen to run.

In due time Caruthers and Fletcher appeared before the Chief. The result was only a long "jaw" and a bad report. The Chief could not perhaps be expected to see that a lie was any the less a lie because it was told to a master. But in the delinquents any feeling of penitence there might have been was entirely obscured by an utter scorn of Jenks.

"After all, the man did say he wouldn't report us," said Fletcher.

"Oh, it's all you can expect from these 'stinks men.' They have no sense of honour."

It did not occur to Gordon that in this instance his own sense of honour had not been tremendously in evidence. The Public School system had set its mark on him.

The other incident was the great clothes row. All rows spring from the most futile sources. This one began with the sickness of one Evans-Smith, who was suddenly taken ill in form. It was a hot day, and he fainted. Now Evans-Smith was an absolute nonentity. It was only his second term, but he had already learnt that anything that was in the changing-room was common property; and so when the matron took off his shoes before putting him to bed she saw Rudd's name inside. The matter was reported to the Chief. The Chief made a tour of the changing-room during afternoon school, and his eyes were opened. For instance, it was quite obvious that Turner had changed. His school suit was hung on his peg, his blazer was presumably on him, and yet his cricket trousers were lying on the floor, with Fischer's house scarf sticking out of the pocket. There were many other like discoveries.

In hall that night the Chief asked Turner whose trousers he was wearing that afternoon. The wretched youth had not the slightest idea; all he knew was that they were not his own. He thought they might be Bradford's.

After prayers the Chief addressed the House on the subject. He pointed out how carelessness in little things led to carelessness in greater, and how dangerous it was to get into a habit of taking other people's things without thinking. He also said that it was most unhealthy to wear someone else's clothes. He was, of course, quite right; but the House could not see it, for the simple reason that it did not want to see it. It would be an awful nuisance to have to look after one's own things. Besides, probably the man next to you had a much newer sweater. The House intended to go on as before. And indeed it did.

One day Ferguson thought he wanted some exercise. It was a half-holiday, and Clarke was quite ready for a game of tennis. Ferguson went down to the changing-room. The first thing he saw was that his tennis shoes were gone. He thought it quite impossible that anyone should dare to bag his things. Fuming with wrath, he banged into the matron's room.

"I say, Matron, look here; my tennis shoes are gone."

And then, suddenly, he saw the Chief standing at the other end of the room, glancing down the dormitory list.

"Oh, really, Ferguson, I must see about this. Matron, do you know anything about Ferguson's shoes?"

"No, sir! Never touch the boys' shoes. George is the only person who looks after them; and he only cleans black boots and shoes."

"Oh, well, then, Ferguson, you'd better come with me, and we will make a search for them."

Ferguson cursed inwardly. This would mean at least half-an-hour wasted; and he could so easily have found another pair. The School House changing-room is a noble affair. It is about seventy feet long and sixty wide. All round it run small partitioned-off benches; in the middle are stands for corps clothes. At one end there is what was once a piano. Laboriously the Chief and Ferguson hunted round the room. In the far corner there was an airing cupboard. It was a great sight to see Ferguson climb up on the top of this. He was not a gymnast, and he took some time doing it. Hunter sat changing at one end of the room, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Down the passage a loud, tuneless voice began to sing Who were You with Last Night? and Mansell rolled in. He saw the Chief, and stopped suddenly, going over to Hunter.

"What does the old idiot want?"

"He's hunting for Ferguson's tennis shoes."

"Good Lord! and I've got them on."

"Well, get them off, then, quick."

In a second, while the Chief was looking the other way, Mansell stole across to the middle of the room and laid them on the top of the hot-water pipes.

About two minutes later Ferguson burst out:

"Look, sir, here they are!"

"But, my dear Ferguson, I'm sure we must have looked there."

"Yes, sir. I thought we had."

"Er, 't any rate there are your shoes, Ferguson, and I hope you'll have a good game!" The Chief went out, rather annoyed at having wasted so much time. At tea that evening there was mirth at the V. B table.

On this occasion trouble was avoided. But one day Willing, a new boy, lost his corps hat. He was certain it had been there before lunch. The Corps Parade was already falling in. Seeing no other hat to fit him, he very idiotically went on without a hat at all. It would have been far better to have cut parade altogether. Clarke asked him where his hat was, but his ideas on the subject were very nebulous. The whole corps was kept waiting while School House hats were examined. Ten people had got hats other than their own.

They each got a Georgic....

The pent-up fury of the House now broke loose. Everyone swore he would murder Clarke on the last day, bag his clothes, and hold him in a cold bath for half-an-hour. If half of the things that were going to be done on the last day ever happened, how very few heads of houses would live to tell the tale! It is so easy to talk, so very hard to do anything; a head of the House is absolutely supreme. If he is at all sensitive, it is possible to make his life utterly wretched by a silent demonstration of hatred, but if he is at all a man, threats can never mature, and Clarke was a man. During his last days at Fernhurst he was supremely miserable. The House was split up into factions: he himself had no one to talk to except Ferguson and Sandham. But he carried on the grim joke to its completion. In the last week he beat four boys for being low in form, and gave a whole dormitory a hundred lines daily till the end of the term for talking after lights out. The Chief was sorry to lose him; Ferguson would make a very weak head. The future was not too bright.

"I say, you know, I think I had better get a 'budge' this term." Gordon announced this fact as the Lower Fifth were pretending to prepare for the exam. Mansell protested:

"Now don't be a damned ass, my good man; you don't know when you are well off. You stop with old Methuselah a bit longer. He is a most damnable ass, but his form is a glorious slack."

"Oh, well, I don't know. I think the Sixth is slacker still. I am going to specialise in something when I get there. I am not quite sure what. But it's going to mean a lot of study hours."

At Fernhurst there was a great scheme by which specialists always worked in their studies. To specialise was the dream of every School House boy. It is so charming to watch, from the warm repose of your own study, black figures rushing across the rain-swept courts on the way to their class-rooms (it always rained at Fernhurst), and Gordon was essentially a hedonist.

"Yes, I suppose the higher you go up the less work you do," said Mansell. "When I was with old 'Bogus' I used to prepare my lessons sometimes, and, what's more, with a dictionary."

"Oh, Quantum mutatus ab illo," sighed Gordon.

"Yes, you know," said Betteridge, "the higher you get up the school the less you need worry about what you do. The prefect is supposed to be the model of what a Public School boy should be. And yet he is about the fastest fellow in the school. If I got caught in Davenham's study by the Chief, even if I said I was only borrowing a pencil, I should get in the deuce of a row. But Meredith can sit there all hall and say he's making inquiries about a boxing competition. He's trusted. The lower forms aren't allowed to prepare in their studies. They might use a crib, so they have to work in the day-room or big school. The Fifth is trusted to work, so it can spend school hours in its studies. Of course the Third works the whole time, while the Fifth just writes the translation between the lines and then plays barge cricket. It's no use trusting a Public School boy. Put faith in him and he'll take advantage of it; and yet there are still some who say the Public School system is satisfactory!"

"And I am one of them," said Mansell. "I've had a damned good term so far, and next term, when I get that big study, I shall have a still finer time. School may be bad as a moral training, but I live to enjoy myself. Here's to the Public School system. Long may it live!"

Betteridge smiled rather sadly; he was not an athlete.

The summer exams turned out a lamentably dull affair. Claremont superintended the Shell and the Lower Fifth. Anyone who wished to crib could have done so easily. But hardly anyone took the trouble. Mansell swore he would stay where he was. Ruddock, Johnstone and the other old stagers were all of the same opinion. Gordon had determined to get high enough for a promotion, but no higher; tenth would do; and it was easy to get up there. The small boys in the front bench were all Balliol scholars in embryo; it would not pay them to crib. The great law of expediency overhung all proceedings. The result was that they were as lifeless and dull as most other virtuous things.

There were, however, a few bright incidents, the foremost of which was the Divinity exam. Claremont, we know, was a parson and a lover of poetry, and that term the form had been reading Judges and Samuel and Kings. As the Divinity exam. came first, it would be wise to put the old man in a good temper. Ruddock introduced Mr ffoakes Jackson's work on the Old Testament disguised as a writing-pad.

There is nothing easier than to write down correct answers to one-word questions, if you have the answer-book in front of you. Ruddock's writing-pad passed slowly round the back and centre benches. Next day the result was announced.

"Well," said Claremont, "I must own that I was agreeably surprised by the results of the Divinity papers. The lowest mark was seventy-nine out of a hundred, and that was Kennedy." (Kennedy was invariably top in the week's order.) "Ruddock did a really remarkable paper, and scored a hundred out of a hundred. Johnstone and Caruthers both got ninety-nine, and several others were in the nineties. In fact, the only ones in the eighties were those who usually excel. I have taken the form now for over thirty years, and this is quite unparalleled. I shall ask the Headmaster if a special prize cannot be given to Johnstone. He certainly deserves one."

But the Chief was very wise. As he glanced down the mark list he realised that Johnstone's marks could hardly be due to honest work. But the Chief was also very tactful. He thought, on the whole, that in case of such general merit it would be invidious to single any individual out for special distinction, and, of course, he could not give prizes to everyone. He would, however, most certainly mention the fact at prize-giving. When he did, the applause was strangely mingled with laughter.

But this was only one incident in many dull hours. As a whole, the week's exam. failed to provide much to look back on afterwards with any satisfaction. Even the Chemistry exam. fell flat. FitzMorris picked up a copy of the paper on Jenks's desk and took a copy of it. The marks here also were above the average.

It is inevitable that the end of the summer term should be overhung with an atmosphere of sadness. When the new September term opens there are many faces that will be missing; the giants of yester-year will have departed; another generation will have taken their places. But for all that these last days are not without their own particular glory. Rome must have been very wonderful during the last week of Sulla's consulship. And in the passing of Meredith there was something essentially splendid; for it happens so seldom in life that the culminating point of our success coincides with the finish of anything. We are continually being mocked by the horror of the second best. We do not know where to stop; we cling too long to our laurels; and when the end finally comes they have begun to wither. Death is an anti-climax. The heart that once loved, and was as grass before the winds of passion, has grown cold amid a world of commonplace. But at school there is no dragging out of triumphs. All too soon the six short years fly past, and we stand on the threshold of life in the very flush of our pride. "Just once in a while we may finish in style." It is not often; the roses fade.

The final of the Senior House matches was drawing to a close on the last Friday of the term. Buller's were beating the School House L-Z easily. There had never been any doubt about the result. L-Z was entirely a one-man side, that Meredith had managed to carry it on his shoulders through the two first rounds.

The House had only two wickets in hand, and still wanted over eighty runs to avoid an innings' defeat. But Meredith was still in. It had been a great innings. He had gone in first with Mansell, and watched wicket after wicket fall, while he had gone on playing the same brilliant game. Every stroke was the signal of a roar from the pavilion. The whole House was looking on. It was a fitting end to a dazzling career. It was like his life, reckless and magnificent. At last he mis-hit a half-volley and was caught in the deep for seventy-two.

As he left the wicket the whole House surged forward in front of the pavilion, and formed up in two lines, leaving a gangway. Amid tremendous applause Meredith ran between them. The cheering was deafening.

After prayers that night the Chief said a few words about the match.

"I am sorry we did not win; but, then, I don't think many of us dared to hope for that. At any rate, we were not disgraced, and I wish to take the opportunity of congratulating Meredith, not only on his superb innings this afternoon, but also on his keen and energetic captaincy throughout the term."

This was the signal for another demonstration. Everyone beat with their fists upon their table. It was a great scene.

The giants of our youth always appear to us much greater than those of any successive era. In future years Gordon was to see other captains of football, other captains of cricket, but with the exception of the tremendous Lovelace, Meredith towered above them all. He was at that moment the very great god of Gordon's soul. He seemed to be all that Gordon wished to be, brilliant and successful. Surely the fates had showered on him all their gifts.

On the last Monday there was a huge feed in the games study. Over twenty people were crowded in. Armour was there, Mansell, Gordon, Simonds, Foster, Ferguson, everyone except Clarke. There was no one who was not sorry to lose Meredith; his achievements so dazzled them that they could see nothing beyond them. They were proud to have such a man in the house. It was all sheer happiness.

Somehow on the last day the following notice appeared on the House board:—

No one knew who was responsible for it. Clarke looked at it for a second and turned away with a face that expressed no emotion.

By the Sixth Form green Simonds was shouting across to Meredith:

"Best of luck, old fellow, and mind you come down for the House supper...."

On the way down to the station Archie Fletcher burst out:

"Well, thank God, that swine Clarke's gone. He absolutely mucked up the House." Gordon agreed.

"If we had a few more men like Meredith now!" Rather a change had come over the boy who a year before had been shocked at the swearing in the bathroom. "When one is in Rome...."

BOOK II: THE TANGLED SKEIN

CHAPTER I: QUANTUM MUTATUS

If Gordon were given the opportunity of living any single year over again, exactly as he had lived it before, he would in all probability have chosen his second year at Fernhurst. He had then put safely out of sight behind him the doubts and anxieties of the junior; he had not yet reached any of the responsibilities of the senior. It was essentially a time of light-hearted laughter, of "rags," of careless happiness. Every day dawned without a trace of trouble imminent; every night closed with a feed in Mansell's big study, while the gramophone strummed out rag-time choruses. And yet these three terms were very critical ones in the development of Gordon's character. Sooner or later everyone must pass through the middle stage Keats speaks of, where "the way of life is uncertain, and the soul is in a ferment." Most boys have at their preparatory schools been so carefully looked after that they have never learnt to think for themselves. They take everything as a matter of course. They believe implicitly what their masters tell them about what is right and wrong. Life is divided up into so many rules. But when the boy reaches his Public School he finds himself in a world where actions are regulated not by conscience, but by caprice. Boys do what they know is wrong; then invent a theory to prove it is right; and finally persuade themselves that black is white. It is pure chance what the Public School system will make of a boy. During the years of his apprenticeship, so to speak, he merely sits quiet, listening and learning; then comes the middle period, the period in which he is gradually changing into manhood. In it all his former experiences are jumbled hopelessly together, his life is in itself a paradox. He does things without thinking. There is no consistency in his actions. Then finally the threads are unravelled, and out of the disorder of conflicting ideas and emotions the tapestry is woven on the wonderful loom of youth.

The average person comes through all right. He is selfish, easy-going, pleasure-loving, absolutely without a conscience, for the simple reason that he never thinks. But he is a jolly good companion; and the Freemasonry of a Public School is amazing. No man who has been through a good school can be an outsider. He may hang round the Empire bar, he may cheat at business; but you can be certain of one thing, he will never let you down. Very few Public School men ever do a mean thing to their friends. And for a system that produces such a spirit there is something to be said after all.

But for the boy with a personality school is very dangerous. Being powerful, he can do nothing by halves; his actions influence not only himself, but many others. On his surroundings during the time of transition from boyhood to manhood depend to a great extent the influence that man will work in the world. He will do whatever he does on a large scale, and people are bound to look at him. He may stand at the head of the procession of progress; he may dash himself to pieces fighting for a worthless cause; and by the splendour of his contest draw many to him. More likely he will be like Byron, a wonderful, irresponsible creature, who at one time plumbed the depths, and at another swept the heavens—a creature irresistibly attractive, because he is irresistibly human. Gordon was a personality. His preparatory school master said of him once: "He will be a great failure or a great success, perhaps both," and it was the truest thing ever said of him. At present the future was very uncertain. During his first year he had been imbibing knowledge from his contemporaries; he had been a spectator; now the time had come for him to take his part in the drama of Fernhurst life. All ignorant he went his way; careless, arrogant and proud.

It must be owned that during this year Gordon was rather an objectionable person. He was very much above himself. For five years he had been tightly held in check, and when freedom at last came he did not quite know how to use it. He was boisterous and noisy; always in the middle of everything. If ever there was a row in the studies, it would be a sure assumption that Caruthers was mixed up in it. Everything combined to give him a slack time.

Ferguson was head of the House. But he took only a casual interest in its welfare.

"My dear Betteridge," he used to say, "if you were aware of the large issues of art and life, you would see that it would be a mere waste of time worrying about such a little thing as discipline in a house. You should widen your intellectual horizon. Read Verlaine and Baudelaire and then see life as it is."

Ferguson was a poet; twice a term the school magazine was enriched with a poem from his pen. His last effort was called Languor, and opened with the line:

"The Bull" had asked someone in his house what the thing meant. To Ferguson that seemed a high compliment. To be incoherent was a great gift. Swinburne often meant very little, and in his heart of hearts Ferguson thought Languor was, on the whole, more melodious than Dolores. But that was, of course, purely a matter of opinion. At any rate, it was a fine composition; and a poet must not dabble in the common intrigues of little minds.

He let the House go its own sweet way; and the House was grateful, and gave Ferguson the reputation of being rather a sport. There were no more weekly orders; no more cleaning of corps clothes. There was at last peace in Jerusalem, and plenteousness within her palaces.

Simonds was captain of the House. He was working hard for a History scholarship, and could not spend much time in looking after House games. There would be tons of time in the Easter term to train on House sides. So he, too, let things slide, and the House lived a happy life. Those who wanted to play footer, played; those who wanted to work, worked; those who wished to do nothing, did nothing. A cheerful philosophy. For a week it worked quite well.

Gordon was lucky enough to find himself in the position of not only not wanting to work, but also not having to. He had got his promotion into V. A, and found it a land of milk and honey. Macdonald, his form master, was one of the most splendid men Fernhurst has ever owned on its staff. For over forty years he had sat in exactly the same chair, and watched generation after generation pass, without appearing the least bit older. He grew a little stout, perhaps. But his heart was the same. It took a lot to trouble him. He realised that the world was too full of sceptics and cynics, and swore that he would not number himself among them. He was now the senior assistant master and the best scholar on the staff.

"You know, these young men aren't what we were," he used to say to his form; "not one of them can write a decent copy of Latin verses. All these Cambridge men are useless—useless!" In his form it was unnecessary to work very hard; but in it the average boy learnt more than he learnt anywhere else. For Macdonald was essentially a scholar; he did not merely mug up notes by German commentators an hour before the lesson. For him the classics lived; and he made his form realise this. To do Aristophanes with him was far better than any music hall. Horace he hated. One day when they were doing Donec gratus eram tibi, he burst out with wrath:

"Horrible little cad he was! Can't you see him? Small man, blue nose with too much drinking. Bibulous little beast. If I had been Lydia I would have smacked his face and told him to go to Chloë. I'd have had done with him. Beastly little cad!"

But it was in history that he was at his best. It was a noble sight to see him imitate the weak-kneed, slobbering James I; and he had the private scandals of Henry VIII at his finger-tips. For all commentators he had a profound contempt. One day he seized Farrar's edition of St Luke, and holding it at arm's-length between his finger and thumb, shook it before the form.

"Filth," he cried, "filth and garbage; take it away and put it down the water-closet." He had a genius for spontaneous comments. Kennedy was very nervous; and whenever he said his rep. he used to hold the seat of his trousers.

"Man, man!" Macdonald shouted out, "you won't be able to draw any inspiration from your stern."

His form would be in a continuous roar of laughter all day long; and when particularly pleased it always rubbed its feet on the floor, a strange custom that had lasted many years. Claremont's form-room was situated just above him, and he could often hardly hear himself speak. He used to complain bitterly.

"How I wish my jovial colleague down below would keep his form a little more in order."

But Macdonald got his revenge one day when Claremont was reciting Macbeth's final speech fortissimo to his form.

"Hush!" said Macdonald. "We must listen to this." Suddenly he chuckled to himself: "And do you think he really imagines he is doing any good to his form by giving that nigger minstrel entertainment up there?"

The roar of laughter that followed quite spoilt the effect of the recitation. Work became quite impossible in V.B.

It was about this time that the House began to interest itself in the welfare of Rudd. Rudd was the senior scholar of the year before, and he looked like it. He was fairly tall and very thin. His legs bore little relation to the rest of his body. They fell into place. He was of a dusky countenance, partly because he was of Byzantine origin, partly because he never shaved, chiefly because he did not wash. His clothes always looked as if they had been rolled up into a bundle and used for dormitory football. Perhaps they had. Rudd was not really a bad fellow. He was by way of being a wit. One day the Chief had set the form a three-hour Divinity paper, consisting of four longish questions. One was: "Do you consider that the teaching of Socrates was in some respects more truly Christian than that of St Paul?" Rudd showed up a whole sheet with one word on it: "Yes." Next day his Sixth Form privileges were taken away. But the House took little notice of his academic audacities. Rudd did not wash; he was an insanitary nuisance; moreover, he did not play footer.

"That man Rudd is a disgrace to the House," Archie announced one evening after tea; "he's useless to the House; he slacks at rugger and is unclean. Let's ship his study." There was a buzz of assent. There was a good deal of rowdyism going on in the House just then; and at times it would have been hard to draw the exact borderline between ragging and bullying. A solemn procession moved to Study No. 14. Rudd was working.

"Hullo, Byzantium," said Mansell. "How goes it?"

"Oh, get out, you; I want to work!"

"Gentlemen, Mr Rudd wishes to work," Betteridge announced. "The question is, shall he be allowed to? I say 'No!'" He suddenly jerked away the chair Rudd was sitting on: the owner of the study collapsed on the floor.

Archie at once loosed a tremendous kick at his back.

"Get up, you dirty swine! Haven't you any manners? Stand up when you are talking to gentlemen."

Rudd had a short temper; he let out and caught Mansell on the chin. It is no fun ragging a man who doesn't lose his temper. But, as far as Mansell was concerned, proceedings were less cordial after this. He leapt on Rudd, bore him to the ground, and sat on his head. Foul language was audible from the bottom of the floor. Rudd had not studied Euripides for nothing. Lovelace picked up a hockey stick. "This, gentlemen," he began, "is a hockey stick, useful as an implement of offence if the prisoner gets above himself, and also useful as a means of destroying worthless property. I ask you, gentlemen, it is right that, while we should have only three chairs among two people, Rudd should have two all to himself? Gentlemen, I propose to destroy that chair."

In a few minutes the chair was in fragments. A crowd began to collect.

"I say, you men," shouted Gordon, "the refuse heap is just opposite; let's transfer all the waste paper of the last ten years and bury the offender."

Just across the passage was a long, blind-alley effect running under the stairs, which was used as a store for waste paper. It was cleaned out about once every generation. In a few minutes waste-paper baskets had been "bagged" from adjoining studies, and No. 14 was about a foot deep in paper.

"That table is taking up too much room, Lovelace," Bradford bawled out; "smash it up."

The table went to join the chair in the Elysian Fields. Rudd was now almost entirely immersed in paper. The noise was becoming excessive. Oaths floated down the passage.

At last Ferguson moved. In a blasé way he strolled down the passage. For a minute he was an amused spectator, then he said languidly: "Suppose we consider the meeting adjourned. I think it's nearly half-time." Gradually the crowd began to clear; Rudd rose out of the paper like Venus out of the water. A roar of laughter broke out.

"Well, Rudd, I sincerely hope you are insured," murmured Ferguson.

What Rudd said is unprintable. In his bill at the end of the term his father found there was a charge of ten shillings for damaged property in Study No. 14. Rudd got less pocket-money the next term.

"I say, you fellows, have you heard the latest? 'The Bull' has kicked me out of the Colts."

Lovelace came into the changing-room, fuming with rage. There had been a Colts' trial that afternoon. Buller had cursed furiously and finally booted Lovelace off the field, with some murmured remarks about "typical School House slackness."

"It's damned rot," said Bradford. "Because Simonds has made rather an ass of himself in the last two matches, Bull thinks the whole House is slack. He gave Turner six to-day just because he hadn't looked up one word. I hope he doesn't intend to judge the whole House by Simonds."

The House was getting fed up with Simonds. It was all very well working in moderation for scholarships, but when it came to allowing games to suffer, things were getting serious. Private inclination cannot stand in the way of the real business of life. And no one would hesitate to own that he had come to Fernhurst mainly to play footer.

"But, you know, I don't think 'the Bull's' that sort," Gordon protested; "he may lose his temper and all that, but I think he's fair."

"Do you?" said Hunter drily.

There was a laugh. As a whole, the House was certain that "the Bull" was against them.

In a week's time Lovelace was back again in the Colts, and Gordon was telling his friends what fools they were not to trust "the Bull."

Gordon was confirmed this term. He was rather young; but it was obviously the thing to do, and, as Mansell said: "It's best to take the oath when you are more or less 'pi,' and there is still some chance of remaining so. You can't tell what you will be like in a year or so."

As is the case with most boys, Confirmation had very little effect on Gordon. He was not an atheist; he accepted Christianity in much the same way that he accepted the Conservative party. All the best people believed in it, so it was bound to be all right; but at the same time it had not the slightest influence over his actions. If he had any religion at this time it was House football; but for the most part, he lived merely to enjoy himself, and his pleasures were, on the whole, innocuous. They very rarely went much beyond ragging Rudd.

"Do you think," said Gordon, the evening after his first confirmation address, "that the masters really believe confirmation has any effect on us? Because you know it doesn't."

"I don't think it matters very much what masters think," said Hunter; "most of them here have got into a groove. They believe the things they ought to believe; they are all copies of the same type. They've clean forgotten what it was like at school. Hardly any of them really know boys. They go on happily believing them 'perhaps a little excitable, but on the whole, perfectly straight and honest.' Then a row comes. They are horrified. They don't realise all of us are the same. They've made themselves believe what they want to believe."

"Yes, and when they are told the truth, they won't believe it," said Betteridge. "You know, I was reading an article in some paper the other day, by an assistant master at Winchborough, called Ferrers. He was cursing the whole system. I showed it to Claremont, just for a rag; told him I thought it was rather good. The old fool looked at it for some time, and then said: 'Well, Betteridge, don't form your style on this. It is very perfervid stuff. Not always grammatical.' All the ass thinks of is whether plurals agree with singulars; he does not care a damn whether the material is good."

"That's it," said Gordon. "Masters try to make you imitate, and not think for yourself. 'Mould your Latin verses on Vergil, your Greek prose on Thucydides, your English on Matthew Arnold, but don't think for yourself. Don't be original.' If anyone big began to think he'd see what a farce it all is; and then where would all these fossils be? It's all sham; look at the reports. Bradford gets told he's a good moral influence. Mansell works hard and deserves his prize. It is hoped that confirmation will be a help to me. Rot, it all is!"

"Oh, I'm not so certain confirmation is a farce," broke in Bradford. "If you don't believe in it, you won't get to heaven."

"But who the hell wants to get there," said Mansell. "Sing hymns all day long. I can imagine it. Fancy having Caruthers singing out of tune in your ear for ever. It's bad enough in chapel once a day. But for ever——!"

"My good lads, you don't know what heaven's like," whispered Bradford confidentially. "Claremont was gassing away about Browning the other day, and said that he believed that in heaven you could do all the things you wanted to do on earth! And by Jove I would have a hot time—some place, heaven!"

"By Jove, yes; but you know, Bradford, there won't be much left for you to do in heaven; at the rate you are going you will have done most things on earth."

"Oh, I am going to reform, and then I shall write to Claremont and tell him how I, a wandering sheep, was brought home by his interpretation of Andrew Dol Portio—I think that's what the thing was called."

"Of course, that is an idea," said Mansell, "but I am not so sure of what's going to happen when we're dead. I am going to have a jolly good time, and then take the risk. I never hedge my bets."

"Well, you may go on your way to the eternal bonfire," said Bradford, "but I am for righteousness. Now, listen to this, it's in the book we have to read for confirmagers, Daily Lies on the Daily Path: '... If you think that in your house things are being talked about that would shock your mother or sister, don't merely shun it as something vile. It is your duty to fight against it; reason with the boys. They probably have some grain of decency left in them. If that fails, report the matter to your house master. He will take your side. The boys will probably be expelled, but you will have done your duty, as Solomon says in Proverbs....' There now, Mansell. I am one of the children of light. So you know what to expect from me. Shall I reason with you, lad? Have you a grain of decency left in you, or must I——"

At this point a well-aimed cushion put an end to the fervour of the new child of light. Betteridge sat on his head.

"Look here, Bradford," he began, "you may be a convert and all that, but don't play John the Baptist in here. It does not pay. Very shortly I shall carry your head to the dustbin in a saucer. Let me tell you the story of one Stevenson in Mr Macdonald's house. He was, like you, about to be confirmed, and was, like you, very full of himself. And being, as Lovelace, a lover of the race-course, he walked about in his study in hall, chanting us a dirge out of sheer religious fervour: 'My name is down for the confirmation stakes.' Macdonald passed the door and, on hearing him, entered and said: 'Well you are scratched now at any rate! 'Take that to heart, and be not as the seeds that are sown on stony ground, who spring up in the night and wither in the morning."

Betteridge intoned the whole lecture. The story was in a way true, but the Stevenson in question had shouted down the passage: "Hurrah, no prep. to-night; my name is down for the confirmation stakes." With the result as above. Gordon burst out:

"By the way, talking of Macdonald, he made a priceless remark to-day. Kennedy, that little cove in Christy's, came in late and began stammering out that it was only a minute or two over time; Macdonald looked on him for a minute, and then said: 'Your excuse is just about as good as the woman's who, having had an illegitimate baby, protested that it was only a small one.'"

"By Jove, he's some fellow. Now he's a man," said Mansell. "He's a boy still; he can see our side of the question, and he knows what footling idiots half of the common room are. If we had more like him." ...

"And it would be a jolly good thing, too," said Betteridge, "if we could get a really young master like that Winchborough man, Ferrers, I was telling you about. He'd stir things up a bit."

At that moment the Abbey sounded half-past eight.

"Good Lord," said Hunter, "only quarter of an hour more, and we've done nothing the whole of hall. Let's rout out Lovelace and go and rag Rudd."

In three minutes Rudd was under the table, with Mansell seated on his chest.

It was rather unfortunate that Gordon should have chosen Tester to have a study with. Tester was over sixteen, was in the Lower Sixth, and had got his Seconds at cricket. He was a House blood. Gordon did not care for him particularly. But he had a good study, No. 1, at the far end of the lower landing, and Gordon wanted a big study. It was so very fine to sit chatting to Foster or Collins in one of the small studies for a little time and then to say suddenly, in a lordly manner: "Oh, look here, there's no room here at all. Come down to my study, there are several arm-chairs there!"

It is always pleasant to appear better than one's equals. But Tester was a dangerous friend to have at a time when the mind is so open to impressions. For Tester had not risen to his position on his own merits alone. Lovelace major had always said he was not much good, and the year before had not given him his House cap. But Tester was a very great friend of Stewart's, the captain of the Eleven. Stewart gave him his Seconds for making twenty against the town, so Meredith had to give him his House cap. It is a school rule that a "Seconds" must have his House cap. Tester was not improved by his friendship with Stewart, and the pity was that he was really clever. He could always argue his case.

"I never asked to be brought into this world," he said, "I am just suddenly put here, and told to make the best of things; and I intend to make the best of things. I am going to do what I like with my life. Wrong and right are merely relative terms. They change to fit their environment. Baudelaire would not have been tolerated in the Hampstead Garden Suburb; Catullus would not have been received in Sparta. But at Paris and Rome customs were different. We only frame philosophies to suit our wishes. And I prefer to follow my own inclinations to those of a sham twentieth-century civilisation."

Gordon did not like this; but if one lives daily in the company of a man who is clever and a personality, one is bound to look at life, at times, at any rate, through his spectacles. Gordon began to look on things which he once objected to as quite natural and ordinary.

"I say, Caruthers, I hope you don't mind clearing out of here for a bit," Tester would say. "Stapleton is coming in for a few minutes. You quite understand, don't you?"

As soon as we begin to look on a thing as ordinary and natural, we also begin to think it is right. After a little Gordon ceased to worry whether such things were right or wrong. It was silly to quarrel with existing conditions, especially if they were rather pleasant ones. Gordon had a study with Tester till the end of the summer.

One day, towards the end of the Easter term, Gordon asked Tester, rather shyly, if he would leave him alone a little. "I've often cleared out for you, you know."

"Of course, that's quite all right, my dear fellow. Any time you like, I understand!" Tester smiled as he walked down the passage.

But during the winter term Gordon worried about little except football; when he was not playing, he was ragging. Form he looked on as a glorious recreation. He was learning more than he ever learned afterwards without making much effort. Macdonald was a scholar; he did not teach people by making them work, he taught them by making it impossible for them to forget what he told them. No one who has ever been through the Upper Fifth at Fernhurst would have the slightest difficulty in writing a character sketch of any English king, even though he might never have read a chapter about him. Macdonald made every man in history a living character; not a sort of rack on which to hang dates and facts.

Football, however, was not going quite so satisfactorily. Gordon was never tried for the Colts Fifteen, although he subsequently proved himself better than most of the other forwards in it, and had to play in House games every day. Once a week a House game is a thundering good game, but more often it is one-sided, and for a person who really cares for footer, such afternoons are very dull. On the Upper or Lower a good game was certain; the captain of the school always chose sides that would be fairly level. But House sides were different. Nothing depended on their results. Sometimes bloods would play, sometimes not; it was a toss up. And worst of all, Simonds was abominably slack. For a few weeks the House thought it rather funny, and the smaller members of the House secretly rejoiced; but the games-loving set waxed furious.

"Damn it all," said Mansell, "the man's here to coach us, not to sit in his study sweating up dates!"

The result of it was that Mansell and his friends got filled with an enormous sense of their own importance; they considered themselves the only people in the House who were keen. And they let the rest of the House know it. They groused about "the great days of Lovelace," and gave people like Rudd a most godless time. There is no more thoroughly self-satisfied person than the second-class athlete; and when he also imagines himself an Isaiah preaching repentance, he wants kicking badly. Unfortunately no one kicked Gordon or Lovelace; and they went on their way contented with themselves, though with no one else.

One of the easiest ways of discovering a person's social status at school is by watching his behaviour in the tuck-shop. The tuck-shop or "Toe," as it is generally called, is a long wooden building with corrugated iron roof, situated just opposite Buller's house, not far from the new buildings. It is divided by a wooden partition into two shops; at each end of the outer shop run two counters. On the right-hand counter, which is connected with a small kitchen, cakes, muffins and sausages are sold; on the left-hand side there are sweets and fruit. The inner and larger room is filled with tables, and round the room are photographs of all the school teams. At the far end, in huge green frames, are hung photographs of the two great Fernhurst Fifteens who went through the season without losing a match. The "Toe" is the noisiest place in the whole school. It is superintended by five waitresses, and they have a very poor time of it.

The real blood is easily recognised. He strolls in as if he had taken a mortgage on the place, swaggers into the inner room, puts down his books on the top table in the right-hand corner—only the bloods sit here—and demands a cup of tea and a macaroon. A special counter has been made by the bloods' table, so that the great men can order what they want without going back into the outer shop. No real blood ever makes a noise in the outer shop. When he is once inside the inner shop, however, he immediately lets everyone know it. If he sees anyone he knows, he bawls out:

"I say, have you prepared this stuff for Christy?"

The person asked never has.

"Nor have I. Rot, I call it."

No blood is ever known to have prepared anything.

The big man then sits down. If a friend of his is anywhere about, he flings a lump of sugar at him. When he gets up he knocks over at least one chair. He then strolls out, observing the same magnificent dignity in the outer shop. No one can mistake him.

But the only other person who makes no row in the outer shop is the small boy, who creeps in, and creeps out, unnoticed. Everyone with any claim to greatness asserts his presence loudly. The chief figures at this time were the junior members of Buller's, and especially the two Hazlitts. Their elder brother was the school winger, and an important person; but they had done nothing but make a noise during their two years at Fernhurst. Athleticism had had a disastrous effect on them. Because their house had won the Thirds, Two Cock and Three Cock, they thought themselves gods. In the tuck-shop they acted as avenging angels sent to punish a wicked world. Their chief amusement was to see a person leaning over a counter, kick his backside when he was not looking, and then run away. It was their class that were the real nuisance in the "Toe." They persecuted the girls in charge most damnably. Very often only one girl was in charge. The younger Hazlitt would at once seat himself on the other counter and shriek out:

"Nellie, when are you coming over here? I shall bag these sweets if you don't buck up." He would then seize a huge glass jar of peppermints, and roll it along the zinc counter.

"Oh, Mr Hazlitt, do leave that alone," the wretched Nellie would implore. But it was no use. When there was a big crowd waiting to be served, the Hazlitt brethren would take knives and beat on the zinc counter, shouting out: "Nellie, come here!" They were a thoroughly objectionable pair. Whenever Mansell saw them, he kicked them hard, and they got rather frightened of the School House after a bit.

It is not to be thought, however, that the behaviour of the School House was exemplary. Mansell usually kicked up an almighty row, but he left "Nellie" alone. He was not going to lower himself to the Hazlitt level.

It is an amazing thing that the half-blood very rarely gets into a row; and yet he always talks as if expulsion hung over his head. Probably he thinks it draws attention to himself. Mansell would always enter the shop in exactly the same way; he banged his books on the counter and, sighting Hunter, fired off at once.

"I say, look here, give me a con. I am in the hell of a hole. I prepared the wrong stuff for old Claremont, and the man's getting awfully sick with me; he may report me to the Chief. Do help me out!"

"Sorry, old cock," said Hunter, "but I specialise in stinks!"

"Oh, do you! Well, I suppose I shall have to chance it; that's all. He may not shove me on."

The small boys thought Mansell's daring very fine. But strangely enough, although he was always in a state of fearful agitation, he had so far singularly managed to avoid getting reported. But still it kept up appearances to talk a lot.

Gordon, of course, had to be fairly quiet in the tuck-shop. He was not yet known among the school in general; and it was only in Buller's that small boys gave tongue in the tuck-shop. But then Buller's were, in their own opinion, to the rest of the School as Rome was to Italy. Fernhurst was merely a province of Buller's. They kept this view to themselves, however. "The Bull" would have dealt very summarily with such assumptions.

And so, when Lovelace and Tester and Mansell were there Gordon was generally to be found contributing his share to the general disorder, but when alone, he sat quite quietly with Collins and Foster. He rather longed for the day when he could start a row all on his own. A strange ambition for any candidate for immortality!

About the middle of the term was the field day at Salisbury Plain. Most of the Public Schools were present; it was a noble affair from the general's point of view. The school, however, considered it a putrid sweat. For hours they pounded over ploughed fields and the day dragged slowly on to its weary close and two hundred very tired privates at last fell into a six-fifty train.

Two days later a notice was brought round by the school custos: "Roll for all those who went to Salisbury Plain on Wednesday in the big schoolroom at six p.m." There is nothing quite so enjoyable as the sensation that a big row is on, in which you yourself have no part. Gordon trembled with excitement. He whispered excitedly to the man on his left, Lidderdale, a man in Rogers': "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing much. Some silly ass put his bayonet through a carriage window. Rogers was gassing about it in the dormitories last night."

"Oh!" said Gordon. Very disappointedly he returned to his academic activities. He had had hopes of some splendid row, and after all, it was only about a silly ass and a bayonet. Rotten! Fancy being made late for tea because of that. But, as it turned out, his hopes were satisfied. When he reached the big schoolroom, everything certainly looked most formal. In front of the big dais where the choir stood during the concerts sat all the masters in a half-circle. The Chief sat in the centre.

"Are they all here, Udal?" the Chief asked the senior sergeant.

"Yes, sir."

The Chief rose.

"I have to address you to-night on a very serious subject. During the field day last Wednesday, someone in this room disgraced not only his school, but the King's uniform. An officer from another school has written to tell me that he overheard two of you talking outside the canteen in language that would disgrace a costermonger. I sincerely wish he had taken their names at once. As it is, I do not know their names. The officer in question said that both boys were over seventeen, and that the shorter of the two said nothing at all, as far as he could hear. Now I want the names of both those boys. If they own up to me to-night, I shall most certainly deal very severely with one at least of them. If they do not come to me of their own free will, I may be forced to ask the officer to come down and identify the boys, in which case both will from that instant cease to be members of Fernhurst School."

In a state of high excitement the school poured down to tea.

"I bet it's someone in Christy's," said Bradford.

Christy believed in leaving his house entirely to his prefects. It was a good way of avoiding responsibility; but his choice of prefects was not altogether wise.

"Do you think the men will own up?" said Gordon.

"Not unless they're most abandoned fools," replied Lovelace.

There was only one topic of conversation at tea, and afterwards Lovelace, Hobson and Gordon discussed the affair keenly in No. 1. They all agreed that the men would not own up, and the general opinion was that someone in Christy's was responsible. Discussion raged fiercely as to who it was. Gordon was all for it being Isaacs, Lovelace for Everington, Hunter for Mead. The point was being debated, when Tester and Bradford came in.

"Hullo, come in," shouted Gordon, "we are having a great fight about this. I say Isaacs is the most likely man. What do you think?"

Tester looked round carefully, and then began anxiously:

"Look here, you men; swear you won't tell a soul if we tell you something."

The oath was taken.

"Well, it's us!"

There was a hush. "Good Gawd!" said Hunter. Silence ensued; but curiosity soon overcame surprise.

"What did you say, by the by?" asked Gordon.

Tester repeated as far as he could remember the exact words.

"Yes, you know; it was a bit hot, wasn't it? I expect you opened the blighter's eyes a bit. He wasn't used to that sort of literature."

In spite of themselves Tester and Bradford laughed. They had been vaguely aware of a tired-looking figure in a Sam Browne as they left the canteen. He had looked "some ass." But Gordon soon became serious again.

"What are you men going to do? Of course you won't own up."

"We can't very well. I am in the Sixth and Bradford's had one row this term, and of course, I was the criminal. I am supposed to be a responsible personage."

"Of course, owning up's out of the question."

"But do you think anything will happen?" Bradford was a little frightened. "I mean will there be a sort of general inspection?"

"You bet there won't. When a master begs men to own up, it means that he's up the spout. It's much more fun catching a fellow red-handed. And, after all, you two are the last people anyone would think of."

"Of course, it's all right," said Lovelace; "there's only one thing to do. You talk of nothing else but this rotten affair; talk about it in the Toe, in the changing-room, in form, in chapel, if you like. Ask people you meet if they've owned up. Treat the whole thing as a glorious rag."

"Yes," shouted Gordon, "let's go down to Rudd and tell him if he doesn't own up we'll give him hell."

And in truth the next half-hour was for Rudd very hell of very hell. His existence just now was not very pleasant. If he had been good at footer all his domestic failings would have been forgiven him. But he was not; he loathed the game, though at times he would have given anything to be of some use. Strangely enough, at Oxford he found people respected his brains, and no one hated him because he could not drop goals from the twenty-five. Life is full of compensations.

Lovelace and Tester were both supreme actors. That night in the dormitory they were full of the subject. After lights out, they kept the whole place in a roar of laughter. Bradford joined in a bit, but he was still nervous; visions rose up before him of an officer passing down the ranks, suddenly seizing him, and saying: "This is the man." It was hardly a ravishing thought; but it was useless to go back on a lie. Tester realised this. As Ferguson came through he called out:

"I say, Ferguson, you know you'd better go up to the Chief and tell him you did it."

Ferguson was, like the Boy Scout, always prepared.

"My good man, you don't surely imagine I am so devoid of good feeling and have such a hazy conception of the higher life as not to inform the Headmaster. I have just returned from breaking the news to him. He took it quite well on the whole. It was a touching scene. I nearly wept."

Betteridge then arose, and gave an imitation of a Rogers' sermon.

"Well, Ferguson, I must own that I am sorry to lose you. I would give much to retain you here. But dis aliter visum: you must go. You are expelled. Between the Scylla of over-elation and the Charybdis of despair you have a long time steered the bark of the School House. But one failing wipes away many virtues. And we must not discriminate between the doer and the deed, the actor and the action, the sinner and the sin. The same punishment for all. But in that paradisal state where suns sink not nor flowers fade, there will be a sweet reunion."

It was pure Rogers. The dormitory rocked with laughter. Tester began to give his impressions of what the officer must have looked like. There was a heated argument as to whether he was a parson. Mansell thought not.

"A fellow who knows his Bible well would not be shocked with a little swearing. I bet some of the bits in Genesis and Samuel are hotter than anything the blighter said. It was probably some dotard who reads Keats."

This seemed a sound piece of reasoning.

Next day the rumour spread round the school that a half-holiday was going to be stopped, as no one had owned up.

"Safety," said Tester. "That means the chase is given up."

But the school, which, up to now, had treated the affair as a joke, began to get annoyed. Tolerance and broadmindedness were all right as long as their own interests were secure; but when it came to a half-holiday being stopped because some blighter had not the decency to own up——

"It's a scandal," said Fletcher, in front of the House studies. "First this blighter does the school a lot of harm by swearing; and then he is in too much of a funk to own up, and we get in a row for it. Man must be a colossal swine."

He forgot that last night he had been treating the whole thing as a joke. Rogers was passing by up the Headmaster's drive on the way to his class-room, and overheard this outburst of righteous indignation. His heart was rejoiced to see such a good moral tone in the school. As he said in the common room: "It makes one proud to see what a sane, unprejudiced view the school takes of this unsavoury incident."

Lovelace now hit on a great plan. "Let's organise a strike. Why should we go into school to-morrow? If we can get enough to cut, we can't be punished. Let's canvass."

The fiery cross of rebellion was flung down the study passages. With lists of paper in their hands, Hunter, Mansell, Lovelace and Gordon (Tester thought himself too big a blood for such a proceeding) dashed into study after study urging their inhabitants to sign on for the great strike.

"Come on, you men," Hunter said. "It is the idea of a lifetime. If enough don't turn up, nothing can happen. You can't sack the whole school."

A few bright rebels like Archie Fletcher signed on at once. Rudd, too, thought it safer to put his name down. But the average person was more cautious.

"How many have you got down?"

"Oh, about fifteen."

"Well, look here, if you get over fifty I'll join in."

As nearly everyone said this, the hopes of successful operations seemed unlikely.

But still it all helped to disarm any trace of suspicion.

"I say, Ferguson, what do you think of all this?" said Mansell.

"I think a great creed has gone down. I shall no longer believe that conscience and cowardice are synonymous; only conscience is the trade name of the firm."

Mansell laughed. It was probably meant to be funny. He never quite understood Ferguson. On the next afternoon everyone sat down to two hours' extra school. There was much swearing at tea. But in a day or two it was all forgotten.

To this day no one at Fernhurst knows who the two boys were. The secret was well kept.

As the term drew to its close, with the Fifteen filled up and all the big matches over, interest was centred mainly in House football and House affairs. Mansell, it is true, was still worrying whether he would get his Seconds. But Lovelace and Gordon talked of nothing but the Thirds. The Colts' matches were over, and on House games one of the two House sides was always a trial Thirds. Edwards, a heavy, clumsy scrum-half, was captain of the side; Gordon led the scrum.

"If only we had Armour back as House captain," Hunter used to complain, "that side couldn't lose."

"And we sha'n't lose either," said Gordon; "we are going to sweep the field next term, and we are going to drive the ball over the line somehow, and God save anyone who gets in the light."

No House side ever imagines it is going to be beaten. Three Cocks have been lost by over fifty points; yet on the morning of the match half the "grovel" would be quite ready to lay heavy odds on their chance of winning, and whenever there is a good chance of victory, the House is absolutely cocksure. The result of this is that the House is magnificent in an uphill fight, but is rather liable to fling away a victory by carelessness.

But this side was certainly "pretty hot stuff." It took a lot to stop Stewart when once he got the ball, and Lovelace was brilliant in attack. The grovel was light, and was a little inclined to wing, but in the loose it was a big scoring combination. In the last week of the term there was a House game on, the Lower v. Buller's. Simonds turned out the Thirds side. It was a terrific fight. Buller's had two Seconds playing and a House cap; but the House had had the advantage of having played together. There was, at this time, a good deal of bad blood between the House and Buller's, and the play was not always quite clean. There was a good deal of fisting in the scrum. Gordon was in great form; he scored the first try with a long dribble, and led the pack well. Lovelace dropped a goal from a mark nearly midway between the twenty-five and the half-way line. Collins scrambled over the corner from a line out. Buller's only scored once, when Aspinall, their wing three, who had his Seconds, got a decent pass, and ran practically the whole length of the field. Towards the end, however, the light House grovel got tired and was penned in its own half. "Come on, House," Gordon yelled. "One more rush; let the swine have it!" The House was exhausted, it managed to keep Buller's out; but no more. This was an ominous sign. It had not been a long game.

"The Bull" had been watching the game. As the players trooped off the field, he called back Gordon. "Caruthers, here a second. You know, I don't want to interfere where it's not my business, but I don't think you should call another house 'swine.' To begin with, it's not the English idea of sport, and if there's any ill feeling between two houses in a school, especially the two biggest, it's not good for the school. Do you see what I mean?"

"Oh yes, sir. I didn't mean——"

"Of course you didn't, my dear chap.... By the way; will you be young enough for the Colts' next year? You will. Good. Then it won't be at all a bad side. Collins and Foster were quite good; and you played a really good game."