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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Hill + A Romance of Friendship + +Author: Horace Annesley Vachell + +Release Date: October 23, 2007 [EBook #23154] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HILL *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Stephen Blundell and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<p class="u"><i>ALSO BY HORACE A. VACHELL</i></p> + +<p>QUINNEYS'</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h1><big>THE HILL</big></h1> + +<p class="hd1">A ROMANCE OF FRIENDSHIP</p> + + + +<h2>HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL</h2> + + + + + +<p class="hd2">LONDON<br /> +JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td class="td1"><span class="smcap">First Edition</span></td><td class="td2"><i>April, 1905</i></td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1"><i>Fortieth Impression</i></td><td class="td2"><i>Jan., 1950</i></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + + +<div class="trans1"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b><br /> + +Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. +Greek text appears as originally printed, but with a mouse-hover transliteration, <span title="kraipalê">κραιπάλη</span>.</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p class="center"><big>To<br /> +GEORGE W. E. RUSSELL</big></p> + +<p>I dedicate this Romance of Friendship to you with the +sincerest pleasure and affection. You were the first to +suggest that I should write a book about contemporary +life at Harrow; you gave me the principal idea; you have +furnished me with notes innumerable; you have revised +every page of the manuscript; and you are a peculiarly +keen Harrovian.</p> + +<p>In making this public declaration of my obligations to +you, I take the opportunity of stating that the characters +in "The Hill," whether masters or boys, are not portraits, +although they may be called, truthfully enough, composite +photographs; and that the episodes of Drinking and +Gambling are founded on isolated incidents, not on habitual +practices. Moreover, in attempting to reproduce the +curious admixture of "strenuousness and sentiment"—your +own phrase—which animates so vitally Harrow life, +I have been obliged to select the less common types of +Harrovian. Only the elect are capable of such friendship +as John Verney entertained for Henry Desmond; and few +boys, happily, are possessed of such powers as Scaife is +shown to exercise. But that there are such boys as Verney +and Scaife, nobody knows better than yourself.</p> + +<p class="author"><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Believe me,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours most gratefully,</span><br /> +HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Beechwood</span>,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>February 22, 1905</i></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> + +<tr><td class="td3"><small>CHAP.</small></td><td class="td4"> </td><td class="td3"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">I.</td><td class="td4">The Manor</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">II.</td><td class="td4">Cæsar</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">III.</td><td class="td4">Kraipale</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">IV.</td><td class="td4">Torpids</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">V.</td><td class="td4">Fellowship</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">VI.</td><td class="td4">A Revelation</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_92">92</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">VII.</td><td class="td4">Reform</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">VIII.</td><td class="td4">Verney Boscobel</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">IX.</td><td class="td4">Black Spots</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_140">140</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">X.</td><td class="td4">Decapitation</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">XI.</td><td class="td4">Self-questioning</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">XII.</td><td class="td4">"Lord's"</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">XIII.</td><td class="td4">"If I Perish, I Perish"</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="td3">XIV.</td><td class="td4">Good Night</td><td class="td3"><a href="#Page_230">230</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3><i>The Manor</i></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 25em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"Five hundred faces, and all so strange!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Life in front of me—home behind,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">I felt like a waif before the wind<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Tossed on an ocean of shock and change.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<i>Chorus.</i> Yet the time may come, as the years go by,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">When your heart will thrill<br /></span> +<span class="i6">At the thought of the Hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And the day that you came so strange and shy."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The train</span> slid slowly out of Harrow station.</p> + +<p>Five minutes before, a man and a boy had been walking +up and down the long platform. The boy wondered why +the man, his uncle, was so strangely silent. Then, suddenly, +the elder John Verney had placed his hands upon the +shoulders of the younger John, looking down into eyes as +grey and as steady as his own.</p> + +<p>"You'll find plenty of fellows abusing Harrow," he +said quietly; "but take it from me, that the fault lies not +in Harrow, but in them. Such boys, as a rule, do not come +out of the top drawer. Don't look so solemn. You're +about to take a header into a big river. In it are rocks and +rapids; but you know how to swim, and after the first +plunge you'll enjoy it, as I did, amazingly."</p> + +<p>"Ra—ther," said John.</p> + +<p>In the New Forest, where John had spent most of his +life at his uncle's place of Verney Boscobel, this uncle, his +dead father's only brother, was worshipped as a hero. +Indeed he filled so large a space in the boy's imagination, +that others were cramped for room. John Verney in India, +in Burmah, in Africa (he took continents in his stride), +moved colossal. And when uncle and nephew met, behold,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> +the great traveller stood not much taller than John himself! +That first moment, the instant shattering of a precious +delusion, held anguish. But now, as the train whirled +away the silent, thin, little man, he began to expand again. +John saw him scaling heights, cutting a path through impenetrable +forests, wading across dismal swamps, an ever-moving +figure, seeking the hitherto unknowable and irreclaimable, +introducing order where chaos reigned supreme, +a world-famous pioneer.</p> + +<p>How good to think that John Verney was <i>his</i> uncle, +blood of his blood, his, his, his—for all time!</p> + +<p>And, long ago, John, senior, had come to Harrow; had +felt what John, junior, felt to the core—the dull, grinding +wrench of separation, the sense, not yet to be analysed by +a boy, of standing alone upon the edge of a river, indeed, +into which he must plunge headlong in a few minutes. +Well, Uncle John had taken his "header" with a stout +heart—who dared to doubt that? Surely he had not +waited, shivering and hesitating, at the jumping-off place.</p> + +<p>The train was now out of sight. John slipped the uncle's +tip into his purse, and walked out of the station and on +to the road beyond, the road which led to the top of the +Hill.</p> + +<p><i>The Hill.</i></p> + +<p>Presently, the boy reached some iron palings and a +wicket-gate. His uncle had pointed out this gate and the +steep path beyond which led to the top of the Hill, to +the churchyard, to the Peachey tomb on which Byron +dreamed,<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> to the High Street—and to the Manor. It was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> +pleasant to remember that he was going to board at the +Manor, with its traditions, its triumphs, its record. In his +uncle's day the Manor ranked first among the boarding-houses. +Not a doubt disturbed John's conviction that it +ranked first still.</p> + +<p>The boy stared upwards with a keen gaze. Had the +mother seen her son at that moment, she might have discerned +a subtle likeness between uncle and nephew, not the +likeness of the flesh, but of the spirit.</p> + +<p>September rains, followed by a day of warm sunshine, +had lured from the earth a soft haze which obscured the +big fields at the foot of the Hill. John could make out +fences, poplars, elms, Scotch firs, and spectral houses. +But, above, everything was clear. The school-buildings, +such as he could see, stood out boldly against a cloudless +sky, and above these soared the spire of Harrow Church, +pointing an inexorable finger upwards.</p> + +<p>Afterwards this spot became dear to John Verney, +because here, where mists were chill and blinding, he had +been impelled to leave the broad high-road and take a path +which led into a shadowy future. In obedience to an +impulse stronger than himself he had taken the short cut +to what awaited him.</p> + +<p>For a few minutes he stood outside the palings, trying +to choke down an abominable lump in his throat. This +was not his first visit to Harrow. At the end of the +previous term, he had ascended the Hill to pass the entrance +examination. A master from his preparatory school accompanied +him, an Etonian, who had stared rather superciliously—so +John thought—at buildings less venerable +than those which Henry VI raised near Windsor. John, +who had perceptions, was elusively conscious that his +companion, too much of a gentleman to give his thoughts +words, might be contrasting a yeoman's work with a king's; +and when the Etonian, gazing across the plains below to +where Windsor lay, a soft shadow upon the horizon, said +abruptly, "I wish Eton had been built upon a hill," John<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> +replied effusively: "Oh, sir, it <i>is</i> decent of you to say that." +The examination, however, distracted his attention from +all things save the papers. To his delight he found these +easy, and, as soon as he left the examination-room, he was +popped into a cab and taken back to town. Coming down +the flight of steps, he had seen a few boys hurrying up or +down the road. At these the Etonian cocked a twinkling +eye.</p> + +<p>"Queer kit you Harrow boys wear," he said.</p> + +<p>John, inordinately grateful at this recognition of himself +as an Harrovian, forgave the gibe. It had struck him, +also, that the shallow straw hat, the swallow-tail coat, did +look queer, but he regarded them reverently as the uniform +of a crack corps.</p> + +<p>To-day, standing by the iron palings, John reviewed +the events of the last hour. The view was blurred by +unshed tears. His uncle and he had driven together to +the Manor. Here, the explorer had exercised his peculiar +personal magnetism upon the house-master, a tall, burly +man of truculent aspect and speech. John realized proudly +that his uncle was the bigger of the two, and the giant +acknowledged, perhaps grudgingly, the dwarf's superiority. +The talk, short enough, had wandered into Darkest Africa. +His uncle, as usual, said little, replying almost in monosyllables +to the questions of his host; but John junior told +himself exultantly that it was not necessary for Uncle John +to talk; the wide world knew what he had done.</p> + +<p>Then his house-master, Rutford, had told John where +to buy his first straw hat.</p> + +<p>"You can get one without an order at the beginning of +each term," said he, in a thick, rasping voice. "But you +must ask me for an order if you want a second."</p> + +<p>Then he had shown John his room, to be shared with +two other boys, and had told him the hour of lock-up. +And then, after tea, came the walk down the hill, the tip, +the firm grasp of the sinewy hand, and a final—"God +bless you."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> + +<p>Coming to the end of these reflections, confronted by +the inexorable future, and the necessity, no less inexorable, +of stepping into it, John passed through the gate. His +heart fluttered furiously, and the lump in the throat swelled +inconveniently. John, however, had provided himself +with a "cure-all." Plunging his hand into his pocket, +he pulled out a cartridge, an unused twenty-bore gun cartridge. +Looking at this, John smiled. When he smiled he +became good-looking. The face, too long, plain, but full +of sense and humour, rounded itself into the gracious +curves of youth; the serious grey eyes sparkled; the lips, +too firmly compressed, parted, revealing admirable teeth, +small and squarely set; into the cheeks, brown rather than +pink, flowed a warm stream of colour.</p> + +<p>The cartridge stood for so much. Only a week before, +Uncle John, on his arrival from Manchuria, had handed his +nephew a small leather case and a key. The case held a +double-barrelled, hammerless, ejector, twenty-bore gun, +with a great name upon its polished blue barrels.</p> + +<p>The sight of the cartridge justified John's expectations. +He put it back into his pocket, and strode forward and +upward.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Close to the School Chapel, John remarked a curly-headed +young gentleman of wonderfully prepossessing +appearance, from whom emanated an air, an atmosphere, +of genial enjoyment which diffused itself. The bricks of +the school-buildings seemed redder and warmer, as if they +were basking in this sunny smile. The youth was smiling +now, smiling—at John. For several hours John had been +miserably aware that surprises awaited him, but not smiles. +He knew no Harrovians; at his school, a small one, his +fellows were labelled Winchester, Eton, Wellington; none, +curiously enough, Harrow. And already he had passed +half a dozen boys, the first-comers, some strangers, like +himself, and in each face he had read indifference. Not +one had taken the trouble to say, "Hullo! Who are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> +you?" after the rough and ready fashion of the private +school.</p> + +<p>And now this smiling, fascinating person was actually +about to address him, and in the old familiar style——</p> + +<p>"Hullo!"</p> + +<p>"Hullo!"</p> + +<p>"I met your governor the other day."</p> + +<p>"Did you?" John replied. His father had died when +John was seven. Obviously, a blunder in identity had +created this genial smile. John wished that his father had +not died.</p> + +<p>"Yes," pursued the smiling one, "I met him—partridge-shooting +at home—and he asked me to be on the look-out +for you. It's queer you should turn up at once, isn't +it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said John.</p> + +<p>"Your governor looked awfully fit."</p> + +<p>"Did he?" Then John added solemnly, "My governor +died when I was a kid."</p> + +<p>The other gasped; then he threw back his curly head and +laughed.</p> + +<p>"I say, I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to laugh. +If you're not Hardacre, who are you?"</p> + +<p>"Verney. I've just come."</p> + +<p>"Verney? That's a great Harrow name. Are you any +relation to the explorer?"</p> + +<p>"Nephew," said John, blushing.</p> + +<p>"Ah—you ought to have been here last Speecher.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> +We cheered him, I can tell you. And the song was sung: +the one with his name in it."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said John. Then he added nervously, "All +the same, I don't know a soul at Harrow."</p> + +<p>Desmond smiled. The smile assured John that his +name would secure him a cordial welcome. Desmond<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> +added abruptly, "My name, Desmond, is a Harrow name. +My father, my grandfather, my uncles, and three brothers +were here. It does make a difference. What's your +house?"</p> + +<p>"The Manor," said John, proudly.</p> + +<p>"Dirty Dick's!" Then, seeing consternation writ large +upon John's face, he added quickly, "We call <i>him</i> Dirty +Dick, you know; but the house is—er—one of the oldest +and biggest—er—houses." He continued hurriedly: "I'm +going into Damer's next term. Damer's is always chock-a-block, +you know."</p> + +<p>"Why is Rutford called 'Dirty Dick'?" John asked +nervously. "He doesn't <i>look</i> dirty."</p> + +<p>"Oh, we've licked him into a sort of shape," said +Desmond. "I <i>believe</i> he toshes now—once a month or so."</p> + +<p>"Toshes?"</p> + +<p>"Tubs, you know. We call a tub a 'tosh.' When +Dirty Dick came here he was unclean. He told his form—oh! +the cheek of it!—that in his filthy mind one bath +a week was plenty," unconsciously the boy mimicked the +thick, rasping tones—"two, luxury, and three—superfluity! +After that he was called Dirty Dick. There's +another story. They say that years ago he went to a +Turkish bath, and after a rare good scraping the man who +was scraping him—nasty job that!—found something which +Dirty Dick recognized as a beastly flannel shirt he had lost +when he was at the 'Varsity. But only the Fourth Form +boys swallow <i>that</i>. Hullo! There's a pal of mine. See +you again."</p> + +<p>He ran off gaily. John walked to the shop where +straw hats were sold. Here he met other new boys, who +regarded him curiously, but said nothing. John put on +his hat, and gave Rutford's name to the young man who +waited on him. He had an absurd feeling that the young +man would say, "Oh yes—Dirty Dick's!" One very +nice-looking pink-cheeked boy said to another boy that he +was at Damer's. John could have sworn that the hatter's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> +assistant regarded the pink youth with increased deference. +Why had Uncle John sent him to Dirty Dick's? He +hurried out of the shop, fuming. Then he remembered +the hammerless gun. After all, the Manor had been <i>the</i> +house once, and it might be <i>the</i> house again.</p> + +<p>By this time the boys were arriving. Groups were +forming. Snatches of chatter reached John's ears. "Yes, +I shot a stag, a nine-pointer. My governor is going to have +it set up for me—— What? Walked up your grouse +with dogs! We drive ours—— I had some ripping cricket, +made a century in one match—— By Jove! Did you +really?——"</p> + +<p>John passed on. These were "bloods," tremendous +swells, grown men with a titillating flavour of the world +about their distinguished persons.</p> + +<p>A minute later he was staring disconsolately at a group +of his fellows just in front of Dir——of Rutford's side door. +An impulse seized him to turn and flee. What would +Uncle John say to that? So he advanced. The boys +made way politely, asking no questions. As he passed +through he caught a few eager words. "I was hoping that +the brute had gone. It <i>is</i> a sickener, and no mistake!"</p> + +<p>John ascended the battered, worn-out staircase, wondering +who the "brute" was. Perhaps a sort of Flashman. +John knew his <i>Tom Brown</i>; but some one had told him +that bullying had ceased to be. Great emphasis had been +laid on the "brute," whoever he might be.</p> + +<p>Upon the second-floor passage, he found his room and +one of its tenants, who nodded carelessly as John crossed +the threshold.</p> + +<p>"I'm Scaife," he said. "Are you the Lord, or the +Commoner?" He laughed, indicating a large portmanteau, +labelled, "Lord Esmé Kinloch."</p> + +<p>"I'm Verney," said John.</p> + +<p>"I've bagged the best bed," said Scaife, after a pause, +"and I advise you to bag the next best one, over there. +It was mine last term."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't see the beds," said John, staring about him.</p> + +<p>Scaife pointed out what appeared to be three tall, +narrow wardrobes. The rest of the furniture included +three much-battered washstands and chests of drawers, +four Windsor chairs, and a square table, covered with +innumerable inkstains and roughly-carved names.</p> + +<p>"The beds let down," Scaife said, "and during the first +school the maids make them, and shut them up again. It +is considered a joke to crawl into another fellow's room at +night, and shut him up. You find yourself standing upon +your head in the dark, choking. It is a joke—for the other +fellow."</p> + +<p>"Did some one do that to you?" asked John.</p> + +<p>"Yes; a big lout in the Third Fifth," Scaife smiled +grimly.</p> + +<p>"And what did you do?"</p> + +<p>"I waited for him next day with a cricket stump. +There was an awful row, because I let him have it a bit +too hard; but I've not been shut up since. That bed is +a beast. It collapses." He chuckled. "Young Kinloch +won't find it quite as soft as the ones at White Ladies. +Well, like the rest of us, he'll have to take Dirty Dick's as +he finds it."</p> + +<p>The bolt had fallen.</p> + +<p>John asked in a quavering voice, "Then it <i>is</i> called +that?"</p> + +<p>"Called what?"</p> + +<p>"This house. Dirty Dick's!"</p> + +<p>Scaife smiled cynically. He looked about a year older +than John, but he had the air and manners of a man of the +world—so John thought. Also, he was very good-looking, +handsomer than Desmond, and in striking contrast to that +smiling, genial youth, being dark, almost swarthy of complexion, +with strongly-marked features and rather coarse +hands and feet.</p> + +<p>"Everybody here calls it Dirty Dick's," he replied +curtly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p> + +<p>John stared helplessly.</p> + +<p>"But," he muttered, "I heard, I was told, that the +Manor was the best house in the school."</p> + +<p>"It used to be," Scaife answered. "To-day, it comes +jolly near being the worst. The fellows in other houses are +decent; they don't rub it in; but, between ourselves, the +Manor has gone to pot ever since Dirty Dick took hold of +it. Damer's is the swell house now."</p> + +<p>John began to unstrap his portmanteau. Scaife puzzled +him. For instance, he displayed no curiosity. He did not +put the questions always asked at a Preparatory School. +Without turning his thought into words, John divined that +at Harrow it was bad form to ask questions. As he wanted +to ask a question, a very important question, this enforced +silence became exasperating.</p> + +<p>Presently Scaife said, "I suppose you are one of the +Claydon lot."</p> + +<p>"No; my home is in the New Forest. My uncle is +Verney of Verney Boscobel."</p> + +<p>"Oh! his name is on the panels at the head of the +staircase; and it's carved on a bed in the next room."</p> + +<p>"Crikey! I must go and look at it."</p> + +<p>"You can look at the panels, of course; but don't say +'Crikey!' and don't go into the next room. Two Fifth +Form fellows have it. It would be infernal cheek."</p> + +<p>John hoped that Scaife would offer to accompany him +to the panels. Then he went alone. It being now within +half an hour of lock-up, the passages were swarming with +boys. Soon John would see them assembled in Hall, where +their names would be called over by Rutford. Everybody—John +had been told—was expected to be present at this +first call-over, except a few boys who might be coming from +a distance. John worked his way along the upper passage, +and down the second flight of stairs till he came to the first +landing. Here, close to the house notice-board, were some +oak panels covered with names and dates, all carved—so +John learned later—by a famous Harrow character, Sam<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +Hoare, once "Custos" of the School. The boy glanced +eagerly, ardently, up and down the panels. Ah, yes, here +was his father's name, and here—his uncle's. And then +out of the dull, finely-grained oak, shone other names +familiar to all who love the Hill and its traditions. John's +heart grew warm again with pride in the house that had +held such men. The name of the great statesman and below +it a mighty warrior's made him thrill and tremble. They +were <i>Old Harrovians</i>, these fellows, men whom his uncle had +known, men of whom his dear mother, wise soul! had +spoken a thousand times. The landing and the passages +were roaring with the life of the present moment. Boys, +big and small, were chaffing each other loudly. Under +some circumstances, this new-comer, a stranger, ignored +entirely, might have felt desolate and forlorn in the heart +of such a crowd; but John was tingling with delight and +pleasure.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, the noise moderated. John, looking up, saw +a big fellow slowly approaching, exchanging greetings with +everybody. John turned to a boy close to him.</p> + +<p>"Who is it?" he whispered.</p> + +<p>The other boy answered curtly, "Lawrence, the Head +of the House."</p> + +<p>The big fellow suddenly caught John's eyes. What he +read there—admiration, respect, envy—brought a slight +smile to his lips.</p> + +<p>"Your name?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"Verney."</p> + +<p>Lawrence held out his hand, simply and yet with a +certain dignity.</p> + +<p>"I heard you were coming," he said, keenly examining +John's face. "We can't have too many Verneys. If I +can do anything for you, let me know."</p> + +<p>He nodded, and strode on. John saw that several boys +were staring with a new interest. None, however, spoke to +him; and he returned to his room with a blushing face. +Scaife had unpacked his clothes and put them away; he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +was now surveying the bare walls with undisguised contempt.</p> + +<p>"Isn't this a beastly hole?" he remarked.</p> + +<p>John, always interested in people rather than things, +examined the room carefully. Passing down the passage +he had caught glimpses of other rooms: some charmingly +furnished, gay with chintz, embellished with pictures, +Japanese fans, silver cups, and other trophies. Comparing +these with his own apartment, John said shyly—</p> + +<p>"It's not very beefy."</p> + +<p>"Beefy? You smell of a private school, Verney. Now, +is it worth doing up? You see, I shall be in a two-room +next term. If we all chip in——" he paused.</p> + +<p>"I've brought back two quid," said John.</p> + +<p>Scaife's smile indicated neither approval nor the reverse. +John's ingenuous confidence provoked none in +return.</p> + +<p>"We'll talk about it when Kinloch arrives. I wonder +why his people sent him here."</p> + +<p>John had studied some books, but not the Peerage. +The great name of Kinloch was new to him, not new to +Scaife, who, for a boy, knew his "Burke" too odiously well.</p> + +<p>"Why shouldn't his people send him here?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Because," Scaife's tone was contemptuous, "because +the Kinlochs—they're a great cricketing family—go to +Eton. The duke must have some reason."</p> + +<p>"The duke?"</p> + +<p>"Hang it, surely you have heard of the Duke of Trent?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said John, humbly. "And this is his son?" +He glanced at the label on the new portmanteau.</p> + +<p>"Whose son should he be?" said Scaife. "Well, it's +queer. Dukes<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> and dukes' sons come to Harrow—all the +Hamiltons were here, and the FitzRoys, and the St. Maurs—but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +the Kinlochs, as I say, have gone to Eton. It's a +rum thing—very. And why the deuce hasn't he turned +up?"</p> + +<p>The clanging of a bell brought both boys to their feet.</p> + +<p>"Lock-up, and call-over," said Scaife. "Come on!"</p> + +<p>They pushed their way down the passage. Several +boys addressed Scaife.</p> + +<p>"Hullo, Demon!—Here's the old Demon!—Demon, I +thought you were going to be sacked!"</p> + +<p>To these and other sallies Scaife replied with his slightly +ironical smile. John perceived that his companion was +popular and at the same time peculiar; quite different +from any boy he had yet met.</p> + +<p>They filed into a big room—the dining-room of the +house—a square, lofty hall, with three long tables in it. +On the walls hung some portraits of famous Old Harrovians. +As a room it was disappointing at first sight, +almost commonplace. But in it, John soon found out, +everything for weal or woe which concerned the Manor +had taken place or had been discussed. There were two +fireplaces and two large doors. The boys passed through +one door; upon the threshold of the other stood the butler, +holding a silver salver, with a sheet of paper on it.</p> + +<p>"What cheek!" murmured Scaife.</p> + +<p>"Eh?" said John.</p> + +<p>"Dirty Dick isn't here. Just like him, the slacker! +And when he does come over on our side of the House, +he slimes about in carpet slippers—the beast!"</p> + +<p>Lawrence entered as Scaife spoke. John saw that his +strongly-marked eyebrows went up, when he perceived the +butler. He approached, and took the sheet of paper. +The butler said impressively—</p> + +<p>"Mr. Rutford is busy. Will you call over, sir?"</p> + +<p>At any rate, the butler, Dumbleton, was worthy of the +best traditions of the Manor. He had a shrewd, clean-shaven +face, and the deportment of an archbishop. The +Head of the House took the paper, and began to call over<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +the names. Each boy, as his name was called, said, "Here," +or, if he wished to be funny, "Here, <i>sir</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Verney?"</p> + +<p>The name rang out crisply.</p> + +<p>"Here, <i>sir</i>," said John.</p> + +<p>The Head of the House eyed him sharply.</p> + +<p>"Kinloch?"</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>"Kinloch?"</p> + +<p>Scaife answered dryly: "Kinloch's portmanteau has +come." Then Dumbleton said in his smooth, bland voice, +"His lordship is in the drawing-room with Mr. Rutford."</p> + +<p>The boys exchanged knowing glances. Scaife looked +contemptuous. The next moment the last name had been +called, and the boys scurried into the passages. Lawrence +was the first to leave the hall. Impulsively, John rushed +up to him.</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean to be funny, I didn't really," he panted.</p> + +<p>"Quite right. It doesn't pay," Lawrence smiled grimly, +"for new boys to be funny. I saw you didn't mean it."</p> + +<p>Lawrence spoke in a loud voice. John realized that +he had so spoken purposely, trying to wipe out a new boy's +first blunder.</p> + +<p>"Thanks awfully," said John.</p> + +<p>He reached his room to find three other boys busily +engaged in abusing their house-master. They took no +notice of John, who leaned against the wall.</p> + +<p>"His lordship is in the drawing-room with Mr. Rutford."</p> + +<p>A freckle-faced, red-headed youth, with a big elastic +mouth had imitated Dumbleton admirably.</p> + +<p>"What a snob Dick is!" drawled a very tall, very thin, +aristocratic-looking boy.</p> + +<p>"And a fool," added Scaife. "This sort of thing makes +him loathed."</p> + +<p>"It <i>is</i> a sell his being here."</p> + +<p>All three fell to talking. The question still festering in +John's mind was answered within a minute. The "brute"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +was Rutford. Towards the end of the previous term +gossip had it that the master of the Manor had been offered +an appointment elsewhere. Whereat the worthier spirits +in the ancient house rejoiced. Now the joy was turned into +wailing and gnashing of teeth.</p> + +<p>"Is he a beast to <i>us</i>?" said John.</p> + +<p>The freckle-faced boy answered affably, "That depends. +His Imperial Highness"—he kicked the new portmanteau +hard—"will not find Mr. Richard Rutford a beast. Far +from it. And he's civil to the Demon, because his papa is +a man of many shekels. But to mere outsiders, like myself, a +beast of beasts; ay, the very king of beasts, is—Dirty Dick."</p> + +<p>And then—oh, horrors!—the door of No. 15 opened, +and Rutford appeared, followed by a seemingly young and +very fashionably dressed lady. The boys jumped to their +feet. All, except Scaife, looked preternaturally solemn. +The house-master nodded carelessly.</p> + +<p>"This is Scaife, Duchess," he said in his thick, rasping +tones. "Scaife and Verney, let me present you to the +Duchess of Trent."</p> + +<p>He mouthed the illustrious name, as if it were a large +and ripe greengage.</p> + +<p>The duchess advanced, smiling graciously. "These"—Rutford +named the other boys—"are Egerton, Lovell, +and—er—Duff."</p> + +<p>Scaife, alone of those present, appreciated the order in +which his schoolfellows had been named. Egerton—known +as the Caterpillar—was the son of a Guardsman; Lovell's +father was a judge; Duff's father an obscure parson.</p> + +<p>The duchess shook hands with each boy. "Your father +and I are old friends," she said to Egerton; "and I have +had the pleasure of meeting your uncle," she smiled at John.</p> + +<p>Duff looked unhappy and ill at ease, because it was +almost certain that his last sentence had been overheard by +the house-master. The duchess asked a few questions and +then took her leave. She and her son were dining with the +Head Master. Rutford accompanied her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Did the blighter hear?" said Duff.</p> + +<p>"How could he help it with his enormous asses' ears?" +said the tall, thin Egerton.</p> + +<p>Duff, an optimist, like all red-headed, freckled boys, +appealed to the others, each in turn. The verdict was +unanimous.</p> + +<p>"He hates me like poison," said Duff. "I shall catch +it hot. What an unlucky beggar I am!"</p> + +<p>"Pooh!" said Scaife. "He knows jolly well that the +whole school calls him Dirty Dick."</p> + +<p>But whatever hopes Duff may have entertained of his +house-master's deafness were speedily laid in the dust. +Within five minutes Rutford reappeared. He stood in the +doorway, glaring.</p> + +<p>"Just now, Duff," said he, "I happened to overhear +your voice, which is singularly, I may say vulgarly, penetrating. +You were speaking of me, your house-master, as +'Dick.' But you used an adjective before it. What was it?"</p> + +<p>Duff writhed. "I don't—remember."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, you do. Why lie, Duff?"</p> + +<p>John's brown face grew pale.</p> + +<p>"The adjective you used," continued Rutford, "was +'dirty.' You spoke of <i>me</i> as 'Dirty Dick,' and I fancy I +caught the word 'beast.' You will write out, if you please, +one hundred Greek lines, accents and stops, and bring them +to me, or leave them with Dumbleton, <i>twenty-five</i> lines at a +time, <i>every</i> alternate half hour during the afternoon of the +next half holiday. Good night to you."</p> + +<p>"Good night, sir," said all the boys, save John and +Scaife.</p> + +<p>"Good night, Verney."</p> + +<p>Master and pupil confronted each other. John's face +looked impassive; and Rutford turned from the new boy +to Scaife.</p> + +<p>"Good night, Scaife."</p> + +<p>Scaife drew himself up, and, in a quiet, cool voice, +replied<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"Good night, sir."</p> + +<p>Duff waited till Rutford's heavy step was no longer +heard; then he rushed at John.</p> + +<p>"I say," he spluttered, "you're a good sort—ain't he, +Demon? Refusing to say 'Good night' to the beast +because he was ragging me. But he'll never forgive you—never!"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, he will," said Scaife. "It won't be difficult +for Dirty Dick to forgive the future Verney of Verney +Boscobel."</p> + +<p>John stared. "Verney Boscobel?" he repeated. +"Why, that belongs to my uncle. Mother and I hope +he'll marry and have a lot of jolly kids of his own."</p> + +<p>"You hope he'll marry? Well, I'm——"</p> + +<p>John's jaw stuck out. The emphasis on the "hope" +and the upraised eyebrow smote hard.</p> + +<p>"You don't mean to say," he began hotly, "you don't +<i>think</i> that——"</p> + +<p>"I can think what I please," said Scaife, curtly; "and +so can you." He laughed derisively. "<i>Thinking</i> what they +please is about the only liberty allowed to new boys. Even +the Duffer learned to hold his tongue during his first +term."</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar—the tall, thin, aristocratic boy—spoke +solemnly. He was a dandy, the understudy—as John soon +discovered—of one of the "Bloods"; a "Junior Blood," +or "Would-be," a tremendous authority on "swagger," a +stickler for tradition, who had been nearly three years in +the school.</p> + +<p>"The Demon is right," said he. "A new boy can't be +too careful, Verney. Your being funny in hall just now +made a dev'lish bad impression."</p> + +<p>"But I didn't mean to be funny. I told Lawrence so +directly after call-over."</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar pulled down his cuffs.</p> + +<p>"If you didn't mean to be funny," he concluded, "you +must be an ass."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p> + +<p>Duff, however, remembered that John was nephew to +an explorer.</p> + +<p>"I say," he jogged John's elbow, "do you think you +could get me your uncle's autograph?"</p> + +<p>"Why, of course," said John.</p> + +<p>"Thanks. I've not a bad collection," the Duffer +murmured modestly.</p> + +<p>"And the gem of it," said Scaife, "is Billington's, the +hangman! The Duffer shivers whenever he looks at it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I do," said Duff, grinning horribly.</p> + +<p>After supper and Prayers, John went to bed, but not to +sleep for at least an hour. He lay awake, thinking over +the events of this memorable day. Whenever he closed +his eyes he beheld two objects: the spire of Harrow Church +and the vivid, laughing face of Desmond. He told himself +that he liked Desmond most awfully. And Scaife too, the +Demon, had been kind. But somehow John did not like +Scaife. Then, in a curious half-dreamy condition, not yet +asleep and assuredly not quite awake, he seemed to see the +figure of Scaife expanding, assuming terrific proportions, +impending over Desmond, standing between him and the +spire, obscuring part of the spire at first, and then, bit by +bit, overshadowing the whole.</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Byron, writing to John Murray, May 26, 1822, and giving directions +for the burial of poor little Allegra's body, says— +</p><p> +"I wish it to be buried in Harrow Church. There is a spot in the +churchyard, near the footpath, on the brow of the hill looking towards +Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing the name of Peachie, +or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours and hours as a boy: this was +my favourite spot; but, as I wish to erect a tablet to her memory, +the body had better be deposited in the church." +</p><p> +See also "Lines written beneath an elm in the churchyard of Harrow," +in "Hours of Idleness."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> "Speecher"—<i>i.e.</i> Speech-Day. At Harrow "er" is a favourite +termination of many substantives. "Harder," for hard-ball racquets, +"Footer," "Ducker," etc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> The Duke of Dorset was Byron's fag. <i>Cf.</i>— +</p> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Though the harsh custom of our youthful band<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bade thee obey, and gave me to command."<br /></span> +<span class="i12"><i>Hours of Idleness.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3><i>Cæsar</i></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 20em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"You come here where your brothers came,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the old school years ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A young new face, and a Harrow name,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Mid a crowd of strangers? No!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You may not fancy yourself alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You who are memory's heir,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When even the names in the graven stone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Will greet you with 'Who goes there—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">You?—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Pass, Friend—All's well.'"<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">John never</span> forgot that memorable morning when he +learned for the first time what place he had taken in the +school. He sat with the other new-comers, staring, open-eyed, +at nearly six hundred boys, big and small, assembled +together in the Speech-room. So engrossed was he that +he scarcely heard the Head Master's opening prayers. +John was obsessed, inebriated, with the number of Harrovians, +each of whom had once felt strange and shy like +himself. From his place close to the great organ, he could +look up and up, seeing row after row of faces, knowing that +amongst them sat his future friends and foes.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, a neighbour nudged him. The Head Master +was reading from a list in his hand the school-removes, and +the names and places taken by new boys. He began at +the lowest form with the name of a small urchin sitting +near John. The urchin blinked and blushed as he realized +that he was "lag of the school." John knew that he had +answered fairly well the questions set by the examiners; +he had no fear of finding himself pilloried in the Third +Fourth; still, as form after form did not include his name, +he grew restless and excited. Had he taken a higher place<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +than the Middle Shell? Yes; no Verney in the Middle +Shell. The Head Master began the removes of the top +Shell. Now, now it must be coming. No; the clear, +penetrating tones slowly articulated name after name, but +not his.</p> + +<p>"Verney."</p> + +<p>At last. Many eyes were staring at him, some enviously, +a few superciliously. John had taken the Lower Remove, +the highest form but one open to new boys. He was +sipping the wine called Success.</p> + +<p>Moreover, Desmond of the frank, laughing face and +sparkling blue eyes, and Scaife and Egerton were also in +the Lower Remove.</p> + +<p>After this, John sat in a blissful dream, hardly conscious +of his surroundings, seeing his mother's face, hearing her +sigh of pleasure when she learned that already her son was +halfway up the school.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>You may be sure those first forty-eight hours were +brim-full of excitements. First, John bought his books, +stout leather-tipped, leather-backed volumes, on which his +name will be duly stamped on fly-leaf and across the edges +of the pages. And he bought also, from "Judy" Stephens,<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> +a "squash" racquet, "squash" balls, and a yard ball. +From the school Custos—"Titchy"—a noble supply of +stationery was procured. Moreover, young Kinloch announced +that his mother had given him three pounds to +spend upon the decoration of No. 15, so Scaife declared his +intention of spending a similar sum, and in consequence +No. 15 became a gorgeous apartment, the cynosure of every +eye that passed. The characters of the three boys were +revealed plainly enough by their simple furnishings. Scaife +bought sporting prints, a couple of Détaille's lithographs, +and an easy-chair, known to dwellers upon the Hill as a +"frowst"; Kinloch hung upon his side of the wall four +pretty reproductions of French engravings, and with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +help of three yards of velveteen and some cheap lace he +made a very passable imitation of the mantel-cover in his +mother's London boudoir; John scorned velveteen, lace, +"frowsts," and French engravings. He put his money +into a pair of red curtains, and one excellent photogravure +of Landseer's "Children of the Mist." Having a few +shillings to spare, he bought half a dozen ferns, which were +placed in a box by the window, and watered so diligently +that they died prematurely.</p> + +<p>Secondly, John played in a house-game at football, and +learned the difference between a scrimmage at a small +preparatory school and the genuine thing at Harrow. +Lawrence insisted that all new boys should play, and the +Caterpillar informed him that he would have to learn the +rules of Harrow "footer" by heart, and pass a stiff examination +in them before the House Eleven, with the penalty +of being forced to sing them in Hall if he failed to satisfy +his examiners. The Duffer lent him a House-shirt of green +and white stripes, and a pair of white duck shorts, and +with what pride John put them on, thinking of the far +distant day when he would wear a "fez"<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> instead of +the commonplace house-cap! Lawrence said a few +words.</p> + +<p>"You'll have to play the compulsory games, Verney, +which begin after the Goose Match,<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> but I want to see you +playing as hard as ever you can in the house-games. You'll +be knocked about a bit; but a Verney won't mind that—eh?"</p> + +<p>"Rather not," said John, feeling very valiant.</p> + +<p>Thirdly, there was the first Sunday, and the first sermon +of the Head Master, with its plain teaching about the +opportunities and perils of Public School life. John found +himself mightily affected by the singing, and the absence of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +shrill treble voices. The booming basses and baritones of +the big fellows made him shiver with a curious bitter-sweet +sensation never experienced before.</p> + +<p>Lastly, the pleasant discovery that his Form treated +him with courtesy and kindness. Desmond, in particular, +welcomed him quite warmly. And then and there John's +heart was filled with a wild and unreasonable yearning for +this boy's friendship. But Desmond—he was called +"Cæsar," because his Christian names were Henry Julius—seemed +to be very popular, a bright particular star, far +beyond John's reach although for ever in his sight. Cæsar +never offered to walk with him: and he refused John's +timid invitation to have food at the "Tudor Creameries."<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> +Was it possible that a boy about to enter Damer's would +not be seen walking and talking with a fellow out of Dirty +Dick's? This possibility festered, till one morning John +saw his idol walking up and down the School Yard with +Scaife. That evening he said to Scaife—</p> + +<p>"Do you like Desmond?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," Scaife replied decisively. "I like him better +than any fellow at Harrow. You know that his father is +Charles Desmond—the Cabinet Minister and a Governor of +the school?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't know it. I suppose Cæsar Desmond likes +you—<i>awfully</i>."</p> + +<p>"Do you? I doubt it."</p> + +<p>No more was said. John told himself that Cæsar—he +liked to think of Desmond as Cæsar—could pick and choose +a pal out of at least three hundred boys, half the school. +How extremely unlikely that he, John, would be chosen! +But every night he lay awake for half an hour longer than +he ought to have done, wondering how, by hook or crook, +he could do a service to Cæsar which must challenge interest +and provoke, ultimately, friendship.</p> + +<p>Meantime, he was slowly initiated by the Caterpillar +into Harrow ways and customs. Fagging, which began<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +after the first fortnight, he found a not unpleasant duty. +After first and fourth schools the other fags and he would +stand not far from the pantry, and yell out "Breakfast," +or "Tea," as it might be, "for Number So-and-So." +Perhaps one had to nip up to the Creameries to get a slice +of salmon, or cutlets, or sausages. Fagging at Harrow—which +varies slightly in different houses—is hard or easy +according to the taste and fancy of the fag's master. Some +of the Sixth Form at the Manor made their fags unlace +their dirty football boots. Kinloch, who since he left the +nursery had been waited upon by powdered footmen six +feet high, now found, to his disgust, that he had to varnish +Trieve's patent-leathers for Sunday. Trieve was second in +command, and had been known as "Miss" Trieve. John +would have gladly done this and more for Lawrence, his +fag-master; but Lawrence, a manly youth, scorned sybaritic +services. The Caterpillar taught John to carry his umbrella +unfolded, to wear his "straw" straight (a slight list to port +was allowed to "Bloods" only), not to walk in the middle +of the road, and so forth. How he used to envy the members +of the Elevens as they rolled arm-in-arm down the High +Street! How often he wondered if the day would ever +dawn when Cæsar and he, outwardly and inwardly linked +together, would stroll up and down the middle-walk below +the Chapel Terrace: that sunny walk, whence, on a fair +day, you can see the insatiable monster, London, filling the +horizon and stretching red, reeking hands into the sweet +country—the middle-walk, from which all but Bloods were +rigidly excluded.</p> + +<p>Much to his annoyance—an annoyance, be it said, which +he managed to hide—John seemed to attract young Kinloch +almost as magnetically as he himself was attracted to Cæsar. +John had not the heart to shake off the frail, delicate child, +who was christened "Fluff" after his first appearance in +public. Fluff had taken the First Fourth and ingenuously +confessed to any one who cared to listen that he ought to +have gone to Eton. A beast of a doctor prescribed the Hill.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> +And even the almighty duke failed to get him into Damer's, +another grievance. He had been entered since birth +at the crack house at Eton; and now to be pitchforked +into Dirty Dick's at Harrow——! The Duffer kicked him, +feeling an unspeakable cad when poor Fluff burst into +tears.</p> + +<p>"Sorry," said the Duffer. "Only you mustn't slang +Harrow. And you'd better get it into your silly head that +it's the best school in this or any other world—isn't it, +Demon?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sure the Verneys, and the Egertons, and the Duffs +have always thought so."</p> + +<p>"But it isn't really," whimpered poor Fluff. "You +fellows know that everybody talks of Eton and Harrow. +Who ever heard of Harrow and Eton? People say—I've +heard my eldest brother, Strathpeffer, say it again and again—'Eton +and Harrow,' just as they say 'Gentlemen and +Players.'"</p> + +<p>"Oh," said the Caterpillar. "The Etonians are the +gentlemen—eh? Well, Fluff, after their performance at +Lord's last year, you couldn't expect us to admit that they're—players."</p> + +<p>The Duffer chuckled.</p> + +<p>"I say, Caterpillar, that was a good 'un."</p> + +<p>"Not mine," said the Caterpillar, solemnly; "my +governor's, you know."</p> + +<p>The Duffer continued: "Now, Fluff, I won't touch your +body, because you might tumble to pieces, but if I hear you +slanging the school or our house, I'll pull out handfuls of +fluff. D'ye hear?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Fluff, meekly.</p> + +<p>"Say '<i>Floreat Herga</i>' on your bended knees!"</p> + +<p>Fluff obeyed.</p> + +<p>"And remember," said the Duffer, impressively, "that +we've had a king here, haven't we, Caterpillar?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the Caterpillar.</p> + +<p>"I never believed it," said Scaife.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He was a Spaniard,<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> or an Italian, you know," the +Duffer explained. "The duke of something or t'other; +and an ambassador came down and offered the beggar the +Spanish crown, when he was in the First Fourth, and of +course he gobbled it—who wouldn't? And then Victor +Emmanuel interfered. That's all true, you can take your +Bible oath, because my governor told me so, and he—well, +he's a parson."</p> + +<p>"Then it <i>must</i> be true," said Scaife. "Now, young +Fluff, don't forget that Harrow is a school fit for a king +and nearer to Heaven than Eton by at least six hundred +feet."</p> + +<p>So saying, the Demon marched out of the room, followed +by Fluff, slightly limping.</p> + +<p>"Sorry I turfed<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> that little ass so hard," said the Duffer +to John. "I say, Verney, the Demon is rather a rum 'un, +ain't he? Sometimes I can't quite make him out. He's +frightfully clever and all that, but I had a sort of beastly +feeling just now that he didn't—eh?—quite mean what he +said. Was he laughin' at <i>us</i>, pullin' our legs—what?"</p> + +<p>John's brain worked slowly, as he had found out to his +cost under a form-master who maintained that it was no +use having a fact stored in the head unless it slipped readily +out of the mouth. The Duffer, who never thought, because +speaking was so much easier, grew impatient at John's +silence.</p> + +<p>"Well, you needn't look like an owl, Verney. You +know that Scaife's grandfather was a navvy."</p> + +<p>"I don't know," John replied.</p> + +<p>"And I don't care," said the Duffer. "Let's go and +have some food at the Creameries."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Looking back afterwards, John often wondered whether,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +unconsciously, the Duffer had sown a grain of mustard-seed +destined to grow into a large tree. Or, had the intuition +that Scaife was other than what he seemed furnished +the fertile soil into which the seed fell? In any case, from +the end of this first week began to increase the suspicion, +which eventually became conviction, that the Demon, +keen at games, popular in his house, clever at work—clever, +indeed! inasmuch as he never achieved more or less than +was necessary—generous with his money, handsome and +well-mannered, blessed, in fine, with so many gifts of the +gods, yet lacked a soul.</p> + +<p>This, of course, is putting into words the vague speculations +and reasonings of a boy not yet fourteen. If an +Olympian—one of the masters, for instance, or the Head +of the House—had said, "Verney, has the Demon a soul?" +John would have answered promptly, "Ra—ther! He's +been awfully decent to Fluff and me. We'd have had a hot +time if it hadn't been for him," and so forth.... And, +indeed, to doubt Scaife's sincerity and goodness seemed at +times gross disloyalty, because he stood, firm as a rock, +between the two urchins in his room and the turbulent +crowd outside. This defence of the weak, this guarding of +green fruit from the maw of Lower School boys, afforded +Scaife an opportunity of exercising power. He had the +instincts of the potter, inherited, no doubt; and he moulded +the clay ready to his hand with the delight of a master-workman. +Nobody else knew what the man of millions +had said to his boy when he despatched him to Harrow; +but the Demon remembered every word. He had reason +to respect and fear his sire.</p> + +<p>"I'm sending you to Harrow to study, not books nor +games, but boys, who will be men when you are a man. +And, above all, study their weaknesses. Look for the +flaws. Teach yourself to recognize at a glance the liar, +the humbug, the fool, the egotist, and the mule. Make +friends with as many as are likely to help you in after life, +and don't forget that one enemy may inflict a greater<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +injury than twenty friends can repair. Spend money +freely; dress well; swim with the tide, not against it."</p> + +<p>A year at Harrow confirmed Scaife's confidence in his +father's worldly wisdom. Big for his age, strong, with his +grandsire's muscles, tough as hickory, he had become the +leader of the Lower School boys at the Manor. The Fifth +were civil to him, recognizing, perhaps, the expediency of +leaving him alone ever since the incident of the cricket +stump. The Sixth found him the quickest of the fags and +uncommonly obliging. His house-master signed reports +which neither praised nor blamed. To Dirty Dick the boy +was the son of a man who could write a cheque for a +million.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Two things worthy of record happened within a month; +the one of lesser importance can be set down first. Charles +Desmond, Cæsar's father, came down to Harrow and gave +a luncheon at the King's Head. From time immemorial +the Desmonds had been educated on the Hill. The family +had produced some famous soldiers, a Lord Chancellor, and +a Prime Minister. In the Fourth Form Room the stranger +may read their names carved in oak, and they are carved +also in the hearts of all ardent Harrovians. Mr. Desmond, +though a Cabinet Minister, found time to visit Harrow once +at least in each term. He always chose a whole holiday, +and after attending eleven-o'clock Bill<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> in the Yard, would +carry off his son and his son's friends. The School knew +him and loved him. To the thoughtful he stood for the +illustrious past, the epitome of what John Lyon's<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> boys +had fought for and accomplished. Four sons had he—Harrovians +all. Of these Cæsar was youngest and last. +Each had distinguished himself on the Hill either in work +or play, or in both.</p> + +<p>Charles Desmond stood upon the step just above the +master who was calling Bill.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That's Cæsar's father," said Scaife. "I'm going to +lunch with him. Isn't he a topper?"</p> + +<p>John's eyes were popping out of his face. He had never +seen any man like this resplendent, stately personage, +smiling and nodding to the biggest fellows in the school.</p> + +<p>"And my governor says," Scaife added, "that he's not +a rich man, nothing much to speak of in the way of income +over and above his screw as a Cabinet Minister."</p> + +<p>Scaife moved away, and John could hear him say to +another boy, in an easy, friendly tone, "Mr. Desmond told +Cæsar that he wanted to meet <i>me</i>—very civil of him—eh?"</p> + +<p>Presently John was in line waiting to pass by the steps.</p> + +<p>"Verney?"</p> + +<p>"Here, sir."</p> + +<p>He was hurrying by, with a backward glance at the +great man. Suddenly Cæsar's father beckoned, nodding +cheerily. John ascended the steps, to feel the grasp of a +strong hand, to hear a ringing voice.</p> + +<p>"You're John Verney's nephew. Just so. I think I +should have spotted you, even if Harry had not told me +you were in his form. You must lunch with us. Cut +along, now."</p> + +<p>So John was dismissed, brim-full of happiness, which +almost overflowed when Cæsar met him with an eager—</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad, Verney. I say, the governor's a nailer +at picking out the old names, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>So John ate his luncheon in distinguished company, +and felt himself for the first time to be somebody. As the +youngest guest present, to him was accorded the place of +honour, next the most charming host in Christendom, who +put him at ease in a jiffy. How good the cutlets and the +pheasant tasted! And how the talk warmed the cockles +of his heart! The brand of the Crossed Arrows shone +upon all topics. Who could expect, or desire, aught else! +Cæsar's governor seemed to know what every Harrovian +had done worth the doing. Easily, fluently, he discoursed +of triumphs won at home, abroad, in the camp, on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +hustings, at the bar, in the pulpit. And his anecdotes, +which illustrated every phase of life, how pat to the moment +they were! One boy complained ruefully of having spent +three terms under a form-master who had "ragged" him. +Charles Desmond sympathized—</p> + +<p>"Bless my soul," said he, "don't I remember being +three terms in the Third Fifth when that tartar old Heriot +had it? I dare swear I got no more than my deserts. I +was an idle vagabond, but Heriot made my life such a +burden to me that I entreated my people to take me away +from Harrow. And then my governor urged me to put +my back into the work and get a remove. And I did. +And would you believe it, upon the first day of the next +term I wired to my people, 'You must take me away. +I've got my remove all right—and so has Heriot.'"</p> + +<p>How gaily the speaker led the laugh which followed +this recital! And the chaff! Was it possible that Cæsar +dared to chaff a man who was supposed to have the peace +of Europe in his keeping? And, by Jove! Cæsar could +hold his own.</p> + +<p>So the minutes flew. But John noticed, with surprise, +that the Demon didn't score. In fact, John and he were +the only guests that contributed nothing to the feast save +hearty appetites. It was strange that the Demon, the wit +of his house and form, never opened his mouth except to +fill it with food. He answered, it is true, and very modestly, +the questions addressed to him by his host; but then, as +John reflected, any silly fool in the Fourth Form could +do that.</p> + +<p>After luncheon, the boys were dismissed, each with a +hearty word of encouragement and half a sovereign. John +was passing the plate-glass splendours of the Creameries, +when the Demon overtook him, and they walked down the +winding High Street together. Scaife had never walked +with John before.</p> + +<p>"That was worth while," Scaife said quietly. John +could not interpret this speech, save in its obvious meaning.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Rather," he replied.</p> + +<p>"Why?" said Scaife, very sharply.</p> + +<p>"Eh?"</p> + +<p>"Why was it worth while?"</p> + +<p>John stammered out something about good food and +jolly talk.</p> + +<p>"Pooh!" said Scaife, contemptuously. "I thought +you had brains, Verney." He glanced at him keenly. +"Now, speak out. What's in that head of yours? You +can be cheeky, if you like."</p> + +<p>John wondered how Scaife had divined that he wished +to be cheeky. His mentor had said so much to Fluff and +him about the propriety of not putting on "lift" or "side" +in the presence of an older boy, that he had choked back a +retort which occurred to him.</p> + +<p>"You're thinking," continued the Demon, in his clear +voice, "that I didn't use my brains just now, but, my +blooming innocent, I can assure you I did. Very much so. I +played 'possum. Put that into your little pipe and smoke it."</p> + +<p>At four-o'clock Bill, John noticed Cæsar's absence: a +fact accounted for by the presence of a mail-phaeton, +which, he knew, belonged to Mr. Desmond, drawn up—oddly +enough—opposite the Manor. What a joke to think +that Cæsar was drinking tea with Dirty Dick!</p> + +<p>After Bill, having nothing better to do, John and Fluff +went for a walk on the Sudbury road. They had played +football before Bill, and each had realized his own awkwardness +and insignificance. Poor Fluff, almost reduced to +tears, with a big black bruise upon his white forehead, +confessed that he preferred peaceful games—like croquet, +and intended to apply for a doctor's certificate of exemption. +Demanding sympathy, he received a slating.</p> + +<p>"I play nearly as rotten a game as you do, Fluff," +John said; "but Scaife expects us to be Torpids,<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> so we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +jolly well have to buck up. That bruise over your eye +has taken off your painted-doll look. Now, if you're going +to blub, you'd better get behind that hedge."</p> + +<p>Fluff exploded.</p> + +<p>"This is a beastly hole," he cried. "And I loathe it. +I'm going to write to my father and beg him to take me +away."</p> + +<p>"You ought to be at a girls' school."</p> + +<p>"I hate everything and everybody. I thought you were +my friend, the only friend I had."</p> + +<p>John was somewhat mollified.</p> + +<p>"I am your friend, but not when you talk rot."</p> + +<p>"Verney, look here, if you'll be decent to me, I <i>will</i> try +to stick it out. I wish I was like you; I do indeed. I +wish I was like Scaife. Why, I'd sooner be the Duffer, +freckles and all, than myself."</p> + +<p>John looked down upon the delicately-tinted face, the +small, regular, girlish features, the red, quivering mouth. +Suddenly he grasped that this was an appeal from weakness +to strength, and that he, no older and but a little bigger +than Fluff, had strength to spare, strength to shoulder +burdens other than his own.</p> + +<p>"All right," he said stiffly; "don't make such a fuss!"</p> + +<p>"You'll have me for a friend, Verney?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; but I ain't going to kiss your forehead to make +it well, you know."</p> + +<p>"May I call you John, when we're alone? And I wish +you'd call me Esmé, instead of that horrid 'Fluff.'"</p> + +<p>John pondered deeply.</p> + +<p>"Look here," he said. "You can call me John, and +I'll call you Esmé, when we're Torpids. And now, you'd +better cut back to the house. I must think this all out, +and I can't think straight when I look at you."</p> + +<p>"May I call you John once?"</p> + +<p>"You are the silliest idiot I ever met, bar none. Call +me 'John,' or 'Tom Fool,' or anything; but hook it +afterwards!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, John, I will. You're the only boy I ever met +whom I really wanted for a friend." He displayed a radiant +face, turned suddenly, and ran off. John watched him, +frowning, because Fluff was a good little chap, and yet, at +times, such a bore!</p> + +<p>He walked on alone, chewing the cud of a delightful +experience; trying, not unsuccessfully, to recall some of +Mr. Desmond's anecdotes. How proud Cæsar was of his +father! And the father, obviously, was just as proud of +his son. What a pair! And if only Cæsar were his friend! +By Jove! It was rather a rum go, but John was as mad +keen to call Cæsar friend as poor Fluff to call John friend. +Serious food for thought, this. "But I would never +bother him," said John to himself, "as Fluff has bothered +me, never!"</p> + +<p>"Hullo, Verney!"</p> + +<p>"Hullo!" said John.</p> + +<p>Coincidence had thrust Cæsar out of his thought and +on to the narrow path in front of him.</p> + +<p>"I'm not a ghost," said Cæsar.</p> + +<p>John hesitated.</p> + +<p>"I was thinking of you," he confessed; "and then I +heard your voice and saw you. It gave me a start. I say, +it <i>was</i> good of your governor to ask me."</p> + +<p>"Hang my governor! He's the——"</p> + +<p>Cæsar closed his lips firmly, as if he feared that terrible +adjectives might burst from them. John missed the sparkling +smile, the gay glance of the eyes.</p> + +<p>"What's up?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>Cæsar hesitated; looked at John, read, perhaps, the +sympathy, the honest interest, possibly the affection, in +the grey orbs which met his own so steadily.</p> + +<p>"What's up?" he repeated. "Why, I'm not going +into Damer's, after all."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said John.</p> + +<p>"My governor has just told me. I came down here to +curse and swear."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not going into Damer's? What rot—for you!"</p> + +<p>"It is sickening. Look here, Verney; I feel like telling +you about it. I know you won't go bleating all over the +shop. No. I said to myself, 'Mum's the word,' but——"</p> + +<p>John's heart beat, his body glowed, his grey eyes +sparkled.</p> + +<p>"It's like this," continued Cæsar, after a slight pause. +"Damer told the governor that two fellows he had expected +to leave at the end of this term were staying on. The +governor hinted that Damer added something about straining +a point, and letting me in ahead of three other fellows; +but the governor wouldn't listen to that——"</p> + +<p>"Jolly decent of him," said John.</p> + +<p>"Was it? In my opinion he ought to have thought of +me first. All my brothers have been at Damer's. And he +knew I'd set my heart on going there. Look how civil the +fellows are to me. I've been in and out of the house like +a tame cat. Confound it! if Damer did want to strain a +point, why shouldn't he? The governor played his own +game, not mine. What right has he to be so precious unselfish +at my expense? I argued with him; but he can +put his foot down. Let's cut all that. Of course, I don't +want to stop in a beastly Small House for ever, and, if +Damer's is closed to me, I should like Brown's, but Brown's +is full too. And there are other good houses. But where—where +do you think I <i>am</i> going?"</p> + +<p>"Reeds?"</p> + +<p>"I don't call Reed's so bad. No; I'm going to Dirty +Dick's. I'm coming to you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I say."</p> + +<p>"Why, dash it all, you're grinning. I don't want to be +a cad—Dirty Dick's is <i>your</i> house—but—after Damer's! +O Lord!"</p> + +<p>The grin faded out of John's face. Cæsar's loss outweighed +his own gain.</p> + +<p>"Your governor was a Manorite," he said slowly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, in its best days; and he's always had a sneaking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +liking for it; but he knows, he knows, I say, that now it's +rotten, and yet he sends me there. Why?"</p> + +<p>"Ask another," said John.</p> + +<p>"I asked him another, and what do you think he said, +in that peculiar voice of his which always dries me up? +'Harry,' said he, 'when you're a little older and a good deal +wiser, you'll be able to answer that question yourself.'"</p> + +<p>John's face brightened. A glimmering of the truth +shone out of the darkness. He tried to advance nearer to +it, gropingly.</p> + +<p>"I dare say——"</p> + +<p>"Well, go on!"</p> + +<p>"Your governor may feel that we want a fellow like +you."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>For his life John could not help adding, "And Scaife, +you forget Scaife?" Jealousy pierced him as Scaife's name +slipped out.</p> + +<p>"Yes, there's the Demon. I always liked him."</p> + +<p>"And he likes you."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"I'm in his room. It's a three-room."</p> + +<p>"A two-room is much jollier."</p> + +<p>"Our room is not bad."</p> + +<p>Cæsar was hardly listening. John caught a murmur: +"The old Demon and I would get along capitally."</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> The racquet Professional.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> The cap of honour worn by the House Football Eleven.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> 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.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> A fashionable "tuck"-shop.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> 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."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> To "turf," <i>i.e.</i> to kick.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Calling over.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> John Lyon founded Harrow School, 1571.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> 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.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3><i>Kraipale</i><a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 16em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Life is mostly froth and bubble;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Two things stand like stone—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Kindness in another's trouble,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Courage in your own."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Some five</span> years afterwards John Verney learned what had +passed between Cabinet Minister and Head Master upon +that eventful day which sent Cæsar 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>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 +Tories, 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.</p> + +<p>"The reform which we have at heart," said he, "must<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>"Um!" said Mr. Desmond, stroking his chin.</p> + +<p>"Lawrence, the Head of the House, is a tower of strength, +like all the Lawrences."</p> + +<p>"How did you beguile the Duke of Trent?"</p> + +<p>"Fortune gave me that weapon. The duke"—he +laughed genially——</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"O Ulysses! And Scaife? How did you handle that +large bale of bank-notes?"</p> + +<p>"Rutford captured Scaife."</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>As a new boy, John slaved at "footer," and displayed +a curious inaptitude for squash racquets. At all games +Cæsar 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.</p> + +<p>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;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +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 for first person singular. Amongst the +small boys he ranked as the Petronius of the Lower School.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"What's wrong with it?" said Fluff.</p> + +<p>"It looks splendid <i>outside</i>," said John, in his serious +voice.</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar, detecting no cheek, answered gravely—</p> + +<p>"Some of us had a wet night of it, last night."</p> + +<p>"Wet?" exclaimed the innocent Fluff. "Why, all +the stars were shining."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Spirits?"</p> + +<p>"Whisky, not prussic acid, you know."</p> + +<p>"But where do they get the whisky?" demanded John.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," said John.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +day John happened to find himself alone with Cæsar. Very +nervously he asked the question—</p> + +<p>"I say, do any of the big fellows at Damer's drink?"</p> + +<p>"Drink? Drink—what?"</p> + +<p>"Well, spirits."</p> + +<p>Cæsar 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—</p> + +<p>"What the deuce did you mean by telling Cæsar that +the Manorites drink?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Scaife—I didn't."</p> + +<p>"You gave us away."</p> + +<p>"<i>Us?</i>" John's eyes opened. "<i>You</i> don't drink with +'em?" he faltered.</p> + +<p>"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 Cæsar and me, or even the old Caterpillar—for +you ain't."</p> + +<p>"I know that," said John, humbly.</p> + +<p>"Don't forget it, or there may be ructions."</p> + +<p>"I shan't forget it."</p> + +<p>"That's right. And, by the way, you're getting into +the habit of hanging about Cæsar, which bores him to +death. Stop it."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>However, when the three boys were preparing their +Greek for First School, Scaife seemed his old self, friendly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +amusing, and cool as a cucumber. Long ago he had +initiated John into Manorite methods of work.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>The three co-operated. Out of forty lines of Vergil, +Scaife would be fifteen, John fifteen, and the Caterpillar +ten; <i>ten</i>, 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 Cæsar +would say if he knew. About this time fear possessed his +soul that Cæsar 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 Cæsar, to plunge with +him into fathomless pools of Scotch whisky. Somehow +in these horrid dreams, Cæsar 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 +Cæsar 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."</p> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +And Scaife's getting his "fez" before he was fifteen +might be reckoned an achievement. Cæsar, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"What <i>are</i> they doing?" asked Trieve, irritably.</p> + +<p>John hesitated. "It's the Fifth," he blurted out. +"They've got Scaife in there, you know."</p> + +<p>"Oh, indeed! Scaife is an excuse, is he, for this +fiendish row? Go and tell Scaife I want to see him."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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!"</p> + +<p>John entered.</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>"What the blazes do you want?" said Lovell, the +owner of the room.</p> + +<p>"I want Scaife," said John. "I mean that Trieve +wants Scaife."</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>But John still stared at Scaife. The boy's dishevelled +appearance, his wild eyes, his shrill laughter, revealed +another Scaife.</p> + +<p>"You'd better come, Scaife," he faltered.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Fag? Not you? Tell Miss Trieve to mind her own +business."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Won't come? Is he mad?"</p> + +<p>"'Can't come,' they said."</p> + +<p>"Oh, can't come? Has he hurt himself—sprained +anything?"</p> + +<p>John was truthful (more of a habit than some people<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>"No; he hasn't sprained himself."</p> + +<p>"Then why don't he come?"</p> + +<p>"I—I——" Then he burst into excited speech. "He +looks as if he <i>was</i> a little mad. Oh, Trieve, won't you leave +him alone? Please do! They must stop before prayers, +and then Lawrence will be here."</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>"Tell Scaife to come here at once," said Trieve, eyeing +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."</p> + +<p>John fled.</p> + +<p>"Whop him?"</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I'll go," said the Caterpillar.</p> + +<p>John had not noticed the Caterpillar before. He stood +up, spick and span, carefully adjusting his coat, pulling +down his immaculate cuffs.</p> + +<p>"Good old Caterpillar," said somebody. "By Jove, +he really thinks that Trieve will listen to—him!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"And he'll tell you you're screwed, you old fool."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Lovell shrugged his shoulders, glanced at the Caterpillar +and Scaife, and left the room. Within two minutes he +returned, chapfallen and frowning.</p> + +<p>"I knew it would be useless. Look here, Demon, you +must grin and bear it."</p> + +<p>"No," said Scaife, "not from Miss Trieve."</p> + +<p>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!"</p> + +<p>John was white about the gills and trembling, but not +for himself.</p> + +<p>"Do go, Scaife!" he entreated.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar surveyed him with disgust. After a +brief struggle Scaife succumbed, helpless and senseless.</p> + +<p>"One is reminded sometimes," said the Caterpillar,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +solemnly, "that the poor Demon is the son of a Liverpool +merchant, bred in or about the Docks."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And then, in the middle of the confusion, Trieve walked +in.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>This explanation was so near the truth that Trieve +accepted it, probably with mental reservations.</p> + +<p>"You had better send for Mrs. Puttick," he replied +coldly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Puttick, you're better than any doctor—Scaife +is all right, <i>really</i>. 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +a lie, Mrs. Puttick. He's humbugging you. Scaife told +me that his fits were nothing. Yes; he had a slight sun-stroke +when he was a kid, you know, and the least bit of +excitement affects him."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I'd better fetch a drop of brandy," said Mrs. +Puttick, staring anxiously at Scaife. "He looks very bad."</p> + +<p>"Yes, please do, Mrs. Puttick."</p> + +<p>She bustled away.</p> + +<p>"Now we <i>must</i> bring him to," said the Fifth Form.</p> + +<p>Everything was tried, even to the expedient of flicking +Scaife's body with a wet towel; but the body 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.</p> + +<p>"We'll souse the brandy all over him," said the Caterpillar; +"and then no one can guess."</p> + +<p>"How about burnt feathers?" suggested Lovell. He +had seen a fainting housemaid treated with this family +restorative.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Make way, make way, please!"</p> + +<p>It was Rutford, who, followed by Lawrence, strode +down the passage into No. 15, and up to the bed.</p> + +<p>"If you please, sir," said Lovell, "Scaife has had a fit."</p> + +<p>"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!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +The boy must be propped +up and the blood drawn from his head by applying hot +water to his feet."</p> + +<p>The Fifth exchanged glances. Why had this not +occurred to them? What a fool Mrs. Puttick was!</p> + +<p>"A rush of blood to the head!" Rutford liked 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.</p> + +<p>"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 <i>vis medicatrix naturæ</i>. 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."</p> + +<p>He smiled blandly, receiving the homage of the Fifth.</p> + +<p>"And now, Lovell, what do you know about this? +Did this fit take place here?"</p> + +<p>"In my room, sir."</p> + +<p>"In your room—eh? What was Scaife, a Lower Boy, +doing in your room?"</p> + +<p>"Lawrence gave him his 'fez' to-day, sir."</p> + +<p>Lawrence nodded.</p> + +<p>"Ah! And Scaife was excited, perhaps unduly excited—eh?"</p> + +<p>The Fifth joined in a chorus of, "Yes, sir—Oh, yes, +sir—awfully excited, sir—never saw a boy so excited, +sir."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That will do. Now, Lovell, go on!"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>débris</i> 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."</p> + +<p>The other boys gazed admiringly at Lovell. What a +cool, knowing hand!</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, I see nothing objectionable about that."</p> + +<p>"Well, sir—we were rather noisy——"</p> + +<p>"Go on."</p> + +<p>"To speak the exact truth, sir, I fear we were <i>very</i> +noisy; and Trieve, it seems, heard us. Instead of sending +for me, sir, he sent Verney for Scaife——"</p> + +<p>"Ah!"</p> + +<p>Lovell's hesitation at this point was really worthy of +Coquelin <i>cadet</i>.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Um!"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"To be whopped. Um! Rather drastic that, very +drastic under the circumstances."</p> + +<p>"So we thought, sir; and I went to represent the facts +to Trieve——"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +take his whopping quietly, but he seemed to go quite mad. +He has a violent temper, sir——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes."</p> + +<p>"A very violent temper. He—he——"</p> + +<p>"Frothed at the mouth," put in a bystander. "I +particularly noticed that."</p> + +<p>"Really, really——"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Lovell, nodding his head reflectively. "He +frothed at the mouth, and then——"</p> + +<p>"Grew quite black in the face," interpolated a third +boy, who was determined that Lovell should not carry +off all the honours.</p> + +<p>"I should say—purple," amended Lovell. "And then +he gave——"</p> + +<p>"A beastly gurgle——"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"He did," said one of the boys. "I saw that."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>Scaife opened his eyes. Then he groaned dismally. +Rutford was standing to the right of the chair and foot-bath. +The Fifth were facing Scaife. He met their +anxious, admonishing glances, unable to interpret +them.</p> + +<p>Lovell senior repeated the house-master's question—</p> + +<p>"How are you, old chap?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"How am I?" he repeated thickly. "Why, why, I'm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +jolly well screwed, Lovell; that's how I am! Jolly well +screwed—hay? Ugh! how screwed I am. Ugh!"</p> + +<p>The groans fell on a terrifying silence. Rutford glanced +keenly from face to face. Then he said slowly—</p> + +<p>"The wretched boy is—<i>drunk</i>!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Who was in your room, Lovell?"</p> + +<p>Without waiting for Lovell to answer, the other boys, +each in turn, said, "I, sir," or "Me, sir." John came last.</p> + +<p>"Anybody else, Lovell?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Anybody else, Lovell? Be careful how you answer +me!"</p> + +<p>"Nobody else," said Lovell.</p> + +<p>"On your honour, sir?"</p> + +<p>"On my honour, sir."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"You will all go to my study. A word with you, +Lawrence."</p> + +<p>The boys filed quietly out. Rutford looked at John and +Fluff. Large, fat tears were trickling down Fluff's cheeks.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +Somehow he felt convinced that John was involved in a +frightful row.</p> + +<p>"Run away, Kinloch," said his house-master. "I wish +to speak with Lawrence and Verney."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Go to Lovell's room, Lawrence, and institute a +thorough search. If you find wine or spirits, let me know +at once."</p> + +<p>Lawrence left the room.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Then John said quietly, "I am not a liar, sir."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, I have never detected you in a lie," said +Rutford.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> + +<p>"All the same," continued John, in a hesitating manner, +"I <i>would</i> lie, if I thought a lie might save a friend's life."</p> + +<p>Rutford was so unprepared for this deliberate statement, +that he could only reply—</p> + +<p>"Oh, you would, would you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said John; then he added, "Any decent boy +or man would."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Oh, indeed! This is very interesting. Go on, +Verney."</p> + +<p>"Scaife said he <i>felt</i> 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"You dare to look me in the face and tell me that +Scaife is not drunk?"</p> + +<p>Very seriously, John answered, "I'm sure he's not +drunk, sir."</p> + +<p>Rutford eyed the boy keenly.</p> + +<p>"Have you ever seen anybody drunk?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Don't try to be funny with me, Verney."</p> + +<p>"On no, sir, as if I should dare!"</p> + +<p>"Well, well, we are wasting time. Trieve sent you to +Lovell's room to fetch Scaife?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"And what was Scaife doing when you went into the +room? Be very careful!"</p> + +<p>John considered. "He was laughing, sir."</p> + +<p>"Laughing, was he?"</p> + +<p>"But he stopped laughing when I gave him Trieve's +message, and then he said what Lovell told you, sir."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Never mind what Lovell told me. Give me your +version of the story."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Um," said Rutford, slightly shaken. John described +his return to Trieve's room, and Trieve's threat.</p> + +<p>"Lovell and you tell the same story."</p> + +<p>"Why, yes, sir." John made no deliberate attempt to +look simple; but his face, to the master studying it, seemed +quite guileless.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Well, sir, how do you feel?"</p> + +<p>And then Scaife answered, in the same dazed fashion +as before—</p> + +<p>"I feel as if I was jolly well screwed, sir."</p> + +<p>Rutford nodded portentously.</p> + +<p>"I feel," continued Scaife, "as I did once long ago, +when I was a kid and got hold of some curaçoa at one of +my father's parties."</p> + +<p>"Just so," said the doctor.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"It looks like concussion," said the doctor, doubtfully. +"You say he fell?" He turned to John.</p> + +<p>"I was just outside the door," said John.</p> + +<p>"We'll put him into the sick-room, Mr. Rutford. And +in a day or two he'll be himself again."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure that what I—er—feared—er——?"</p> + +<p>The doctor frowned. "The boy has had brandy, of +course."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mrs. Puttick and Lovell gave him plenty of that," +John interpolated.</p> + +<p>"I believe you can exonerate the boy entirely," said +the doctor.</p> + +<p>John saw that Rutford seemed relieved.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>He strode away into the private side.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>"Well, young Verney, I shan't forget that, if it hadn't +been for you, I should have been sacked. And I shan't +forget either that you're not half such a fool as you look."</p> + +<p>John exhibited surprise.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +course of the first ten minutes Scaife said to the Caterpillar—</p> + +<p>"He told Dick to his face that he would lie to save a +pal."</p> + +<p>And the Caterpillar replied seriously, "Good kid, very +good kid. Lovell says he's going to give a tea in his +honour."</p> + +<p>"No, he isn't. It's my turn."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"You've forgotten Desmond," he said to Scaife, when +the latter mentioned the names of his guests.</p> + +<p>"Cæsar isn't coming. By the way, Verney, you've +not been talking to Cæsar about the row in our house?"</p> + +<p>"No," said John. "Lawrence came round and said +that I must keep my mouth shut."</p> + +<p>"And naturally you did what you were told to do?"</p> + +<p>The half-mocking tone disappeared in a burst of laughter +as John answered—</p> + +<p>"Yes, of course."</p> + +<p>"And I suppose it never entered your head that Lawrence +would not have been so particular about shutting your +mouth without good reason."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," said John, after a pause, "Lawrence was +in a funk lest, lest——"</p> + +<p>"Go on!"</p> + +<p>"Lest the thing should be exaggerated."</p> + +<p>"Exactly. Lots of fellows would go about saying that +I was dead drunk—eh?"</p> + +<p>"They might."</p> + +<p>"And that would be coming dangerously near the truth."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Scaife! Then you really <i>were</i>——"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p> + +<p>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 <i>quite</i> 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."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Scaife—you—you won't do it again?"</p> + +<p>"Get screwed?" said Scaife, gravely. "I shall not. +It isn't good enough. We've chucked the stuff away."</p> + +<p>"If they'd found it——"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>"I saw you walking with Lovell senior this afternoon."</p> + +<p>John explained. Lawrence frowned.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"It was awfully good of you," said John, warmly.</p> + +<p>"We'll sink that. I'm five years older than you, and +I know every blessed—and <i>cursed</i>"—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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>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 <i>Times</i>, 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.</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> <span title="kraipalê">κραιπάλη</span> is translated by Liddell and Scott as "the result of a +debauch."</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3><i>Torpids</i></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 16em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Again we rush across the slush,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A pack of breathless faces,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And charge and fall, and see the ball<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fly whizzing through the bases."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The remainder</span> of the term slipped away without farther +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 Cæsar only +laughed. Somehow John divined that the Demon was +making the effort of his life to secure Desmond's friendship. +And Cæsar had ideals, standards to which the Demon +pretended to attain. Good, simple John made sure that +Cæsar would elevate the Demon to his plane, that evil would +be exorcised by good. Only in his dreams did the Demon +have the advantage.</p> + +<p>Just before the end of the term, Cæsar said to him—</p> + +<p>"After all, I'm jolly glad I'm coming into your House,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>"It will," said John.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar had now been three years in the school, +and he governed himself accordingly. He put on a "barmaid"<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> +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.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> +<p>"You kids," said he, "ought not to use 'Bohns.' Besides, +it's dangerous."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Any boy who was making any noise at all—stand up."</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar rose slowly, long and thin, spick and span.</p> + +<p>"If you please, sir," said he, "I was <i>whispering</i>!"</p> + +<p>A——'s sense of humour was tickled.</p> + +<p>"My compliments to the Head Master," said he, "and +please tell him that I find, on careful inquiry, that Egerton +was—whispering."</p> + +<p>A shout of laughter from Olympus proclaimed that the +message had been delivered. The Caterpillar had saved +the situation.</p> + +<p>John became a disciple of this accomplished young<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Quite unconsciously, John assimilated the Caterpillar's +axioms.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>This was the side of Egerton which appealed so strongly +to John. The Caterpillar was an Harrovian to the core, +like the Duffer and Cæsar 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.</p> + +<p>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"<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> 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"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span><a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> +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.</p> + +<p>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 +has 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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>The Manor won the first and the second of the matches. +Then came the semi-final, 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, <i>esprit de corps</i>, 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Scaife won the toss and kicked off.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 a dignified self-restraint. A smart bit of work provoked +a bland, "Well played, sir, <i>very well</i> played, sir!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Rutfords—Rutfor-r-r-r-r-ds! Go it, old Demon!—Jolly +well played, Cæsar!—Sky him!<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a>—Well skied, sir!—Ah-h-h-h! +Well given—well taken!"</p> + +<p>The last, long-drawn-out exclamation proclaimed that +"Yards"<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a> 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.</p> + +<p>"Oh-h-h-h-h!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Showing temper, ain't he?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Lovell.</p> + +<p>"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! Cæsar is facing +the chaff with a grin."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar distributed halves of lemons. Lawrence +went up to Scaife. The captain of the Torpids was standing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +apart, not far from Desmond, who was sucking a lemon with +a puzzled expression. Gallant, sweet-tempered, and +always hopeful, Cæsar 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.</p> + +<p>"Scaife," said Lawrence, gravely, "you're not playing +the game."</p> + +<p>Scaife scowled. "I only know I've half killed myself," +he muttered.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>Desmond joined them. Lawrence's face brightened +when he saw hopeful eyes and a gallant smile.</p> + +<p>"You don't despair?"</p> + +<p>"We'll knock 'em into smithereens yet."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," said Desmond.</p> + +<p>Scaife nodded sulkily.</p> + +<p>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 <i>did</i> 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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +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, Cæsar 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.</p> + +<p>"And Desmond ought to be one of <i>us</i>," he groaned.</p> + +<p>And now Cæsar had passed all forwards. If he keeps 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.</p> + +<p>"His father's son will not blunder now," he replies.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>One base to two—and eighteen minutes to play!</p> + +<p>The second base was kicked by Scaife five minutes later.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Moreover, both sides were playing "canny," risking +nothing, nursing their energies for the last furious five +minutes. Damer began to fidget; than he dropped out +of the front rank of spectators. He couldn't stand still<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +to see his boys win—or lose. He paced up and down +behind the fags, who winked at each other.</p> + +<p>"Damer's got the needle," they whispered.</p> + +<p>Dumbleton, however, stood still; a graven image of +High Life below Stairs.</p> + +<p>"What do you think, Dumber?" asked Fluff.</p> + +<p>"I think, my lord," replied Dumber, solemnly, "that +every minute improves our chance, but if it goes on <i>much</i> +longer," he added phlegmatically, "I shall fall down dead. +My 'eart's weak, my lord."</p> + +<p>This was an ancient joke delivered by Dumber as if it +were brand-new, and received by the fags in a like spirit.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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....</p> + +<p>"Now—now's your chance!" yelled the Manorites. +To their flaming senses the ball appeared to be lying, a +huge blurred sphere, upon the muddy grass; and the +Elevens were stupidly staring at it. The Saints be praised!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +Some fellow can move. Who is it? The players, big and +little, are so daubed with mud from head to foot as to be +unrecognizable. Ah-h-h! It's young Verney.</p> + +<p>"Good kid! Well played—I say, well played, well +pla-a-a-a-yed!"</p> + +<p>Our John has, it seems, distinguished himself. He +has charged valiantly into the captain of Damer's at the +moment when that illustrious chief is about to kick the ball +to a trusted lieutenant on the left. He succeeds in kicking +the ball into John's face. John goes over backwards; +but the ball falls just in front of the Duffer.</p> + +<p>"Kick it, Duffer—kick it, you old ass!"</p> + +<p>The Duffer kicks it most accurately, kicks it well out +to the top side. Now, can Desmond repeat his amazing +performance? Yes—No—he can't. The conditions are +no longer the same. Half a dozen fellows are between him +and the Damer base.</p> + +<p>Alas! The Manor is about to receive a second object-lesson +upon the fatuity of trusting to individuals. Confident +in Cæsar's ability to take the ball at least within +kicking distance of the base, they have rushed forward, +leaving unguarded their own citadel. Cæsar, going too +fast, misjudges the distance between himself and the back. +A second later the ball is well on its way to the Manor's +base. The back awaits it, coolly enough; knowing that +Damer's forwards are offside. Then he kicks the sodden, +slippery ball—hard. An exclamation of horror bursts +from the Manorites. Their back has kicked the ball +straight into the hands of the Damerite captain, the +steadiest player on the ground.</p> + +<p>"<i>Yards!</i>"</p> + +<p>The chief collects himself for a decisive effort, and then +despatches the ball straight and true for the target.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It passed between the posts within forty-five seconds of +time.</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> The "barmaid" collar is the double collar, at that time just +coming into fashion.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> "Chaw," short for Chawbacon.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> "Tique," ab. for arithmetic. "Tique-beaks" are mathematical +masters.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> To "sky," <i>i.e.</i> to charge and overthrow.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> In the Harrow game a boy may turn and kick the ball into the hands +of one of his own side. The boy who catches it calls "Yards!" and, +the opposite side withdrawing three yards, the catcher is allowed a free +kick.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3><i>Fellowship</i></h3> + +<p class="block1">"Fellowship is Heaven, and the lack of it is Hell."</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">John was</span> squelching through the mud, wondering whether +his nose was broken or not, when Lawrence touched his +shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Never mind, Verney," he said cheerily; "the Manor +will be cock-house at Torpids next year, and I venture to +prophesy that you'll be Captain."</p> + +<p>"Oh, thanks, Lawrence," said John.</p> + +<p>But, much as he appreciated this tribute from the great +man, and much as it served to mitigate the pangs of defeat, +a yet happier stroke of fortune was about to befall him. +Desmond, who always walked up from the football field +with Scaife, conferred upon John the honour of his +company.</p> + +<p>"Where's Scaife?" said John.</p> + +<p>"The Demon is demoniac," said Desmond. "He's +lost his hair, and he blames me. Well, I did my best, and +so did he, and there's no more to be said. It's a bore that +we shall be too old to play next year. I told the Demon +that if we had to be beaten, I would sooner take a licking +from Damer's than any other house; and he told me that +he believed I wanted 'em to win. When a fellow's in that +sort of blind rage, I call him dotty, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said John.</p> + +<p>"You played jolly well, Verney; I expect Lawrence +told you so."</p> + +<p>"He did say something decent," John replied.</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar joined them as they were passing +through the stile. "We should have won," he said deliberately, +"if the Demon hadn't behaved like a rank outsider."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Scaife is my pal," said Desmond, hotly.</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar shrugged his shoulders, and held high +his well-cut, aquiline nose, as he murmured—</p> + +<p>"One doesn't pretend to be a Christian, but as a gentleman +one accepts a bit of bad luck without gnashing one's +teeth. What? That Spartan boy with the fox was a +well bred 'un, you can take my word for it. Scaife +isn't."</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar joined another pair of boys before +Desmond could reply. John looked uncomfortable. Then +Desmond burst out with Irish vehemence—</p> + +<p>"Egerton is always jawing about breeding. It's rather +snobbish. I don't think the worse of Scaife because his +grandfather carried a hod. The Egertons have been living +at Mount Egerton ever since they left Mount Ararat, but +what have they done? And he ought to make allowances +for the old Demon. He was simply mad keen to win this +match, and he has a temper. You like him, Verney, +don't you?"</p> + +<p>John hesitated, realizing that to speak the truth would +offend the one fellow in the school whom he wished to +please and conciliate. Then he blurted out—</p> + +<p>"No—I don't."</p> + +<p>"You don't?" Desmond's frank, blue eyes, Irish eyes, +deeply blue, with black lashes encircling them, betrayed +amazement and curiosity—so John thought—rather than +anger. "You don't?" he continued. "Why not? The +old Demon likes you; he says you got him out of a tight +place. Why don't you like him, Verney?"</p> + +<p>John's mind had to speculate vaguely whether or not +Desmond knew the nature of the tight place—<i>tight</i> was +such a very descriptive adjective—out of which he had +pulled Scaife. Then he said nervously—</p> + +<p>"I don't like him because—because he likes—you."</p> + +<p>"Likes me? What a rum 'un you are, Verney! Why +shouldn't he like me?"</p> + +<p>"Because," said John, boldly meeting the emergency<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +with the conviction that he had burnt his ships, and must +advance without fear, "because he's not half good enough +for you."</p> + +<p>Desmond burst out laughing; the clear, ringing laugh +of his father, which had often allayed an incipient mutiny +below the gangway, and charmed aside the impending +disaster of a snatch-division. And it is on <i>one's own side</i> +in the House of Commons that good temper tells pre-eminently.</p> + +<p>"Not good enough for me!" he repeated. "Thanks +awfully. Evidently you have a high opinion of—<i>me</i>."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said John.</p> + +<p>The quiet monosyllable, so soberly, so seriously uttered, +challenged Desmond's attention. He stared for a moment +at John's face—not an attractive object. Blood and mud +disfigured it. But the grey eyes met the blue unwaveringly. +Desmond flushed.</p> + +<p>"You've stuck me on a sort of pedestal." His tone +was as serious as John's.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said John.</p> + +<p>They were opposite the Music Schools. The other +Manorites had run on. For the moment they stood alone, +ten thousand leagues from Harrow, alone in those sublimated +spaces where soul meets soul unfettered by flesh. +Afterwards, not then, John knew that this was so. He met +the real Desmond for the first time, and Desmond met the +real John in a thoroughfare other than that which leads +to the Manor, other than that which leads to any house +built by human hands, upon the shining highway of +Heaven.</p> + +<p>Shall we try to set down Desmond's feelings at this +crisis? Till now, his life had run gaily through fragrant +gardens, so to speak: pleasaunces full of flowers, of +sweet-smelling herbs, of stately trees, a paradise indeed +from which the ugly, the crude, the harmful had been +rigorously excluded. Happy the boy who has such a home +as was allotted to Harry Desmond! And from it, ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> +since he could remember, he had received tender love, +absolute trust, the traditions of a great family whose name +was part of English history, an exquisite refinement, and +with these, the gratification of all reasonable desires. And +this magnificent upbringing shone out of his radiant face, +the inexpressible charm of youth unspotted—white. +Scaife's upbringing, of which you shall know more presently, +had been far different, and yet he, the cynic and the unclean, +recognized the God in Harry Desmond. He had +not, for instance, told Desmond of the nature of that +"tight" place; he had kept a guard over his tongue; he +had interposed his own strong will between his friend and +such attention as a boy of Desmond's attractiveness might +provoke from Lovell senior and the like. It is true that +Scaife was well aware that without these precautions he +would have lost his friend; none the less, above and beyond +this consciousness hovered the higher, more subtle intuition +that the good in Desmond was something not lightly to be +tampered with, something awe-inspiring; the more so +because, poor fellow! he had never encountered it before.</p> + +<p>Desmond stood still, with his eyes upon John's discoloured +face. Not the least of Cæsar's charms was his +lack of self-consciousness. Now, for the first time, he tried +to see himself as John saw him—on a pedestal. And so +strong was John's ideal that in a sense Desmond did catch +a glimpse of himself as John saw him. And then followed +a rapid comparison, first between the real and the ideal, +and secondly between himself and Scaife. His face broke +into a smile.</p> + +<p>"Why, Verney," he exclaimed, "you mustn't turn me +into a sort of Golden Calf. And as for Scaife not being +good enough for me, why, he's miles ahead of me in everything. +He's cleverer, better at games, ten thousand times +better looking, and one day he'll be a big power, and I +shall always be a poor man. Why, I—I don't mind telling +you that I used to keep out of Scaife's way, although he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +was always awfully civil to me, because he has so much +and I so little."</p> + +<p>"He's not half good enough for you," repeated John, +with the Verney obstinacy. Unwittingly he slightly +emphasized the "good."</p> + +<p>"Good? Do you mean 'pi'? He's not <i>that</i>, thank +the Lord!"</p> + +<p>This made John laugh, and Desmond joined in. Now +they were Harrow boys again, within measurable distance +of the Yard, although still in the shadow of the Spire. The +Demon described as "pi" tickled their ribs.</p> + +<p>"You must learn to like the Demon," Desmond continued, +as they moved on. Then, as John said nothing, +he added quickly, "He and I have made up our minds not +to try for remove this term. You see, next term is the +jolliest term of the year—cricket and 'Ducker'<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a> and +Lord's. And we shall know the form's swat thoroughly, +and have time to enjoy ourselves. You'll be with us. +Your remove is a 'cert'—eh?"</p> + +<p>John beamed. He had made certain that Cæsar would +be in the Third Fifth next term and hopelessly out of reach.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, I shall get my remove. So will the Caterpillar."</p> + +<p>"Hang the Caterpillar," said Desmond.</p> + +<p>"He'd ask for a silken rope, as Lord Ferrers did," said +John, with one of his unexpected touches of humour. +Again Desmond bent his head in the gesture John knew +so well, and laughed.</p> + +<p>"I say, Verney, you <i>are</i> a joker. Well, the old Caterpillar's +a good sort, but he's not fair to Scaife. Here we +are!"</p> + +<p>They ran upstairs to "tosh" and change. John found +the Duffer just slipping out of his ducks. He looked at +John with a rueful grin.</p> + +<p>"Are you going to chuck me?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Chuck you?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Fluff says you've chucked him. He was in here a +moment ago to ask if your nose was squashed. I believe +the silly little ass thinks you the greatest thing on earth."</p> + +<p>"I don't chuck anybody," said John, indignantly. +And he made a point of asking Fluff to walk with him on +Sunday.</p> + +<p>After the Torpid matches the school settled down to +train (more or less) for the athletic sports. John came to +grief several times at Kenton brook, essaying to jump it at +places obviously—as the Duffer pointed out—beyond his +stride. The Duffer and he put their names down for the +house-handicaps, and curtailed their visits to the Creameries. +After this self-denial it is humiliating to record that +neither boy succeeded in winning anything. Cæsar won +the house mile handicap; Scaife won the under sixteen +high jump—a triumph for the Manor; and Fluff, the +despised Fluff, actually secured an immense tankard, which +one of the Sixth offered as a prize because he was quite +convinced that his own particular pal would win it. The +distance happened to be half a mile. Fluff was allowed +an enormous start and won in a canter.</p> + +<p>The term came to an end soon after these achievements, +and John spent a week of the holidays at White +Ladies, the Duke of Trent's Shropshire place. Here, for +the first time, he saw that august and solemn personage, +a Groom of the Chambers, with carefully-trimmed whiskers, +a white tie, a silky voice, and the appearance of an archdeacon. +This visit is recorded because it made a profound +impression upon a plastic mind. John had never sat in the +seats of the mighty. Verney Boscobel was a delightful +old house, but it might have been put, stables and all, +into White Ladies, and never found again. Fluff showed +John the famous Reynolds and Gainsborough portraits, +the Van Dycks and Lelys, the Romneys and Richmonds. +Fair women and brave men smiled or frowned at our hero +wherever he turned his wondering eyes. After the first +tour of the great galleries, he turned to his companion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I say," he whispered solemnly, "some of 'em look +as if they didn't like my calling you—Fluff."</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd call me Esmé."</p> + +<p>"All right," said John, "I will; and—er—although +you didn't get into the Torpids, you can call me—John."</p> + +<p>"Oh, John, thanks awfully."</p> + +<p>Ponies were provided for the boys to ride, and they +shot rabbits in the Chase. Also, they appeared at dinner, +a tremendous function, and were encouraged by some of +the younger guests to spar (verbally, of course) with the +duke's Etonian sons. Fluff looked so much stronger and +happier that his parents, delighted with their experiment, +were inclined to cry up the Hill, much to the exasperation +of the dwellers in the Plain.</p> + +<p>When he left White Ladies John had learned one valuable +lesson. His sense of that hackneyed phrase, <i>noblesse +oblige</i>, the sense which remains nonsense with so many +boys (old and young), had been quickened. Little more +than a child in many ways, he realized, as a man does, the +true significance of rank and wealth. The Duke of Trent +had married a pleasure-loving dame; White Ladies was +essentially a pleasure-house, to which came gladly enough +the wit and beauty of the kingdom. And yet the duke, +not clever as compared to his guests, not even good-looking +as compared to the splendid gentlemen whom Van Dyck +and Lely had painted, <i>undistinguished</i>, in fine, in everything +save rank and wealth, worked, early and late, harder than +any labourer upon his vast domain. And when John said +to Fluff, "I say, Esmé, why does the duke work so beastly +hard?" Fluff replied with emphasis, "Why, because +he has to, you know. It's no joke to be born a duke, +and I'm jolly glad that I'm a younger son. Father says +that he has no amusements, but plenty of occupation. +Mother says he's the unpaid land-agent of the Trent +property."</p> + +<p>John went back to Verney Boscobel, and repeated what +Fluff had said, as his own.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It was simply splendid, mum, like a sort of castle in +fairyland and all that, but I <i>am</i> glad I'm not a duke. And +I expect that even an earl has a lot of beastly jobs to do +which never bother <i>us</i>."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you've found that out, have you, John? Well, +I hesitated when the invitation came; but I'm glad now +that you went."</p> + +<p>"Yes; and it's ripping to be home again."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The summer term began in glorious sunshine; and +John forgot that he owned an umbrella. The Caterpillar +and he had achieved their remove, but the unhappy Duffer +was left behind alone with the hideous necessity of doing +his form's work by himself. The boys occupied the same +rooms, but John prepared his Greek and Latin with Scaife, +Cæsar, and the Caterpillar; whom he was now privileged +to call by their nick-names. They began to call him John, +hearing young Kinloch do so; and then one day, Scaife, +looking up with his derisive smile, said—</p> + +<p>"I'm going to call you Jonathan."</p> + +<p>"Good," said Desmond. "All the same, we can't +call either the Duffer or Fluff—David, can we?"</p> + +<p>"I was not thinking of Kinloch or Duff," said Scaife, +staring hard at John. And John alone knew that Scaife +read him like a book, in which he was contemptuously +amused—nothing more. After that, as if Scaife's will +were law, the others called John—Jonathan.</p> + +<p>Very soon, the sun was obscured by ever-thickening +clouds. John happened to provoke the antipathy of a +lout in his form known as Lubber Sprott. Sprott began to +persecute him with a series of petty insults and injuries. +He accused him of "sucking up" to a lord, of putting +on "lift" because he was the youngest boy in the Upper +Remove, of kow-towing to the masters—and so forth. +Then, finding these repeated gibes growing stale, he resorted +to meaner methods. He upset ink on John's books, or +kicked them from under his arm as he was going up to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +New Schools. He put a "dringer"<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a> into the pocket of +John's "bluer."<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a> He pinched him unmercifully if he +found himself next to John in form, knowing that John +would not betray him. When occasion offered he kicked +John. In short, he was successful in taking all the fun and +sparkle out of the merrie month of May.</p> + +<p>Finally, Cæsar got an inkling of what was going on.</p> + +<p>"Is Sprott ragging you?" he asked point-blank.</p> + +<p>"Ye-es," said John, blushing. "It's n-nothing," he +added nervously. "He'll get tired of it, I expect."</p> + +<p>"I saw him kick you," said Desmond, frowning. "Now, +look here, Jonathan, you kick him; kick him as hard +as ever you can where, where he kicks you—eh? And +do it to-morrow in the Yard, at nine Bill, when everybody +is looking on. You can dodge into the crowd; but if +I were you I'd kick him at the very moment he gets into +line, and then he can't pursue. And if he does pursue—which +I'll bet you a bob he don't, he'll have to tackle you +and me."</p> + +<p>"I'll do it," said John.</p> + +<p>Next day, a whole holiday, at nine Bill, both Cæsar and +John were standing close to the window of Custos' den, +waiting for Lubber Sprott to appear. While waiting, an +incident occurred which must be duly chronicled inasmuch +as it has direct bearing upon this story. Only the week +before Rutford had come up to the Yard late for Bill, he +being the master whose turn it was to call over. Such +tardiness, which happens seldom, is reckoned as an unpardonable +sin by Harrow boys. Briefly it means that six +hundred suffer from the unpunctuality of one. Therefore,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +when Rutford appeared, slightly flushed of countenance +and visibly annoyed, the School emphasized their displeasure +by derisive cheers. Rutford, ever tactless where +boys were concerned, was unwise enough to make a speech +from the steps condemning, in his usual bombastic style, +a demonstration which he ought to have known he was +quite powerless to punish or to prevent. When he had +finished, the School cheered more derisively than before. +After Bill, he left the Yard, purple with rage and humiliation.</p> + +<p>Upon this particular morning, one of the younger +masters, Basil Warde, was calling Bill. The School knew +little of Warde, save that he was an Old Harrovian in charge +of a Small House, and that his form reported him—<i>queer</i>. +He had instituted a queer system of punishments, he made +queer remarks, he looked queer: in fine, he was generally +regarded as a radical, and therefore a person to be watched +with suspicion by boys who, as a body, are intensely +conservative. He was of a clear red complexion with +lapis-lazuli blue eyes, that peculiar blue which is the colour +of the sea on a bright, stormy day. The Upper School +knew that, as a member of the Alpine Club, Warde had +conquered half a dozen hitherto unconquerable peaks.</p> + +<p>Into the Yard and into this book Warde comes late. +As he hurried to his place, the School greeted him as they +had greeted Rutford only the week before. If anything, +the demonstration was slightly more hostile. That Bill +should be delayed twice within ten days was unheard-of +and outrageous. When the hoots and cheers subsided, +Warde held up his hand. He smiled, and his chin stuck +out, and his nose stuck up at an angle familiar to those who +had scaled peaks in his company. In silence, the School +awaited what he had to say, hoping that he might slate +them, which would afford an excuse for more ragging. +Warde, guessing, perhaps, the wish of the crowd, smiled +more genially than before. Then, in a loud, clear voice, +he said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"I beg pardon for being late. And I thank you for +cheering me. I haven't been cheered in the Yard since the +afternoon when I got my Flannels."</p> + +<p>A deafening roar of applause broke from the boys. +Warde might be queer, but he was a good sort, a gentleman, +and, henceforward, popular with Harrovians.</p> + +<p>He began to call over as Lubber Sprott neared the place +where Desmond and John awaited him. The Lubber took +up his position near the boys, turning a broad back to them. +He stood with his hands in his pockets, talking to another +boy as big and stupid as himself. The Lubber, it may be +added, ought to have worn "Charity" tails, but he had not +applied for permission to do so. He was fat and gross +rather than tall, and certainly too large for his clothes.</p> + +<p>"Now," said Cæsar.</p> + +<p>John measured the distance with his eye, as Cæsar +thoughtfully nudged other members of the Upper Remove. +John had room for a very short run. The Lubber was +swaying backwards and forwards. John timed his kick, +which for a small boy he delivered with surprising force, +so accurately that the Lubber fell on his face. The boys +looking on screamed with laughter. The Lubber, picking +himself up (John dodged into the crowd, who received him +joyfully) and glaring round, encountered the contemptuous +face of Desmond.</p> + +<p>"Let me have a shot," said Cæsar.</p> + +<p>The Lubber advanced, spluttering with rage.</p> + +<p>"Where is he—where is he, that infernal young Verney?"</p> + +<p>By this time fifty boys at least were interested spectators +of the scene. Desmond stood square in the Lubber's path.</p> + +<p>"You like to kick small boys," said Cæsar, in a very +loud voice. "I'm small, half your size, why don't you +kick me?"</p> + +<p>The Lubber could have crushed the speaker by mere +weight; but he hesitated, and the harder he stared at +Desmond the less he fancied the job of kicking him. +Quality confronted quantity.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Kick me," said Desmond, "if—if you dare, you big, +hulking coward and cad!"</p> + +<p>"Come on, Lubber, get into line!" shouted some boy.</p> + +<p>Sprott turned slowly, glancing over his vast, fat shoulder +to guard against further assault. Then he took his place +in the line, and passed slowly out of the Yard and out of +these pages. He never persecuted John again.<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a></p> + +<p>Not yet, however, was the sun to shine in John's firmament. +As the days lengthened, as June touched all hearts +with her magic fingers, insensibly relaxing the tissues and +warming the senses, John became more and more miserably +aware that, in the fight between Scaife and himself for the +possession of Desmond, the odds were stupendously against +him. Truly the Demon had the subtlety of the serpent, +for he used the failings which he was unable to hide as +cords wherewith to bind his friend more closely to him. +When the facts, for instance, of what had taken place in +Lovell's room came to Desmond's ears, he denied fiercely +the possibility of Scaife, his pal, making a "beast" of +himself. The laughter which greeted his passionate protest +sent him hot-foot to Scaife himself.</p> + +<p>"They say," panted Cæsar, "that last winter you were +dead drunk in Lovell's room. I told the beasts they +lied."</p> + +<p>Scaife's handsome face softened. Was he touched by +Cæsar's loyalty? Who can tell? Always he subordinated +emotion to intelligence: head commanded heart.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps they did," he answered steadily; "and +perhaps they didn't. I deny nothing; I admit nothing. +But"—his fine eyes, so dark and piercing, flamed—"Cæsar, +if I was dead drunk at your feet now, would you turn away +from me, would you chuck me?"</p> + +<p>Desmond winced. Scaife pursued his advantage.</p> + +<p>"If you <i>are</i> that sort of a fellow—the Pharisee"—Desmond +winced again—"the saint who is too pure, too<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +holy, to associate with a sinner, say so, and let us part +here—and now. For I <i>am</i> a—sinner. You are not a +sinner. Hold hard! let me have my say. I've always +known that this moment was coming. Yes, I am a sinner. +And my governor is a sinner, a hardened sinner. His +father made our pile by what you would call robbery. +The whole world knows it, and condones it, because we are +so rich. Even my mother——"</p> + +<p>He paused, trembling, white to the lips.</p> + +<p>"Don't," said Desmond. "Please don't."</p> + +<p>"You're right. I won't. But I'm handicapped on +both sides. It's only fair that you should know what sort +of a fellow you've chosen for a pal. And it's not too late +to chuck me. Rutford will put Verney in here, if I ask him. +And, by God! I'm in the mood to ask him <i>now</i>. Shall I +go to him, Desmond, or shall I stay?"</p> + +<p>He had never raised his voice, but it fell upon the +sensitive soul of the boy facing him as if it were a clarion-call +to battle.</p> + +<p>Desmond sprang forward, ardent, eager, afire with +generous self-surrender.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me," he cried. "Oh, forgive me, because I +can't forgive myself!"</p> + +<p>After this breaking of barriers, Scaife took less pains to +disguise a nature which turned as instinctively to darkness +as Desmond's to light. A score of times protest died when +Scaife murmured, "There I go again, forgetting the gulf +between us"; and always Desmond swore stoutly that the +gulf, if a gulf did yawn between them, should be bridged +by friendship and hope. But, insensibly, Cæsar's ideals +became tainted by Scaife's materialism. Scaife, for instance, +spent money lavishly upon "food" and clothes. +So far as a Public Schoolboy is able, he never denied his +splendid young body anything it coveted. Desmond, too +proud to receive favours without returning them, tried to +vie with this reckless spendthrift, and found himself in +debt. In other ways a keen eye and ear would have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> +marked deterioration. John noticed that Cæsar laughed, +although he never sneered, at things he used to hold sacred; +that he condemned, as Scaife did, whatever that clever +young reprobate was pleased to stigmatize as narrow-minded +or intolerant.</p> + +<p>Cricket, however, kept them fairly straight. Each +was certain to get his "cap,"<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a> if, as Lawrence told them, +they stuck to the rigour of the game. This was Lawrence's +last term. He had stayed on to play at Lord's, and when +he left Trieve would become the Head of the House—a +prospect very pleasing to the turbulent Fifth.</p> + +<p>About the middle of June John suffered a parlous +blow. He was never so happy as when he was sitting in +Scaife's room, cheek by jowl with Desmond, sharing, +perhaps, a "dringer," poring over the same dictionary. +This delightful intimacy came to a sudden end in this wise. +The form-master of the Upper Remove happened to be a +precisian in English. A sure road to his favour was the +right use of a word. The Demon, appreciating this, bought +a dictionary of synonyms, and made a point of discarding +the commonplace and obvious, substituting a phrase likely +to elicit praise and marks. Desmond and John joined +in this hunt of the right word with enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>One evening the four boys encountered the simple +sentence—"<i>majoris pretii quam quod æstimari possit</i>."</p> + +<p>"'Priceless''ll cover that," said Cæsar.</p> + +<p>"Or 'inest<i>ee</i>mable,'" said the Demon.</p> + +<p>The three other boys stared at the Demon, and then +at each other. The Caterpillar, something of a purist in +his way, drawled out—</p> + +<p>"One pronounces that 'inestimable.'"</p> + +<p>"My father doesn't," said Scaife, hotly. "I've heard +him say 'inesteemable.'"</p> + +<p>"No doubt," said Egerton, coldly. "How does <i>your</i> +father pronounce it, Cæsar?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p> + +<p>Desmond said hurriedly, "Oh, 'inestimable'; but what +does it matter?"</p> + +<p>The Demon sprang up, furious. "It matters this," +he cried. "I'm d——d if I'll have Egerton sitting in my +room sneering at my governor. After this he'll do his +work in his own room, or I'll do mine in the passage."</p> + +<p>Before Desmond could speak, Scaife had whirled out of +the room, slamming the door. John looked stupefied with +dismay.</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar shrugged his shoulders. Then he said +slowly—</p> + +<p>"Scaife's father pronounces 'connoisseur' 'connoysure,' +and so does Scaife."</p> + +<p>Desmond stood up, flushed and distressed, but emphatic.</p> + +<p>"Scaife is right about one thing," he said. "He +won't sit here like a cad and listen to Egerton sneering at +his father. I'm very sorry, but after this we'd better +split up. Verney and you, Egerton; and Scaife and I."</p> + +<p>"Certainly," said the Caterpillar, rising in his turn.</p> + +<p>Poor John cast a distracted and imploring glance at +Desmond, which flashed by unheeded. Then he got up, +and followed the Caterpillar out of the room. The passage +was empty.</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar sniffed as if the atmosphere in Scaife's +room had been polluted.</p> + +<p>"One has nothing to regret," he remarked. "Scaife +has good points, and—er—bad. You've noticed his hands—eh! +<i>Very</i> unfinished! And his foot—short, but broad." +The Caterpillar surveyed his long, slender feet with infinite +satisfaction; then he added, with an accent of finality, +"Scaife talks about going into the Grenadiers; but they'll +give him a hot time there, a very hot time. One is really +sorry for the poor fellow, because, of course, he can't help +being a bounder. What does puzzle me is, why did Cæsar +want such a fellow for his pal?"</p> + +<p>"But he didn't," said John.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Eh?—what?"</p> + +<p>"Scaife wanted Cæsar," John explained. "And I've +noticed, Caterpillar, that whatever Scaife wants he gets."</p> + +<p>"He wants breeding, Jonathan, but he'll never get that—never."</p> + +<p>After this, John saw but little of Desmond; and Scaife +hardly spoke to him. Accordingly, much of our hero's +time was spent in the company of the Duffer and Fluff. +The three passed many delightful hours together at +"Ducker." Armed with buns and chocolate, they would +rush down the hill, bathe, lie about on the grass, eat the +buns, and chaff the kids who were learning to swim.</p> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 15em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Long, long, in the misty hereafter<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shall echo, in ears far away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lilt of that innocent laughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The splash of the spray."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + +<p>During the School matches they spent the afternoons +on the Sixth Form ground, carefully criticizing every +stroke. The theory of the game lay pat to the tongue, but +in practice John was a shocking bungler. At his small +preparatory school in the New Forest, he had not been +taught the elementary principles of either racquets or +cricket; but he had a good eye, played a capital game of +golf, rode and shot well for a small boy. Fluff, although +still delicate, gave promise of being a cricketer as good, +possibly, as his brothers, when he became stronger.</p> + +<p>Upon Speech Day John's mother and uncle came down +to Harrow, and you may be sure that John escorted them +in triumph to the Manor. Mrs. Verney has since confessed +that John's expression as she greeted him surprised and +distressed her. He looked quite unhappy. And the dear +woman, thinking that he must be in debt, seriously considered +the propriety of tipping him handsomely <i>in advance</i>. +A moment later, as she slipped out of an old and shabby +dust-cloak, revealing the splendours of a dress fresh from +Paris, she divined from John's now radiant face what had +troubled him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p> + +<p>"John," she said, "you didn't really think that I was going +to shame you by wearing this dreadful cloak—did you?"</p> + +<p>"I wasn't quite sure," John answered; then he burst +out, "Mum, you look simply lovely. All the fellows will +take you for my sister."</p> + +<p>And after the great function in Speech-room came the +cheering. How John's heart throbbed when the Head of +the School, standing just outside the door, proclaimed the +illustrious name—</p> + +<p>"Three cheers for Mr. John Verney."</p> + +<p>And how the boys in the road below cheered, as the +little man descended the steps, hat in hand, bowing and +blushing! Everybody knew that he was on the eve of +departure for further explorations in Manchuria. He +would be absent, so the papers said, three years at least. +The School cheered the louder, because each boy knew that +they might never see that gallant face again.</p> + +<p>Later in the afternoon a selection of Harrow songs was +given in the Speech-room. "Five Hundred Faces," as +usual, was sung by a new boy, who is answered, in chorus, +by the whole School. How John recalled his own feelings, +less than a year ago, as he stood shivering upon the bank +of the river, funking the first plunge! And his uncle, now +sitting beside him, had said that he would soon enjoy +himself amazingly—and so he had! The new boy began +the second verse. His voice, not a strong one, quavered +shrilly—</p> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 20em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A quarter to seven! There goes the bell!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sleet is driving against the pane;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But woe to the sluggard who turns again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sleeps, not wisely, but all too well!"<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + +<p>In reply to the weak, timid notes came the glad roar +of the School—</p> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 20em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yet the time may come, as the years go by,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When your heart will thrill<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At the thought of the Hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the pitiless bell, with its piercing cry!"<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></div></div></div> + +<p>Ah, that pitiless bell! And yet because of it one +wallowed in Sunday and whole-holiday "frowsts."<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a> +John, you see, had the makings of a philosopher. And +now the Eleven were grunting "Willow the King." And +when the last echo of the chorus died away in the great +room, Uncle John whispered to his nephew that he had +heard Harrow songs in every corner of the earth, and that +convincing proof of merit shone out of the fact that their +charm waxed rather than waned with the years; they +improved, like wine, with age.</p> + +<p>Cæsar's father came down with the Duke of Trent. +The duke tipped John magnificently and asked him to +spend his exeat at Trent House, and to witness the Eton +and Harrow match at Lord's from the Trent coach. John +accepted gratefully enough; but his heart was sore because, +just before the row over that infernal word "inestimable," +Cæsar had asked John if he would like to occupy an attic +in Eaton Square. After the row nothing more was said +about the attic; but John would have preferred bare boards +in Eaton Square to a tapestried chamber in Park +Lane.</p> + +<p>Now, during the whole of this summer term there was +much animated discussion in regard to the rival claims of +lines or spots upon the white waistcoat worn by all self-respecting +Harrovians at Lord's. Upon this important +subject John had betrayed scandalous indifference. Accordingly, +just before the match, the Caterpillar took him +aside and spoke a solemn word.</p> + +<p>"Look here," he said; "one doesn't as a rule make +personal remarks, but it's rather too obvious that you buy +your clothes in Lyndhurst. I was sorry to see that the +Duke of Trent was the worst-dressed man at Speecher; +but a duke can look like a tinker, and nobody cares."</p> + +<p>"I'd be awfully obliged if you'd tell me what's wrong," +said John, humbly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Everything's wrong," said the Caterpillar, decisively. +He looked critically at John's boots. "Your boots, for +instance—most excellent boots for wading through the +swamps in the New Forest, but quite impossible in town. +And the 'topper' you wear on Sunday! Southampton, +you say? Ah, I thought it was a Verney heirloom. +Now, it wouldn't surprise me to hear that your mother, +who dresses herself quite charmingly, bought your kit."</p> + +<p>"She did," John confessed.</p> + +<p>"Just so. One need say no more. Now, you come +along with me."</p> + +<p>They marched down the High Street to the most +fashionable of the School tailors, where John was measured +for an Eton jacket of the best, white waistcoat with blue +spots, light bags; while the Caterpillar selected a new +"topper," an umbrella, a pair of gloves, and a tie.</p> + +<p>"Be <i>very</i> careful about the bags," said the Caterpillar. +"They are cutting 'em in town a trifle tighter about the +lower leg, but loose above. You understand?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly, Mr. Egerton," replied the obsequious snip. +"What we call the 'tighto-looso' style, sir."</p> + +<p>"I don't think they call it that in Savile Row," said the +Caterpillar; "but be careful."</p> + +<p>The tailor was assured that he would receive an order +properly signed by Mr. Rutford. And then John was led +to the bootmaker's, and there measured for his first pair +of patent-leathers. The Caterpillar was so exhausted by +these labours that a protracted visit to the Creameries +became imperative.</p> + +<p>"You've always looked like a gentleman," said the +Caterpillar, after his "dringer," "and it's a comfort to me +to think that now you'll be dressed like one."</p> + +<p>So John went up to town looking very smart indeed; +and Fluff (who had ordered a similar kit) whispered to John +at luncheon that his brothers, the Etonians, had expressed +surprise at the change for the better in their general +appearance.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p> + +<p>This luncheon was eaten on the top of the duke's coach, +and it happened that the next coach but one belonged to +Scaife's father. John could just see Scaife's handsome head, +and Cæsar sitting beside him. The boys nodded to each +other, and the Etonians asked questions. At the name of +Scaife, however, the young Kinlochs curled contemptuous +lips.</p> + +<p>"Unspeakable bounder, old Scaife, isn't he?" they +asked; and the duchess replied—</p> + +<p>"My dears, his cheques are honoured to any amount, +even if <i>he</i> isn't."</p> + +<p>Her laughter tinkled delightfully; but John reflected +that Desmond was eating the Scaife food and drinking the +Scaife wine—all bought with ill-gotten gold.</p> + +<p>Later in the afternoon it became evident that the +Scaife champagne was flowing freely. To John's dismay, +the Harrovians (including Cæsar) on the top of the Scaife +coach became noisy. The Caterpillar and his father, +Colonel Egerton, sauntered up, and were invited by the +duke to rest and refresh themselves. John was amused +to note that the colonel was even a greater buck than +his son. He quite cut out the poor old Caterpillar, +challenging and monopolizing the attention of all who +beheld him.</p> + +<p>"Those boys are makin' the devil of a row," said the +colonel, fixing his eyeglass. "Ah, the Scaifes! A man +I know dined with them last week. He reported everything +<i>over</i>done, except the food. Their <i>chef</i> is Marcobruno, +you know."</p> + +<p>Presently, to John's relief, Desmond left the Scaifes +and joined the Trent party, upon whom his gay, +radiant face and charming manners made a most +favourable impression. He laughed at the duchess's +stories, and made love to her quite unaffectedly. The +Etonians looked rather glum, because their wickets were +falling faster than had been expected. Desmond told +the duke, in answer to a question, that his father was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> +in his seat in the pavilion, with his eyes glued to the +pitch.</p> + +<p>"He's awfully keen," said Cæsar.</p> + +<p>"You boys are not so keen as we were," said the duke, +nodding reflectively.</p> + +<p>"Oh, but we are, sir—indeed we are," said Cæsar. +"Aren't we, Caterpillar?"</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar replied, thoughtfully, "One bottles up +that sort of thing, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Ah," said the duke, kindly, "if it's the right sort of +thing, it's none the worse for being bottled up."</p> + +<p>The boys went to the play that night and enjoyed themselves +hugely. Next day, however, the match ended in a +draw. John was standing on the top of the coach, very +disconsolate, when he saw Desmond beckoning to him +from below. The expression on Cæsar's face puzzled +him.</p> + +<p>"How can you pal up with those Etonians?" whispered +Cæsar, after John had descended. "Every Eton face I see +now I want to hit." Then he added, with a smile and a +chuckle, "I say, there's going to be a ruction in front of +the Pavvy. Come on."</p> + +<p>A minute later John was in the thick of a very pretty +scrimmage between the Hill and the Plain. Hats were +bashed in; cornflowers torn from buttonholes; pale-blue +tassels were captured; umbrellas broken. Finally, the +police interfered.</p> + +<p>"Short, but very, very sweet," said Cæsar, panting.</p> + +<p>John and he were lamentable objects for fond parents +to behold, but the sense of depression had vanished. And +then Cæsar said suddenly—</p> + +<p>"By Jove! I <i>have</i> got a bit of news. It quite takes +the sting out of this draw."</p> + +<p>"What's happened?"</p> + +<p>"My governor has been talking with Warde. Rutford +is leaving Harrow."</p> + +<p>John gasped. "That is ripping."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Isn't it? But who do you think is coming to us? +Why, Warde himself. He was at the Manor when it was +<i>the</i> house, and the governor says that Warde will make it +<i>the</i> house, again. He's got his work cut out for him—eh?"</p> + +<p>"You bet your life," said John.</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> "Duck-Puddle," the school bathing-place.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> A "Dringer" is composed of the following ingredients: a layer +of strawberries is secreted in sugar and cream at the bottom of a clean +jam-pot; and this receives a decent covering of strawberry ice, which +brings the surface of the dringer and the top edge of the jam-pot into +the same plane. The whole may be bought for sixpence. (P. C. T., 1905.)</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> A "Bluer" is the blue-flannel jacket worn in the playing fields. +It must be worn <i>buttoned</i> by boys who have been less than three years in +the school.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> Small boys are not advised to copy John's tactics. The victory +is not always to the weak.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> The house-cap, only worn by members of the House Cricket +Eleven.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> Lying in bed in the morning when there is no First School is a +"frowst." By a subtle law of association, an armchair is also a "frowst."</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3><i>A Revelation</i></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 23em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Forty years on, when afar and asunder<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Parted are those who are singing to-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When you look back, and forgetfully wonder<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What you were like in your work and your play;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, it may be, there will often come o'er you<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Visions of boyhood shall float them before you,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Before the</span> end of the summer term, both Desmond and +Scaife received their "caps" and a word of advice from +Lawrence.</p> + +<p>"There are going to be changes here," said he; "and +I wish I could see 'em, and help to bring 'em about. Now, +I'm not given to buttering fellows up, but I see plainly that +the rebuilding of this house depends a lot upon you two. +It's not likely that you're able to measure your influence; +if you could, there wouldn't be much to measure. But take +it from me, not a word, not an action of yours is without +weight with the lower boys. Everything helps or hinders. +Next term there will be war—to the knife—between Warde +and some fellows I needn't name, and Warde will win. +Remember I said so. I hope you," he looked hard at +Desmond, "will fight on the right side."</p> + +<p>The boys returned to their room, jubilant because the +house-cap was theirs, but uneasy because of the words +given with it. As soon as they were alone, Scaife said +sullenly—</p> + +<p>"Does Lawrence expect us to stand in with Warde +against Lovell and his pals? If he does, he's jolly well +mistaken, as far as I'm concerned."</p> + +<p>Desmond flushed. He had spent nearly five terms at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +Harrow, but only two at the Manor. Of what had been +done or left undone by certain fellows in the Fifth he was +still in twilight ignorance. He discerned shadows, nothing +more, and, boylike, he ran from shadows into the sunlight. +Desmond knew that there were beasts at the Manor. Had +you forced from him an expression approaching, let +us say, definiteness, he would have admitted that beasts +lurked in every house, in every school in the kingdom. +You must keep out of their way (and ways)—that was all. +And he knew also that too many beasts wreck a house, as +they wreck a regiment or a nation.</p> + +<p>But once or twice within the past few months he had +suspected that his cut-and-dried views on good and evil +were not shared by Scaife. Scaife confessed to Desmond +that the Old Adam was strong in him. He liked, craved for, +the excitement of breaking the law. Hitherto, this breaking +of the law had been confined to such offences as smoking +or drinking a glass of beer at a "pub,"<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> or using cribs, or, +generally speaking, setting at naught authority. That +Scaife had escaped severe punishment was due to his keen +wits.</p> + +<p>Now, when Scaife gave Desmond the unexpurgated +history of the row which so nearly resulted in the expulsion +of six boys, Desmond had asked a question—</p> + +<p>"Do you <i>like</i> whisky? I loathe it."</p> + +<p>Scaife laughed before he answered. Doubtless one +reason why he exacted interest and admiration from Desmond +lay in a rare (rare at fifteen) ability to analyse his +own and others' actions.</p> + +<p>"I loathe it, too," he admitted. "Really, you know, +we drank precious little, because it <i>is</i> such beastly stuff. +But I liked, we all liked, to believe that we were doing the +correct thing—eh? And it warmed us up. Just a taste +made the Caterpillar awfully funny."</p> + +<p>"I see."</p> + +<p>"Do you see? I doubt it, Cæsar. Perhaps I shall<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> +horrify you when I tell you that vice interests me. I used +to buy the <i>Police News</i> when I was a kid, and simply +wallow in it. I told a woman that last Easter, and she +laughed—she was as clever as they make 'em—and said +that I suffered from what the French call <i>la nostalgie de la +boue</i>; that means, you know, the homesickness for the +gutter. Rather personal, but dev'lish sharp, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>"I think she was a beast."</p> + +<p>"Not she, she's a sort of cousin; she came from the +same old place herself; that's why she understood. You +don't want to know what goes on in the slums, but I do. +Why? Because my grand-dad was born in 'em."</p> + +<p>"He pulled himself out by brains and muscles."</p> + +<p>"But he went back—sometimes. Oh yes, he did. +And the governor—I'm up to some of <i>his</i> little games. I +could tell you——"</p> + +<p>"Oh—shut up!" said Cæsar, the colour flooding his cheeks.</p> + +<p>Upon the last Saturday of the term the School Concert +took place. Few of the boys in the Manor, and none out +of it, knew that John Verney had been chosen to sing the +treble solo; always an attractive number of the programme. +John, indeed, was painfully shy in regard to his +singing, so shy that he never told Desmond that he had a +voice. And the music-master, enchanted by its quality, +impressed upon his pupil the expediency of silence. He +wished to surprise the School.</p> + +<p>The concerts at Harrow take place in the great Speech-room. +Their characteristic note is the singing of Harrow +songs. To any boy with an ear for music and a heart +susceptible of emotion these songs must appeal profoundly, +because both words and music seem to enshrine all that +is noble and uplifting in life. And, sung by the whole +School (as are most of the choruses), their message becomes +curiously emphatic. The spirit of the Hill is acclaimed, +gladly, triumphantly, unmistakably, by Harrovians repeating +the creed of their fathers, knowing that creed will be +so repeated by their sons and sons' sons. Was it happy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +chance or a happier sagacity which decreed that certain +verses should be sung by the School "Twelve," who have +struggled through form after form and know (and have not +yet had time to forget) the difficulties and temptations +which beset all boys? They, to whom their fellows unanimously +accord respect at least, and often—as in the case +of a Captain of the Cricket Eleven—enthusiastic admiration +and fealty; these, the gods, in a word, deliver their injunction, +transmit, in turn, what has been transmitted to +them, and invite their successors to receive it. To many +how poignant must be the reflection that the trust they are +about to resign might have been better administered! But +to many there must come upon the wings of those mighty, +rushing choruses the assurance that the Power which has +upheld them in the past will continue to uphold them in +the future. In many—would one could say in all—is +quickened, for the first time, perhaps, a sense of what they +owe to the Hill, the overwhelming debt which never can +be discharged.</p> + +<p>Desmond sat beside Scaife. Scaife boasted that he +could not tell "God save the Queen" from "The Dead +March in Saul." He confessed that the concert bored him. +Desmond, on the other hand, was always touched by music, +or, indeed, by anything appealing to an imagination which +gilded all things and persons. He was Scaife's friend, not +only (as John discovered) because Scaife had a will strong +enough to desire and secure that friendship, but because—a +subtler reason—he had never yet seen Scaife as he was, +but always as he might have been.</p> + +<p>Desmond told Scaife that he could not understand why +John had bottled up the fact that he was chosen to sing +upon such an occasion. Scaife smiled contemptuously.</p> + +<p>"You never bottle up anything, Cæsar," said he.</p> + +<p>"Why should I? And why should he?"</p> + +<p>"I expect he'll make an awful ass of himself."</p> + +<p>"Oh no, he won't," Desmond replied. "He's a clever +fellow is Jonathan."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> + +<p>As he gave John his nickname, Desmond's charming +voice softened. A boy of less quick perceptions than Scaife +would have divined that the speaker liked John, liked him, +perhaps, better than he knew. Scaife frowned.</p> + +<p>"There are several Old Harrovians," he said, indicating +the seats reserved for them. "It's queer to me that they +come down for this caterwauling."</p> + +<p>Desmond glanced at him sharply, with a wrinkle between +his eyebrows. For the moment he looked as if he were +short-sighted, as if he were trying to define an image somewhat +blurred, conscious that the image itself was clear +enough, that the fault lay in the obscurity of his own vision.</p> + +<p>"They come down because they're keen," he replied. +"My governor can't leave his office, or he'd be here. I like +to see 'em, don't you, Demon?"</p> + +<p>"I could worry along without 'em," the Demon replied, +half-smiling. "You see," he added, with the blend of +irony and pathos which always captivated his friend, "you +see, my dear old chap, I'm the first of my family at Harrow, +and the sight of all your brothers and uncles and fathers +makes me feel like Mark Twain's good man, rather +<i>lonesome</i>."</p> + +<p>At once Desmond responded, clutching Scaife's arm.</p> + +<p>"You're going to be Captain of the cricket and footer +Elevens, and School racquet-player, and a monitor; and +after you leave you'll come down here, and you'll see that +Harrow hasn't forgotten you, and then you'll know why +these fellows cut engagements. My governor says that an +hour at a School Concert is the finest tonic in the world for +an Old Harrovian."</p> + +<p>"Oh, shut up!" said Scaife; "you make me feel more +of an outsider than good old Snowball." He glanced at +a youth sitting close to them. Snowball was as black as +a coal: the son of the Sultan of the Sahara. "Yes, +Cæsar, you can't get away from it, I <i>am</i> an 'alien.'"</p> + +<p>"You're a silly old ass! I say, who's the guest of +honour?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p> + +<p>Next to the Head Master was sitting a thin man upon +whose face were fixed hundreds of eyes. The School had +not been told that a famous Field Marshal, the hero of a +hundred fights, was coming to the concert. And, indeed, +he had accepted an invitation given at the last moment—accepted +it, moreover, on the understanding that his visit +was to be informal. None the less, his face was familiar +to all readers of illustrated papers. And, suddenly, conviction +seized the boys that a conqueror was among them, +an Old Etonian, making, possibly, his first visit to the Hill. +Scaife whispered his name to Desmond.</p> + +<p>"Why, of course," Desmond replied eagerly. "How +splendid!"</p> + +<p>He leaned forward, devouring the hero with his eyes, +trying to pierce the bronzed skin, to read the record. From +his seat upon the stage John, also, stared at the illustrious +guest. John was frightfully nervous, but looking at the +veteran he forgot the fear of the recruit. Both Desmond +and he were wondering what "it felt like" to have done so +much. And—they compared notes afterwards—each boy +deplored the fact that the great man was not an Old +Harrovian. There he sat, cool, calm, slightly impassive. +John thought he must be rather tired, as a man ought to be +tired after a life of strenuous endeavour and achievement. +He had done—so John reflected—an awful lot. Even now, +he remained the active, untiring servant of Queen and +country. And he had taken time to come down to Harrow +to hear the boys sing. And, dash it all! he, John, was +going to sing to him.</p> + +<p>At that moment Desmond was whispering to Scaife—</p> + +<p>"I say, Demon; I'm jolly glad that I've not got to +sing before <i>him</i>. I bet Jonathan is in a funk."</p> + +<p>"A big bit of luck," replied Scaife, reflectively. Then, +seeing the surprise on Desmond's face, he added, "If +Jonathan can sing—and I suppose he can, or he wouldn't +be chosen—this is a chance——"</p> + +<p>"Of what?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Cæsar, sometimes I think you've no brains. Why, a +chance of attracting the notice of a tremendous swell—a +man, they say, who never forgets—never! Jonathan may +want a commission in the Guards, as I do; and if he pleases +the great man, he may get it."</p> + +<p>"Jonathan's not thinking of that," said Desmond. +"Shush-h-h!"</p> + +<p>The singers stood up. They faced the Field Marshal, +and he faced them. He looked hardest at Lawrence, +pointed out to him by the Head Master. Perhaps he was +thinking of India; and the name of Lawrence indelibly +cut upon the memories of all who fought in the Mutiny. +And Lawrence, you may be sure, met his glance steadily, +being fortified by it. The good fellow felt terribly distressed, +because he was leaving the Hill; and, being a +humble gentleman, the old songs served to remind him, +not of what he had done, but of what he had left undone—the +words unspoken, the actions never now to be performed. +The chief caught his eye, smiled, and nodded, as if to say, +"I claim your father's son as a friend."</p> + +<p>When the song came to an end, John was seized with +an almost irresistible impulse to bolt. His turn had come. +He must stand up to sing before nearly six hundred boys, +who would stare down with gravely critical and courteously +amused eyes. And already his legs trembled as if he were +seized of a palsy. John knew that he could sing. His +mother, who sang gloriously, had trained him. From her +he had inherited his vocal chords, and from her he drew +the knowledge how to use them.</p> + +<p>When he stood up, pale and trembling, the silence fell +upon his sensibilities as if it were a dense, yellow fog. This +silence, as John knew, was an unwritten law. The small +boy selected to sing to the School, as the representative of +the School, must have every chance. Let his voice be +heard! The master playing the accompaniment paused +and glanced at his pupil. John, however, was not looking +at him; he was looking within at a John he despised—a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +poltroon, a deserter about to run from his first engagement. +He knew that the introduction to the song was being played +a second time, and he saw the Head Master whispering to +his guest. Paralysed with terror, John's intuition told +him that the Head Master was murmuring, "That's the +nephew of John Verney. Of course you know him?" +And the Field Marshal nodded. And then he looked at +John, as John had seen him look at Lawrence, with the +same flare of recognition in the steel-grey eyes. Out of the +confused welter of faces shone that pair of eyes—twin +beacons flashing their message of encouragement and +salvation to a fellow-creature in peril—at least, so John +interpreted that piercing glance. It seemed to say, far +plainer than words, "I have stood alone as you stand; +I have felt my knees as wax; I have wished to run away. +But—<i>I didn't</i>. Nor must you. Open your mouth and +sing!"</p> + +<p>So John opened his mouth and sang. The first verse +of the lyric went haltingly.</p> + +<p>Scaife growled to Desmond, "He <i>is</i> going to make an +ass of himself."</p> + +<p>And Desmond, meeting Scaife's eyes, half thought that +the speaker wished that John would fail—that he grudged +him a triumph. None the less, the first verse, sung feebly, +with wrong phrasing and imperfect articulation, revealed +the quality of the boy's voice; and this quality Desmond +recognized, as he would have recognized a fine painting or +a bit of perfect porcelain. All his short life his father had +trained him to look for and acclaim quality, whether in +things animate or inanimate. He caught hold of Scaife's +arm.</p> + +<p>"Make an ass of himself!" he whispered back. "Not +he. But he may make an ass of me."</p> + +<p>Even as he spoke he was aware that tears were horribly +near his eyes. Some catch in John's voice, some subtle +inflection, had smitten his heart, even as the prophet smote +the rock.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Rot!" said Scaife, angrily.</p> + +<p>He was angry, furiously angry, because he saw that +Cæsar was beyond his reach, whirled innumerable leagues +away by the sound of another's voice. John had begun +the second verse. He stared, as if hypnotized, straight into +the face of the great soldier, who in turn stared as steadily +at John; and John was singing like a lark, with a lark's +spontaneous delight in singing, with an ease and self-abandonment +which charmed eye almost as much as ear. +Higher and higher rose the clear, sexless notes, till two of +them met and mingled in a triumphant trill. To Desmond, +that trill was the answer to the quavering, troubled +cadences of the first verse; the vindication of the spirit +soaring upwards unfettered by the flesh—the pure spirit, +not released from the pitiful human clay without a fierce +struggle. At that moment Desmond loved the singer—the +singer who called to him out of heaven, who summoned +his friend to join him, to see what he saw—"the vision +splendid."</p> + +<p>John began the third and last verse. The famous soldier +covered his face with his hand, releasing John's eyes, which +ascended, like his voice, till they met joyfully the eyes of +Desmond. At last he was singing to his friend—<i>and his +friend knew it</i>. John saw Desmond's radiant smile, and +across that ocean of faces he smiled back. Then, knowing +that he was nearer to his friend than he had ever been +before, he gathered together his energies for the last line of +the song—a line to be repeated three times, loudly at first, +then more softly, diminishing to the merest whisper of +sound, the voice celestial melting away in the ear of earth-bound +mortals. The master knew well the supreme difficulty +of producing properly this last attenuated note; but +he knew also that John's lungs were strong, that the vocal +chords had never been strained. Still, if the boy's breath +failed; if anything—a smile, a frown, a cough—distracted +his attention, the end would be—weakness, failure. He +wondered why John was staring so fixedly in one direction.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p> + +<p>Now—now!</p> + +<p>The piano crashed out the last line; but far above it, +dominating it, floated John's flute-like notes. The master +played the same bars for the second time. He was still +able to sustain, if it were necessary, a quavering, imperfect +phrase. But John delivered the second repetition without +a mistake, singing easily from the chest. The master put +his foot upon the soft pedal. Nobody was watching him. +Had any one done so, he would have seen the perspiration +break upon the musician's forehead. The piano purred its +accompaniment. Then, in the middle of the phrase, the +master lifted his hands and held them poised above the +instrument. John had to sing three notes unsupported. +He was smiling and staring at Desmond. The first note +came like a question from the heart of a child; the second, +higher up, might have been interpreted as an echo to the +innocent interrogation of the first, the head no wiser than +the heart; but the third and last note had nothing in it +of interrogation: it was an answer, all-satisfying—sublime. +Nor did it seem to come from John at all, but from above, +falling like a snowflake out of the sky.</p> + +<p>And then, for one immeasurable moment—<i>silence</i>.</p> + +<p>John slipped back to his seat, crimson with bashfulness, +while the School thundered applause. The Field Marshal +shouted "Encore," as loudly as any fag; but the Head +Master whispered—</p> + +<p>"We don't encourage <i>encores</i>. A small boy's head is +easily turned."</p> + +<p>"Not his," the hero replied.</p> + +<p>Two numbers followed, and then the School stood up, +and with them all Old Harrovians, to sing the famous +National Anthem of Harrow, "Forty Years on." Only +the guests and the masters remained seated.</p> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 23em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Forty years on, growing older and older,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shorter in wind, as in memory long,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What will it help you that once you were strong?<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +<span class="i0">God give us bases to guard or beleaguer,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Games to play out, whether earnest or fun;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fights for the fearless, and goals for the eager,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Twenty, and thirty, and forty years on!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the field ring again and again,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the tramp of the twenty-two men.<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Follow—up!"<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + +<p>As the hundreds of voices, past and present indissolubly +linked together, imposed the mandate, "<i>Follow up!</i>" the +Head Master glanced at his guest, but left unsaid the words +about to be uttered. Tears were trickling down the cheeks +of the man who, forty years before, had won his Sovereign's +Cross—For Valour.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>After the concert, but before he left the Speech-room, +the Field Marshal asked the Head Master to introduce +Lawrence and John, and, of course, the Head of the School. +When John came up, there was a twinkle in the veteran's +eye.</p> + +<p>"Ha—ha!" said he; "you were in a precious funk, +John Verney."</p> + +<p>"I was, sir," said John.</p> + +<p>"Gad! Don't I know the feeling? Well, well," he +chuckled, smiling at John, "you climbed up higher than +I've ever been in my life. What was it—hey? 'F' in 'alt'?"</p> + +<p>"'G,' sir."</p> + +<p>"You sang delightfully. Tell your uncle to bring you +to see me next time you are in town. You must consider +me a friend," he chuckled again—"an old friend. And +look ye here," his pleasant voice sank to a whisper, "I +daren't tip these tremendous swells, but I feel that I can +take such a liberty with you. Shush-h-h! Good-bye."</p> + +<p>John scurried away, bursting with pride, feeling to the +core the strong grip of the strong man, hearing the thrill of +his voice, the thrill which had vibrated in thousands of +soldier-hearts. Outside, Fluff was awaiting him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Jonathan, you can sing, and no mistake."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Five—six—seven mistakes," John answered.</p> + +<p>The boys laughed.</p> + +<p>John told Fluff what the hero had said to him, and +showed the piece of gold.</p> + +<p>"What ho! The Creameries! Come on, Esmé."</p> + +<p>At the Creameries several boys congratulated John, and +the Caterpillar said—</p> + +<p>"You astonished us, Jonathan; 'pon my soul you did. +Have a 'dringer' with me? And Fluff, too? By the +way, be sure to keep your hair clipped close. These singing +fellows with manes may be lions in their own estimation, +but the world looks upon 'em as asses."</p> + +<p>"That's not bad for you, Caterpillar," said a boy in +the Fifth.</p> + +<p>"Not my own," said the Caterpillar, solemnly—"my +father's. I take from him all the good things I can get +hold of."</p> + +<p>John polished off his "dringer," listening to the chaff, +but his thoughts were with Desmond. He had an intuition +that Desmond would have something to say to him. As +soon as possible he returned to the Manor.</p> + +<p>There he found his room empty. John shut the door +and sat down, looking about him half-absently. The +Duffer had not contributed much to the mural decoration, +saying, loftily, that he preferred bare walls to rubbishy +engravings and Japanese fans. But, with curious inconsistency +(for he was the least vain of mortals), he had bought +at a "leaving auction" a three-sided mirror—once the +property of a great buck in the Sixth. The Duffer had got +it cheap, but he never used it. The lower boys remarked +to each other that Duff didn't dare to look in it, because +what he would see must not only break his heart but +shatter the glass. Generally, it hung, folded up, close to +the window, and the Duffer said that it would come in +handy when he took to shaving.</p> + +<p>John's eye rested on this mirror, vacantly at first, then +with gathering intensity. Presently he got up, crossed the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +room, opened the two folding panels, and examined himself +attentively, pursing up his lips and frowning. He +could see John Verney full face, three-quarter face, and half-face. +And he could see the back of his head, where an +obstinate lock of hair stuck out like a drake's tail. John +was so occupied in taking stock of his personal disadvantages +that a ringing laugh quite startled him.</p> + +<p>"Why, Jonathan! Giving yourself a treat—eh?"</p> + +<p>John turned a solemn face to Desmond. "I think my +head is hideous," he said ruefully.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"It's too long," John explained. "I like a nice round +head like yours, Cæsar. I wish I wasn't so ugly."</p> + +<p>Desmond laughed. John always amused him. Cæsar +was easily amused, saw the funny side of things, and contrasts +tickled his fancy agreeably. But he stopped laughing +when he realized that John was hurt. Then, quickly, +impulsively, he said—</p> + +<p>"Your head is all right, old Jonathan. And your voice +is simply beautiful." He spoke seriously, staring at John +as he had stared in the Speech-room when John began to +sing. "I came here to tell you that. I felt odd when you +were singing—quite weepsy, you know. You like me, old +Jonathan, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Awfully," said John.</p> + +<p>"Why did you look at me when you sang that last +verse? Did you know that you were looking at me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You looked at me because—well, because—bar chaff—you—liked—me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You—you like me better than any other fellow in the +school?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; better than any other fellow in the world."</p> + +<p>"Is it possible?"</p> + +<p>"I have always felt that way since—yes—since the very +first minute I saw you."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How rum! I've forgotten just where we did meet—for +the first time."</p> + +<p>"I shall never forget," said John, in the same slow, +deliberate fashion, never taking his eyes from Desmond's +face. Ever since he had sung, he had known that this +moment was coming. "I shall never forget it," he repeated—"never. +You were standing near the Chapel. +I was poking about alone, trying to find the shop where we +buy our straws. And I was feeling as all new boys feel, +only more so, because I didn't know a soul."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Desmond, gravely; "you told me that. +I remember now; I mistook you for young Hardacre."</p> + +<p>"You smiled at me, Cæsar. It warmed me through and +through. I suppose that when a fellow is starving he never +forgets the first meal after it."</p> + +<p>"I say. Go on; this is awfully interesting."</p> + +<p>"I can remember what you wore. One of your bootlaces +had burst——"</p> + +<p>"Well; I'm——"</p> + +<p>"I had a wild sort of wish to run off and buy you a +new lace——"</p> + +<p>"Of all the rum starts I——"</p> + +<p>"Afterwards," John continued, "I tried to suck-up. +I asked you to come and have some 'food.' Do you +remember?"</p> + +<p>"I'll bet I came, Jonathan."</p> + +<p>"No; you didn't. You said 'No.'"</p> + +<p>"Dash it all! I certainly said, 'No thanks.'"</p> + +<p>"I dare say; but the 'No' hurt awfully because I did +feel that it was cheek asking you."</p> + +<p>"Jonathan, you funny old buster, I'll never say 'No' +again. 'Pon my word, I won't. So I said 'No.' That's +odd, because it's not easy for me to say 'No.' The governor +pointed that out last hols. Somehow, I can't say 'No,' +particularly if there's any excitement in saying 'Yes.' +And my beastly 'No' hurt, did it? Well, I'm very, <i>very</i> +sorry."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> + +<p>He held out his hand, which John took. Then, for a +moment, there was a pause before Desmond continued +awkwardly—</p> + +<p>"You know, Jonathan, that the Demon is my pal. +You like him better than you did, don't you?"</p> + +<p>John had the tact not to speak; but he shook his head +dolefully.</p> + +<p>"And I couldn't chuck him, even if I wanted to, which +I don't—which I don't," he repeated, with an air of satisfying +himself rather than John. And John divined that +Scaife's hold upon Desmond's affections was not so strong +as he had deemed it to be. Desmond continued, "But +I want you, too, old Jonathan, and if—if——"</p> + +<p>"All right," said John, nobly. He perceived that +Desmond's loyalty to Scaife made him hesitate and flush. +"I understand, Cæsar, and if I can't be first, let me be +second; only, remember, with me you're first, rain or +shine."</p> + +<p>Desmond looked uneasy. "Isn't that a case of 'heads +I win, tails you lose'?"</p> + +<p>John considered; then he smiled cheerfully, "You +know you are a winner, Cæsar. You're cut out for a +winner; you can win whatever you want to win."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's all rot," said Desmond. He looked very +grave, and in his eyes lay shadows which John had never +seen before.</p> + +<p>And so ended John's first year at Harrow.</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> All Public Houses are out of bounds.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3><i>Reform</i></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 22em;"><p>"'It must be a gran' thing to be a colledge profissor.'</p> + +<p>"'Not much to do,' said Mr. Hennessy.</p> + +<p>"'But a gr—reat deal to say,' said Mr. Dooley."</p></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">When John</span> returned to the Hill at the beginning of the +winter term the great change had taken place. Rutford +had assumed the duties of Professor of Greek at a Scotch +University; Warde was in possession of the Manor; Scaife +and Desmond and John—but not the Caterpillar—had got +their remove. They were Fifth Form boys—and in tails! +John, it is true, although tougher and broader, was still +short for his years and juvenile of appearance, but Scaife +and Desmond were quite big fellows, and their new coats +became them mightily. Trieve was Head of the House; +Lovell, Captain of the House football Eleven and in the +Lower Sixth.</p> + +<p>"Lovell will have to behave himself now," the Duffer +remarked to Scaife, who laughed derisively, as he +answered—</p> + +<p>"He couldn't, even if he tried."</p> + +<p>Warde welcomed the House at lock-up, and introduced +the boys to his wife and daughter. Mrs. Warde had a +plain, pleasant face. Miss Warde, however, was a beauty, +and she knew it, the coquette, and had known it from the +hour she could peep into a mirror. The Caterpillar pronounced +her "fetching." Being only fifteen, she wore her +hair in a plait tied by a huge bow, and the hem of her skirt +barely touched the neatest ankle on Harrow Hill. Give +her a saucy, pink-and-white face, pop a pert, tip-tilted nose +into the middle of it just above a pouting red mouth, and +just below her father's lapis-lazuli eyes, and you will see<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +Iris Warde. Her hair was reddish, not red—call it warm +chestnut; and she had a dimple.</p> + +<p>After the introductions, mother and daughter left the +hall. Warde stood up, inviting the House to sit down. +Warde was about half the width of the late Rutford, but +somehow he seemed to take up more room. He had spent +the summer holidays in Switzerland, climbing terrific peaks. +Snow and sun had coloured his clear complexion. John, +who saw beneath tanned skins, reflected that Warde seemed +to be saturated with fresh air and all the sweet, clean things +which one associates with mountains. "He loves hills," +thought John, "and he loves our Hill." Warde began to +speak in his jerky, confidential tones. Dirty Dick had +always been insufferably dull, pompous, and didactic.</p> + +<p>"I don't like speechmaking," said Warde, "but I +want to put one thing to you as strongly as a man may. +I have always wished to be master of the Manor. Some +men may think mine a small ambition. Master of a house +at Harrow? Nothing big about that. Perhaps not. But +I think it big. And it is big—for me. Understand that +I'm in love with my job—head over heels. I'd sooner be +master of the Manor than Prime Minister. I couldn't +tackle his work. Enough of that. Now, forget for a +moment that I'm a master. Let me talk as an Old Harrovian, +an old Manorite who remembers everything, ay—everything, +good and bad. Some lucky fellows remember +the good only; we call them optimists. Others remember +the bad. Pessimists those. Put me between the two. The +other day I had an eye, <i>one</i> eye, fixed on the top of a certain +peak—by Jove! how I longed to reach that peak!—but +the other eye was on a <i>crevasse</i> at my feet. Had I kept +both eyes on the peak, I should be lying now at the bottom +of that <i>crevasse</i>. You take me? Well, twenty years ago +I sat here, in hall, my last night in the old house, and I +hoped that one day I might come back. Why? This is +between ourselves, a confidence. I came to the Manor +from a beastly school, such schools are hardly to be found<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +nowadays—a hardened young sinner at thirteen. The +Manor licked me into shape. Speaking generally, I suppose +the tone of the house insensibly communicated itself +to me. The Manor was cock-house at games and work. +I began by shirking both. But the spirit of the Hill was +too much for me. I couldn't shirk that. Some jolly old +boys, we all know them and like them, are always saying +that their early school-days were the happiest of their lives. +They're fond of telling this big lie just as they're settling +down to their claret. I really believe that they believe +what they say, but it <i>is</i> a lie. The smallest boy here knows +it's a lie. Let's hark back a bit. I said I was licked into +shape—and I mean <i>licked</i>. I had a lot of really hard +fagging—much harder than any of you boys know—I was +sent up and swished, I had whoppings innumerable, and +it wasn't pleasant. My mother had pinched herself to +send me here, because my father had been here before me; +and I wondered why she did it. At that time I couldn't +see why cheaper schools shouldn't be not only as good as +Harrow, but perhaps better. Not till I was in the Fifth +did I get a glimmering of what my mother and the Manor +were doing for me. When I got into the Sixth and into +the Eleven, I knew. And my last year here made up, and +more, too, for the previous four. I enjoyed that year +thoroughly; I had ceased to be a slacker. I tell you, all +of you, that happiness, like liberty, must be earned before +we can enjoy it. And you are sent here to earn it. I'm +not going to keep you much longer. I have come to the +marrow of the matter. I owe the Manor a debt which I +hope to pay to—you. Just as you, in turn, will pay back +to boys not yet born the money your people have gladly +spent on you, and other greater things besides. I want to +see this house at the top of the tree again: cock-house at +cricket, cock-house at footer, with a Balliol Scholar in it, +and a school racquet-player. And now Dumbleton is +going to bring in a little champagne. We'll drink high +health and fellowship to the Manor and the Hill!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p> + +<p>His face broke into the smile his form knew so well; he +sat down, as the house roared its welcome to a friend.</p> + +<p>As soon as the champagne was drunk ("Dumber" was +careful to put more froth than wine into the glasses of the +kids), the boys filed out of the Hall. The Duffer, Desmond, +John, and the Caterpillar assembled in John's room. +Desmond, you may be sure, was afire with resolution. +Warde was the right sort, a clinker, a first flighter. And +he meant to stick by him through thick and thin. John +said nothing. The Caterpillar drawled out—</p> + +<p>"Warde didn't surprise me—much. I've found out +that he's one of the Wardes of Warde-Pomeroy, the real +old stuff. Our families intermarried in Elizabeth's reign."</p> + +<p>"Chance to do it again, Caterpillar," said the Duffer. +"Warde's daughter is an uncommonly pretty girl."</p> + +<p>Then the Caterpillar used the epithet "fetching."</p> + +<p>"She's fetching, very fetching," he said. "It's a +pleasure to remember that we're of kin. One must be +civil to Warde. He's a well bred 'un."</p> + +<p>"You think too much of family," said Desmond.</p> + +<p>"<i>One can't</i>," replied the Caterpillar, solemnly. "One +knows that family is not everything, but, other things +being equal, it means refinement. The first of the Howards +was a swineherd, I dare say, but generations of education, +of association with the best, have turned them from swine-herds +into gentlemen, and it takes generations to do it."</p> + +<p>"Good old Caterpillar!" said the Duffer.</p> + +<p>"Not my own," said the Caterpillar; adding, as usual, +"My governor's, you know."</p> + +<p>"Warde hasn't a soft job ahead of him," said Desmond.</p> + +<p>"Soft or hard, he'll handle it his own way."</p> + +<p>Desmond went out, wondering what had become of +Scaife. Scaife was in his room, talking to Lovell senior, +who spent a fortnight with Scaife's people in Scotland, +fishing and grousing. Desmond had been asked also, but +his father, rather to Cæsar's disgust (for the Scaife moor +was famous), had refused to let him go. Lovell and Scaife<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +were arguing about something which Desmond could not +understand.</p> + +<p>"I left it to my partner," said Scaife, "and the fool +went no trumps holding two missing suits. The enemy +doubled, my partner redoubled, and the others redoubled +again: that made it ninety-six a trick. The fellow on the +left held my partner's missing suits; he made the Little +Slam, and scored nearly six hundred below the line. It +gave 'em the rubber, too, and I had to fork out a couple of +quid."</p> + +<p>"What are you jawing about, Demon?" said Desmond.</p> + +<p>"Bridge. It's the new game. It's going to be the +rage. Do you play bridge, Cæsar?"</p> + +<p>"No. I want to learn it."</p> + +<p>"All right, I must teach you."</p> + +<p>"We could get up a four in this house," said Lovell. +"We three and the Caterpillar. He plays, I know. The +Colonel is one of the cracks at the Turf. It would be an +awful lark. A mild gamble: small points—eh? A bob +a hundred. What do you say, Cæsar?"</p> + +<p>Desmond hesitated. Bridge had not yet reached its +delirious stage. But Desmond had seen it played, had +heard his father praise it as the most fascinating of card-games, +and had determined to learn it at the first convenient +opportunity. None the less Warde's words still +echoed in his ear.</p> + +<p>"I think we ought to give Warde a chance," he said.</p> + +<p>"You don't mean to say you were taken in by him?" +said Lovell, contemptuously.</p> + +<p>Desmond burst into enthusiastic praise of Warde and +his methods. Lovell shrugged his shoulders and walked +out of the room, nodding to Scaife, but ignoring Desmond.</p> + +<p>"You must go canny with Lovell," said Scaife. "He's +the fellow who ought to give you your 'fez' after the first +house-game."</p> + +<p>"Never mind that. You won't play bridge, Demon, +will you?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why not?" said Scaife. "Where's the harm? Your +governor plays——"</p> + +<p>"Yes; but——"</p> + +<p>"You're afraid of getting sacked?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not."</p> + +<p>"All right; I'll take that back. You're not a funk, +Cæsar, but you're so easily humbugged. Warde caught +you with his 'pi jaw' and a glass of gooseberry."</p> + +<p>"The champagne was all right, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, ho! So you do mean to stand in with Warde +against Lovell and me? Thanks for being so candid. +Now I'll be candid with you. I like Lovell. There's no +nonsense about him. He don't put on frills because he's +in the Sixth, and he don't mean to take to their sneaking, +spying ways. He's just as anxious as Warde to see the +Manor cock-house at footer and cricket, and I'm as keen +as he is; but we stop there. The Balliol Scholarship may +go hang. And as for sympathy and fellowship and pulling +together between masters and boys, I never did believe in +it, and never shall. My hand is against the masters, so +long as they interfere with anything I want to do. I like +bridge, and I mean to play it. And I'll take jolly good care +that I'm not nailed. That's part of the fun, as the drinking +used to be. I chucked that because it wasn't good +enough; but bridge is ripping, and, take my word for it, +you'll be keener than I when you begin."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps. But I'm not going to begin here."</p> + +<p>"Right—oh!"</p> + +<p>Scaife turned aside, whistling, but out of the corner of +his shrewd eye he marked the expression of Desmond's +face, the colour ebbing and flowing in the round, boyish +cheeks, the perplexity on the brow. Then he spoke in +a different voice.</p> + +<p>"Don't worry, old chap. You've stuck to me through +thick and thin, and I'm grateful, really and truly. You're +right, and I'm wrong; I always am wrong. I was +looking forward to larks. If you count 'em purple<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> +sins, I don't blame you for letting me go to the devil by +myself."</p> + +<p>"I never said bridge was a purple sin."</p> + +<p>"Warde thinks it is. If you're going to look at life +here with his eyes, you'll have to rename things. Babies +play Beggar my Neighbour for chocolates; why shouldn't +we play bridge for a bob a hundred? The game is splendid +for the brain; ten thousand times better than translating +Greek choruses."</p> + +<p>"But it is—gambling, Demon; you can't get away +from that."</p> + +<p>"Pooh! It's gambling if I bet you a 'dringer' that +you won't make ten runs in a house-match; it's gambling +if I raffle a picture and you take a sixpenny ticket. Are +you going to give up that sort of gambling?"</p> + +<p>"No; but——"</p> + +<p>"What would Warde say to our co-operative system +of work—eh? You're not prepared to go the whole hog? +You want to pick and choose. Good! But give me the +same right, that's all. Play bridge with your old pals, or +don't play, just as you please."</p> + +<p>No more was said. Scaife's manner rather than his +matter confounded the younger and less experienced boy. +Scaife, too, tackled problems which many men prefer to +leave alone. Here heredity cropped up. Scaife's sire and +grandsire were earning their bread before they were sixteen. +Of necessity they faced and overcame obstacles which the +ordinary Public School-boy never meets till he leaves the +University.</p> + +<p>For some time after this bridge was not mentioned. +Lovell, acting, possibly, under advice from Scaife, treated +Desmond courteously, and gave him his "fez" after the +first house-game. Both boys now were members of the +Manor cricket and football Elevens, and, as such, persons +of distinction in their small world. Scaife, moreover, began +to play football with such extraordinary dash and brilliancy, +that it seemed to be quite on the cards that he might get<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> +his School Flannels. This possibility, and the Greek in +the Fifth, absorbed his energies for the first six weeks of +the winter quarter. John had come back to Scaife's room +to prepare work. Desmond felt that Scaife had been +generous in proposing that John should join them, because +in many small ways it had become evident that the Demon +disliked John, although he still spoke of the tight place out +of which John had hauled him. Through Scaife John +received his "fez"; and when John wore it for the first +time, Scaife came up and said, smiling—</p> + +<p>"I'm nearly even with you, Verney."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" said John.</p> + +<p>"You know well enough what I mean," said Scaife, +winking his eye maliciously.</p> + +<p>John flushed, because in his heart he did know. But +when he told Egerton what Scaife had said, that experienced +man of the world turned up his nose.</p> + +<p>"Just like him," he said. "He wants you to feel that +he has wiped out his debt."</p> + +<p>"Do you think my 'fez' ought to have been given to +young Lovell?"</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar, who played back for the Manor, considered +the question.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," he said. "You are pretty nearly +equal; but it's a fact that the Demon turned the scale. +He pointed out to Lovell that if he gave a 'fez' to his +young brother, the house might accuse him of favouritism. +That did the trick."</p> + +<p>This made John uneasy and unhappy for a week or +two; but the consciousness that another might be better +entitled to the coveted "fez" made him play up with such +energy that he succeeded in proving to all critics that he +had honestly earned what luck had bestowed on him.</p> + +<p>During the last week of October, John began those long +walks with Desmond which, afterwards, he came to regard +as perhaps the most delightful hours spent at Harrow. +Scaife detested walking. He had his father's power of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> +focusing attention and energy upon a single object. For +the moment he was mad about football. Talk about +books, scenery, people, bored him, and he said so with his +usual frankness and impatience of restraint. Desmond, on +the other hand, was also like his father, inasmuch as his +tastes were catholic. He was a bit of a naturalist, learned +in the lore of woods and fields, and he liked to talk about +books, and he liked to talk about his home. Simple John +would sooner hear Cæsar talk than listen to the heavenly +choir. So it came to pass that once a week at least the boys +would stroll down the avenue at Orley Farm (where +Anthony Trollope's sad boyhood was passed), or take the +Northwick Walk, which winds through meadows to the +Bridge, or visit John Lyon's farm at Preston, or, getting +signed for Bill, attempt a longer ramble to Ruislip Reservoir, +or Oxhey Wood, or Headstone with its moated grange, +or Horsington Hill with its long-stretching view across the +Uxbridge plain.</p> + +<p>Very soon it became the natural thing for Cæsar to give +John a glimpse, at least, of whatever floated in and out of +his mind. John, being himself a creature of reserves, could +not quite understand this unlocking of doors, but he +appreciated his privileges. Cæsar's ingenuousness, sympathy, +and impulsiveness, seemed the more enchanting +because John himself was of the look-before-you-leap, +think-before-you-speak, sort. One Sunday evening they +were hurrying back to Chapel, when they passed a woman +carrying a heavy child. The poor creature appeared to be +almost fainting with fatigue and possibly hunger. Her +pinched face, her bent figure, her thin garments, bespoke +a passionate protest against conditions which obviously +she was powerless to avert or control. The boys glanced +at her with pitying eyes as they passed. Then Desmond +said quickly—</p> + +<p>"I say, Jonathan, she looks as if she was going to fall +down."</p> + +<p>John, seeing what was in his friend's mind, said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"We must hurry up, or we shall miss Chapel."</p> + +<p>They offered the woman sixpences, and blushes, because +through the tattered shawl might be seen a shrunken +bosom.</p> + +<p>The woman stared, stammered, and burst into tears.</p> + +<p>"We shall miss Chapel," John repeated.</p> + +<p>"Hang Chapel," said Desmond.</p> + +<p>He was looking at the child. When the woman took +the silver, she let the child slip to the ground, where it +lay inert.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with it?" said Desmond.</p> + +<p>Half sobbing, the woman explained that the child had +sprained its ankle.</p> + +<p>"I'm just about done," she gasped; "an' the sight +o' you two young gen'lemen runnin' up the 'ill finished me. +I ain't the leaky sort," she added fiercely, still gasping and +trembling.</p> + +<p>Then she bent down and tried to lift the heavy child, +which moaned feebly.</p> + +<p>"You run on, Jonathan," said Desmond.</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"I'm going to carry this kid up the hill."</p> + +<p>"I'll help."</p> + +<p>"No—hook it, you ass."</p> + +<p>"I won't hook it."</p> + +<p>Between them they carried the child as far as the +Speech-room, where a policeman accepted a shilling, and +gave in return a positive assurance that he would see woman +and child to their destination. When the boys were alone, +John said—</p> + +<p>"Cæsar——"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"What a fellow you are! I wouldn't have thought of +that. It was splendid."</p> + +<p>"Oh, shut up." There was a slight pause; then Cæsar +said defiantly, "I thought of carrying that kid; but I +wouldn't have done it, unless I'd known that every boy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> +was safe in Chapel. I couldn't have faced the chaff. +And—you could."</p> + +<p>They were punished for cutting Chapel, because Cæsar +refused to give the reason which would have saved them.</p> + +<p>"I'd have told the truth," he admitted to John, "if +I could have shouldered that kid with the Manorites +looking on."</p> + +<p>John agreed that this was an excellent and a Cæsarean +(he coined the adjective on this occasion) reason.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Among the Fifth Form boys of the Manor was a big, +coarse-looking youth of the name of Beaumont-Greene. +Everybody called him Beaumont-Greene in full, because +upon his first appearance at Bill he had stopped the line of +boys by refusing to answer to the name of Greene.</p> + +<p>"My name," said he, in a shrill pipe, "is Beaumont-Greene, +and we spell the Greene with a final 'e'."</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene was a type of boy, unhappily, too +common at all Public Schools. He had no feeling whatever +for Harrow, save that it was a place where it behoved a +boy to escape punishment if he could, and to run, hot foot, +towards anything which would yield pleasure to his body. +He was known to the Manorites as a funk at footer, and a +prodigious consumer of "food" at the Creameries. His +father, having accumulated a large fortune in manufacturing +what was advertised in most of the public prints as +the "Imperishable, Seamless, Whale-skin Boot," gave his +son plenty of money. As a Lower Boy, Beaumont-Greene +had but a sorry time of it. Somebody discovered that he +was what Gilbert once described as an "imperfect ablutioner." +The Caterpillar made a point of telling new boys +the nature of the punishment meted out to the unclean. +He had assisted at the "toshing" of Beaumont-Greene.</p> + +<p>"A nasty job," the Caterpillar would remark, looking +at his own speckless finger-nails: "but it had to be done. +We took the Greene person" (the Caterpillar alone refused +to defame the fine name of Beaumont by linking it to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +Greene) "and placed him naked in a large tosh. Into that +tosh the house was invited to pour any fluid that could be +spared. One forgets things; but, unless I'm mistaken, the +particular sheep-wash used was made up of lemonade, +syrups, ink—plenty of that—milk (I bought a quart myself), +tooth-powder, paraffin, and a cake of Sapolio—Monkey +Brand! We scrubbed the Yahoo thoroughly, +washed its teeth, ears, hair, and then we dried it. I don't +know who smeared marmalade on to the towel, but the +drying part was not very successful. Rather tough—eh? +Yes, very tough—on <i>us</i>, but effective. The Greene person +has toshed regularly ever since. At least, so I'm told; +I never go near him myself, and he's considerate enough +to keep out of my way."</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene had not, it is true, the appetite for +reckless breaking of the law which distinguished Lovell and +his particular pals; but Lovell's good qualities cancelled +to a certain extent what was vicious. A fine cricketer, +a plucky football-player, he might have proved a credit +to his house had a master other than Dirty Dick been +originally in command of it. Before he was out of the +Shell, he had declared war against Authority. Beaumont-Greene, +on the other hand, detested games, and sneered at +those who played them. Pulpy, pimply, gross in mind and +body, he stood for that heavy, amorphous resistance to +good, which is so difficult to overcome.</p> + +<p>During the first half of the winter quarter, John saw +but little of Esmé Kinloch. It is one of the characteristics +of a Public School that the boys—as in the greater world +for which it is a preparation—are in layers. Some layers +overlap; others never touch. Fluff was a fag; his friend +John was in the Fifth Form, and a "fez." In a word, an +Atlantic rolled between them. John, however, would +often give Fluff a "con," and occasionally they would walk +together. Fluff was no longer the delicate, girlish child of +a year ago. He had bloomed into a very handsome boy, +attractive, like all the members of his mother's family,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> +with engaging manners, and he had also shown signs of +developing into a cricketer. Fluff could paddle his own +canoe, provided, of course, that he kept out of the rapids.</p> + +<p>But about the middle of the term John noticed that +Fluff was losing colour and spirits, the latter never very +exuberant. It was not in John's nature to ask questions +which he might answer for himself by taking pains to +do so. He watched Fluff closely. Then he demanded +bluntly—</p> + +<p>"What's up?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing."</p> + +<p>"That's a cram," said John, severely. "I didn't +believe you'd tell me a cram, Esmé."</p> + +<p>"You don't care tuppence whether I tell crams or not—<i>now</i>."</p> + +<p>John weighed the "now" deliberately.</p> + +<p>"That's another cram," he said slowly. "Has anybody +been rotting you?"</p> + +<p>Silence. John repeated the question. Still silence. +Then John added—</p> + +<p>"You know, Esmé, that I shall stick to you till I find +out what's up; so you may as well save time by telling me +at once."</p> + +<p>"It's Beaumont-Greene," faltered Fluff.</p> + +<p>"That fat beast! What's he done?"</p> + +<p>"He hasn't done much—yet."</p> + +<p>"Tell everything!"</p> + +<p>"He came into my room one night and turned me up +in my bed. I woke, on my head, in the dark, half-smothered, +and couldn't think what had happened; it was +simply awful. Then I heard his beastly voice saying, 'If I +let you down, will you do what I ask you?' I'd have +promised anything to get out of that horrible, choking prison, +and now he threatens to turn me up every night, and I +dream of it——"</p> + +<p>"Go on," said John, grimly. "No, you needn't go on. +I can guess what this low cad is up to."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He said he'd be my friend; as if I'd have a beast like +that for a friend."</p> + +<p>"Did you tell him that?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I did."</p> + +<p>"You're a good-plucked 'un, Esmé. And he's made it +warm for you ever since?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"But he hasn't turned you up again?"</p> + +<p>"N-no; but he will. I'd almost sooner he'd do it, and +have done with it. I can't sleep."</p> + +<p>"Now, don't be a silly fool," John commanded. "I'm +going to think this out, and I'll bet I make that fat, pimply +beast sit up and howl."</p> + +<p>"Thanks awfully, John."</p> + +<p>But the more John thought of what he had undertaken +to do, the less clearly he saw his way to do it. Evidently +Beaumont-Greene was too prudent to bully Fluff; he had +resorted to the crueller alternative of terrorizing him. +Lawrence would have settled this fellow's hash—so John +reflected—in a jiffy, but Trieve, "Miss Trieve," was hopelessly +incapable. Presently inspiration came. He seized +an opportunity when Beaumont-Greene happened to be +by himself; then he marched boldly into his room, leaving +the door ajar.</p> + +<p>"Hullo! what do you want?"</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene was sitting opposite the fire, reading +a novel and leisurely consuming macaroons.</p> + +<p>"I want you to leave young Kinloch alone—<i>please</i>."</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene nearly choked; then he spluttered +out—</p> + +<p>"Say that again, will you?"</p> + +<p>"I want you to leave young Kinloch alone."</p> + +<p>"Really? Anything else?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing more, thank you."</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene slowly raised himself out of his chair +and glared at John, whose head came to his chin.</p> + +<p>"You've plenty of cheek."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What I have isn't spotty, anyway."</p> + +<p>John saw the veins begin to swell in Beaumont-Greene's +throat. He thought with relief of the door ajar, but it +was part of his policy—a carefully devised policy—to provoke, +if possible, a scene. Then others would interfere, +explanations would be in order, and public opinion would +accomplish the rest.</p> + +<p>"You infernal young jackanapes!"</p> + +<p>"You pretty pet!"</p> + +<p>"Get out of my room! Hook it!"</p> + +<p>"I want to," said John, coolly enough, although his +heart was throbbing. "It's horribly fuggy in here, and +I've Jambi<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a> to do; but I'm not going till you give me +your word that you'll leave young Kinloch alone."</p> + +<p>"If you don't walk out I'll chuck you out."</p> + +<p>"You must catch me first," said John.</p> + +<p>And then a very pretty chase took place. Beaumont-Greene, +fat, scant of breath, full of macaroons, began to +pursue John round and round the table. John skilfully +interposed chairs, sofa-cushions, anything he could lay +hands on. Passing the washstand, he secured an enormous +sponge, which an instant later flew souse into the face of +the grampus. An abridged edition of Liddell and Scott's +Greek Lexicon followed. This nearly brought the big +fellow to grass. In his rage he, too, began to hurl what +objects happened to be within reach, but he was a shocking +bad shot; he missed, or John dodged every time. John +did not miss. Finally, as John had foreseen, a couple of +Sixth Form fellows rushed in.</p> + +<p>"What's the meaning of this infernal row?" asked one.</p> + +<p>"Ask him," said John.</p> + +<p>Authority stared at Beaumont-Greene, and then at his +wrecked room.</p> + +<p>"I told him to hook it, and he wouldn't," spluttered +the gasping Greene.</p> + +<p>"Why?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> + +<p>Half a dozen other fellows had come into the room. +Amongst them the Duffer and the Caterpillar.</p> + +<p>"I wanted to hook it," John explained, "because it's +so beastly fuggy; but Beaumont-Greene wouldn't promise +me to do something he ought to do."</p> + +<p>"This is mysterious."</p> + +<p>"The swaggering young blackguard cheeked me," +growled Greene.</p> + +<p>"I was very polite—at first," pleaded John.</p> + +<p>"Hook it now, anyway," said Authority.</p> + +<p>"Not till he promises. If you turn me out, I'll come +back after you're gone."</p> + +<p>"What is it you want him to promise?"</p> + +<p>John had achieved his object.</p> + +<p>"I want him to leave young Kinloch <i>alone</i>."</p> + +<p>The two Sixth Form boys glanced at each other; at +John; at the gross, spotted face of Beaumont-Greene. +Then the senior said coldly—</p> + +<p>"I suppose you have no objection, Beaumont-Greene, +to promising Verney or any one else that you will leave young +Kinloch alone?"</p> + +<p>"I've never laid a finger on the kid," growled the big +fellow; but he looked pale and frightened.</p> + +<p>"Then you promise—eh?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"On your word of honour?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>That night John told Fluff with great glee how Beaumont-Greene +had been made to "sit up and howl."</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> "Jambi"—Iambic verses.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3><i>Verney Boscobel</i></h3> + +<p class="block1">"In honour of all who believe that life was made for friendship."</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The immediate</span> result of the incident described in the last +chapter was to strengthen the bond between John and +Desmond. Desmond had the epic from Fluff, from the +Caterpillar, and finally from John himself.</p> + +<p>"You bearded that poisonous beast in his den," exclaimed +he; "you plotted and planned for the scrimmage; +you foresaw what would happen. Well, you are a corker, +Jonathan."</p> + +<p>"You'd have thought of something much better."</p> + +<p>"Not I," Desmond replied.</p> + +<p>Scaife, however, made no remarks. Possibly, because +Desmond made too many, singing John's praises behind +his back and to his face, in and out of season. This, of +course, was indiscreet, and led to hard words and harder +feelings. Beaumont-Greene realized that John had tarred +and feathered him. The fags, you may be sure, rubbed +the tar in. If Beaumont-Greene threatened to kick an +impudent Fourth Form boy, that youngster would bid him +be careful.</p> + +<p>"If you don't behave yourself," he would say, "I shall +have to send Verney to your room."</p> + +<p>Lovell senior remarked that Beaumont-Greene was a +"swine," but that Verney had put on "lift" and must be +snubbed. What? A boy who had not been two years in +the school <i>dared</i> to take the law into his own hands! The +matter ought to have been laid before the Head of the +House.</p> + +<p>Accordingly, John found himself, much to his dismay, +unpopular with the Olympians. The last month of this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> +term was, in some ways, the most disagreeable he had yet +spent at Harrow.</p> + +<p>But the gain of Desmond's friendship far outweighed the +loss of popularity. John tingled with pleasure when he +reflected that he had achieved his ambition to stand +between Scaife and Desmond. At the same time, he was +uncomfortably aware that Scaife seemed to have climbed +high above Desmond, who had stood still. In moments +of depression John told himself that he was a makeshift, +that Desmond would leave him and join the Demon whenever +that splendid young person chose to whistle him up. +Scaife had failed to get his Football Flannels, but he came +so near to beating all previous records that the School +began to regard him as a "Blood." He was seen arm-in-arm +with Lovell, strolling up and down the High Street, +and the fags breathlessly repeated what Desmond had +predicted a year ago: the Demon was the coming man. +And always, when John and Desmond passed him, John +thought he could read a derisive triumph upon the Demon's +handsome face, an expression which said plainly: "You +young fool, don't you know that I'm playing cat and +mouse with <i>you</i>?"</p> + +<p>The three still met twice daily to prepare work. But +the moment that was done, Scaife disappeared, leaving +John and Desmond together.</p> + +<p>"He's playing bridge in Lovell's room," said Desmond.</p> + +<p>More facts were gleaned from the Caterpillar, who had +joined the bridge-players, but played seldom.</p> + +<p>"One draws the line," said he, "at playing for stakes +one can't afford to lose. Lovell and the Demon have +made it too hot."</p> + +<p>"And Warde will make it hotter," said John.</p> + +<p>"Not he," replied the Caterpillar. "The Demon is a +wonder. Thanks to his brains, detection is impossible. +He suggested that Lovell's room should be used. Warde +wouldn't dare to burst in upon one of the Sixth. And you +ought to see their dodgy arrangements. Lovell has his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +young brother on guard. I'm hanged if the Demon didn't +invent a sort of drill, which they go through with a stop-watch. +It's a star performance, I tell you. Young Lovell +bolts in. In thirty-five seconds—they have got it down +to that—the cards and markers are hidden; and the four +of 'em are jawing away about footer."</p> + +<p>"All the same," said John, obstinately, "Warde will +be too much for 'em."</p> + +<p>"Oh, rot!" said the Caterpillar.</p> + +<p>The Manor got into the semi-finals of the football +matches, and when the School broke up for the Christmas +holidays it was generally conceded that the fortunes of the +ancient house were mending. In the Manor itself Warde's +influence was hardly yet perceptible: only a very few +knew that it was diffusing itself, percolating into nooks and +crevices undreamed of: the hearts of the Fourth Form, for +instance. In Dirty Dick's time there had been almost +universal slackness. In pupil-room Rutford read a book; +boys could work or not as they pleased, provided their +tutor was not disturbed. Warde, on the other hand, made +it a point of honour to work with his pupils. His indefatigable +energies, his good humour, his patience, were +never so conspicuous as when he was coaching duffers. In +other ways he made the boys realize that he was at the +Manor for their advantage, not his own. The gardens and +park were kept strictly private by Dirty Dick. Warde +threw them open: a favour hardly appreciated in the +whiter quarter, but the House admitted that it would be +awfully jolly in the summer to lie under the trees far from +the "crowd." In a word—a "privilege."</p> + +<p>Upon the last Saturday, to John's delight, Desmond +asked him to spend a week in Eaton Square. John had +paid two visits to White Ladies; he was now about to +experience something entirely new. White Ladies and +Verney Boscobel were typical of the past; they illustrated +the history of the families who had inhabited them. The +great world went to White Ladies to see the pictures and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> +the gardens, the Gobelin tapestries, the Duchess and her +guests; but the same world dined in Eaton Square to see +Charles Desmond.</p> + +<p>During this visit, our John first learned what miracles +one individual may accomplish. At White Ladies, he had +dimly perceived, as has been said, the duties and responsibilities +imposed upon rank and wealth. In Eaton Square +he saw more plainly the duties and responsibilities imposed +upon a man of great talents. Both Charles Desmond and +the Duke of Trent were hard workers, but the labours of +the duke seemed to John (and to other wise persons) +drab-coloured. Charles Desmond's work, in contrast, +presented all the colours of the spectrum. John left White +Ladies, thanking his stars that he was not a duke; he came +away from Eaton Square filled with the ambition to be +Private Secretary to the great Minister. And when Mr. +Desmond said to him with his genial smile, "Well, young +John, Harry, I hope, will be my secretary, and the crutch +of my declining years. But what would you like to be?" +John replied fervently, "Oh, sir, I should like to be Harry's +understudy."</p> + +<p>"Would you?"</p> + +<p>And then John saw the face of his kind host change. +The smile faded. Mr. Desmond had taken his answer as +John meant it to be taken—seriously. He examined John +as if he were already a candidate for office. The piercing +eyes probed deep. Then he said slowly, "I should like +to have you under me, John. We shall talk of this again, +my boy. My own sons——" He paused, sighed, and +then laughed, tapping John's cheek with his slender, +finely-formed fingers. But he passed on without finishing +his sentence. John knew that, of Cæsar's brothers, Hugo, +the eldest, was Secretary of Legation at Teheran; Bill +"devilled" for a famous barrister; Lionel wore her +Majesty's livery. Strange that none had elected to serve +his own father! Cæsar explained later.</p> + +<p>"You see," he said, "the dear old governor outshines<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> +everybody. Hugo and the others felt that under him they +would be in eclipse, for ever and ever—eh?"</p> + +<p>"I see," said John, gravely. "Yes, there's something +in that. He wants you, Cæsar."</p> + +<p>"Dear old governor!" the other replied. "Yes—he's +keen on that. But I hope to make my own little mark. +I'd like to have my name on a brass tablet in Harrow +Chapel; that would be something." His eyes began to +glow and sparkle.</p> + +<p>Next day, at dinner, Rodney's name cropped up.</p> + +<p>"Rodney paved the way for Nelson," Mr. Desmond +observed. "I look upon him as one of our greatest +Harrovians. We ought to have a building to Rodney's +memory. I put him before Peel or Byron."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I say, father——" Hot protest from Cæsar.</p> + +<p>"Act before word, Harry; practice before precept. +Rodney was a man of action. I should like to have been +Rodney."</p> + +<p>"I should like to have been Sheridan," said Cæsar. +"I often look at his name on the third panel of the Fourth +Form Room."</p> + +<p>He glanced at his father, who smiled, knowing that a +delicate compliment was intended, for enthusiastic admirers +had spoken of Charles Desmond as the Richard Brinsley +Sheridan of the modern House of Commons. The father +said curtly—</p> + +<p>"A sky-rocket, my dear Harry." Then he turned to +John. "And of all our famous Harrovians whom would +you like to take as a pattern, young John?"</p> + +<p>John hesitated. Two or three of the guests present +were celebrities. Amongst them was England's greatest +critic sitting beside an ambassador. There happened to +be a lull in the talk. All looked curiously at John.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to be another Lord Shaftesbury," he said +slowly.</p> + +<p>"Good! Capital!" Mr. Desmond nodded his head. +"I knew him well." He poured out anecdote after<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +anecdote illustrating the character and temperament of +the statesman-philanthropist: his self-sacrifice, his devotion +to an ideal, his curious exclusiveness, his refinement, his +faith in an aristocracy never diminished by the indefatigable +zeal wherein he laboured to better the condition +of the poor. "If every rich man were animated by +Shaftesbury's spirit," said Mr. Desmond, in conclusion, +"extreme poverty would be wiped out of England, and yet +we should retain all that makes life charming and profitable. +He was no leveller, save of foul rookeries. First and +last he believed in order, particularly his own—a true +nobleman. And the inspiration of his great career came +to him on the Hill."</p> + +<p>"Indeed?" said the Critic.</p> + +<p>"John Verney will tell you all about it," said Mr. +Desmond, glancing cheerily at our hero. His was ever the +habit to draw out the humblest of his guests.</p> + +<p>So John recited how young Anthony Ashley, standing +on the Hill, just below the churchyard, chanced to see a +pauper's coffin fall to the ground and burst open, revealing +the pitiful corpse within, and how he had exclaimed in +horror, "Good heavens! Can this be permitted simply +because the man was poor and friendless?" And how, +then and there, the boy had sworn to devote his powers +to the amelioration of poverty-stricken lives.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mr. Desmond. "He told me that the +next fifteen minutes decided his career. Ah, he succeeded +greatly. Why, when I was at Harrow we used to cross +from Waterloo to Euston through some of the worst slums +in the world. You boys can't realize what they looked +like. And Shaftesbury's work and example wiped them +out of our civilization."<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a></p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> +<p>When John returned to his uncle's house of Verney +Boscobel (his home since his father's death), Cæsar Desmond +accompanied him. Then it seemed to John that his cup +brimmed, that everything he desired had been granted unto +him. Verney Boscobel stood in the heart of the great +forest, one of the few large manors within that splendid +demesne. The boys arrived at Lyndhurst Road Station +late in the evening, long after dusk, and were driven in +darkness through Bartley and Minstead up to the high-lying +moors of Stoneycross. Next morning, early, John +woke his friend, and opened the shutters.</p> + +<p>"Jolly morning," he said. "Have a look at the Forest, +old chap."</p> + +<p>Cæsar jumped out of bed, and drew a long breath.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" he exclaimed; "it's fairyland."</p> + +<p>Frost had silvered all things below. Above, motionless +upon the blue heavens, as if still frozen by the icy fingers +of a December night, were some aerial transparencies of +aqueous vapour, amethystine in colour, with edges of +white foam. In the east, obscured, but not concealed, by +grey mist, hung the crimson orb of the sun. From it faint +rays shot forth, touching the clouds beneath, which, roused, +so to speak, out of sleep, drifted lethargically in a southerly +direction.</p> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 18em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Underneath the young grey dawn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A multitude of dense, white, fleecy clouds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were wandering in thick flocks, ...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + +<p>Desmond drew in his breath, sighing with purest delight. +From the lawns encompassing the house his eyes strayed +into a glade of bracken, gold gleaming through silver—a +glade shadowed by noble oaks and beeches, with one +birch tree in the middle of it surpassingly graceful. Upon +this each delicate bough and spray were outlined sharply +against the sky. Beyond the glade stretched the moor, +rugged, bleak, and treeless, sloping sharply upward. +Beyond the moor lay the Forest—belts of firs darkly purple;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +and flanking these the irregular masses of oaks and beeches, +varying in tint from palest lavender to rose and brown, +some still in shadow, some in ever-increasing glow of sunlight; +not one the same and each in itself containing a +thousand differing forms, yet all harmonious parts of the +resplendent whole.</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad you like my home," said John. "Shall we +have a gallop before breakfast? It's only a white frost."</p> + +<p>So they galloped away into fairyland, returning with +mortal appetites to the oak-panelled dining-hall, whence a +Verney had ridden forth to join his kinsman, Sir Edmund, +in arms for the King upon the distant field of Edge Hill. +After breakfast the boys explored the quaint old house; +and John showed Cæsar the twenty-bore gun, and promised +his guest much rabbit-shooting, and two days' hunting, at +least, with the New Forest Hounds, and some pike-fishing, +and possibly an encounter with a big grayling—which, +later, the boys saw walloping about in the Test above +Broadlands—a splendid fish, once hooked by John, and +lost—a three-pounder, of course.</p> + +<p>O golden age! You will never forget that Christmas—will +you, John? If you live to be Prime Minister of +England, the memory of those first days alone with your +friend will remain green when the colour has been sucked +by Time out of everything else. Fifty years hence, maybe, +you will see Cæsar's curly head and his blue eyes full of fun +and life, and you will hear his joyous laughter—peal upon +peal—echoing through the corridors of Verney Boscobel. +Your mother took him to her heart—didn't she? And all +the servants, from butler to scullery maid, voted him the +jolliest, cheeriest boy that ever came to Hampshire. Why, +Mrs. Osman, the cook, with a temper like tinder from too +much heat, refused flatly to let Cæsar make toffee in her +kitchen. But just then a barrel-organ turned up, and before +she could open her mouth, Cæsar was dancing a polka +with her; and after that he could make toffee, or hay, or +anything else, wherever and whenever he pleased.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> + +<p>When they returned to the Manor, John hoped and +prayed that this blessed intimacy would continue. It did—for +a time. The three boys got their remove, and found +themselves in the Second Fifth, where they proposed to +linger till after the summer term. Lovell and Scaife seemed +inseparable, and bridge began again, apparently an inexhaustible +source of amusement and excitement. Then +came the Torpid matches; and John, as Lawrence predicted, +was captain of the cock-house Eleven—the first +great victory of the Manorites. During the term, Scaife +and Desmond won no races, being in age betwixt and +between winners of Upper and Lower School races. Scaife +refused to train. Desmond took a few runs, but abandoned +them for racquets, the chief game in the Easter term, but +only played regularly by boys whose purses are well lined. +John confined his attention to "Squash." Cæsar played +"Harder" with the Demon. The three worked together +as of yore. John now perceived that Scaife had joined a +clique pledged to fight Reform. It was in the air that +something might happen. Warde eyed the big fellows +shrewdly, as if measuring weapons. He confounded some +by asking them to dine with him. At dessert he would +talk of sport, or games, or politics—everything, in fine, +except "shop." The more worthy came away from these +pleasant evenings with rather a hangdog expression, as if +they had been receiving goods under false pretences. John +and Desmond were made especially welcome. And, after +dinner, John, whose voice had not yet cracked, would sing, +to Mrs. Warde's accompaniment, such songs as "O Bay of +Dublin, my heart yu're throublin'," or "Think of me +sometimes," or Handel's "Where'er you walk." The +Caterpillar made no secret of a passion for Iris Warde, and +became a dangerous rival of one of the younger masters. +He talked to Warde about genealogies and hunting, topics +of conversation in which they had a common interest outside +Harrow. John guessed that Warde was making an +effort to secure Egerton, who, for his part, took the world<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +as he found it, consorting alike with John and his friends, +and also with Lovell and Co. From the Caterpillar John +learned that Beaumont-Greene had begun to play bridge.</p> + +<p>"Scaife and Lovell are skinning the beast," he added +confidentially. "Green he is, and no error."</p> + +<p>"Ructions soon," said John.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it," replied the Caterpillar. "Take +my word, Warde knows what he's about. He's playing up +to the younger members of the house—you, Cæsar, and +you, Jonathan—and he's letting the others slide."</p> + +<p>"Giving 'em rope," said John, "to hang 'emselves."</p> + +<p>"Well, now, there's something in that. That hadn't +occurred to me. What? You think that he's eggin' 'em +on, eh? Eggin' 'em on!"</p> + +<p>"I think that, if I were you, Caterpillar, I'd cut loose +from that gang."</p> + +<p>"They've made it rather warm for you."</p> + +<p>"I don't care a hang about that."</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, John's life had been made very +unpleasant by the fast set. Upon the other hand, the +Duffer, Fluff, and many Lower School boys reckoned him +their leader and adviser. And—such is the irony of Fate—John's +popularity with friends caused him more anxiety +than unpopularity with enemies. Towards the end of the +term, Desmond spoke of applying to Warde for a certain +room to be shared by himself and John. John had to +decline an arrangement desired passionately, because he +had indiscreetly promised not to chuck the Duffer. Cæsar +dropped the subject. After this, John noticed a slight +coldness. He wondered whether Cæsar were jealous, +jealousy being John's own besetting sin. Finally, he came +to the conclusion that his friend might be not jealous but +unreasonable. In any case, during the last three weeks of +the term, John saw less of Cæsar, and more—more, indeed, +than he wanted—of the Duffer and Fluff.</p> + +<p>And then came the paralysing news that Desmond had +promised to spend ten days with Scaife's people, that a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +Professional had been hired, and that both boys were +going to give their undivided energies to cricket.</p> + +<p>Afterwards, John often wondered whether Scaife, with +truly demoniac insight into Desmond's character, had let +him go, so as to seize him with more tenacious grasp when +an opportunity presented itself.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>As soon as John saw Cæsar after the Easter holidays, +he knew that, temporarily, at any rate, he had lost his +friend. Cæsar, indeed, was demonstratively glad to see +him, and dragged him off next day to walk to a certain +bridge where a few short weeks before the boys had carved +their names upon the wooden railing, surrounding them +with a circle and the Crossed Arrows. But Cæsar could +talk of nothing else but Scaife and cricket. They had both +"come on" tremendously. Scaife's people had a splendid +cricket-ground.</p> + +<p>Poor John! If he could have submerged the Scaife +cricket-ground and the Scaife family by nodding his head, +I fear that he would have nodded it, although he told himself +that he was an ungenerous beast and cad not to +sympathize with his pal.</p> + +<p>And before the boys got back to the Manor, Cæsar said, +not without a blush, that he had learned to play bridge.</p> + +<p>"I shall teach you, Jonathan."</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"I say—yes."</p> + +<p>"You're not going to play with Lovell and that beast +Beaumont-Greene?"</p> + +<p>"The Demon says no cards this term, when lock-up's +late. And look here, Jonathan, I've made the Demon +promise to make the peace between Lovell and you. +You'll play for the House, of course, and we must all pull +together, as Warde says."</p> + +<p>John might have smiled at this opportune mention of +Warde, but sense of humour was swamped in apprehension. +Desmond went on to talk about Scaife.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He'll make 'em sit up, you see! The 'pro.' we had +is the finest cover-point in England. I never saw such a +chap. He dashes at the ball. Hit it as hard as you please, +he runs in, picks it up, and snaps it back to the wicket-keeper +as easy as if he was playing pitch and toss. And, by +Jove! the Demon can do it. You wait. I never saw any +fellow like him. He's only just sixteen, and he'll get his +Flannels. You needn't shake your old head, I know he will. +And we must work like blazes to get ours next summer."</p> + +<p>John discounted much of this talk, but he soon found +out that Cæsar had not overestimated the Demon's activity. +The draw at Lord's in the previous summer had been +attributed, by such experts as Webbe and Hornby, to bad +fielding. The Demon told John, with his hateful, derisive +smile, that he had remembered this when he selected a +"pro." Not for the first time, John realized Scaife's overpowering +ability to achieve his own ends. Who, but +Scaife, would have made fielding the principal object of +his holiday practice?</p> + +<p>Within a fortnight, Scaife was put into the Sixth Form +game. Desmond found himself—thanks to Scaife—playing +in the First Fifth game; but John was placed in Second +Fifth Beta. Fortunately, he found an ally in Warde, who +had a private pitch in the small park surrounding the +Manor, where he coached the weaker players of his House. +John told himself that he ought to get his "cap"; but, as +the weeks slipped by, despite several creditable performances, +he became aware that the "cap" was withheld, +although it had been given to Fluff. There were five +vacancies in the House Eleven, but, according to precedent, +these need not be filled up till after the last House-match, +and possibly not even then. In a word, John might play +for the House, and even distinguish himself, without +receiving the coveted distinction. How sore John felt!</p> + +<p>About the end of May he noticed that something was +amiss with Cæsar. Generally they walked together on +Sunday, but not always. During these walks, as has been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> +said, Cæsar did most of the talking. Now, of a sudden, he +became a half-hearted listener, and to John's repeated +question, "What's up?" he would reply irritably, "Oh, +don't bother—nothing."</p> + +<p>Finally, John heard from the Caterpillar that Cæsar +was playing bridge, and losing.</p> + +<p>"They don't play often," the Caterpillar added; "but +on wet afternoons they make up for lost time. Cæsar is +outclassed. I've told him, but he's mad keen about the +game."</p> + +<p>Later, John learned from the same source that Sunday +afternoon was a bridge-fixture with Lovell and Co. At any +rate, Cæsar did not play on Sunday. That was something.</p> + +<p>Upon the following Saturday, after making an honest +fifteen runs and taking three wickets in a closely-contested +game, John was running into the Yard just before six Bill, +when Lovell stopped him.</p> + +<p>"You can get your 'cap,'" he said coldly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, thanks; thanks awfully!"</p> + +<p>Cæsar received this agreeable news with indifference.</p> + +<p>"You ought to have had it before Fluff," he growled.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow, we'll walk to John Lyon's farm," said +John, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Engaged," Cæsar replied.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Cæsar, you're—you're——"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"You're going to play bridge?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. What of it? It's only once in a way. I <i>do</i> +bar cards on Sunday; but there are reasons."</p> + +<p>"What reasons?"</p> + +<p>"Reasons which—er—I'll keep to myself."</p> + +<p>"All right," said John, stiffly, but with a breaking +heart.</p> + +<p>Next day he asked Fluff to walk with him, but Fluff +was walking with some one else. The Duffer had letters +to write, and stigmatized walking as a beastly grind. John<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> +determined to walk by himself; but as he was leaving the +Manor he met the Caterpillar, a tremendous buck, arrayed +in his best—patent-leather boots, white waistcoat, a flower +in his buttonhole.</p> + +<p>"Where are you off to, Jonathan?"</p> + +<p>"To Preston. You'd better come, Caterpillar."</p> + +<p>"I never walk far in these boots. Peal made 'em."</p> + +<p>"Change 'em, can't you?"</p> + +<p>"Right."</p> + +<p>While he was absent, John seriously considered the +propriety of taking Egerton into his confidence. Sincerely +attached to Egerton, and valuing his advice, he knew, none +the less, that the Caterpillar looked at everybody and everything +with the eyes of a colonel in the Guards. To tell +Colonel Egerton's son that one's heart was lacerated because +Cæsar Desmond was playing bridge on Sunday seemed to +invite jeers. And, besides, that wasn't the real reason. +John felt wretched because the Sunday walk had been +sacrificed to Moloch. Presently Egerton came downstairs, +spick and span, but not quite so smart. The boys walked +quickly, talking of cricket.</p> + +<p>"The Demon'll get his Flannels," said Egerton. "I'm +glad Lovell gave you your cap, Jonathan; you deserved it +a month ago. It wasn't my fault you didn't get it at the +beginning of the term."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure of that," said John, gratefully.</p> + +<p>"You don't look particularly bucked-up. A grin improves +your face, my dear fellow."</p> + +<p>At this John burst into explosive speech. Those beasts +had got hold of Cæsar. The Caterpillar stared; he had +never heard John let himself go. John's vocabulary +surprised him.</p> + +<p>"Whew-w-w!" he whistled. "Gad! Jonathan, you do +pile on the agony. Cæsar's all right. Don't worry."</p> + +<p>"He's not all right. I thought Cæsar had backbone, +I——"</p> + +<p>"Hold on," said the Caterpillar, gravely.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> + +<p>John thought he was about to be rebuked for disloyalty +to a pal, an abominable sin in the Caterpillar's eyes.</p> + +<p>"Well?" said John.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to tell you something," said Egerton. +"But you must swear not to give me away."</p> + +<p>"I'll swear."</p> + +<p>"You're a good little cove, Jonathan, but sometimes +you smell just a little bit of—er—bread and butter. Keep +cool. Personally, I would sooner that you, at your age, +did smell of bread and butter than whisky. Well, you +think that Cæsar is going straight to the bow-wows because +he plays bridge. You accuse him in your own little mind +of feebleness, and so forth. Yes, just so. And it's doosid +unfair to Cæsar, because he's given up his walk to-day +entirely on your account. Ah! I thought that would +make you sit up."</p> + +<p>"My account?" John repeated blankly.</p> + +<p>"Yes; Cæsar would be furious if he knew that I was +peaching, but he won't know, and instead of this—er—trifling +affair weakening your good opinion of your pal, it +will strengthen it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, do go on, Caterpillar."</p> + +<p>"Yesterday I was in Lovell's room. We were talking +of the first House match. Scaife and Cæsar were there. I +took it upon myself to say you ought to be given your +'cap'; and then Cæsar burst out, 'Oh yes, Lovell, do give +him his "cap." If you knew how he'd slaved to earn it.' +But Lovell only laughed. And then Scaife chipped in, +'Look here, Cæsar,' he said, 'do I understand that you put +this thing, which after all is none of your business or mine, +as a favour which Lovell might do <i>you</i>?' And Cæsar +answered, 'You can put it that way, if you like, Demon.' +And then Scaife laughed. I don't like Scaife's laugh, +Jonathan."</p> + +<p>"I loathe it," said John.</p> + +<p>"Well, when Scaife laughed, Lovell looked first at him +and then at Cæsar. It came to me that Lovell was primed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +to say something. At any rate, he turned to Cæsar, and +said slowly, 'Tit for tat. If I do this for you, will you do +something for me?' And Cæsar spoke up as usual, +without a second's hesitation, 'Of course I will.' And +then Scaife laughed again, just as Lovell said, 'All right, +I'll give Verney his "cap" before tea, and you will make +a fourth at bridge with us to-morrow afternoon.'"</p> + +<p>"Oh, oh!" groaned John.</p> + +<p>"Dash it all, don't look so wretched. There's not +much more. Cæsar hesitated a moment. Then he said +quietly enough, 'Done!' Personally, I don't think Lovell +was playing—well—cricket, but I do know that he wanted +a fourth at bridge, because I'd just refused to make that +fourth myself. They play too high for me."</p> + +<p>"It's awfully good of you to have told me this."</p> + +<p>"Pray don't mention it! Hullo! What's up now?"</p> + +<p>John's face was very red, and his fists were clenched.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," he gasped. "Only this—I'd like to kill +Scaife. I'd like to cut off his infernal head."</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar laughed indulgently. "Jonathan, +you're a rum 'un. You think it wicked to play cards on +Sunday; but you would like"—he imitated John's +trembling, passionate voice—"you would like to cut off +Scaife's infernal head."</p> + +<p>"Yes—I would," said John.</p> + +<p>That same week he had a memorable talk with Warde; +recorded because it illustrates Warde's methods, and +because, ultimately, it came to be regarded by John as the +turning-point of his intellectual life. Since he had taken +the Lower Remove, John's energies of mind and body had +been concentrated upon improving himself at games. +Vaguely aware that some of the School-prizes were within +his grasp, he had not deemed them worth the winning. To +him, therefore, Warde abruptly began—</p> + +<p>"You pride yourself upon being straight—eh, Verney?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes," said John, meeting Warde's blue eyes +not without misgiving.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, to me, you're about as straight as a note of +interrogation. I never see you without saying to myself, +'Is Verney going to bury his talents in the cricket-ground?'"</p> + +<p>"Oh!"</p> + +<p>"Some parents, too many of them, send their boys +here to make a few nice friends, to play games, to scrape +up the School with a remove once a year. That, I take it, +is not what Mrs. Verney wants?"</p> + +<p>"N—no, sir."</p> + +<p>"You ought to be in the Sixth—and you know it. +Twice, or oftener, you have deliberately taken things easy, +because you wanted a soft time of it during the summer +term, and because you wished to remain in the same form +with Desmond, who, intellectually, is your—inferior. Is +that square dealing with your people?"</p> + +<p>John was silent, but red of countenance. Warde went +on, more vehemently—</p> + +<p>"I know all about your co-operative system of work. +I have a harder name for it. And I know just what you +can do, and I want to see you do it, for your own sake, for +the sake of Mrs. Verney, and for the Hill's sake. I've +pushed you on at cricket a bit, haven't I? Yes. You +owe me something. Pay up by entering for a School-prize, +and winning it!"</p> + +<p>"A School-prize?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; Lord Charles Russell's Shakespeare Medal. +The exam. is next October. I'll coach you. Is it a +bargain?"</p> + +<p>He held out his hand, staring frankly, but piercingly, +into John's eyes.</p> + +<p>"All right, sir," said John, after a pause. "I'll try."</p> + +<p>"And buck up for your remove."</p> + +<p>John smiled feebly, and sighed.</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> There is a tablet on the wall of the Old Schools which bears the +following inscription:—Near this spot <span class="smcap">Anthony Ashley Cooper</span> +Afterwards the 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, K.G. While yet a boy in +Harrow School Saw with shame and indignation The pauper's funeral +Which helped to awaken his lifelong Devotion to the service of the +poor And the oppressed.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h3><i>Black Spots</i></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 22em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The Avon bears to endless years<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A magic voice along,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Shakespeare strayed in Stratford's shade,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And waked the world to song.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We heard the music soft and wild,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We thrilled to pulses new;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The winds that reared the Avon's child<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were Herga's<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a> nurses too."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">That evening</span> John told Cæsar what Warde had said to +him, and then added, "I mean to have a shot at 'the Swan +of Avon.'" Cæsar looked glum.</p> + +<p>"But how about the remove? We'd agreed to stay +in the Second Fifth till Christmas. It's the jolliest form in +the school."</p> + +<p>"If we put our backs—and heads—into Trials,<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a> we +can easily get a remove."</p> + +<p>"Blow Trials."</p> + +<p>John turned aside.</p> + +<p>"Look here, Jonathan," said Cæsar, eagerly. "To +please me, give up your swatting scheme. We can't spoil +the end of this jolly term."</p> + +<p>He caught hold of John's arm, squeezing it affectionately. +Never had our hero been so sorely tempted.</p> + +<p>"We must stick together, you and I," entreated Desmond.</p> + +<p>"No," said John.</p> + +<p>"As you please," Cæsar replied coldly.</p> + +<p>A detestable week followed. John tackled his Shakespeare +alone, working doggedly. Then, quite suddenly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +the giant gripped him. He had always possessed a remarkable +memory, and as a child he had learnt by heart +many passages out of the plays (a fact well known to the +crafty Warde); but these he had swallowed without +digesting them. Now he became keen, the keener because +he met with violent opposition from the Caterpillar and +the Duffer, who were of opinion that Shakespeare was a +"back number."</p> + +<p>John won the prize, and on the following Speech Day +saw his mother's face radiant with pride and happiness, +as he received the Medal from the Head Master's hands.</p> + +<p>"You look as pleased as if I'd got my Flannels," said +John.</p> + +<p>"Surely this Medal is a greater thing?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, mum, you don't know much about boys."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not, but," her eyes twinkled, "I know something +about Shakespeare, and he's a friend that will stand +by you when cricketing days are over."</p> + +<p>"If you're pleased, so am I," said John.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Scaife got his Flannels; and at Lord's his fielding was +mentioned as the finest ever seen in a Public School match. +John witnessed the game from the top of the Trent coach, +and he stopped at Trent House. But he didn't enjoy his +exeat, because he knew that Cæsar was in trouble. Cæsar +owed Scaife thirteen pounds, and the fact that this debt +could not be paid without confession to his father was +driving him distracted. Scaife, it is true, laughed genially +at Cæsar's distress. "Settle when you please," he said, +"but for Heaven's sake, don't peach to your governor! +Mine would laugh and pay up; yours will pay up and +make you swear not to touch another card while you're at +Harrow."</p> + +<p>"Just what he <i>will</i> do," Cæsar told John.</p> + +<p>"And the best thing that could happen," John said +bluntly. "If you don't cut loose now, it will be much +worse next term."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Rot," Desmond had replied. "I'm paying the usual +bill for learning a difficult game. That's how the Demon +puts it. But I've a turn for bridge, and now I can hold my +own. I'm better than Beaumont-Greene, and quite as +good as Lovell. The Demon, of course, is in another +class."</p> + +<p>"And therefore he oughtn't to play with you. It's +robbery."</p> + +<p>"Now you're talking bosh."</p> + +<p>The Eton and Harrow match ended in another draw. +Time and Scaife's fielding saved Harrow from defeat. The +fact of a draw had significance. A draw spelled compromise. +John had indulged in a superstitious fancy +common enough to persons older than he. "If Harrow +wins," he put it to himself, "Cæsar will triumph; if Eton +wins, Cæsar will lose." When the match proved a draw, +John drew the conclusion that his pal would "funk" +telling the truth; an apprehension presently confirmed.</p> + +<p>"I didn't tell the governor," said Cæsar, when John +and he met. "My eldest brother, Hugo, is coming home, +and I shall screw it out of him. He's a good sort, and he's +going to marry a girl who is simply rolling. He'll fork out, +I know he will. I feel awfully cheery."</p> + +<p>"I don't," said John.</p> + +<p>He had good reason to fear that Cæsar and he were +drifting apart. Now he worked by himself. And his +voice had broken. A small thing this, but John was sensible +that his singing voice touched corners in Cæsar's soul to +which his speaking voice never penetrated. More, Cæsar +and he had agreed to differ upon points of conscience other +than card-playing. And every point of conscientious +difference increases the distance between true friends in +geometrical progression. Poor Jonathan!</p> + +<p>But we have his grateful testimony that Warde stood +by him. And Warde made him see life at Harrow (and +beyond) in a new light. Warde, indeed, decomposed the +light into primary colours, a sort of experiment in moral<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> +chemistry, and not without fascination for an intelligent +boy. Sometimes, it became difficult to follow Warde—members +of the Alpine Club said that often it was impossible—because +he jumped where others crawled. And he +clipped words, phrases, thoughts so uncommonly short.</p> + +<p>"You're beginning to see, Verney, eh? Scales crumbling +away, my boy. And strong sunshine hurts the eyes—at +first. Black spots are dancing before you. I know the +little devils."</p> + +<p>Or again—</p> + +<p>"This remove will wipe a bit more off the debt, won't +it? Ha, ha! I've made you reckon up what you owe +Mrs. Verney. But there are others——"</p> + +<p>"I'm awfully grateful to you, sir."</p> + +<p>"Never mind me."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean, sir?"</p> + +<p>"New Testament; Matthew; twenty-fifth chapter—I +forget verse.<a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a> Look it up. Christ answers your question. +Make life easier and happier for some of the new boys. +Pass on gratitude. Set it a-rolling. See?"</p> + +<p>John had appetite for such talk, but Warde never gave +much of it—half a dozen sentences, a smile, a nod of the +head, a keen look, and a striding off elsewhere. But when +John repeated what Warde had said to Cæsar, that young +gentleman looked uneasy.</p> + +<p>"Warde means well," he said; "and he's doing wonders +with the Manor, but I hope he's not going to make a +sort of tin parson of you?"</p> + +<p>"As if he could!" said John.</p> + +<p>"You're miles ahead of me, Jonathan."</p> + +<p>"No, no."</p> + +<p>"I say—yes."</p> + +<p>"Cæsar," said John, in desperation, "perhaps we <i>are</i> +sliding apart, but it isn't my fault, indeed it isn't. And +think what it means to—me. You've heaps of friends, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> +I never was first, I know that. You can do without me, +but I can't do without you."</p> + +<p>"Dear old Jonathan." Cæsar held out his hand, +smiling.</p> + +<p>"I'm a jealous ass, Cæsar. And, as for calling me a +parson," he laughed scornfully, "why, I'd sooner walk +with you, even if you were the worst sinner in the world, +than with any saint that ever lived."</p> + +<p>The feeling in John's voice drove Cæsar's gay smile +from his face. Did he realize, possibly, for the first time, +that if John and he remained friends, he might drag John +down? Suddenly his face brightened.</p> + +<p>"Jonathan," he said gravely, "to please you, I'll not +touch a card again this term, and we'll have such good +times these last three weeks that you'll forget the rest of it."</p> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 20em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And what delights can equal those<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That stir the spirit's inner deeps,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When one that loves but knows not reaps<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A truth from one that loves and knows?"<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + +<p>The Manor played in the cock-house match at cricket, +being but barely beaten by Damer's. Everybody admitted +that this glorious state of affairs was due to Warde's +coaching of the weaker members of the Eleven. Scaife +fielded brilliantly, and John, watching him, said to himself +that at such times the Demon was irresistible. Warde +invited the Eleven to dinner, and spoke of nothing but +football, much to every one's amusement.</p> + +<p>"He's right," said the Caterpillar; "we're not cock-house +at cricket this year, but we may be at footer."</p> + +<p>John spent his holidays abroad with his mother, and +when the School reassembled, he found himself in the +First Fifth <i>alone</i>. With satisfaction he reflected that this +was Lovell's last term, and Beaumont-Greene's, too. +Warde said a few words at first lock-up.</p> + +<p>"We are going to be cock-house at footer, I hope," he +began, "and next term Scaife will show the School what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +he can do at racquets; but I want more. I'm a glutton. +How about work, eh? Lot o' slacking last term. Is it +honest? You fellows cost your people a deal of money. +And it's well spent, if, <i>if</i> you tackle everything in school +life as you tackled Mr. Damer's last July. That's all."</p> + +<p>"He's giving you what he gave me," said John.</p> + +<p>"Good fellow, Warde," observed the Caterpillar; "in +his room every night after prayers to mug up his form +work."</p> + +<p>"What?" Murmurs of incredulity.</p> + +<p>"Fact, 'pon my word. And he never refuses a 'con' +to a fellow who wants it."</p> + +<p>"He's paid for it," sneered Scaife.</p> + +<p>The other boys nodded; enthusiasm was chilled. Yes, +of course Warde was paid for it. John caught Scaife's +eye.</p> + +<p>"You don't believe that he's in love with his job, as +he told us?"</p> + +<p>"Skittles—that!"</p> + +<p>John looked solemn. He had a bomb to throw.</p> + +<p>"Skittles, is it?" he echoed. The other boys turned +to listen. "Do you think he'd take a better paid +billet?"</p> + +<p>Scaife laughed derisively. "Of course he would, like +a shot. But he's not likely to get the chance."</p> + +<p>"He has just been offered the Head Mastership of +Wellborough. It's worth about four thousand a year."</p> + +<p>"Pooh! who told you that?"</p> + +<p>"Cæsar's father."</p> + +<p>"It's true," said Cæsar.</p> + +<p>"And he refused it," said John, triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"Then he's a fool," said Scaife, angrily. He marched +out of the room, slamming the door. But the Manor, as a +corporate body, when it heard of Warde's refusal to accept +promotion, was profoundly impressed. Thus the term +began with good resolutions upon the part of the better +sort.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p> + +<p>Very soon, however, with the shortening days, bridge +began again. John made no protest, afraid of losing his +pal. He called himself coward, and considered the expediency +of learning bridge, so as to be in the same boat +with Cæsar. Cæsar told him that he had not asked his +brother Hugo for the thirteen pounds. Hugo, it seemed, +had come back from Teheran with a decoration and the +air of an ambassador. He spoke of his "services."</p> + +<p>"I knew that Hugo would make me swear not to play +again," said Cæsar to John, "and naturally I want to get +some of the plunder back. I am getting it back. I raked +thirty bob out of Beaumont-Greene last night."</p> + +<p>John said nothing.</p> + +<p>Presently it came to his ears that Cæsar was getting +more plunder back. The Caterpillar, an agreeable gossip, +because he condemned nothing except dirt and low breeding, +told John that Beaumont-Greene was losing many +shekels. And about the middle of October Cæsar said to +John—</p> + +<p>"What do you think, old Jonathan? I've jolly nearly +paid off the Demon. And you wanted me to chuck the +thing. Nice sort of counsellor."</p> + +<p>"Beaumont-Greene must have lost a pot?"</p> + +<p>"You bet," said Cæsar; "but that doesn't keep me +awake at night. He has got the <i>Imperishable Seamless +Whaleskin Boot</i> behind him."</p> + +<p>Next time John met Beaumont-Greene he eyed him +sharply. The big fellow was pulpier than ever; his complexion +the colour of skilly. Yes; he looked much worried. +Perhaps the "Imperishable Boot" lasted too long. And, +nowadays, so many fellows wore shoes. Thus John to +himself.</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene, indeed, not only looked worried, he +was worried, hideously worried, and with excellent reason. +He had an absurdly, wickedly, large allowance, but not +more than a sovereign of it was left. More, he owed Scaife +twenty pounds, and Lovell another ten. Both these young<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +gentlemen had hinted plainly that they wanted to see their +money.</p> + +<p>"I must have the stuff now," said Lovell, when Beaumont-Greene +asked for time. "I'm going to shoot a lot +this Christmas, and the governor makes me pay for my +cartridges."</p> + +<p>"So does mine," said Scaife, grinning. He was quite +indifferent to the money, but he liked to see Beaumont-Greene +squirm. He continued suavely, "You ought to +settle before you leave. Ain't your people in Rome? +Yes. And you're going to join 'em. Why, hang it, some +Dago may stick a knife into you, and where should we be +then—hey? Your governor wouldn't settle a gambling +debt, would he?"</p> + +<p>This was too true. Scaife grinned diabolically. He +knew that Beaumont-Greene's father was endeavouring to +establish a credit-account with the Recording Angel. +Originally a Nonconformist, he had joined the Church of +England after he had made his fortune (cf. <i>Shavings from +the Workshops of our Merchant Princes</i>, which appeared in +the pages of "Prattle"). Then, the famous inventor of +the Imperishable Boot had taken to endowing churches; +and he published pamphlets denouncing drink and +gambling, pamphlets sent to his son at Harrow, who (with +an eye to backsheesh) had praised his sire's prose somewhat +indiscreetly.</p> + +<p>"You shall have your confounded money," said Beaumont-Greene, +violently.</p> + +<p>"Thanks," said Scaife, sweetly. "When we asked you +to join us" (slight emphasis on the "us"), "we knew that +we could rely on you to settle promptly."</p> + +<p>The Demon grinned for the third time, knowing that +he had touched a weak spot; not a difficult thing to do, if +you touched the big fellow at all. A young man of spirit +would have told his creditors to go to Jericho. Beaumont-Greene +might have said, "You have skinned me a bit. I +don't whine about that; I mean to pay up; but you'll<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +have to wait till I have the money. I'm stoney now." +Scaife and Lovell must have accepted this as an ultimatum. +But Beaumont-Greene's wretched pride interfered. He +had posed as a sort of Golden Youth. To confess himself +pinchbeck seemed an unspeakable humiliation.</p> + +<p>Men have been known to take to drink under the impending +sword of dishonour. Beaumont-Greene swallowed +instead large quantities of food at the Creameries; and +then wrote to his father, saying that he would like to +have a cheque for thirty pounds by return of post. He was +leaving Harrow, he pointed out, and he wished to give his +friends some handsome presents. Young Desmond, for +instance, the great Minister's son, had been kind to him +(Beaumont-Greene prided himself upon this touch), and +Scaife, too, he was under obligations to Scaife, who would +be a power by-and-by, and so forth.... To confess +frankly that he owed thirty pounds gambled away at cards +required more cheek than our stout youth possessed. His +father refused to play bridge on principle, because he could +never remember how many trumps were out.</p> + +<p>The father answered by return of post, but enclosed no +cheque. He pointed out to his dear Thomas that giving +handsome presents with another's money was an objectionable +habit. Thomas received a large, possibly too large +an allowance. He must exercise self-denial, if he wished +to make presents. His quarterly allowance would be paid +as usual next Christmas, and not a minute before. There +would be time then to reconsider the propriety of giving +young Desmond a suitable gift....</p> + +<p>Common sense told Beaumont-Greene to show this +letter to Scaife and Lovell. But he saw the Demon's +derisive grin, and recoiled from it.</p> + +<p>At this moment temptation seized him relentlessly. +Beaumont-Greene never resisted temptation. For fun, +so he put it, he would write the sort of letter which his +father ought to have written, and which would have put +him at his ease. It ran thus<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>—</p> + +<div class="lett1"><p>"<span class="smcap">My Dear Thomas</span>,</p> + +<p>"No doubt you will want to give some leaving +presents, and a spread or two. I should like my son to do +the thing handsomely. You know better than I how much +this will cost, but I am prepared to send you, say, twenty-five +or thirty pounds for such a purpose. Or, you can have the +bills sent to me.</p> + +<p class="author">"With love,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Your affectionate father,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"<span class="smcap">George Beaumont-Greene</span>."</span></p> +</div> +<p>Beaumont-Greene, like the immortal Mr. Toots, rather +fancied himself as a letter-writer. The longer he looked +at his effusion, the more he liked it. His handwriting was +not unlike his father's—modelled, indeed, upon it. With a +little careful manipulation of a few letters——!</p> + +<p>The day was cold, but Beaumont-Greene suddenly +found himself in a perspiration. None the less, it seemed +easier to forge a letter than to avow himself penniless. +Detection? Impossible! Two or three tradesmen in +Harrow would advance the money if he showed them this +letter. Next Christmas they would be paid. Within a +quarter of an hour he made up his mind to cross the +Rubicon, and crossed it with undue haste. He forged the +letter, placed it in an envelope which had come from Rome, +and went to his tailor's.</p> + +<p>Under pretext of looking at patterns, he led the man +aside.</p> + +<p>"You can do me a favour," he began, in his usual, +heavy, hesitating manner.</p> + +<p>"With pleasure," said the tradesman, smiling. Then, +seeing an opportunity, he added, "You are leaving Harrow, +Mr. Beaumont-Greene, but I trust, sir, you will not take +your custom with you. We have always tried to please +you."</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene, in his turn, saw opportunity.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," he answered. Then he produced the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +letter, envelope and all. "I have here a letter from my +father, who is in Rome. I'll read it to you. No; you +can read it yourself."</p> + +<p>The tailor read the letter.</p> + +<p>"Very handsome," he replied; "<i>very</i> handsome indeed, +sir. Your father is a true gentleman."</p> + +<p>"It happens," said Beaumont-Greene, more easily, for +the thing seemed to be simpler than he had anticipated—"it +happens that I <i>do</i> want to make some presents, but +I'm not going to buy them here. I shall send to the Stores, +you know. I have their catalogue."</p> + +<p>"Just so, sir. Excellent place the Stores for nearly +everything; except, perhaps, my line."</p> + +<p>"I should not think of buying clothes there. But at +the Stores one must pay cash. I've not got the cash, and +my father is in Rome. I should like to have the money +to-day, if possible. Will you oblige me?"</p> + +<p>The tradesman hesitated. In the past there have been +grave scandals connected with lending money to boys. +And Harrow tradesmen are at the mercy of the Head +Master. If a school-tailor be put out of bounds, he can +put up his shutters at once. Still——</p> + +<p>"I'll let you have the money," said the man, eyeing +Beaumont-Greene keenly.</p> + +<p>"Thanks."</p> + +<p>The tailor observed a slight flush and a sudden intake +of breath—signs which stirred suspicion.</p> + +<p>"Will you take it in notes, sir?"</p> + +<p>Here Beaumont-Greene made his first blunder. He +had an ill-defined idea that paper was dangerous stuff.</p> + +<p>"In gold, please."</p> + +<p>He forgot that gold is not easily sent in a letter. The +tailor hesitated, but he had gone too far to back out.</p> + +<p>"Very well, sir. I have not twenty-five pounds——"</p> + +<p>"Thirty, if you please. I shall want thirty."</p> + +<p>"I have not quite that amount here, but I can get +it."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> + +<p>When the man came back with a small canvas bag in +his hand, Beaumont-Greene had pocketed the letter. He +received the money, counted it, thanked the tailor, and +turned to go.</p> + +<p>"If you please, sir——"</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"I should like to keep your father's letter, sir. As a +form of receipt, sir. When you settle I'll return it. If—if +anything should happen to—to you, sir, where would I +be?"</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene's temper showed itself.</p> + +<p>"You all talk as if I was on my death-bed," he said.</p> + +<p>The tailor stared. Others, then, had suggested to this +large, unwholesome youth the possibility of premature +decease.</p> + +<p>"Not at all, sir, but we do live in the valley of shadders. +My wife's step-father, as fine and hearty a specimen as +you'd wish to see, sir, was taken only last month; at +breakfast, too, as he was chipping his third egg."</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene said loftily, "Blow your wife's step-father +and his third egg. Here's the letter."</p> + +<p>He flung down the letter and marched out of the shop. +The tradesman looked at him, shaking his head. "He'll +never come back," he muttered. "I know his sort too +well." Then, business happening to be slack, he re-read +the letter before putting it away. Then he whistled softly +and read it for the third time, frowning and biting his lips. +The "Beaumont-Greene" in the signature and on the +envelope did not look to be written by the same hand.</p> + +<p>"There's something fishy here," muttered the tradesman. +"I must show this to Amelia."</p> + +<p>It was his habit to consult his wife in emergencies. The +chief cutter and two assistants said that Amelia was the +power behind the throne. Amelia read the letter, listened +to what her husband had to say, stared hard at the envelope, +and delivered herself—</p> + +<p>"The hand that wrote the envelope never wrote the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> +letter, that's plain—to me. Now, William, you've got me +and the children to think of. This may mean the loss of +our business, and worse, too. You put on your hat and go +straight to the Manor. Mr. Warde's a gentleman, and I +don't think he'll let me and the children suffer for your +foolishness. Don't you wait another minute."</p> + +<p>Nor did he.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>After prayers that night, Warde asked Beaumont-Greene +to come to his study. Beaumont-Greene obeyed, +smiling blandly. Within three weeks he was leaving; +doubtless Warde wanted to say something civil. The big +fellow was feeling quite himself. He had paid Scaife and +Lovell, not without a little pardonable braggadocio.</p> + +<p>"You fellows have put me to some inconvenience," he +said. "I make it a rule not to run things fine, but after all +thirty quid is no great sum. Here you are."</p> + +<p>"We don't want to drive you into the workhouse," said +Scaife. "Thanks. Give you your revenge any time. I +dare say between now and the end of the term you'll have +most of it back."</p> + +<p>Warde asked Beaumont-Greene to sit down in a particular +chair, which faced the light from a large lamp. +Then he took up an envelope. Suddenly cold chills trickled +down Beaumont-Greene's spine. He recognized the envelope. +That scoundrel had betrayed him. Not for a +moment, however, did he suppose that the forgery had been +detected.</p> + +<p>"On the strength of this letter," said Warde, gravely, +"you borrowed thirty pounds from a tradesman?"</p> + +<p>Denial being fatuous, Beaumont-Greene said—</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"You know, I suppose, that Harrow tradesmen are +expressly forbidden to lend boys money?"</p> + +<p>"I am hardly a boy, sir. And—er—under the circumstances——"</p> + +<p>Warde smiled very grimly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah—under the circumstances. Have you any objection +to telling me the exact circumstances?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all, sir. I wished to make some presents to +my friends. I am going to give a large leaving-breakfast."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Still, thirty pounds is a large sum——"</p> + +<p>"Not to my father, sir. I—er—thought of coming to +you, sir, with that letter."</p> + +<p>"Did you?"</p> + +<p>Warde took the letter from the envelope, and glanced at +it with faint interest, so Beaumont-Greene thought. Then +he picked up a magnifying glass and played with it. It was +a trick of his to pick up objects on his desk, and turn them +in his thin, nervous fingers. Beaumont-Greene was not +seriously alarmed. He had great faith in a weapon which +had served him faithfully, his lying tongue.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir. I thought you would be willing to advance +the money for a few days, and then——"</p> + +<p>"And then?"</p> + +<p>"And then I thought I wouldn't bother you. It never +occurred to me that I was getting a tradesman into trouble. +I hope you won't be hard on him, sir."</p> + +<p>"I shall not be hard on him," said Warde, "because"—for +a moment his eyes flashed—"because he came to me +and confessed his fault; but I won't deny that I gave him +a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour. He sat in your +chair."</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene shuffled uneasily.</p> + +<p>"Have you this thirty pounds in your pocket?" asked +Warde, casually.</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene began to regret his haste in settling.</p> + +<p>"No, sir."</p> + +<p>"Some of it?"</p> + +<p>"None of it."</p> + +<p>"You sent it to London? To buy these handsome +presents?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es, sir."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You hadn't much time. Lock-up's early, and you +received the money in gold. Did you buy Orders?"</p> + +<p>Beaumont-Greene's head began to buzz. He found +himself wondering why Warde was speaking in this smooth, +quiet voice, so different from his usual curt, incisive tones.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"At the Harrow post-office?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"Ah."</p> + +<p>Again the house-master picked up the letter, but this +time he didn't lay down the lens. Instead he used it, very +deliberately. Beaumont-Greene shivered; with difficulty +he clenched his teeth, so as to prevent them clicking like +castanets. Then Warde held up the sheet of paper to the +light of the lamp. Obviously he wished to examine the +watermark. The paper was thin notepaper, the kind that +is sold everywhere for foreign correspondence. Beaumont-Greene, +economical in such matters, had bought a couple +of quires when his people went abroad. The paper he had +bought did not quite match the Roman envelope. Warde +opened a drawer, from which he took some thin paper. +This also he held up to the light.</p> + +<p>"It's an odd coincidence," he said, tranquilly; "your +father in Rome uses the same notepaper that I buy here. +But the envelope is Italian?"</p> + +<p>He spoke interrogatively, but the wretch opposite had +lost the power of speech. He collapsed. Warde rose, +throwing aside his quiet manner as if it were a drab-coloured +cloak. Now he was himself, alert, on edge, +sanguine.</p> + +<p>"You fool!" he exclaimed; "you clumsy fool! Why, +a child could find you out. And you—you have dared to +play with such an edged tool as forgery. Now, do the one +thing which is left to you: make a clean breast of it to me—at +once."</p> + +<p>In imposing this command, a command which he knew +would be obeyed, inasmuch as he perceived that he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> +dominated the weak, grovelling creature in front of him, +Warde overlooked the possibility that this boy's confession +might implicate other boys. Already he had formed in +his mind a working hypothesis to account for this forged +letter. The fellow, no doubt, was in debt to some Harrow +townsman.</p> + +<p>"For whom did you <i>steal</i> this money? To whom did +you pay it to-day? Answer!"</p> + +<p>And he was answered.</p> + +<p>"I owed the money to Scaife and Lovell."</p> + +<p>Then he told the story of the card-playing. At the last +word he fell on his knees, blubbering.</p> + +<p>"Get up," said Warde, sharply. "Pull yourself together +if you can."</p> + +<p>The master began to walk up and down the room, +frowning and biting his lips. From time to time he glanced +at Beaumont-Greene. Seeing his utter collapse, he rang +the bell, answered by the ever-discreet Dumbleton.</p> + +<p>"Dumbleton, take Mr. Beaumont-Greene to the sick-room. +There is no one in it, I believe?"</p> + +<p>"No, sir."</p> + +<p>"You will fetch what he may require for the night; +quietly, you understand."</p> + +<p>"Very good, sir."</p> + +<p>"Follow Dumbleton," Warde addressed Beaumont-Greene. +"You will consider yourself under arrest. Your +meals will be brought to you. You will hold no communication +with anybody except Dumbleton and me; +you will send no messages; you will write no notes. Do +you hear?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"Then go."</p> + +<p>Dumbleton opened the door. Young man and servant +passed out and into the passage beyond. Warde waited +one moment, then he followed them into the passage; but +instead of going upstairs, he paused for an instant with his +fingers upon the handle of the door which led from the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> +private side to the boys' quarters. He sighed as he passed +through.</p> + +<p>At this moment Lovell was sitting in his room alone +with Scaife. They had no suspicion of what had taken +place in the study. In the afternoon there had been a match +with an Old Harrovian team, and both Scaife and Lovell +had played for the School. But as yet neither had got his +Flannels. As Warde passed through the private side door, +Scaife was saying angrily—</p> + +<p>"I believe Challoner" (Challoner was captain of the +football Eleven and a monitor) "has a grudge against us. +If we had a chance—and we had—of getting our Flannels +last year, why isn't it a cert. this, eh?"</p> + +<p>Lovell shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"It is a cert.," he answered; "and you're right. Challoner +doesn't like us, and it amuses him to keep us out +of our just rights. The monitors know I detest 'em, and +they don't think you're called the Demon for nothing. +Challoner is more of a monitor than a footer-player. How +about a rubber? There's just time."</p> + +<p>"I don't mind."</p> + +<p>Lovell went to the door and opened it.</p> + +<p>"Bo-o-o-o-o-o-y!"</p> + +<p>The familiar cry—that imperious call which makes an +Harrovian feel himself master of more or less willing slaves—echoed +through the house. Immediately the night-fag +came running; it was not considered healthy to keep +Lovell waiting.</p> + +<p>"Ask Beaumont-Greene to come up here and——" +He paused. Warde had just turned the corner, and was +approaching. Lovell hesitated. Then he repeated what +he had just said, with a slight variation for Warde's benefit. +"Tell him I want to ask him a question about the house-subscriptions."</p> + +<p>"Right," said the fag, bustling off.</p> + +<p>Lovell waited to receive his house-master. He had +very good manners.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Can I do anything for you, sir?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Warde, deliberately. He entered Lovell's +room and looked at Scaife, who rose at once.</p> + +<p>"I wish to speak with you alone, Lovell."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, sir. Won't you sit down?"</p> + +<p>Warde waited till Scaife had closed the door; then he +said quietly—</p> + +<p>"Lovell, does Beaumont-Greene owe you money?"</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> The Anglo-Saxon form of Harrow.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> The terminal examination.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My +brethren, ye have done it unto Me."</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h3><i>Decapitation</i></h3> + +<div class="block1">"Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee, thou liar of +the first magnitude!"</div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Lovell betrayed</span> his astonishment by a slight start; +however, he faced Warde with a smile. Warde, clean-shaven, +alert, with youthful figure, looked but little older +than his pupil. For a moment the two stared steadily at +each other; then, very politely, Lovell said—</p> + +<p>"No, sir, he does not."</p> + +<p>Warde continued curtly, "Then he has paid you what +he did owe you?"</p> + +<p>Lovell nodded, shrugging his shoulders. Plainly, Warde +had discovered the fact of the debt. Probably that fool +Beaumont-Greene had applied to his father, and the father +had written to Warde. It was unthinkable that Warde +knew more than this. Having reached this conclusion, +Lovell turned over in his mind two or three specious lies +that might meet the exigency.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he replied, with apparent frankness, "Beaumont-Greene +did owe me money, and he has paid me."</p> + +<p>After a slight pause, Warde said quietly, "It is my duty, +as your tutor, to ask you how Beaumont-Greene became +indebted to you?"</p> + +<p>"I lent him the money," said Lovell.</p> + +<p>"Ah! Please call 'Boy.'"</p> + +<p>Lovell went into the passage. Had he an intuition that +he was about to call "Boy" for the last time, or did the +pent-up excitement find an outlet in sound? He had never +called "Boy" so loudly or clearly. The night-fag scurried +up again.</p> + +<p>"Tell him to send Scaife here," said Warde.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p> + +<p>Lovell's florid face paled. Scaife would introduce complications. +And yet, if it had come to Warde's ears that +Beaumont-Greene was in debt to two of his schoolfellows, +and if he had found out the name of one, it was not surprising +that he knew the name of the other also. As he gave the +fag the message, he regretted that Scaife and he could not +have a minute's private conversation together.</p> + +<p>"You lent Beaumont-Greene ten pounds, Lovell?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>Scaife came in, cool, handsomer than usual because of +the sparkle in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Shut the door, Scaife. Look at me, please. Beaumont-Greene +owed you money?"</p> + +<p>Scaife glanced at Lovell, whose left eyelid quivered.</p> + +<p>"Kindly stand behind Scaife, Lovell. Thank you. +Answer my question, Scaife."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir; he owed me money."</p> + +<p>"Have <i>you</i> lent him money, too?" said Lovell.</p> + +<p>It was admirably done—the hint cleverly conveyed, the +mild amazement. Warde smiled grimly. Scaife understood, +and took his cue.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I have lent him money," said he, after a slight +pause.</p> + +<p>"Twenty pounds?"</p> + +<p>"I believe, sir, that is the amount."</p> + +<p>"And can you offer me any explanation why Beaumont-Greene, +whose father, to my knowledge, has always given +him a very large allowance, should borrow thirty pounds +of you two?"</p> + +<p>"I haven't the smallest idea, have you, Lovell?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Lovell. "Unless his younger brother, who is at +Eton, has got into trouble. He's very fond of his brothers."</p> + +<p>"Um! You speak up for your—friend."</p> + +<p>Lovell frowned. "A friend, sir—no."</p> + +<p>"Of course," said Warde, reflectively, "if it is true +that Beaumont-Greene borrowed this money to help a +brother——"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p> + +<p>He paused, staring at Lovell. From the bottom of a +big heart he was praying that Lovell would not lie.</p> + +<p>"Beaumont-Greene certainly gave me to understand +that the affair was pressing. Having the money, I hadn't +the heart to refuse."</p> + +<p>"But you pressed for repayment?" said Warde, sharply.</p> + +<p>"That is true, sir. I'm on an allowance; and I shall +have many expenses this holidays."</p> + +<p>"You, Scaife, asked for your money?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"Well, between you, you have driven this unhappy +wretch into crime."</p> + +<p>"Crime, sir?"</p> + +<p>At last their self-possession abandoned them. Crime +is a word which looms large in the imaginations of youth. +What had Beaumont-Greene done?</p> + +<p>"What crime, sir?"</p> + +<p>Scaife, the more self-possessed, although fully two +years the younger, asked the question.</p> + +<p>"Forgery."</p> + +<p>"Forgery?" Lovell repeated. He was plainly shocked.</p> + +<p>"The idiot!" exclaimed Scaife.</p> + +<p>"Yes—forgery. Have you anything to say? It is a +time when the truth, all the truth, might be accepted as an +extenuating circumstance. I speak to you first, Lovell. +You're a Sixth Form boy—remember, I have been one +myself—and it is your duty to help me."</p> + +<p>"I beg pardon, sir," Lovell replied. "I have never +considered it my duty as a Sixth Form boy to play the +usher."</p> + +<p>"Nor did I; but you ought to work on parallel lines +with us. You accepted the privileges of the Sixth."</p> + +<p>Lovell's flush deepened.</p> + +<p>"More," continued Warde, "you know that we, the +masters, have implicit trust in the Sixth Form, a trust but +seldom betrayed. For instance, I should not think of +entering your room without tapping on the door; under<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> +ordinary circumstances I should accept your bare word +unhesitatingly. I say emphatically that if you, knowing +these things, have accepted the privileges of your order +with the deliberate intention of ignoring its duties, you have +not acted like a man of honour."</p> + +<p>"Sir!"</p> + +<p>"Don't bluff! Now, for the last time, will you give me +what I have given you—trust?"</p> + +<p>"I have nothing more to say," Lovell answered stiffly.</p> + +<p>"And you, Scaife?"</p> + +<p>"I am sorry, sir, that Beaumont-Greene has been such +a fool. We lent him this money, because he wanted it +badly; and he said he would pay us back before the end +of the term."</p> + +<p>"You stick to that story?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes, sir. Why should we tell you a lie?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, why, indeed?" sighed Warde. Then his voice +grew hard and sharp. The persuasiveness, the carefully-framed +sentences, gave place to his curtest manner. "This +matter," said he, "is out of my hands. The Head Master +will deal with it. I must ask you for your keys, Lovell."</p> + +<p>"And if I refuse to give them up?"</p> + +<p>"Then we must break into your boxes. Thanks." He +took the keys. "Follow me, please."</p> + +<p>The pair followed him into the private side, upstairs, +and into the sick-room. There were three beds in it; upon +one sat Beaumont-Greene. His complexion turned a +sickly drab when he saw Lovell and Scaife. He even +glanced at the window with a hunted expression. The +window was three stories from the ground, and heavily +barred ever since a boy in delirium had tried to jump +from it.</p> + +<p>"Your night-things will be brought to you," said Warde.</p> + +<p>He went out slowly. The boys heard the key turn in +the massive lock. They were prisoners. Scaife walked +up to Beaumont-Greene.</p> + +<p>"You told Warde about the bridge?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ye-es; I had to. Scaife, don't look at me like that. +Lovell"—his voice broke into a terrified scream—"don't +let him hit me. I couldn't help it—I swear I——"</p> + +<p>"You cur!" said Scaife. "I wouldn't touch you with +a forty-foot pole."</p> + +<p>Just what passed between Warde and the Head Master +must be surmised. Carefully hidden in Lovell's boxes were +found cards and markers. Upon the latter remained the +results of the last game played, and under the winning +column a rough calculation in pounds, shillings, and pence. +There were no names.</p> + +<p>Next day, during first school, a notice came round +to each Form to be in the Speech-room at 8.30. Not a +boy knew or guessed the reason of this summons. The +Manorites, aware that three of their House were in the sick-room, +believed that an infectious disease had broken out. +Only Desmond, John, and the Caterpillar experienced +heart-breaking fears that a catastrophe had taken place.</p> + +<p>When the School assembled at half-past eight, the +monitors came in, followed by the Head Master in cap and +gown. Then, a moment later, the School Custos entered +with Scaife. They sat down upon a small bench near the +door. Immediately the whispers, the shuffling of feet, the +occasional cough, died down into a thrilling silence. The +Head Master stood up.</p> + +<p>He was a man of singularly impressive face and figure. +And his voice had what may be described as an edge to +it—the cutting quality so invaluable to any speaker who +desires to make a deep impression upon his audience. He +began his address in the clear, cold accents of one who +sets forth facts which can neither be controverted nor +ignored. Slowly, inexorably, without wasting a word or a +second, he told the School what had happened. Then he +paused.</p> + +<p>As his voice melted away, the boys moved restlessly. +Upon their faces shone a curious excitement and relief. +Gambling in its many-headed forms is too deeply rooted in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> +human hearts to awaken any great antipathy. So far, +then, the sympathy of the audience lay with the culprits; +this the Head Master knew.</p> + +<p>When he spoke again, his voice had changed, subtly, +but unmistakably.</p> + +<p>"You were afraid," he said, "that I had something +worse—ah, yes, unspeakably worse—to tell you. Thank +God, this is not one of those cases from which every clean, +manly boy must recoil in disgust. But, on that account, +don't blind yourselves to the issues involved. This playing +of bridge—a game you have seen your own people playing +night after night, perhaps—is harmless enough in itself. +I can say more—it is a game, and hence its fascination, +which calls into use some of the finest qualities of the brain: +judgment, memory, the faculty of making correct deductions, +foresight, and patience. It teaches restraint; it +makes for pleasant fellowship. It does all this and more, +provided that it never degenerates into gambling. The +very moment that the game becomes a gamble, if any one +of the players is likely to lose a sum greater than he can +reasonably afford to pay, greater than he would cheerfully +spend upon any other form of entertainment, then bridge +becomes cursed. And because you boys have not the +experience to determine the difference between a mere game +and a gamble, card-playing is forbidden you, and rightly +so. Now, let us consider what has happened. A stupid, +foolish fellow, playing with boys infinitely cleverer than +himself, has lost a sum of money which he could not pay. +To obtain the means of paying it, he deliberately forged a +letter and a signature. And then followed the inevitable +lying—lie upon lie. That is always the price of lies—'to +lie on still.'</p> + +<p>"I would mitigate the punishment, if I could, but I +must think of the majority. This sort of malignant disease +must be cut out. Two of the three offenders are young +men; they were leaving at the end of this term. They +will leave, instead—to-day. The third boy is much<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> +younger. Because of his youth, I have been persuaded by +his house-master to give him a further chance."</p> + +<p>Again he paused. Then he exclaimed loudly, "Scaife!"</p> + +<p>Scaife stood up, very pale. "Here, sir!"</p> + +<p>"Scaife, you will go into the Fourth Form Room,<a name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a> and +prepare to receive the punishment which no member of +the Eleven should ever deserve."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>John sat with his Form while the Head Master was +addressing the School. Not far off was the Caterpillar, +less cool than usual, so John remarked. His collar, for +instance, seemed to be too tight; and he moved restlessly +upon his chair. Many very brave men become nervous +when a great danger has passed them by. Egerton said +afterwards, "I felt like getting down a hole, and pulling +the hole after me. Not my own. Some Yankee's, you +know." Still, he displayed remarkable self-possession +under trying circumstances. Two of Lovell's particular +friends were seen to turn the colour of Cheddar cheese. +But Desmond, so John noticed, grew red rather than yellow. +Nor did he tremble, but his fists were clenched, and his +eyes kindled.</p> + +<p>As Scaife left the Speech-room, followed by Titchener +(the provider of birches, whose duty it is to see that boys +about to be swished are properly prepared to receive +punishment), the boys began to shuffle in their places. +But the Head Master held up his hand. It was then that +Lovell's two particular friends, who had partially recovered, +felt that the earth was once more slipping from under +them.</p> + +<p>"It takes four to play bridge." The Caterpillar's +fingers went to his collar again. "In this case there must +have been a fourth, possibly a fifth and a sixth. Not more, +I think, because the secret was too well kept. We are confronted +with the disagreeable fact that three boys are going +to receive the most severe punishments I can inflict, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> +that another escapes scot-free. <i>For I do not know the—name—of—the—fourth.</i>"</p> + +<p>The Head Master waited to let each deliberate word +soak in. Perhaps he had calculated the effect of his voice +upon a boy of sensibility and imagination. That Scaife, +his friend, should suffer the indignity of a swishing, and +that he should escape scot-free, seemed to Cæsar Desmond +not a bit of rare good fortune—as it appeared to the others—but +an incredible miscarriage of justice. To submit tamely +to such a burden was unthinkable. He sprang to his feet, +ardent, impetuous, afire with the spirit which makes men +accept death rather than dishonour; and then, in a voice +that rang through the room, thrilling the coldest and most +callous heart, he exclaimed—</p> + +<p>"I was the fourth."</p> + +<p>A curious sound escaped from the audience—a gasp of +surprise, of admiration, and of dismay; at least, so the +Head Master interpreted it. And looking at the faces +about him, he read approval or disapproval, according as +each boy betrayed the feeling in his heart.</p> + +<p>"You, Desmond?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar rose slowly. He was cool enough now.</p> + +<p>"I was the fifth."</p> + +<p>But Lovell's two particular friends sat tight, as they +put it. Let us not blame them.</p> + +<p>"You, Egerton?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>For a moment the Head Master hesitated. Into his +mind there flashed the image of two notable figures—the +fathers whom he had entreated to send sons to the Manor. +If—if by so doing he had compassed the boys' ruin, could +he ever have forgiven himself? But now, the boys themselves +had justified his action; they had proved worthy +of their breeding and the traditions of the Hill.</p> + +<p>"Come here," he said.</p> + +<p>When they stood opposite to him, he continued<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"You give yourselves up to receive the punishment I +am about to inflict upon Scaife?"</p> + +<p>The boys did not answer, save with their eyes. The +silence in the great room was so profound that John made +sure that the beating of his heart must be heard by everybody.</p> + +<p>"I shall not punish you. This voluntary confession +has done much to redeem your fault. Meet me in my +study at nine this evening, and I will talk to you. When +I came here I hardly hoped to find saints, but I did expect +to find—gentlemen. And I have not been disappointed." +He addressed the others. "You will return to your +boarding-houses, and quietly, if you please."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The immediate and most noticeable effect of Lovell's +expulsion was the loss of the next House match. Damer's +defeated the Manor easily. Some of the fags whispered +to each other that the injuries inflicted by the Head Master +on Scaife had been so severe as to incapacitate the star-player +of the House. Two boys had concealed themselves +in the Armoury (which is just below the Fourth Form +Room) upon the morning when Scaife was flogged. But +they reported—nothing. However severe the punishment +might have been, Scaife received it without a whimper.</p> + +<p>In truth, Scaife received but one cut, and that a light +one. The Head Master wished to lay stripes upon the boy's +heart, not his body. When he saw him prepared to receive +punishment, he said gravely—</p> + +<p>"I have never flogged a member of the Eleven. And +now, at the last moment, I offer you the choice between a +flogging and expulsion."</p> + +<p>"I prefer to be flogged."</p> + +<p><i>And then—one cut.</i></p> + +<p>But Scaife never forgot the walk from the Yard to the +Manor, after execution. He was too proud to run, too +proud not to face the boys he happened to meet. They +turned aside their eyes from his furious glare. But he met<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> +no members of his own House. They had the delicacy to +leave the coast clear. When he reached his room, he found +Desmond alone. Desmond said nervously—</p> + +<p>"I asked Warde if we could have breakfast here this +morning, instead of going into Hall. I've got some ripping +salmon."</p> + +<p>Scaife had faced everything with a brazen indifference, +but the sympathy in his friend's voice overpowered him. +He flung himself upon the sofa by the window and wept, +not as a boy weeps, but with the cruel, grinding sobs of a +man. He wept for his stained pride, for his vain-glory, +not because he had sinned and caused others to sin. The +boy watching him, seeing the hero self-abased, hearing his +heartbreaking sobs, interpreted very differently those +sounds. Infinitely distressed, turning over and over in +his mind some soothing phrases, some word of comfort +and encouragement, Desmond waited till the first paroxysm +had passed. What he said then shall not be set down in cold +print. You may be sure he proved that friendship between +two strong, vigorous boys is no frail thread, but a golden +chain which adversity strengthens and refines. Scaife +rose up with his heart softened, not by his own tears, but +by the tears he saw in Desmond's eyes.</p> + +<p>"I'm all right now," he said. Then, with frowning +brows, he added thoughtfully, "I deserve what I got for +being a fool. I ought to have foreseen that such a swine +as Beaumont-Greene would be sure to betray us sooner +or later. I shall be wiser next time."</p> + +<p>"Next—time?" The dismay in Desmond's voice made +Scaife smile.</p> + +<p>"Don't worry, Cæsar. No more bridge for me; but," +he laughed harshly, "the leopard can't change his spots, +and he won't give up hunting because he has fallen into +a trap, and got out of it. Come, let's tackle the salmon."</p> + +<p>The winter term came to an end, and the School broke +up. Upon the evening of the last Sunday, Warde said a +few words to John.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I propose to make some changes in the house," he +said abruptly. "Would you like to share No. 7 with +Desmond?"</p> + +<p>No. 7 was the jolliest two-room at the Manor. It overlooked +the gardens, and was larger than some three-rooms. +Then John remembered Scaife and the Duffer.</p> + +<p>"Desmond has been with Scaife ever since he came to +the house, sir."</p> + +<p>"True. But I'm going to give Scaife a room to himself. +He's entitled to it as the future Captain of the Eleven. +That is—settled. You and Duff must part. He's two +forms below you in the school, and never likely to soar +much higher than the Second Fifth. Next term you will +be in the Sixth, and by the summer I hope Desmond will +have joined you. You will find<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a> together. Of course +Scaife can find with you, if you wish. I've spoken to him +and Desmond."</p> + +<p>And so, John's fondest hope was realized. When he +came back to the Manor, Desmond and he spent much time +and rather more money than they could afford in making +No. 7 the cosiest room in the house. Consciences were +salved thus:—John bought for Desmond some picture or +other decorative object which cost more money than he +felt justified in spending on himself; then Desmond made +John a similar present. It was whipping the devil round +the stump, John said, but oh! the delight of giving his +friend something he coveted, and receiving presents from +him in return.</p> + +<p>During this term, Scaife became one of the school +racquet-players. In many ways he was admittedly the +most remarkable boy at Harrow, the Admirable Crichton +who appears now and again in every decade. He won the +high jump and the hurdle-race. These triumphs kept him +out of mischief, and occupied every minute of his time. He +associated with the "Bloods," and one day Desmond told<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> +John that he considered himself to have been "dropped" +by this tremendous swell. John discreetly held his tongue; +but in his own mind, as before, he was convinced that +Scaife and Desmond would come together again. The +inexorable circumstance of Scaife's superiority at games had +separated the boys, but only for a brief season. Desmond +would become a "Blood" soon, and then it would be John's +turn to be "dropped." Being a philosopher, our hero did +not worry too much over the future, but made the most of +the present, with a grateful and joyous heart. In his +humility, he was unable to measure his influence on +Desmond. In athletic pursuits an inferior, in all intellectual +attainments he was pulling far ahead of his friend. The +artful Warde had a word to say, which gave John food +for thought.</p> + +<p>"You can never equal your friend at cricket or footer, +Verney. If you wish to score, it is time to play your own +game."</p> + +<p>Shortly after this, John realized that Warde had read +Cæsar aright. Charles Desmond's son, as has been said, +acclaimed quality wherever he met it. John's intellectual +advance amazed and then fascinated him. When John +discovered this, he worked harder. Warde smiled. John +ran second for the Prize Poem. He had genuine feeling +for Nature, but he lacked as yet the technical ability to +display it. A more practised versifier won the prize; but +John's taste for history and literature secured him the +Bourchier, not without a struggle which whetted to keenness +every faculty he possessed. More, to his delight, he +realized that his enthusiasm was contagious. Cæsar +entered eagerly into his friend's competitions; struggle +and strife appealed to the Irishman. He talked over John's +themes, read his verses, and predicted triumphs. Warde +told John that Cæsar Desmond might have stuck in the +First Fifth, had it not been for this quickening of the clay. +The days succeeded each other swiftly and smoothly. +Warde was seen to smile more than ever during this term.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +Certain big fellows who opposed him were leaving or had +already left. Bohun, now Head of the House, was a sturdy, +straightforward monitor, not a famous athlete, but able to +hold his own in any field of endeavour. Just before the +Christmas holidays, Warde discovered, to his horror, that +the drainage at the Manor was out of order. At great +expense a new and perfect system was laid down. At last +Warde told himself his house might be pronounced sanitary +within and without.</p> + +<p>When the summer term came, Desmond joined John in +the Sixth Form. They were entitled to single rooms, but +they asked and obtained permission to remain in No. 7. +Desmond was invested with the right to fag, and the right +to "find." How blessed a privilege the right to find is, +boys who have enjoyed it will attest. The cosy meals in +one's own room, the pleasant talk, the sense of intimacy, +the freedom from restraint. Custom stales all good things, +but how delicious they taste at first!</p> + +<p>The privilege of fagging is not, however, unadulterated +bliss. When Warde said to Cæsar, "Well, Desmond, how +do you like ordering about your slave?" Desmond replied, +ruefully, "Well, sir, little Duff has broken my inkstand, spilt +the ink on our new carpet, and let Verney's bullfinch escape. +I think, on the whole, I'd as lief wait on myself."</p> + +<p>Early in June it became plain that unless the unforeseen +occurred, Harrow would have a strong Eleven, and that +Desmond would be a member of it. John and Fluff were +playing in the Sixth Form game; but John had no chance +of his Flannels, although he had improved in batting and +bowling, thanks to Warde's indefatigable coaching. Scaife +hardly ever spoke to John now, but occasionally he came +into No. 7 to talk to Desmond. Upon these rare occasions +John would generally find an excuse for leaving the room. +Always, when he returned, Desmond seemed to be restless +and perplexed. His admiration for Scaife had waxed +rather than waned. Indeed, John himself, detesting Scaife—for +it had come to that—fearing him on Desmond's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> +account, admired him notwithstanding: captivated by his +amazing grace, good looks, and audacity. His recklessness +held even the "Bloods" spellbound. A coach ran through +Harrow in the afternoons of that season. Scaife made a +bet that he would drive this coach from one end of the +High Street to the other, under the very nose of Authority. +The rules of the school set forth rigorously that no boy is to +drive in or on any vehicle whatever. Only the Cycle Corps +are allowed to use bicycles. Scaife's bet, you may be sure, +excited extraordinary interest. He won it easily, disguised +as the coachman—a make-up clever enough to deceive +even those who were in the secret. His friends knew that +he kept two polo-ponies at Wembley. One afternoon he +dared to play in a match against the Nondescripts. Warde's +daughter, just out of the schoolroom, happened to be +present, and she rubbed her lovely eyes when she saw Scaife +careering over the field. Scaife laughed when he saw her; +but before she left the ground a note had reached her.</p> + +<div class="lett1"><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Miss Warde</span>,</p> + +<p>"I am sure that you have too much sporting +blood in your veins to tell your father that you have seen +me playing polo.</p> + +<p class="author">"Yours very sincerely,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">"<span class="smcap">Reginald Scaife.</span>"</span></p></div> + +<p>To run such risks seemed to John madness; to Desmond +it indicated genius.</p> + +<p>"There never was such a fellow," said Cæsar to John.</p> + +<p>When Cæsar spoke in that tone John knew that Scaife +had but to hold up a finger, and that Cæsar would come to +him even as a bird drops into the jaws of a snake. Cæsar +was strong, but the Demon was stronger.</p> + +<p>After the Zingari Match, Desmond got his Flannels. +He was cheered at six Bill. Everybody liked him; everybody +was proud of him, proud of his father, proud of the +long line of Desmonds, all distinguished, good-looking, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> +with charming manners. The School roared its satisfaction. +John stood a little back, by the cloisters. Cæsar ran past +him, down the steps and into the street, hat in hand, +blushing like a girl. John felt a lump in his throat. He +thrilled because glory shone about his friend; but the +poignant reflection came, that Cæsar was running swiftly, +out of the Yard and out of his own life. And before lock-up +he saw, what he had seen in fancy a thousand times, Cæsar +arm-in-arm with Scaife and the Captain of the Eleven, +Cæsar in his new straw,<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a> looking happier than John had +ever seen him, Cæsar, the "Blood," rolling triumphantly +down the High Street, the envied of all beholders, the hero +of the hour.</p> + +<p>John called himself a selfish beast, because he had +wished for one terrible moment, wished with heart and soul, +that Cæsar was unpopular and obscure.</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> The place of execution.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> "Finding" is the privilege, accorded to the Sixth Form, of having +breakfast and tea served in their own rooms instead of in Hall.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> The black-and-white straw hat only worn by members of the School +Cricket Eleven.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<h3><i>Self-questioning</i></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 15em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Friend, of my infinite dreams<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Little enough endures;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Little howe'er it seems,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It is yours, all yours.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fame hath a fleeting breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hope may be frail or fond;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Love shall be Love till death,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And perhaps beyond."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Until the</span> Metropolitan Railway joined Harrow to Baker +Street, the Hill stood in the midst of genuine and unspoilt +country, separated by five miles of grass from the nearest +point of the metropolis, and encompassed by isolated +dwellings, ranging in rank and scale from villas to country +houses.<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a> Most of the latter have fallen victims to the +speculative builder, and have been cut up into alleys of +brick and stucco. But one or two still remain among their +hayfields and rhododendrons.</p> + +<p>John Verney had an eager curiosity, not common in +schoolboys, to know something about the countryside in +which he dwelt. As a Lower Boy, whenever released from +"Compulsory" and House-games, he used to wander with +alert eyes and ears up and down the green lanes of Roxeth +and Harrow Weald, enjoying fresh glimpses of the far-seen +Spire, making friends with cottagers, picking up traditions +of an older and more lawless<a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a> epoch, and, with these, an<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> +ever-increasing love and loyalty to Harrow. So Byron had +wandered a hundred years before.</p> + +<p>These solitary rambles, however, were regarded with +disfavour by schoolfellows who lacked John's imaginative +temperament. The Caterpillar, for instance, protested, +"Did I see you hobnobbing with a chaw the other day? I +thought so; and you looked like a confounded bughunter." +The Duffer's notions of topography were bounded by the +cricket-ground on the one side of the Hill, and the footer-fields +on the other; and his traditions held nothing much +more romantic than A. J. Webbe's scores at Lord's. Fluff, +as has been said, was too far removed from John to make +him more than an occasional companion. And so, for +several terms, John, for the most part, walked alone. By +the time Desmond joined him, he had gleaned a knowledge +which fascinated a friend of like sensibility and imagination. +Together they revisited the old and explored the new. One +never-to-be-forgotten day the boys discovered a deserted +house of some pretensions about a mile from the Hill. Its +grounds, covering several acres, were enclosed by a high oak +paling, within which stood a thick belt of trees, effectually +concealing what lay beyond. Grim iron gates, always +locked, frowned upon the wayfarer; but John, flattening +an inquisitive nose against the ironwork, could discern a +carriage-drive overgrown with grass and weeds, and at the +end of it a white stone portico. After this the place became +to both boys a sort of Enchanted Castle. A dozen times +they peered through the gates. No one went in or out of +the grass-grown drive. The gatekeeper's lodge was uninhabited; +there were no adjacent cottages where information +might be sought. The boys called it "The Haunted +House," and peopled it with ghosts; gorgeous bucks of the +Regency, languishing beauties such as Lawrence painted, +fiery politicians, duellists, mysterious black-a-vised +foreigners. John connected it in fancy with the days when +the gorgeous Duke of Chandos (who had Handel for his +chapel-organist and was a Governor of Harrow and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +guardian of Lord Rodney) kept court at Cannons. He told +Cæsar anecdotes of Dr. Parr, with his preposterous wig, +his clouds of tobacco, his sesquipedalian quotations, coming +down from Stanmore; and also of the great Lord Abercorn, +another Governor of the school, who used to go out shooting +in the blue riband of the Garter, and who entertained Pitt +and Sir Walter Scott at Bentley Priory.</p> + +<p>"What a lot you know!" said Cæsar. "And you have +a memory like my father's. I'm beginning to think, +Jonathan, that you'll be a swell like him some day—in the +Cabinet, perhaps."</p> + +<p>"Ah," said John, with shining eyes.</p> + +<p>"I hope I shall live to see it," Desmond added, with +feeling.</p> + +<p>"Thanks, old chap. A crust or a triumph shared with +a pal tastes twice as good."</p> + +<p>One soft afternoon in spring, after four Bill, Desmond and +John were approaching the iron gates of the Haunted House. +They had not taken this particular walk since the day when +Desmond got his Flannels. During the winter term, Scaife +and Desmond became members of the Football Eleven. +During this term Scaife won the hundred yards and quarter-mile; +Desmond won the half-mile and mile. In a word, +they had done, from the athletic point of view, nearly all +that could be done. A glorious victory at Lord's seemed +assured. Scaife, Captain and epitome of the brains and +muscles of the Eleven, had grown into a powerful man, with +the mind, the tastes, the passions of manhood. Desmond, on +the other hand, while nearly as tall (and much handsomer +in John's eyes), still retained the look of youth. Indeed, he +looked younger than John, although a year his senior; and +John knew himself to be the elder and wiser, knew that +Desmond leaned upon him whenever a crutch was wanted.</p> + +<p>The chief difficulty which besets a school friendship +between two boys is that of being alone together. In Form, +in the playing-fields, in the boarding-house, life is public. +Even in the most secluded lane, a Harrow boy is not secure<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> +against the unwelcome salutations of heated athletes who +have been taking a cross-country run, or leaping over, or +into, the Pinner brook. To John the need of sanctuary +had become pressing.</p> + +<p>Upon this blessed spring afternoon—ever afterwards +recalled with special affection—a retreat was suddenly +provided. As the boys jumped over the last stile into the +lane which led to the Haunted House, Desmond exclaimed—</p> + +<p>"By Jove, the gates are open!"</p> + +<p>Then they saw that a man, a sort of caretaker, was in the +act of shutting them.</p> + +<p>"May we go in?" John asked civilly.</p> + +<p>The man hesitated, eyeing the boys. Desmond's smile +melted him, as it would have melted a mummy.</p> + +<p>"There's nothing to see," he said.</p> + +<p>Then, in answer to a few eager questions, he told the +story of the Haunted House; haunted, indeed, by the ghosts +of what might have been. A city magnate owned the place. +He had bought it because he wished to educate his only son +at Harrow as a "Home-Boarder," or day-boy. A few weeks +before the boy should have joined the school, he fell ill with +diphtheria, and died. The mother, who nursed him, caught +the disease and died also. The father, left alone, turned his +back upon a place he loathed, resolving to hold it till +building-values increased, but never to set eyes on it again. +The caretaker and his wife occupied a couple of rooms in +the house.</p> + +<p>The boys glanced at the house, a common-place mansion, +and began to explore the gardens. To their delight they +found in the shrubberies, now a wilderness of laurel and +rhododendron, a tower—what our forefathers called a +"Gazebo," and their neighbours a "Folly." The top of it +commanded a wide, unbroken view—</p> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 18em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Of all the lowland western lea,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Uxbridge flats and meadows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To where the Ruislip waters see<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Oxhey lights and shadows."<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>"There's the Spire," said John.</p> + +<p>The man, who had joined them, nodded. "Yes," said +he, "and my mistress and her boy are buried underneath it. +She wanted him to be there—at the school, I mean—and +there he is."</p> + +<p>"We're very much obliged to you," said Desmond. He +slipped a shilling into the man's hand, and added, "May +we stay here for a bit? and perhaps we might come again—eh?"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, sir," the man replied, touching his hat. +"Come whenever you like, sir. The gates ain't really +locked. I'll show you the trick of opening 'em when you +come down."</p> + +<p>He descended the steep flight of steps after the boys +had thanked him.</p> + +<p>"Sad story," said John, staring at the distant Spire.</p> + +<p>Desmond hesitated. At times he revealed (to John +alone) a curious melancholy.</p> + +<p>"Sad," he repeated. "I don't know about that. Sad +for the father, of course, but perhaps the son is well out of +it. Don't look so amazed, Jonathan. Most fellows seem +to make awful muddles of their lives. You won't, of +course. I see you on pinnacles, but I——" He broke +off with a mirthless laugh.</p> + +<p>John waited. The air about them was soft and moist +after a recent shower. The south-west wind stirred the +pulses. Earth was once more tumid, about to bring forth. +Already the hedges were green under the brown; bulbs were +pushing delicate spears through the sweet-smelling soil; the +buds upon a clump of fine beeches had begun to open. In +this solitude, alone with teeming nature, John tried to +interpret his friend's mood; but the spirit of melancholy +eluded him, as if it were a will-o'-the-wisp dancing over an +impassable marsh. Suddenly, there came to him, as there +had come to the quicker imagination of his friend, the overpowering +mystery of Spring, the sense of inevitable change, +the impossibility of arresting it. At the moment all things<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +seemed unsubstantial. Even the familiar Spire, powdered +with gold by the slanting rays of the sun, appeared thinly +transparent against the rosy mists behind it. The Hill, the +solid Hill, rose out of the valley, a lavender-coloured shade +upon the horizon.</p> + +<p>"He came here," continued Desmond, dreamily—John +guessed that he was speaking of the father—"a rich, +prosperous man. I dare say he worked like a slave in the +city. And he wanted peace and quiet after the Stock +Exchange. Who wouldn't? And he planted out these +gardens, thinking that every plant would grow up and +thrive, and his son with them. And then the boy died; +and the wife followed; and the enchanted castle became +a place of horror; and now it is a wilderness. Haunted? +I should think it was—haunted! I wish we'd never set +foot in it. There's a curse on it."</p> + +<p>"Let's go," said John.</p> + +<p>"Too late. We'll stay now, and we'll come again, every +Sunday. Wild and desolate as things look, they will be +lovely when we get back in summer. Don't talk. I'm +going to light a pipe."</p> + +<p>Through the circling cloud of tobacco-smoke John stared +at the face which had illumined nearly every hour of his +school-life. Its peculiar vividness always amazed John, the +vitality of it, and yet the perfect delicacy. Scaife's handsome +features were full of vitality also, but coarseness underlay +their bold lines and peered out of the keen, flashing eyes. +When the Caterpillar left Harrow he had said to John—</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, Jonathan. Awful rot your going to such +a hole as Oxford! One has had quite enough schooling +after five years here. It's settled I'm going into the Guards. +My father tells me that old Scaife tried to get the Demon +down on the Duke's list. But we don't fancy the Scaife +brand."</p> + +<p>Often and often John wondered whether Desmond saw +the brand as plainly as the Caterpillar and he did. Sometimes +he felt almost sure that a word, a look, a gesture<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> +betraying the bounder, had revolted Desmond; but a few +hours later the bounder bounded into favour again, captivating +eye and heart by some brilliant feat. And then his +brains! He was so diabolically clever. John could always +recall his face as he lay back in the chair in No. 15, sick, +bruised, befuddled, and yet even in that moment of extreme +prostration able to "play the game," as he put it, to defeat +house-master and doctor by sheer strength of will and +intellect. It was Scaife who had persuaded Desmond to +smoke.... Cæsar's voice broke in upon these meditations.</p> + +<p>"I say—what are you frowning about?"</p> + +<p>John, very red, replied nervously, "Now that you're +in the Sixth, you ought to chuck smoking."</p> + +<p>"What rot!" said Cæsar. "And here, in this tower, +where one couldn't possibly be nailed——"</p> + +<p>"That's it," said John. "It's just because you can't +possibly be nailed that it seems to me not quite square."</p> + +<p>Cæsar burst out laughing. "Jonathan, you <i>are</i> a rum +'un. Anyway—here goes!"</p> + +<p>As he spoke he flung the pipe into the bushes below.</p> + +<p>"Thanks," said John, quietly.</p> + +<p>"We'll come here again. I like this old tower."</p> + +<p>"You won't come here without me?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, ho! I'm not to let the Demon into our paradise—eh? +What a jealous old bird you are! Well, I like you +to be jealous." And he laughed again.</p> + +<p>"I am jealous," said John, slowly.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The School broke up on the following Tuesday, and +Desmond went home with John.</p> + +<p>This happened to be the first time that the friends had +spent Easter together. John wondered whether Cæsar +would take the Sacrament with his mother and him. He +and Cæsar had been confirmed side by side in the Chapel at +Harrow. He felt sure that Desmond would not refuse if he +were asked. On Easter Eve, Mrs. Verney said, in her quiet, +persuasive voice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"You will join us to-morrow morning, Harry?"</p> + +<p>Desmond flushed, and said, "Yes."</p> + +<p>Not remembering his own mother, who had died when +he was a child, he often told John that he felt like a son to +Mrs. Verney. Upon Easter morning, the three met in the +hall, and Desmond asked for a Prayer-book.</p> + +<p>"I've lost mine," he murmured.</p> + +<p>That afternoon, when they were alone upon the splendid +moor above Stoneycross, Desmond said suddenly—</p> + +<p>"Religion means a lot to you, Jonathan, doesn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"But you never talk about it."</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know how to begin."</p> + +<p>"There's such sickening hypocrisy in this world."</p> + +<p>John nodded.</p> + +<p>"But your religion is a help to you, eh? Keeps you +straight?"</p> + +<p>John nodded again. Then Desmond said with an air of +finality—</p> + +<p>"I wish I'd some of your faith. I want it badly."</p> + +<p>"If you want it badly, you will get it."</p> + +<p>A long silence succeeded. Then Desmond exclaimed—</p> + +<p>"Hullo! By Jove, there's a fox, a splendid fellow! +He's come up here amongst the rabbits for a Sunday +dinner. Gone awa-a-a-ay!"</p> + +<p>He put his hand to his mouth and halloaed. A minute +later he was talking of hunting. Religion was not mentioned +till they were approaching the house for tea. On +the threshold, Desmond said with a nervous laugh—</p> + +<p>"I'd like your mother to give me a Prayer-book—a +small one, nothing expensive."</p> + +<p>During the following week they hunted with foxhounds +or staghounds every day, except Wednesday. +In the New Forest the Easter hunting is unique. Tremendous +fellows come down from the shires—masters of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +famous packs, thrusters, keen to see May foxes killed. +And the Forest entertains them handsomely, you may be +sure. Big hampers are unpacked under the oaks which +may have been saplings when William Rufus ruled in +England; there are dinners, and, of course, a hunt-ball in +the ancient village of Lyndhurst. But as each pleasant +day passed, John told himself that the end was drawing +near. This was almost the last holidays Cæsar and he +would spend together; and, afterwards, would this friendship, +so romantic a passion with one at least of them—would +it wither away, or would it endure to the end?</p> + +<p>At the end of a fortnight, Desmond returned to Eaton +Square. Upon the eve of departure, Mrs. Verney gave +him a small Prayer-book.</p> + +<p>"I have written something in it," she said; "but +don't open it now."</p> + +<p>He looked at the fly-leaf as the train rolled out of +Lyndhurst Station. Upon it, in Mrs. Verney's delicate +handwriting, were a few lines. First his name and the +date. Below, a text—"Unto whomsoever much is given, +of him shall be much required." And, below that again, a +verse—</p> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 18em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Not thankful when it pleaseth me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if Thy blessings had spare days:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But such a heart whose pulse may be—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Thy praise."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + +<p>Desmond stared at the graceful writing long after the +train had passed Totton. "Am I ungrateful?" he asked +himself. "Not to them," he muttered; "surely not to +them." He recalled what Warde had said about ingratitude +being the unpardonable sin. Ah! it was loathsome, +ingratitude! And much had been given to him. How +much? For the first time he made, so to speak, an inventory +of what he had received—his innumerable blessings. +<i>What had he given in return?</i> And now the fine handwriting +seemed blurred; he saw it through tears which he +ought to have shed. "Oh, my God," he murmured, "am<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +I ungrateful?" The question bit deeper into his mind, +sinking from there into his soul.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>When the School reassembled, a curious incident +occurred. John happened to be going up the fine flight of +steps that leads to the Old Schools. He was carrying some +books and papers. Scaife, running down the steps, charged +into him. By great good fortune, no damage was done +except to a nicely-bound Sophocles. John, however, felt +assured that Scaife had deliberately intended to knock him +down, seized, possibly, by an ecstasy of blind rage not +uncommon with him. Scaife smiled derisively, and said—</p> + +<p>"A thousand apologies, Verney."</p> + +<p>"<i>One</i> is enough," John replied, "if it is sincere."</p> + +<p>They eyed each other steadily. John read a furious +challenge in Scaife's bold eyes—more, a menace, the +threatening frown of power thwarted. Scaife seemed to +expand, to fill the horizon, to blot out the glad sunshine. +Once again the curious certainty gripped the younger that +Scaife was indeed the personification of evil, the more +malefic because it stalked abroad masked. For Scaife had +outlived his reputation as a breaker of the law. Since that +terrible experience in the Fourth Form Room, he had paid +tithe of mint and cummin. As a Sixth Form boy he upheld +authority, laughing the while in his sleeve. He knew, of +course, that one mistake, one slip, would be fatal. And he +prided himself on not making mistakes. He gambled, but +not with boys; he drank, not with boys; he denied his +body nothing it craved; but he never forgot that expulsion +from Harrow meant the loss of a commission in a smart +cavalry regiment. When it was intimated to him that the +Guards did not want his father's son, he laughed bitterly, +and swore to himself that he would show the stuck-up snobs +what a soldier they had turned away. A soldier he fully +intended to be—a dashing cavalry leader, if the Fates were +kind. His luck would stand by him; if not—why—what +was life without luck? He had never been a reader, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> +he read now the lives of soldiers. Murat, Uxbridge, +Cardigan, Hodson, were his heroes. Talking of their +achievements, he inflamed his own mind and Desmond's.</p> + +<p>The pleasant summer days passed. May melted into +June. And each Sunday John and Desmond walked to the +Haunted House, ascended the tower, and talked. Scaife +was leaving at the end of the summer. Desmond was +staying on for the winter term; then John would have him +entirely to himself. This thought illumined dark hours, +when he saw his friend whirled away by Scaife, transported, +as it were, by the irresistible power of the man of action. +That nothing should be wanting to that trebly-fortunate +youth, he had helped to win the Public Schools' Racquets +Championship. The Manor was now the crack house—cock-house +at racquets and football, certain to be cock-house +at cricket. And Scaife got most of the credit, not +Warde, who smiled more than ever, and talked continually +of Balliol Scholarships. He never bragged of victories past.</p> + +<p>Meantime, John was devoting all energies to the competition +for the Prize Essay. The Head Master had propounded +as theme: "The History and Influence of Parliamentary +Oratory." Bit by bit, John read or declaimed it +to Desmond. Then, according to custom, Desmond copied +it out for his friend. Signed "<i>Spero Infestis</i>," with a sealed +envelope containing John's name inside and the motto +outside, the MS. was placed in the Head Master's letter-box. +John, cooling rapidly after the fever of composition, condemned +his stuff as hopelessly bad; Cæsar went about +telling everybody that Jonathan would win easily, "with a +bit to spare." John did win, but that proved to be the +least part of his triumph. The Essay had to be declaimed +upon Speech Day. Once more John experienced the pangs +that had twisted him at the concert, long ago, when he had +sung to the Nation's hero. And as before, he began weakly. +Then, the fire seizing him, self-consciousness was exorcised +by feeling, and forgetful of the hundreds of faces about him, +he burst into genuine oratory. Thrilled himself, he thrilled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> +others. His voice faltered again, but with an emotion that +found an echo in the hearts of his audience; his hand shook, +feeling the pulse of old and young in front of him. Dominated, +swept away by his theme, he dominated others. +When he finished, in the silence that preceded the roar of +applause, he knew that he had triumphed, for he saw +Desmond's glowing countenance, radiant with pleasure, +transfigured by amazement and admiration. Next day a +great newspaper hailed the Harrow boy as one destined to +delight and to lead, perhaps, an all-conquering party in +the House of Commons. And yet, warmed to the core by +this praise, John counted it as nothing compared with his +mother's smile and Desmond's fervent grip.</p> + +<p>Fortune, however, comes to no man—or boy—with both +hands full. Immediately after Speech Day, John's bubble +of pride and happiness was pricked by Scaife. Midsummer +madness seized the Demon. One may conceive that the +innate recklessness of his nature, suppressed by an iron will, +and smouldering throughout many months, burst at last +into flame. Desmond told John that the Demon had +spent a riotous night in town. He had slipped out of the +Manor after prayers, had driven up to a certain club in +Regent Street, returned in time for first school, fresh as +paint—so Desmond said—and then, not content with such +an achievement, must needs brag of it to Desmond.</p> + +<p>"And if he's nailed, Eton wins," concluded Desmond. +"I've told you, because together we must put a stop to +such larks."</p> + +<p>John slightly raised his thick eyebrows. It was curious +that Cæsar always chose to ignore the hatred which he must +have known to exist between his two friends. Or did he +fatuously believe that, because John exercised an influence +over himself, the same influence would or could be exercised +over Scaife?</p> + +<p>"We?" said John.</p> + +<p>"I've tried and failed. But together, I say——"</p> + +<p>"I shan't interfere, Cæsar."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Jonathan, you must."</p> + +<p>"It would be a fool's errand."</p> + +<p>"We three have gone up the School together. You have +never been fair to Scaife. I tell you he's sound at core. +Why, after he was swished——"</p> + +<p>Desmond told John what had passed; John shook his +head. He could understand better than any one else why +Scaife had broken down.</p> + +<p>"He has splendid ambitions," pursued Desmond. +"He's going to be a great soldier, you see. He thinks of +nothing else. You never have liked him, but because of +that I thought you would do what you could."</p> + +<p>The disappointment and chagrin in his voice shook +John's resolution.</p> + +<p>"To please you, I'll try."</p> + +<p>And accordingly the absurd experiment was made. +Afterwards, John asked himself a thousand times why he +had not foreseen the inevitable result. But the explanation +is almost too simple to be recorded: he wished to convince +a friend that he would attempt anything to prove his +friendship.</p> + +<p>That night they went together to Scaife's room. The +second-best room in the Manor, situated upon the first floor, +it overlooked the back of the garden, where there was a +tangled thicket of laurustinus and rhododendron. Scaife +had spent much money in making this room as comfortable +as possible. It had the appearance of a man's room, and +presented all the characteristics of the man who lived in it. +Everything connected with Scaife's triumphal march +through the School was preserved. On the walls were his +caps, fezes, and cups. You could hardly see the paper for +the framed photographs of Scaife and his fellow "bloods." +Scaife as cricketer, Scaife as football-player, Scaife as +racquet-player and athlete, stared boldly and triumphantly +at you. He had a fine desk covered with massive silver +ornaments. Upon this, as upon everything else in the +room, was the hall-mark of the successful man of business.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> +The papers, the pens and pencils, the filed bills and letters, +the books of reference, spoke eloquently of a mind that used +order as a means to a definite end. All his books were well +bound. His boots were on trees. His racquets were in +their press. Had you opened his chest of drawers, you +would have found his clothes in perfect condition. Obviously, +to an observant eye, the owner of this room gave his +mind to details, because he realized that on details hang +great and successful enterprises.</p> + +<p>Scaife stared at John, but welcomed him civilly enough. +Cricket, of course, explained this unexpected visit. As +Desmond blurted out what was in his mind, Scaife frowned; +then he laughed unpleasantly.</p> + +<p>"And so I told Jonathan," concluded Desmond.</p> + +<p>"So you told Jonathan," repeated Scaife. "Are you +in the habit of telling Jonathan,"—the derisive inflection as +he pronounced the name warned John at least that he had +much better have stayed away—"things which concern +others and which don't concern him?"</p> + +<p>"If you're going to take it like that——"</p> + +<p>"Keep cool, Cæsar. I'll admit that you mean well. +I should like to hear what Verney has to say."</p> + +<p>At that John spoke—haltingly. Fluent speech upon +any subject very dear to him had always been difficult. He +could talk glibly enough about ordinary topics; his sense +of humour, his retentive memory, made him welcome even +in the critical society of Eaton Square, but you know him +as a creature of unplumbed reserves. The matter in hand +was so vital that he could not touch it with firm hands or +voice. He spoke at his worst, and he knew it; concluding +an incoherent and slightly inarticulate recital of the reasons +which ought to keep Scaife in his house at night with a +lame "Two heads ought to prevail against one."</p> + +<p>Scaife showed his fine teeth. "You think that? Your +head and Cæsar's against mine?"</p> + +<p>The challenge revealed itself in the derisive, sneering +tone.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p> + +<p>John shrugged his shoulders and rose. "I have blundered; +I am sorry."</p> + +<p>"Hold hard," said Scaife. He read censure upon +Desmond's ingenuous countenance. Then his temper +whipped him to a furious resentment against John, as an +enemy who had turned the tables with good breeding; who +had gained, indeed, a victory against odds. Scaife drew in +his breath; his brows met in a frown. "You have not +blundered; and you are not sorry," he said deliberately. +"I'm not a fool, Verney; but perhaps I have underrated +your ability. You're as clever as they make 'em. You +knew well enough that you were the last person in the world +to lead me in a string; you knew that, I say, and yet you +come here to pose as the righteous youth, doing his duty—eh?—against +odds, and accepting credit for the same from +Cæsar. Why, it's plain to me as the nose upon your face +that in your heart you would like me to be sacked."</p> + +<p>Desmond interrupted. "You are mad, Demon. Take +that back; take it back!"</p> + +<p>"Ask him," said Scaife. "He hates me, and common +decency ought to have kept him out of this room. But he's +not a liar. Ask him. Put it your own way. Soften it, +make pap of it, if you like, but get an answer."</p> + +<p>"Jonathan, it is not true, is it? You don't like Scaife; +but you would be sorry, very sorry, to see him—sacked."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you've not funked it," said Scaife. "You've +put it squarely. Let him answer it as squarely."</p> + +<p>John was white to the lips, white and trembling; despicable +in his own eyes, how much more despicable, +therefore, in the eyes of his friend, whose passionate faith +in him was about to be scorched and shrivelled.</p> + +<p>Scaife began to laugh.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake, don't laugh!" said Desmond. "Jonathan, +I know you are too proud to defend yourself against +such an abominable charge."</p> + +<p>"He's not a liar," said Scaife.</p> + +<p>"It's true," said John, in a strangled voice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You have wished that he might be sacked?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>John met Desmond's indignant eyes with an expression +which the other was too impetuous, too inexperienced to +interpret. Into that look of passionate reproach he flung +all that must be left unsaid, all that Scaife could read as +easily as if it were scored in letters of flame. Because, in +his modesty and humility, he had ever reckoned that Scaife +would prevail against himself—because, with unerring +instinct, he had apprehended, as few boys could apprehend, +the issues involved, he had desired, fervently desired, that +Scaife should be swept from Cæsar's path. But this he +could not plead as an excuse to his friend; and Scaife had +known that, and had used his knowledge with fiendish +success. John lowered his eyes and walked from the room.</p> + +<p>When he met Desmond again, nothing was said on either +side. John told himself that he would speak, if Desmond +spoke first. But evidently Desmond had determined +already the nature of their future relations. They no longer +shared No. 7, John being in the Upper Sixth with a room +to himself, but they still "found" together. To separate +would mean a public scandal from which each shrank in +horror. No; let them meet at meals as before till the end +of the term. Indeed, so little change was made in their +previous intercourse, that John began to hope that Cæsar +would walk with him as usual upon the following Sunday. +And if he did—if he did, John felt that he would speak. +On the top of the tower, looking towards the Spire, alone +with his friend, exalted above the thorns and brambles of +the wilderness, words would come to him.</p> + +<p>But on the following Sunday Desmond walked with Scaife.</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> Of these, the Park, now a boarding-house, was a characteristic +specimen. It belonged to Lord Northwick, Lord of the Manor of +Harrow.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> In the thirties Harrow boys played "Jack o' Lantern," or nocturnal +Hare and Hounds. They used to attend Kingsbury Races +and Pinner Fair. Lord Alexander Russell, when he was a boy at the +Grove, kept a pack of beagles at the foot of the Hill.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<h3><i>"Lord's"</i></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 18em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There we sat in the circle vast,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hard by the tents, from noon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And looked as the day went slowly past<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the runs came all too soon;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And never, I think, in the years gone by,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Since cricketer first went in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did the dying so refuse to die,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or the winning so hardly win."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + +<p>"<span class="smcap">My dear</span> Jonathan, I'm delighted to see you. You know +my father, I think?" It was the Caterpillar that spoke.</p> + +<p>John shook hands with Colonel Egerton.</p> + +<p>The three were standing in the Members' Enclosure at +Lord's. The Caterpillar, gorgeous in frock-coat, with three +corn-flowers<a name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a> in the lapel of it, was about as great a buck +as his sire, quite as conspicuous, and, seemingly, as cool. +It happened to be a blazing hot day, but heat seldom +affected Colonel Egerton.</p> + +<p>"By Jove," he said to John, "I'm told it's a certainty +this year, and I've come early, too early for me, to see a +glorious victory. There's civil war raging on the top of +the Trent coach, I give you my word."</p> + +<p>"We've won the toss," said John.</p> + +<p>"Ah, there's Charles Desmond, an early bird, too."</p> + +<p>He bustled away, leaving John and the Caterpillar +together. The great ground in front of them was being +cleared. One could see, through the few people scattered +here and there, the wickets pitched in the middle of that +vast expanse of lawn, and the umpires in their long white +coats. Upon the top of the steps, in the middle of the +pavilion, the Eton captain was collecting his Eleven. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> +Duffer, who had got his Flannels at the last moment, came +up and joined John and the Caterpillar.</p> + +<p>"The Manor's well to the front," said the Caterpillar. +"By Jove! I never thought to see Fluff in the Eleven."</p> + +<p>"Fluff came on tremendously this term," the Duffer +replied.</p> + +<p>"Of course the Kinlochs are a cricketing family."</p> + +<p>"Good joke the brothers playing against each other," +said John.</p> + +<p>"Warde," the Duffer nodded in the direction of Warde, +who was talking with Charles Desmond and Colonel Egerton, +"has worked like a slave. He made a cricketer out +of Fluff and a scholar out of Jonathan. He's so mad keen +to see us win, that he's given me the jumps."</p> + +<p>"You must keep cool," the Caterpillar murmured. +"I've just come from the Trent coach. Fluff has it from +the brother who is playing that the Eton bowling is weak. +But Strathpeffer, the eldest son, tells me the batsmen are +stronger than last year. He seemed anxious to bet; so +we have a fiver about it. They're taking the field."</p> + +<p>The Eton Eleven walked towards the wicket, loudly +cheered. Cæsar came up in his pads, carrying his bat and +gloves. He shook hands with the Caterpillar, and said, +with a groan, that he had to take the first ball.</p> + +<p>"Keep cool," said the Caterpillar. "The bowling's +weak; I have it from Cosmo Kinloch. They're in a +precious funk."</p> + +<p>"So am I," said the Duffer.</p> + +<p>"But you're a bowler," said Desmond. "If I get out +first ball, I shall cut my throat."</p> + +<p>But Cæsar looked alert, cool, and neither under- nor +over-confident.</p> + +<p>"You'll cut the ball, not your throat," said the Duffer. +Cutting was Cæsar's strong point.</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar nodded, and spoke oracularly—</p> + +<p>"My governor says he never shoots at a snipe without +muttering to himself, 'Snipe on toast.' It steadies his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> +nerves. When you see the ball leave the bowler's hand, +you say to yourself, 'Eton on toast.'"</p> + +<p>"Your own, Caterpillar?"</p> + +<p>"My own," said the Caterpillar, modestly. "I don't +often make a joke, but that's mine. Pass it on."</p> + +<p>The other Harrovian about to go in beckoned to Desmond.</p> + +<p>"Cæsar won't be bowled first ball," said the Caterpillar. +"He's the sort that rises to an emergency. Can't we find +a seat?"</p> + +<p>They sat down and watched the Eton captain placing +his field. Desmond and his companion were walking +slowly towards the wickets amid Harrow cheers. The +cheering was lukewarm as yet. It would have fire enough +in it presently. The Caterpillar pointed out some of the +swells.</p> + +<p>"That's old Lyburn. Hasn't missed a match since '64. +Was brought here once with a broken leg! Carried in a +litter, by Jove! That fellow with the long, white beard is +Lord Fawley. He made 78 <i>not out</i> in the days of Charlemagne."</p> + +<p>"It was in '53," said the Duffer, who never joked on +really serious subjects; "and he made 68, not 78. He's +pulling his beard. I believe he's as nervous as I am."</p> + +<p>Presently the innumerable voices about them were +hushed; all eyes turned in one direction. Desmond was +about to take the first ball. It was delivered moderately +fast, with a slight break. Desmond played forward.</p> + +<p>"Well played, sir! Well pla-a-ayed!"</p> + +<p>The shout rumbled round the huge circle. The beginning +and the end of a great match are always thrilling. +The second and third balls were played like the first. John +could hear Mr. Desmond saying to Warde, "He has Hugo's +style and way of standing—eh?" And Warde replied, +"Yes; but he's a finer batsman. Ah-h-h!"</p> + +<p>The first real cheer burst like a bomb. Desmond had +cut the sixth ball to the boundary.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> + +<p>Over! The new bowler was a tall, thin boy with flaxen hair.</p> + +<p>"That's Cosmo Kinloch, Fluff's brother," said John. +"I wonder they can't do better than that. Even I knocked +him all over the shop at White Ladies last summer."</p> + +<p>"He's come on, they tell me," said the Caterpillar. +"Good Lord, he nearly had him first ball."</p> + +<p>Fluff's brother bowled slows of a good length, with an +awkward break from the off to the leg.</p> + +<p>"Teasers," said the Caterpillar, critically. "Hullo! +No, my young friend, that may do well enough in Shropshire, +not here."</p> + +<p>A ball breaking sharply from the off had struck the +batsman's pad; he had stepped in front of his wicket to +cut it. Country umpires are often beguiled by bowlers +into giving wrong decisions in such cases; not so your +London expert. Cosmo Kinloch appealed—in vain.</p> + +<p>"He'll send a short one down now," said John. "You see."</p> + +<p>And, sure enough, a long hop came to the off, curling +inwards after it pitched. The Eton captain had nearly all +his men on the off side. The Harrovian pulled the ball +right round to the boundary.</p> + +<p>"Well hit!"</p> + +<p>"Well pulled!"</p> + +<p>"Two 4's; that's a good beginning," said the Duffer.</p> + +<p>A couple of singles followed, and then the first "10" +went up amid cheers.</p> + +<p>"Here's my governor," said the Duffer. "He was three +years in the Eleven and Captain his last term."</p> + +<p>"You've told us that a thousand times," said the Caterpillar.</p> + +<p>The Rev. Septimus Duff greeted the boys warmly. His +eyes sparkled out of a cheery, bearded face. Look at him +well. An Harrovian of the Harrovians this. His grandfathers +on the maternal and paternal side had been friends +at Harrow in Byron's time. The Rev. Septimus wore<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> +rather a shabby coat and a terrible hat, but the consummate +Caterpillar, who respected pedigrees, regarded him with +pride and veneration. He came up from his obscure West +Country vicarage to town just once a year—to see the +match. If you asked him, he would tell you quite simply +that he would sooner see the match and his old friends than +go to Palestine; and the Rev. Septimus had yearned to +visit Palestine ever since he left Cambridge; and it is not +likely that this great wish will ever be gratified. He is the +father of three sons, but the Duffer is the first to get into +the Eleven. Charles Desmond joins them. At the moment, +Charles Desmond is supposed to be one of the most +harried men in the Empire. Times are troublous. A war-cloud, +as large as Kruger's hand, has just risen in the +South, and is spreading itself over the whole world. But +to-day the great Minister has left the cares of office in +Downing Street. He hails the Rev. Septimus with a genial +laugh and a hearty grasp of the hand.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Sep, upon your word of honour, now—would you +sooner be here to see the Duffer take half a dozen wickets, +or be down in Somerset, Bishop of Bath and Wells?"</p> + +<p>"When <i>you</i> offer me the bishopric," replied the Rev. +Septimus, with a twinkle, "I'll answer that question, my +dear Charles, and not before."</p> + +<p>"You old humbug! You're so puffed up with sinful +pride that you've stuck your topper on to your head the +wrong way about."</p> + +<p>"Bless my soul," said the Duffer's father, "so I +have."</p> + +<p>"That topper of the governor's," the Duffer remarked +solemnly, "has seen twenty-five matches at least."</p> + +<p>John looked at no hats; his eyes were on the pitch. +Another round of cheers proclaimed that "20" had gone +up. Both boys are batting steadily; no more boundary +hits; a snick here, a snack there—and then—merciful +Heavens!—Cæsar has cut a curling ball "bang" into short +slip's hands.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p> + +<p>Short slip—wretched youth—muffs it! Derisive remarks +from Rev. Septimus.</p> + +<p>"Well caught! Well held! Tha-a-nks!"</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar would pronounce this sort of chaff bad +form in a contemporary. He removes his hat.</p> + +<p>"By Jove!" says he. "It's very warm."</p> + +<p>Cæsar times the next ball beautifully. It glides past +point and under the ropes.</p> + +<p>Early as it is, the ground seems to be packed with +people. Glorious weather has allured everybody. Stand +after stand is filled up. The colour becomes kaleidoscopic. +The Rev. Septimus, during the brief interval of an over, +allows his eyes to stray round the huge circle. Upon the +ground are the youth, the beauty, the rank and fashion of +the kingdom, and, best of all, his old friends. The Rev. +Septimus has a weakness, being, of course, human to the +finger-tips. He calls himself a <i>laudator temporis acti</i>. In +his day, the match was less of a function. The boys sat +round upon the grass; behind them were the carriages and +coaches—you could drive on to the ground then!—and +here and there, only here and there, a tent or a small stand. +<i>Consule Planco</i>—the parson loves a Latin tag—the match +was an immense picnic for Harrovians and Etonians. And, +my word, you ought to have heard the chaff when an +unlucky fielder put the ball on the floor. Or, when a +batsman interposed a pad where a bat ought to have been. +Or, if a player was bowled first ball. Or, if he swaggered +as he walked, the cynosure of all eyes, from the pavilion to +the pitch. Upon this subject the Rev. Septimus will preach +a longer (and a more interesting) sermon than any you will +hear from his pulpit in Blackford-Orcas Church.</p> + +<p>Loud cheers put an end to the parson's reminiscences. +Desmond's companion has been clean bowled for a useful +fifteen runs. He walks towards the pavilion slowly. Then, +as he hears the Harrow cheers, he blushes like a nymph of +sixteen, for he counts himself a failure. Last year he made +a "duck" in his first innings, and five in the second. No<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> +cheers then. This is his first taste of the honey mortals call +success. He has faced the great world, and captured its +applause.</p> + +<p>"When does Scaife go in?" the Rev. Septimus asks.</p> + +<p>"Second wicket down."</p> + +<p>More cheers as the second man in strolls down the steps. +A careful cove, so the Duffer tells his father—one who will +try to break the back of the bowling.</p> + +<p>"They're taking off Fluff's brother," the Caterpillar +observes.</p> + +<p>A thick-set young man holds the ball. He makes some +slight alteration in the field. The wicket-keeper stands +back; the slips and point retreat a few yards. The ball +that took the first wicket was the last of an over. Desmond +has to receive the attack of the new bowler.</p> + +<p>The thick-set Etonian, having arranged the off side to +his satisfaction, prepares to take a long run. He holds +the ball in the left hand, runs sideways at great speed, +changes the ball from the left hand to the right at the last +moment, and seems to hurl both it and himself at the +batsman.</p> + +<p>"Greased lightning!" says John.</p> + +<p>A dry summer had made the pitch rather fiery. The +ball, short-pitched, whizzes just over Cæsar's head. A +second and a third seem to graze his cap. Murmurs are +heard. Is the Eton bowler trying to kill or maim his +antagonist? Is he deliberately endeavouring to establish +a paralysing "funk"?</p> + +<p>But the fourth ball is a "fizzer"—the right length, a +bailer, terrifically fast, but just off the wicket. Desmond +snicks it between short slip and third man; it goes to the +boundary.</p> + +<p>"That's what Cæsar likes," says the Duffer. "He can +cut behind the wicket till the cows come home."</p> + +<p>"Cut—and come again," says the Caterpillar.</p> + +<p>The fifth ball is played forward for a risky single. The +Rev. Septimus forgets that times have changed. And if<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +they have, what of it? He hasn't. His deep, vibrant voice +rolls across the lawn right up to the batsman—</p> + +<p>"Steady there! Steady!"</p> + +<p>And now the new-comer has to take the last ball of the +over—his first. Alas and alack! The sixth ball is dead +on to the middle stump. The Harrovian plays forward. +Man alive, you ought to have played back to that! The +ball grazes the top edge of the bat's blade and flies straight +into the welcoming hands of the wicket-keeper.</p> + +<p>Two wickets for 33.</p> + +<p>Breathless suspense, broken by tumultuous cheers as +Scaife strides on to the ground. His bat is under his arm; +he is drawing on his gloves. Thousands of men and as +many women are staring at his splendid face and figure.</p> + +<p>"What a mover!" murmurs the Rev. Septimus.</p> + +<p>Scaife strides on. Upon his face is the expression John +knows so well and fears so much—the consciousness of +power, the stern determination to be first, to shatter previous +records. John can predict—and does so with absolute +certainty—what will happen. For six overs the Demon +will treat every ball—good, bad, and indifferent—with the +most distinguished consideration. And then, when his +"eye" is in, he will give the Etonians such leather-hunting +as they never had before.</p> + +<p>After a long stand made by Scaife and Desmond, Cæsar +is caught at cover-point, but Scaife remains. It is a +Colossus batting, not a Harrow boy. The balls come down +the pitch; the Demon's shoulders and chest widen; the +great knotted arms go up—crash! First singles; then +twos; then threes; and then boundary after boundary. +To John—and to how many others?—Scaife has been +transformed into a tremendous human machine, inexorably +cutting and slicing, pulling and driving—the embodied +symbol of force, ruthlessly applied, indefatigable, +omnipotent.</p> + +<p>The Eton captain, hopeful against odds, puts on a +cunning and cool dealer in "lobs." Fluff is in, playing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> +steadily, holding up his wicket, letting the giant make the +runs. The Etonian delivers his first ball. Scaife leaves the +crease. Fluff sees the ball slowly spinning—harmless +enough till it pitches, and then deadly as a writhing serpent. +Scaife will not let it pitch. The ball curves slightly from +the leg to the off. Scaife is facing the pavilion——</p> + +<p>A stupendous roar bursts from the crowd. The ball, hit +with terrific force, sails away over the green sward, over the +ropes, over the heads of the spectators, and slap on to the +top of the pavilion.</p> + +<p>Only four; but one of the finest swipes ever seen at +Lord's. Shade of Mynn, come forth from the tomb to +applaud that mighty stroke!</p> + +<p>But the dealer in lobs knows that the man who leaves +his citadel, leaves it, sooner or later, not to return. In the +hope that Scaife, intoxicated with triumph, will run out +again, he pitches the next lob too much up—a half-volley. +Scaife smiles.</p> + +<p>John's prediction has been fulfilled. A record has been +established. Never before in an Eton and Harrow match +have two balls been hit over the ropes in succession. The +crowds have lost their self-possession. Men, women, and +children are becoming delirious. The Rev. Septimus +throws his ancient topper into the air; the Caterpillar +splits a brand-new pair of delicate grey gloves. Upon the +tops of the coaches, mothers, sisters, aunts, and cousins are +cheering like Fourth-Form boys.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The Harrow first innings closed with 289 runs, Scaife +carrying out his bat for an almost flawless 126. Desmond +made 72; Fluff was in for twenty-seven minutes—a great +performance for him—and was caught in the slips after +compiling a useful 17.</p> + +<p>But the remarkable feature of the innings was the short +time in which so many runs were made—exactly three +hours. The elevens went in to lunch, as the crowd poured +over the ground, laughing and chattering. This is a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> +delightful hour to the Rev. Septimus. He will walk to the +wickets, and wait there for his innumerable friends. It will +be, "Hullo, Sep!" "By Jove, here's dear old Sep!" +"Sep, you unfriendly beast, why do you never come to see +us?" "Sep, when are you going to send that awful tile +of yours to the British Museum?" And so on.</p> + +<p>Twenty men, at least—some of them with names known +wherever the Union Jack waves—will ask the Rev. Sep to +lunch with them; but the Rev. Sep will say, as he has said +these thirty years, that he doesn't come to Lord's to +"gorge." A sandwich presently, and a glass of "fizz," if +you please; but time is precious. A tall bishop strolls up—one +of the pillars of the Church, an eloquent preacher, +and an autocrat in his diocese. Most people regard him +with awe. The Rev. Sep greets him with a scandalous slap +on the back, and addresses him, the apostolic one, as—Lamper.<a name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a> +And the Lord Bishop of Dudley says, like the +others—</p> + +<p>"Hullo, Sep! We used to think you a slogger, but you +never came anywhere near that smite of Scaife's."</p> + +<p>"I thought his smite was coming too near me," says the +Rev. Sep, with a shrewd glance at the pavilion. "Lamper, +old chap, I <i>am</i> glad to see your 'phiz' again."</p> + +<p>And so they stroll off together, mighty prelate and +humble country parson, once again happy Harrow boys.</p> + +<p>And now, before Eton goes in, we must climb on to the +Trent coach. Fluff and his brother Cosmo, the Eton +bowler, are lunching in other company, but we shall find +Colonel Egerton and the Caterpillar and Warde; so the +Hill slightly outnumbers the Plain, as the duke puts it. +Next to the duchess sits Mrs. Verney. The duke is torn +nearly in two between his desire that Fluff should make +runs and that Cosmo, the Etonian, should take wickets. +His Eton sons regard him as a traitor, a "rat," and Colonel +Egerton gravely offers him the corn-flowers out of his +coat.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You can laugh," the duke says seriously, "but when +I see what Harrow has done for Esmé, I'm almost sorry"—he +looks at his youngest son (nearly, but not quite, as +delicate-looking as Fluff used to be)—"I'm almost sorry +that I didn't send Alastair there also."</p> + +<p>Alastair smiles contemptuously. "If you had," he +says, "I should have never spoken to you again. Esmé is +a forgiving chap, but you've wrecked his life. At least, +that's my opinion."</p> + +<p>After luncheon, the crowd on the lawn thickens. The +ladies want to see the pitch, and, shall we add, to display +their wonderful frocks. The enclosure at Ascot on Cup +Day is not so gay and pretty a scene as this. The Caterpillar, +sly dog, has secured Iris Warde, and looks uncommonly +pleased with himself and his companion; a smart +pair, but smart pairs are common as gooseberries. It is +the year of picture hats and Gainsborough dresses.</p> + +<p>"England at its best," says Miss Iris.</p> + +<p>"And in its best," the Caterpillar replies solemnly.</p> + +<p>Iris Warde is as keen as her father's daughter ought to +be. She tells the Caterpillar that when she was a small girl +with only threepence a week pocket-money, she used to +save a penny a week for twelve weeks preceding the match, +so as to be able to put a shilling into the plate on Sunday +<i>if Harrow won</i>.</p> + +<p>"And I dare say you'll marry an Etonian and wear light +blue after all," growls the Caterpillar.</p> + +<p>"Never!" says Miss Iris.</p> + +<p>Now, amongst the black coats in the pavilion you see a +white figure or two. The Elevens have finished lunch, and +are mixing with the crowd. Scaife is talking with a famous +Old Carthusian, one of the finest living exponents of cricket, +sometime an "International" at football, and a D.S.O. +The great man is very cordial, for he sees in Scaife an All-England +player. Scaife listens, smiling. Obviously, he is +impatient to begin again. As soon as possible he collects +his men, and leads them into the field. One can hear the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> +policemen saying in loud, firm voices, "Pass along, please; +pass along!" As if by magic the crowds on the lawn melt +away. In a few minutes the Etonians come out of the +pavilion. The sun shines upon their pale-blue caps and +sashes, and upon faces slightly pale also, but not yet blue. +For Eton has a strong batting team, and Scaife and Desmond +have proved that it is a batsman's wicket.</p> + +<p>And now the connoisseurs, the really great players, +settle themselves down comfortably to watch Scaife field. +That, to them, is the great attraction, apart from the contest +between the rival schools. Some of these Olympians +have been heard to say that Scaife's innings against weak +bowling was no very meritorious performance, although the +two "swipes," they admit, were parlous knocks. Still, +Public School cricket is kindergarten cricket, and if you've +not been at Eton or Harrow, and if you loathe a fashionable +crowd, and if you think first-class fielding is worth coming +to Lord's to see, why, then, my dear fellow, look at +Scaife!</p> + +<p>Scaife stands at cover-point. If you put up your +binoculars, you will see that he is almost on his toes. His +heels are not touching the ground. And he bends slightly, +not quite as low as a sprinter, but so low that he can start +with amazing speed. For two overs not a ball worth +fielding rolls his way. Ah! that will be punished. A long +hop comes down the pitch. The Etonian squares his +shoulders. His eye, to be sure, is on the ball, but in his +mind's eye is the boundary; in his ear the first burst of +applause. Bat meets ball with a smack which echoes from +the Tennis Court to the stands across the ground. Now +watch Scaife! He dashes at top speed for the only point +where his hands may intercept that hard-hit ball. And, +by Heaven! he stops it, and flicks it up to the wicket-keeper, +who whips off the bails.</p> + +<p>"How's that?"</p> + +<p>"Not out!"</p> + +<p>"Well fielded; well fielded, sir!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A very close squeak," says the Caterpillar. "They +won't steal many runs from the Demon."</p> + +<p>"Sometimes," says Iris Warde, "I really think that he +<i>is</i> a demon."</p> + +<p>The Caterpillar nods. "You're more than half right, +Miss Warde."</p> + +<p>Presently, the first wicket falls; then the second soon +after. And the score is under twenty. The Rev. Septimus +is beaming; the Bishop seated beside him looks as if +he were about to pronounce a benediction; Charles +Desmond is scintillating with wit and good humour. +Visions of a single innings victory engross the minds of these +three. They are in the front row of the pavilion, and +they mean to see every ball of the game.</p> + +<p>But soon it becomes evident that a determined stand +is being made. Runs come slowly, but they come; the +score creeps up—thirty, forty, fifty. Fluff goes on to bowl. +On his day Fluff is tricky, but this, apparently, is not his +day. The runs come more quickly. The Rev. Septimus +removes his hat, wipes his forehead, and replaces his hat. +It is on the back of his head, but he is unaware of that. +The Bishop appears now as if he were reading a new commination—to +wit, "Cursed is he that smiteth his neighbour; +cursed is he that bowleth half volleys." The Minister is +frowning; things may look black in South Africa, but +they're looking blacker in St. John's Wood.</p> + +<p>One hundred runs for two wickets.</p> + +<p>The Eton cheers are becoming exasperating. A few +seats away Warde is twiddling his thumbs and biting his +lips. Old Lord Fawley has slipped into the pavilion for a +brandy and soda.</p> + +<p>At last!</p> + +<p>Scaife takes off Fluff and puts on a fast bowler, changing +his own place in the field to short slip. The ball, a first +ball and very fast, puzzles the batsman, accustomed to +slows. He mistimes it; it grazes the edge of his bat, and +whizzes off far to the right of Scaife, but the Demon has it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> +Somehow or other, ask of the spirits of the air—not of the +writer—somehow his wonderful right hand has met and +held the ball.</p> + +<p>"Well caught, sir; well caught!"</p> + +<p>"That boy ought to be knighted on the spot," says +Charles Desmond. Then the three generously applaud the +retiring batsman. He has played a brilliant innings, and +restored the confidence of all Etonians.</p> + +<p>The Eton captain descends the steps; a veteran this, +not a dashing player, but sure, patient, and full of grit. +He asks the umpire to give him middle and leg; then he +notes the positions of the field.</p> + +<p>"Whew-w-w-w!"</p> + +<p>"D——n it!" ejaculates Charles Desmond. Bishop +and parson regard him with gratitude. There are times +when an honest oath becomes expedient. The Eton captain +has cut the first ball into Fluff's hands, and Fluff has +dropped it! Alastair Kinloch, from the top of the Trent +coach, screams out, "Jolly well muffed!" The great +Minister silently thanks Heaven that point is the Duke's +son and not his.</p> + +<p>And, of course, the Eton captain never gives another +chance till he is dismissed with half a century to his credit. +Meantime five more wickets have fallen. Seven down for +191! Eton leaves the field with a score of 226 against +Harrow's 289. Harrow goes in without delay, and one +wicket is taken for 13 runs before the stumps are drawn. +Charles Desmond looks at the sky.</p> + +<p>"Looks like rain to-night," he says anxiously.</p> + +<p>And so ends Friday's play.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The morrow dawned grey, obscured by mist rising from +ground soaked by two hours' heavy rain. You may be +sure that all our friends were early at Lord's, and that the +pitch was examined by thousands of anxious eyes. The +Eton fast bowler was seen to smile. Upon a similar wicket +had he not done the famous hat-trick only three weeks<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> +before? The rain, however, was over, and soon the sun +would drive away the filmy mists. No man alive could +foretell what condition the pitch would be in after a few +hours of blazing sunshine. The Rev. Septimus told Charles +Desmond that he considered the situation to be critical, +and, although he had read the morning paper, he was not +alluding even indirectly to South African affairs. Charles +Desmond said that, other things being equal, the Hill would +triumph; but he admitted that other things were very far +from equal. It looked as if Harrow would have to bat +upon a treacherous wicket, and Eton on a sound one.</p> + +<p>At half-past ten punctually the men were in the field. +Scaife issued last instructions. "Block the bowling; don't +try to score till you see what tricks the ground will play. +A minute saved now may mean a quarter of an hour to us +later." Cæsar nodded cheerfully. The fact that the luck +had changed stimulated every fibre of his being. And he +said that he felt in his bones that this was going to be a +famous match, like that of '85—something never to be +forgotten.</p> + +<p>Charles Desmond spoke few words while his son was +batting. It was a tradition among the Desmonds that they +rose superior to emergency. The Minister wondered +whether his Harry would rise or fall. The fast bowler +delivered the first ball. It bumped horribly. The Rev. +Septimus shuddered and closed his eyes. Cæsar got well +over it. The third ball was cut for three. The fourth +whizzed down—a wide. The fast bowler dipped the ball +into the sawdust.</p> + +<p>"It isn't all jam for him," whispered the Rev. Septimus.</p> + +<p>"Well bowled—well bowled!"</p> + +<p>Alas! the middle stump was knocked clean out of the +ground. Cæsar's partner, a steady, careful player, had +been bowled by his first ball.</p> + +<p>Two wickets for 17.</p> + +<p>The crowd were expecting the hero, but Fluff was +walking towards the wickets, wondering whether he should<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> +reach them alive. Never had his heart beat as at this +moment. Scaife had come up to him as soon as he had +examined the pitch.</p> + +<p>"Fluff, I am putting you in early because you are a +fellow I can trust. My first and last word is, hit at nothing +that isn't wide of the wicket. The ground will probably +improve fast."</p> + +<p>Fluff nodded. A hive of bees seemed to have lodged in +his head, and an active automatic hammer in his heart; +but he didn't dare tell the Demon that funk, abject funk, +possessed him, body and soul.</p> + +<p>The second bowler began his first over. He bowled +slows. Desmond played the six balls back along the +ground. A maiden over.</p> + +<p>And then that thick-set, muscular beast, for so Fluff +regarded him, stared fixedly at Fluff's middle stump. +Fluff glanced round. The wicket-keeper had a grim smile +on his lips, for his billet was no easy one. Cosmo Kinloch +at short slip looked as if it were a foregone conclusion that +Fluff would put the ball into his hands. Then Fluff faced +the bowler. Now for it!</p> + +<p>The first ball was half a foot off the wicket, but Fluff let +it go by. The second came true enough. Fluff blocked it. +The third flew past Fluff's leg, but he just snicked it. Desmond +started to run, and then stopped, holding up his +hand. Cheers rippled round the ring for the first hit to the +boundary. That was a bit of sheer luck, Fluff reflected.</p> + +<p>After this both boys played steadily for some ten minutes. +Then, very slowly, Cæsar began to score. He had +made about fifteen when he drove a ball hard to the on, +Fluff backing up. Desmond, watching the travelling ball, +called to him to run. It seemed to Desmond almost +certain that the ball would go to the boundary. Too late +he realized that it had been magnificently fielded. Desmond +strained every nerve, but his bat had not reached +the crease when the bails flew to right and left.</p> + +<p>Out! And run out!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span></p> + +<p>Three wickets for 41!</p> + +<p>A quarter of an hour later Fluff was bowled with a +yorker. He had made eleven runs, and kept up his wicket +during a crisis. Harrow cheered him loudly.</p> + +<p>And then came the terrible moment of the morning. +Scaife went in when Fluff's wicket fell. The ground had +improved, but it was still treacherous. The fast bowler +sent down a straight one. It shot under Scaife's bat and +spread-eagled his stumps.</p> + +<p>The wicket-keeper knows what the Harrow captain +said, but it does not bear repeating. Every eye was on his +scowling, furious face as he returned to the pavilion; and +the Rev. Septimus scowled also, because he had always +maintained that any Harrovian could accept defeat like a +gentleman. Upon the other side of the ground the Caterpillar +was saying to his father. "I always said he was +hairy at the heel."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It was admitted afterwards that the Duffer's performance +was the one really bright spot in Harrow's second +innings. Being a bowler, he went in last but one. It +happened that Fluff's brother was in possession of the ball. +It will never be known why the Duffer chose to treat Cosmo +Kinloch's balk with utter scorn and contempt. The Duffer +was tall, strong, and a terrific slogger. Nobody expected +him to make a run, but he made twenty in one over—all +boundary hits. When he left the wicket he had added +thirty-eight to the score, and wouldn't have changed places +with an emperor. The Rev. Septimus followed him into +the room where the players change.</p> + +<p>"My dear boy," he said, "I've never been able to give +you a gold watch, but you must take mine; here it is, +and—and God bless you!"</p> + +<p>But the Duffer swore stoutly that he preferred his own +Waterbury.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Eton went in to make 211 runs in four hours, upon a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> +wicket almost as sound as it had been upon the Friday. +Scaife put the Duffer on to bowl. The Demon had belief +in luck.</p> + +<p>"It's your day, Duffer," he said. "Pitch 'em up."</p> + +<p>The Duffer, to his sire's exuberant satisfaction, "pitched +'em up" so successfully that he took four wickets for 33. +Four out of five! The other bowlers, however, being not +so successful, Eton accumulated a hundred runs. The +captains had agreed to draw stumps at 7.30. To win, +therefore, the Plain must make another hundred in two +hours; and three of their crack batsmen were out.</p> + +<p>After tea an amazing change took place in the temper +of the spectators. Conviction seized them that the finish +was likely to be close and thrilling; that the one thing +worth undivided attention was taking place in the middle +of the ground. As the minutes passed, a curious silence +fell upon the crowd, broken only by the cheers of the rival +schools. The boys, old and young alike, were watching +every ball, every stroke. The Eton captain was still in, +playing steadily, not brilliantly; the Harrow bowling was +getting slack.</p> + +<p>In the pavilion, the Rev. Septimus, Warde, and Charles +Desmond were sitting together. Not far from them was +Scaife's father, a big, burly man with a square head and +heavy, strongly-marked features. He had never been a +cricketer, but this game gripped him. He sat next to a +world-famous financier of the great house of Neuchatel, +whose sons had been sent to the Hill. Run after run, run +after run was added to the score. Scaife's father turned +to Neuchatel.</p> + +<p>"I'd write a cheque for ten thousand pounds," he said, +"if we could win."</p> + +<p>Lionel Neuchatel nodded. "Yes," he muttered; "I +have not felt so excited since Sir Bevis won the Derby."</p> + +<p>In the deep field Desmond was standing, miserable +because he had nothing to do. No balls came his way; for +the Eton captain had made up his mind to win this match<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> +with singles and twos. Very carefully he placed his balls +between the fielders; very carefully his partner followed +his chief's example. No stealing of runs, no scoring off +straight balls, no gallery play—till victory was assured.</p> + +<p>Poor Lord Fawley retired at this point into an inner +room, pulling savagely at his white beard. Old Lyburn, +who had been sitting beside him, gurgling and gasping, +staggered after him. The Rev. Septimus kept wiping his +forehead.</p> + +<p>"I can't stand this much longer," said Warde, in a +hoarse whisper.</p> + +<p>"Well hit, sir! Well hit!"</p> + +<p>The Eton cheering became frantic. After nearly an +hour's pawky, uninteresting play, the Eton captain suddenly +changed his tactics. His "eye" was in; now or never +let him score. A half-volley came down from the pavilion +end—a half-volley and off the wicket. The Etonian put +all the strength and power he had suppressed so manfully +into a tremendous swipe, and hit the ball clean over the +ropes.</p> + +<p>"Do you want to double that bet?" said Strathpeffer +to the Caterpillar. They were standing on the top of the +Trent coach.</p> + +<p>"No, thanks."</p> + +<p>"Give you two to one, Egerton?"</p> + +<p>"Done—in fivers."</p> + +<p>The unhappy bowler sent down another half-volley. +Once more the Etonian smote, and smote hard; but this +ball was not quite the same as the first, although it appeared +identical. The ball soared up and up. Would it fall over +the ropes? Thousands of eyes watched its flight. Desmond +started to run. Golconda to a sixpence on the fall! It +is falling, falling, falling.</p> + +<p>"He'll never get there in time," says Charles Desmond.</p> + +<p>"Yes he will," Warde answers savagely.</p> + +<p>"He has!" screamed the Rev. Septimus. "He—<i>has</i>!"</p> + +<p>Pandemonium broke loose. Grey-headed men threw<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> +their hats into the air; M.P.'s danced; lovely women +shrieked; every Harrovian on the ground howled. For +Cæsar held the ball fast in his lean, brown hands.</p> + +<p>The Eton captain walks slowly towards the pavilion. +He had to pass Cæsar on his way, and passing him he +pauses.</p> + +<p>"That was a glorious catch," he says, with the smile +of a gallant gentleman.</p> + +<p>And as Harrow, as cordially as Eton, cheers the retiring +chieftain, the Caterpillar whispers to Mrs. Verney—</p> + +<p>"Did you see that? Did you see him stop to congratulate +Cæsar?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says Mrs. Verney.</p> + +<p>"I hope Scaife saw it too," the Caterpillar replies +coolly. "That Eton captain is cut out of whole cloth; +no shoddy there, by Jove!"</p> + +<p>And Desmond. How does Desmond feel? It is futile +to ask him, because he could not tell you, if he tried. But +we can answer the question. If the country that he wishes +to serve crowns him with all the honours bestowed upon a +favoured son, never, <i>never</i> will Cæsar Desmond know again +a moment of such exquisite, unadulterated joy as this.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Six wickets down and 39 runs to get in less than half +an hour!</p> + +<p>Every ball now, every stroke, is a matter for cheers, +derisive or otherwise. The Rev. Septimus need not prate +of golden days gone by. Boys at heart never change. +And the atmosphere is so charged with electricity that a +spark sets the firmament ablaze.</p> + +<p><i>Seven wickets for 192.</i></p> + +<p><i>Eight wickets for 197.</i></p> + +<p>Signs of demoralization show themselves on both sides. +The bowling has become deplorably feeble, the batting even +more so. Four more singles are recorded. Only ten runs +remain to be made, with two wickets to fall.</p> + +<p>And twelve minutes to play!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p> + +<p>Scaife puts on the Duffer again. The lips of the Rev. +Sep are seen to move inaudibly. Is he praying, or cursing, +because three singles are scored off his son's first three balls?</p> + +<p>"Well bowled—well bowled!"</p> + +<p>A ball of fair length, easy enough to play under all +ordinary circumstances, but a "teaser" when tremendous +issues are at stake, has defeated one of the Etonians. The +last man runs towards the pitch through a perfect hurricane +of howls. Warde rises.</p> + +<p>"I can't stand it," he says, and his voice shakes oddly. +"You fellows will find me behind the Pavvy after the +match."</p> + +<p>"I'd go with you," says the Rev. Septimus, in a choked +tone, "but if I tried to walk I should tumble down."</p> + +<p>Charles Desmond says nothing. But, pray note the +expression so faithfully recorded in <i>Punch</i>—the compressed +lips, the stern, frowning brows, the protruded jaw. The +famous debater sees all fights to a finish, and fights himself +till he drops.</p> + +<p><i>Seven runs to make, one wicket to fall, and five minutes to +play!!!</i></p> + +<p>Evidently the last man in has received strenuous instructions +from his chief. The bowling has degenerated +into that of anæmic girls—and two whacks to the boundary +mean—Victory. The new-comer is the square, thick-set +fast bowler, the worst bat in the Eleven, but a fellow of +determination, a slogger and a run-getter against village +teams.</p> + +<p>He obeys instructions to the letter. The Duffer's fifth +ball goes to the boundary.</p> + +<p>Three runs to make and two and a half minutes to play!</p> + +<p>The Duffer sends down the last ball. The Rev. Septimus +covers his eyes. O wretched Duffer! O thou whose knees +are as wax, and whose arms are as chop-sticks in the hands +of a Griffin! O egregious Duff! O degenerate son of a +noble sire, dost thou dare at such a moment as this to +attack thine enemy with a—long hop?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p> + +<p>The square, thick-set bowler shows his teeth as the ball +pitches short. Then he smites and runs. Runs, because +he has smitten so hard that no hand, surely, can stop the +whirling sphere. Runs—ay—and so does the Demon at +cover point. This is the Demon's amazing conjuring-trick—what +else can you call it? And he has practised it so +often, that he reckons failure to be almost impossible. To +those watching he seems to spring like a tiger at the ball. +By Heaven! he has stopped it—he's snapped it up! But +if he despatches it to the wicket-keeper, it will arrive too +late. The other Etonian is already within a couple of +yards of the crease. Scaife does not hesitate. He aims at +the bowler's wicket towards which the burly one is running +as fast as legs a thought too short can carry him.</p> + +<p>He aims and shies—instantaneously. He shatters the +wicket.</p> + +<p>"How's that?"</p> + +<p>The appeal comes from every part of the ground.</p> + +<p>And then, clearly and unmistakably, the umpire's fiat +is spoken—</p> + +<p>"Out!"</p> + +<p>The Rev. Sep rises and rushes off, upsetting chairs, +treading on toes, bent only upon being the first to tell +Warde that Harrow has won.</p> + +<p>"<i>Io! Io! Io!</i>"</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">[36]</span></a> The blue of the Harrow colours.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_37_37" id="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37"><span class="label">[37]</span></a> Lamper, <i>i.e.</i> Lamp-post.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<h3><i>"If I perish, I perish"</i></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 18em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Since we deserved the name of friends,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And thine effect so lives in me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A part of mine may live in thee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And move thee on to noble ends."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The cheering</span> at Bill upon the following Tuesday must be +recorded, inasmuch as it has, indirectly, bearing upon our +story. It will be guessed that the enthusiasm, the uproar, +the tumultuous excitement were even greater than on a +similar occasion some fifteen years before. But, to his +amazement, Desmond, not Scaife, was made the particular +hero of the hour. Scaife's display of temper festered in the +hearts of boys who can forgive anything sooner than low +breeding. The Hill had seen the Etonian stop to speak his +cheery word of congratulation to Cæsar, and not the Caterpillar +alone, but urchins of thirteen had made comparisons.</p> + +<p>Scaife, however, could not complain of his reception +upon that memorable Tuesday afternoon; the cheering +must have been heard a mile away. But Desmond was +acclaimed differently. The cheers were no louder—that +was impossible—but afterwards, when the excitement had +simmered down, Cæsar became the object of a special +demonstration by the Monitors and Sixth Form. Nearly +every boy of note in the Upper School insisted upon shaking +his hand or patting him on the back. Scaife came up with +the others, but he left the Yard almost immediately and +retired to his room. He had won the great match; Desmond +had saved it; and the School apprehended the subtle +difference. More, Scaife knew that John had gone up to +Desmond with outstretched hands after the match at Lord's. +He could hear John's eager voice, see the flame of admiration +in his eyes, as he said, "Oh, Cæsar, I am glad it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> +you who made that catch!" And with those generous +words, with that warm clasp of the hand, Scaife had seen +the barrier which he had built between the friends dissolve +like ice in the dog-days.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The attention of the Manor was now fixed upon the +house matches. It seemed probable that with four members +of the School Eleven in the team, the ancient house +must prove invincible. But to John's surprise, as this delightful +probability ripened into conviction, Warde betrayed +unwonted anxiety and even irritability. Miss Iris confided +to Desmond, who paid her much court, that she couldn't +imagine what was the matter with papa. And mamma, it +transpired (from the same source), really feared that the +strain at Lord's had been too much, that her indefatigable +husband was about to break down. Finally, John made +up his mind to ask a question. He was second in command; +he had a right to ask the chief if anything were seriously +amiss. Accordingly, he waited upon Warde after prayers.</p> + +<p>But when he put his question, and expressed, modestly +enough, his anxiety and desire to help if he could, Warde +bit his lips. Then he burst out violently—</p> + +<p>"I am miserable, Verney."</p> + +<p>John said nothing. His tutor rose and began to pace +up and down the study; then, halting, facing John, he +spoke quickly, with restless gestures indicating volcanic +disturbance.</p> + +<p>"I'm between the devil and the deep sea," he said, "as +many a better man has been before me. I thought I'd +wiped out the grosser evils in the Manor, but I haven't—I +haven't. Do you know that a fellow in this house, +perhaps two of 'em, but one at any rate, is getting out at +night and going up to town? You needn't answer, Verney. +If you do know it, you are powerless to prevent it, or it +wouldn't occur."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, sir."</p> + +<p>"I can only guess who it is. I am not certain. And<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> +to make certain, I must play the spy, creep and crawl, do +what I loathe to do—suspect the innocent together with the +guilty. It's almost breaking my heart."</p> + +<p>"I can understand that, sir, after what you have done +for us."</p> + +<p>Warde smiled grimly. "I don't think you do quite +understand," he said slowly. "At this moment I am +tempted, tempted as I never have been tempted, to let +things slide, to shut both eyes and ears, till this term is +over. Next term"—he laughed harshly—"I shan't stand +in such an awkward place. The deep sea will always be +near me, but the devil—the devil will be elsewhere."</p> + +<p>John nodded. His serious face expressed neither +approval nor disapproval to the man keenly watching it. +Afterwards Warde remembered this impassivity.</p> + +<p>"If I do not act"—Warde's voice trembled—"I am +damned as a traitor in my own eyes."</p> + +<p>John had never doubted that his house-master would +act. As for creeping and crawling, can peaks be scaled +without creeping and crawling? Never——</p> + +<p>"You are not to speak a word of warning," Warde +continued vehemently. "If you know what I don't know +yet, still you cannot speak to me, because the sinner in this +case is a Sixth-Form boy. You cannot speak to me; and +you will not speak to him, on your honour?"</p> + +<p>There was interrogation in the last sentence. John +replied almost inaudibly—</p> + +<p>"I shall not speak—on my honour!"</p> + +<p>"It is hard, hard indeed, that I should have to foul my +own nest, but it must be so. Good night."</p> + +<p>John went back to his room, calm without, terribly +agitated within. What ruthless spirit had driven him to +Warde's study? Yes; at last, inexorably, discovery, disgrace, +the ineffaceable brand of expulsion, impended over +the head of his enemy, to whom he was pledged to utter no +word of warning. Like Warde, he did not know absolutely, +but he guessed that Scaife had spent another riotous night<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> +in town since the match. He had read it in the eyes +glittering with excitement, in the derisive smile of conscious +power, in the magnetic audacity of Scaife's glance. +And then he remembered Lawrence's parting words—</p> + +<p>"It will be a fight to a finish, and, mark me, Warde will +win!"</p> + +<p>Two wretched days and nights passed. More than once +John spurred himself to the point of going to Warde and +saying, "Think what you like of me, I am going to warn +the boy I loathe that you are at his heels." Still, always +at the last moment he did not go. Some power seemed +to restrain him. But when he tried to analyse his feelings, +he confessed himself muddled. He had obtained, nay, +invited, Warde's confidence; and he dared not abuse it. +It was a time of anguish. He was unable to concentrate +his mind upon work or play, deprived of sleep, haunted by +the conviction that if Desmond knew all, he would turn +from him for ever. Then, at the most difficult moment of +his life, the way of escape was opened.</p> + +<p>Since the match, John and Cæsar had resumed the former +unrestrained and continual intimacy and intercourse. +John was in and out of Desmond's room, Desmond was in +and out of John's room, at all hours. They "found" together, +of course, but it is not, fortunately, at meals that +boys or men discuss the things nearest to their hearts. But +at night, just before lights were turned out, or just after, +when an Olympian is privileged to work a little longer by +the light of the useful "tolly," Cæsar and Jonathan would +talk freely of past, present, and future. It was during these +much-valued minutes, or on Sunday afternoons, that John +would read to his friend the essays or verses which always +fired Desmond's admiration and enthusiasm. To John's +intellectual activities Cæsar played, so to speak, gallery; +even as John upon many an afternoon had sat stewing in +the covered racquet-court, applauding Desmond's service +into the corner, or his hot returns just above the line. At +home, in the holidays, the boys had always met upon the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> +same plane. Of the two, John was the better rider and +shot. Both were members of the Philathletic Club<a name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a> of +Harrow, and the fact that Desmond was incomparably his +superior as an athlete was counterbalanced by John's fine +intellectual attainments. If John, at times, wished that he +could cut behind the wicket in Cæsar's faultless style, +Desmond, on the other hand, spoke enviously of the Medal, +or the Essay, or some other of John's successes. John spoke +often and well in the Debating Society, getting up his +subjects with intelligence and care. So it was give-and-take +between them, and this adjusted the balance of their +friendship, and without this no friendship can be pronounced +perfect.</p> + +<p>None the less, free and delightful as this resumption of +the old intimacy had been, John knew Cæsar too well not +to perceive that between them lay an unmentionable five +weeks, during which something had occurred. From signs +only too well interpreted before, John guessed that Cæsar +was once more in debt to the Demon. And finally, Cæsar +confessed that he had been betting, that he had won, +following Scaife's advice, and then had lost. The loss was +greater than the gain, and the difference, some five and +twenty pounds, had been sent to Scaife's bookmaker by +Scaife. As before, Scaife ridiculed the possibility of such +a debt causing his pal any uneasiness, but it chafed Desmond +consumedly.</p> + +<p>Upon the Saturday of the semi-final house match, in +which the Manor had won a great victory by an innings +and twenty-three runs, John went to Desmond's room after +prayers. He noticed at once that his friend was unusually +excited. John, however, attributed this to Cæsar's big +score. Success always inflamed Cæsar, just as it seemed to +tranquillize John. John began to talk, but he noticed that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> +Cæsar was abstracted, answered in monosyllables, and +twice looked at his watch.</p> + +<p>"Have you an appointment, Cæsar?"</p> + +<p>"No. What were you saying, Jonathan?"</p> + +<p>"You look rather queer to-night."</p> + +<p>"Do I?" He laughed nervously.</p> + +<p>"You're not bothering over that debt?"</p> + +<p>This time Cæsar laughed naturally.</p> + +<p>"Rather not. Why, that debt——" He stopped.</p> + +<p>"Is it paid?" said John.</p> + +<p>"It will be. Don't worry!"</p> + +<p>But John looked worried. He perceived that Cæsar's +finely-formed hands were trembling, whenever they were +still.</p> + +<p>"Harry," said he—he never called Desmond Harry except +when they were at home—"Harry, what's wrong?"</p> + +<p>"Why, nothing—nothing, that is, which amounts to +anything."</p> + +<p>"Harry, you are the worst liar in England. Something +is wrong. Can't you tell me? You must. I'm hanged +if I leave you till you do tell me."</p> + +<p>He looked steadily at Desmond. In his clear grey eyes +were tiny, dancing flecks of golden brown, which Desmond +had seen once or twice before,—which came whenever +John was profoundly moved. The dancing flecks transformed +themselves in Desmond's fancy into sprites, the +airy creatures of John's will, imposing John's wishes and +commands.</p> + +<p>"Scaife said I might tell you, if I liked."</p> + +<p>"Scaife?" John drew in his breath. "Then Scaife +wanted you to tell me; I am sure of that." He felt his way +by the dim light of smouldering suspicion. If Scaife wanted +John to know anything, it was because such knowledge +must prove pain, not pleasure. John did not say this. +Then, very abruptly, Desmond continued. "You swear +that what I'm about to tell you will be regarded as sacred?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is a matter which concerns Scaife and me, not you. +You won't interfere?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"I'm going to London."</p> + +<p>"<i>What?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Don't look at me like that, you silly old ass! It's not—not +what you think," he laughed nervously. "I have bet +Scaife twenty-five pounds, the amount of my debt in fact, +that the bill-of-fare of to-night's supper at the Carlton +Hotel will be handed to him after Chapel to-morrow morning. +I bike up to town, and bike back. If I don't go this +Saturday, I have one more chance before the term is +over. That's all."</p> + +<p>"That's all," repeated John, stupefied.</p> + +<p>"If you can show me an easier way to make a 'pony,' +I'll be obliged to you."</p> + +<p>"Scaife egged you on to this piece of folly?"</p> + +<p>"No, he didn't."</p> + +<p>"You may as well make a clean breast of it."</p> + +<p>Bit by bit John extracted the facts. Behind them, of +course, stood Scaife, loving evil for evil's sake, planting +evil, gleaning evil, deliberately setting about the devil's +work. Desmond, it appeared, had persuaded Scaife not to +go to town till the Lord's match was over. Since the match +Scaife had spent two nights in London, whetting an inordinate +appetite for forbidden fruit; exciting in Desmond +also, not an appetite for the fruit itself, but for the mad excitement +of a perilous adventure. Then, when the thoughtless +"I'd like a lark of that sort" had been spoken, came the +derisive answer, "You haven't the nerve for it." And then +again the subtle leading of an ardent and self-willed nature +into the morass, Scaife pretending to dissuade a friend, +entreating him to consider the risk, urging him to go to bed, +as if he were a headstrong child. And finally Desmond's +challenge, "Bet you I have the nerve," and its acceptance, +protestingly, by the other, and permission given that John +should be told.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And it's to-night?"</p> + +<p>"I mean to have that bill-of-fare. Do you think I'd +back out now?"</p> + +<p>In his mind's eye, our poor John was gazing down a long +lane with no turning at the end of it. Could he make his +friend believe that Scaife had brought this thing to pass from +no other motive than wishing to hurt mortally an enemy +by the hand of a friend? No, never would such an ingenuous +youth as Cæsar accept, or even listen to, such an +abominable explanation.</p> + +<p>"Good night," said John.</p> + +<p>"I see you're rather sick with me, Jonathan. Remember, +you made me speak. To-morrow morning we'll have +a good laugh over it. We'll walk to the Haunted House, +and I'll tell my tale. I shall be on my way in less than an +hour."</p> + +<p>John went back to his room. The necessity for silence +and thought had become imperative. What could he do? +It was certain that Warde was waiting and watching. He +had inexhaustible patience. Desmond, not the Demon, +would be caught and expelled. John returned to Desmond's +room.</p> + +<p>"You've told me so much," he said; "tell me a little +more. How are you going to do it?"</p> + +<p>"To do what?"</p> + +<p>"Get out of the house? Get a bike—and all that?"</p> + +<p>"Easy. Lovell went out that way, and others. You +jump from the sill of the first landing window into the +horse-chestnut. One must be able to jump, of course; +but I can jump. Then you shin down the tree, nip through +the shrubbery, and over the locked wicket-gate."</p> + +<p>"Yes," John said slowly, "over the gate."</p> + +<p>"I borrowed a bike from one of the Cycle Corps, and have +ridden it in the garden, in a bush to the right of the gate."</p> + +<p>John nodded.</p> + +<p>"It's moonlight after ten; I shall enjoy the ride immensely."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You will try to get back into the house at night?"</p> + +<p>"Too dangerous. Lovell did it; but the Demon +marches in boldly just before Chapel. He may have +slipped out on half a dozen errands as soon as the door is +opened in the morning. I shall sleep under a stack. It's +a lovely night. Now, old Jonathan, I hope you're satisfied +that I'm not either the fool or the sinner you took me to +be."</p> + +<p>"Look here, Harry. If I appeal to you in the name +of our friendship; if I ask you for my sake and for my +mother's sake not to do this thing——"</p> + +<p>"Jonathan, I must go. Don't make it harder than it +is."</p> + +<p>"Then it <i>is</i> hard?"</p> + +<p>"I won't whine about that. I courted this adventure, +and, by Jove! I'm going to see it through. The odds are +a hundred to one against my being nailed."</p> + +<p>"All right; I'll say no more. Good night."</p> + +<p>"Good night, old Jonathan."</p> + +<p>John went back to his room, waited three minutes, and +then, in despair, made up his mind to seek Scaife. He +felt certain that the Demon's extraordinary luck was about +to stand between him and expulsion. Desmond would be +caught red-handed, but not he. John ground his teeth +with rage at the thought. He found Scaife alone—at work +on cricketing accounts.</p> + +<p>"Hullo, Verney!"</p> + +<p>"Cæsar tells me that he is going up to London to-night."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he told you that, did he?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; you wished him to tell me?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps." Scaife laughed louder.</p> + +<p>"You want to prove to me," said John slowly, "that +you are the stronger?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps." Scaife laughed.</p> + +<p>"Well, if I surrender, if I admit that you are the stronger, +that you have defeated me, won't that be enough?"</p> + +<p>"Eh? I don't quite take you."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You are the stronger." John's voice was very miserable. +"I have tried to dissuade him, as you knew I +should try, and I have failed. Isn't that enough? You +have your triumph. But now be generous. Turn round +and use your strength the other way. Make him give up +this folly. You don't want to see your own pal—sacked?"</p> + +<p>"Precious little chance of that!"</p> + +<p>"There is the chance."</p> + +<p>Scaife hesitated. Did some worthier impulse stir +within him? Who can tell? His keen eye softened, and +then hardened again.</p> + +<p>"No," he said quickly. "If I agree to what you propose, +it is, after all, you who triumph, not I. And I doubt +if I could stop him now, even if I tried." He laughed +again, for the third time, savagely. "You are hoist with +your own petard, Verney. You wanted to see me sacked; +and now that there is a chance in a thousand that Cæsar +will be sacked, you squirm. I swore to get my knife into +you, and, by God, I've done it."</p> + +<p>John went out, very pale. He passed through into the +private side, and tapped at Warde's study door. Mrs. +Warde's voice bade him enter. She looked at John's face. +Afterwards she testified that he looked singularly cool and +self-possessed.</p> + +<p>"I wish to see Mr. Warde," he said.</p> + +<p>"He's dining at the Head Master's."</p> + +<p>"Will he be in soon?"</p> + +<p>"I—er—don't know. Perhaps not. I wouldn't wait +for him, Verney, if I were you."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," said John. "Good night."</p> + +<p>He went back to his room. In Mrs. Warde's eyes he +had read—what? Excitement? Apprehension? Suddenly, +conviction came to him that this dinner at the Head +Master's was a blind. Why, during that very afternoon, +Warde had mentioned casually to Scaife that he was dining +out. He had deliberately informed the Demon that the +coast was clear. And at this moment, probably, Warde<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +lay concealed near the chestnut tree, waiting, watching, +about to pounce upon the—wrong man!</p> + +<p>The temptation to cry "<i>Cave!</i>" tore at his vitals. Till +this moment the tyranny of honour had never oppressed +John. Having resolved to tell Warde that he meant +to break his word, it may seem inexplicable that he +shouldn't go a step further and break his word without +warning the house-master. Upon such nice points of +conscience hang issues of world-wide importance. To +John, at any rate, the difference between the two paths out +of a tangled wood was greater than it might appear to some +of us. Warde had trusted him implicitly: could he bring +himself to violate Warde's confidence without giving the +man notice?</p> + +<p>However, what he might have done under pressure +must remain a matter of surmise. At this moment a third +path became visible. And down it John rushed, without +consideration as to where it might lead. The one thing +plain at this crisis was the certainty that he had discovered +a plan of action which would save two things he valued +supremely—his friendship for Cæsar and his word of +honour.</p> + +<p>Here we are to liberty to speculate what John would +have done had he considered dispassionately the consequences +of an action to be accomplished at once or not at +all. But he had not time to consider anything except the +fact that action would put to rout some very tormenting +thoughts.</p> + +<p>He crumpled his bed, disarranged his room, and put +on a cap and a thin overcoat, as all lights in the boys' side +of the Manor were extinguished. Then he stole out of his +room, and crept to the window at the end of the passage. +A moment later, he had squeezed through it, and was +standing upon the sill outside, gazing fearfully at the void +beneath, and the distance between the sill and the branch +in front of him. Afterwards, he confessed that this moment +was the most difficult. He was an active boy, but he had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> +never jumped such a chasm. If he missed the bough——</p> + +<p>To hesitate meant shameful retreat. John felt the +sweat break upon him; craven fear clutched his heart-strings, +and set them a-jangling.</p> + +<p>He jumped.</p> + +<p>The ease with which he caught the branch was such a +physical relief that he almost forgot his errand. He slid +quietly down the tree, pausing as he reached the bottom of +it. The moon was just rising above the horizon, but under +the trees the darkness was Stygian. John pushed quietly +through the shrubberies, treading as lightly as possible. +Every moment he expected to see the flash of a lantern, to +hear Warde's voice, to feel an arresting hand upon the +shoulder. It was quite impossible to guess with any reasonable +accuracy what part of the garden Warde had selected +for a hiding-place. Very soon he reached the edge of the +shrubbery, and gazed keenly into the moonlit, park-like +meadow below him. Peer as he might, he could see no +trace of Warde. A dozen trees might conceal him. Perhaps +with the omniscience of the house-master, he had +divined that the wicket-gate was the ultimate place of +egress. Perhaps the wicket had been used for a similar +purpose when Warde himself was a boy at the Manor. It +was vital to John's plan that Warde should see him without +recognizing him, and give chase. The chase would end +in capture at some point as reasonably far from the Manor +as possible. Warde might ask for explanations, but none +would be forthcoming till the morrow. Meantime, the +coast would be clear for Desmond. John, in fine, was +playing the part of a pilot-engine.</p> + +<p>But where was Warde?</p> + +<p>The question answered itself within a minute, and after +a fashion absolutely unforeseen. As John was crossing +from the shrubbery to the wicket he looked back. To his +horror, he saw lights in the boys' side, light in the window +of Scaife's room. Instantly John divined what had come +to pass, and cursed himself for a fool. Warde, from some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> +coign of vantage, had seen a boy leave his house. Why +should he try to arrest the boy? why should he risk the +humiliation of running after him, and, perhaps, failing to +capture him? No, no; men forty were not likely to work +in that boyish fashion. Warde had adopted an infinitely +better plan. Assured that a boy had left the house, he +had nothing to do but walk round the rooms and find out +which one was absent. He had begun with Scaife. Next +to Scaife was the room belonging to the Head of the House; +then came John's room, and then Cæsar's. Long before +Warde reached Cæsar's room, Cæsar would have heard him. +Cæsar, at any rate, was saved. John crept back under +cover of the shrubberies. He saw the light flicker out of +Scaife's window, and shine more steadily in the next room. +The window of this room was open, and John could hear +the voice of Warde and the Head of the House. John +waited. And then the light shone in Desmond's room. +John crouched against the wall, trembling. If Cæsar had +not heard the voices, if he were fully dressed, if—— Suddenly +he caught Warde's reassuring words: "Ah, Desmond, +sorry to disturb you. Good night."</p> + +<p>John waited. Very soon Scaife would come to Desmond's +room. Ah! Just so. The night was so still that +he could hear quite plainly the boys' muffled voices.</p> + +<p>"What's up?"</p> + +<p>"Warde is going his rounds. Perhaps he smells a rat."</p> + +<p>And then whispers! John strained his ears. Only a +word or two more reached him. "Verney—— D——d +interfering sneak! Let's see!" It was Scaife who was +speaking.</p> + +<p>John heard his own door opened and shut. Scaife, +then, had discovered his absence, and naturally leaped to +the conclusion that he had warned Warde. Let him think +so! The boys were still whispering together. "Not to-night," +Scaife said decisively. "No, no," Desmond replied.</p> + +<p>John wondered what remained to be done. Warde, of +course, would satisfy himself that no boy in his house was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> +missing except John, before he pronounced him the +absentee. Poor Warde! This would be a hard knock for +him. John's thoughts were jostling each other freely, when +he recalled Desmond's words: "I have one more chance +before the term is over." He had wished to clear the way +for his friend, not to block it. Then he remembered the +terms of the bet, and laughed.</p> + +<p>He ran back to the wicket, found the bicycle, lit the +lamp, and hoisted the machine over the gate. Then he +laughed again. After all, this escaping from bondage, this +midnight adventure beneath the impending sword of +expulsion, thrilled him to the marrow.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>When John returned on Sunday to the Manor, shortly +after the doors were unlocked in the morning, he found +Dumbleton awaiting him. Dumber's face expressed such +amazement and consternation that John nearly laughed in +spite of himself.</p> + +<p>"It's all hup, sir," said the butler. Only in moments +of intense excitement did Dumber misplace or leave out +the aspirate. "You're to come with me at once to Mr. +Warde's study."</p> + +<p>John followed the butler into the familiar room. Warde +was not down yet, but evidently Dumber had instructions +not to leave the prisoner. John stared at the writing-desk. +Then he turned to Dumbleton, and said carelessly—</p> + +<p>"This means the sack, eh, Dumber?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir. 'Ow could you do it, sir? Such a well-be'aved +gentleman, too!"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Dumber." John took an envelope from +the desk, and wrote Scaife's name upon it.</p> + +<p>"Dumber, please give Mr. Scaife this—with my compliments. +It is, as you see, a bill of fare."</p> + +<p>"Very good, sir."</p> + +<p>John placed the card into the envelope and handed both +to Dumbleton.</p> + +<p>"With my compliments!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Certainly, sir."</p> + +<p>"And <i>after</i> Chapel."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>A moment later Warde came in. Dumbleton went out +immediately with a sorrowful, backward glance at John. +The good fellow looked terribly bewildered. For John's +face, John's deportment, had amazed him. John was +quite unaware of it, but he looked astonishingly well. +Excitement had flushed his cheek and lent a sparkle to his +grey eyes. He had enjoyed his ride to town and back; +he had slept soundly under the lee of a haystack; and he +had washed his face and hands in the horse-trough at the +foot of Sudbury Hill. And the certainty that Desmond +was safe, that in the end he, John, had triumphed over +Scaife, filled his soul with joy. Warde, on the other hand, +looked wretched; he had passed a sleepless night; he +was pale, haggard, gaunt.</p> + +<p>"What have you to say, Verney?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing, sir."</p> + +<p>"Nothing." Warde clenched his hands, and burst into +speech, letting all that he had suffered and suppressed +escape in tumultuous words and gestures. "Nothing. +You dare to stand there and say—nothing. That you +should have done this thing! Why, it's incredible! And +I who trusted you. And you listened to me with a face +like brass, laughing in your sleeve, no doubt, at the fool +who betrayed himself. And you came here, so my wife +tells me, to see if I was out of the way, if the coast was +clear. And you were cool as a cucumber. Oh, you hypocrite, +you damnable hypocrite! I have to see you now, +but never again will I look willingly upon your face, never! +Well, this wretched business must be ended. You got out +of my house last night. You heard I was dining with the +Head Master. I returned early, and I saw you jump from +the passage window. You don't deny that you went up +to London, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"No, sir; I don't deny it."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span></p> + +<p>At the moment John, quite unconsciously, looked as +if he were glorying in what he had done. Warde could +have struck his clean, clear face, unblushingly meeting his +furious glance. In disgust, he turned his back and walked +to the window. John felt rather than saw that his tutor +was profoundly moved. When he turned, two tears were +trickling down his cheeks. The sight of them nearly undid +John. When Warde spoke again, his voice was choked +by his emotion.</p> + +<p>"Verney," he said, "I spoke just now in an unrestrained +manner, because you—you"—his voice trembled—"have +shaken my faith in all I hold most dear. I say to you—I +say to you that I believed in you as I believe in my wife. +Even now I feel that somehow there is a mistake—that you +are not what you confess yourself to be—a brazen-faced +humbug. You have worked as I have worked for this +House, and in one moment you undo that work. Have +you paused to think, what effect this will have upon the +others?"</p> + +<p>"Not yet, sir."</p> + +<p>John looked respectfully sympathetic. Poor Warde! +This was rough indeed upon him.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the door was flung open, and Desmond burst +into the room, with a complete disregard of the customary +proprieties, and rushed up to Warde.</p> + +<p>"Sir," he said vehemently, "Verney did this to save—<i>me</i>!"</p> + +<p>Warde saw the slow smile break upon John's face. +And, seeing it, he came as near hysterical laughter as a +man of his character and temperament can come. He +perceived that John, for some amazing reason, had played +the scape-goat; that, in fact, he was innocent—not a +humbug, not a hypocrite, not a brazen-faced sinner. +And the relief was so stupendous that the tutor flung himself +back into a chair, gasping. Desmond spoke quietly.</p> + +<p>"I was going to town, sir. For the first time, I swear. +And only to win a bet, and for the excitement of jumping<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> +out of a window. John tried to dissuade me. When he +exhausted every argument, he went himself."</p> + +<p>"The Lord be praised!" said Warde. He had divined +everything; but he let Desmond tell the story in detail. +Scaife's name was left out of the narrative.</p> + +<p>Then Warde said slowly, "I shall not refer this business +to the Head Master; I shall deal with it myself. For +your own sake, Desmond, for the sake of your father, and, +above all else, for the sake of this House, I shall do no +more than ask you to promise that, for the rest of your +time at Harrow, you will endeavour to atone for what has +been."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>All boys worth their salt are creatures of reserves; +let us respect them. It is easy to surmise what passed +between the friends—the gratitude, the self-reproach, the +humiliation on one side; the sympathy, the encouragement +and shy, restrained affection on the other. A bitter-sweet +moment for John this, revealing, without disguise, the +weakness of Desmond's character, but illuminating the +triumph over Scaife, the all-powerful. John had been +inhuman if this knowledge had not been as spikenard to +him.</p> + +<p>Chapel over, the boys came pouring back into the +house. In a minute the fags would be hurrying up with the +tea and the jam-pots, asking for orders; in a minute Scaife +would rush in with questions hot upon his lips. John +chuckled to himself as he heard Scaife's step.</p> + +<p>"Hullo, Cæsar! Why did you cut Chapel? And——"</p> + +<p>John saw that the Carlton supper-card was in his hand. +He chuckled again.</p> + +<p>"Dumber has just given me—<i>this</i>. Did you go, after +all?" he asked Cæsar. They had not met since Warde's +visit of the night before.</p> + +<p>"I didn't go," said Cæsar.</p> + +<p>"Dumber gave it to me, with Verney's compliments."</p> + +<p>"You've lost your bet," said John.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But how?"</p> + +<p>"Jonathan went to town instead of me," said Desmond. +"We thought he was with Warde—he wasn't. This +morning, early, I found out that he hadn't slept in his bed. +I saw him come back, and I saw Dumber waiting for him. +When Dumber came out of Warde's room, he told me that +Jonathan had been up to town, and was going to be—sacked."</p> + +<p>He blurted out the rest of the story, to which Scaife +listened attentively. When Desmond finished, there was +a pause.</p> + +<p>"You're devilish clever," said Scaife to John.</p> + +<p>"I shall pay up the pony," said Desmond.</p> + +<p>"No, you won't," said Scaife. "As for the money, I +never cared a hang about that. I'm glad—and you ought +to know it—that you've won the bet. All the same, +Verney isn't entitled to all the glory that you give him."</p> + +<p>"He is, he is—and more, too."</p> + +<p>Scaife laughed. John felt rather uncomfortable. Always +Scaife exhibited his amazing resource at unexpected +moments.</p> + +<p>"Never mind," Scaife continued, "I won't burst the +pretty bubble. And I admit, remember, Verney's cleverness."</p> + +<p>He was turning to go, but Desmond clutched his sleeve. +When he spoke his fair face was scarlet.</p> + +<p>"You sneer at the wrong man and at the wrong time," +he said angrily, "and you talk as though I was a fool. +Well, I am a fool, perhaps, and I blow bubbles. Prick +this one, if you can. I challenge you to do it."</p> + +<p>Scaife shrugged his shoulders. "It's so obvious," he +said coolly, "that your kind friend ran no risks other than +a sprained ankle or a cold."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"He was certain that you would come forward. He +forced your hand. There was never the smallest chance of +his being sacked, and he knew it."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes," said John, calmly, "I knew it."</p> + +<p>"Just so," said Scaife. He went out whistling.</p> + +<p>Desmond had time to whisper to John before the fags +called them to breakfast in John's room—</p> + +<p>"I say, Jonathan, I'm glad you knew that I wouldn't +fail you. As the Demon says, you are clever; you are a +sight cleverer than he is."</p> + +<p>John shook his head. "I'm slow," he said. "As a +matter of fact, the thought that you would come to the +rescue never occurred to me till I was biking back from +town."</p> + +<p>"Anyway, you saved me from being sacked, and as +long as I live I——"</p> + +<p>"Come on to breakfast," said John.</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_38_38" id="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38"><span class="label">[38]</span></a> The Philathletic Club deals primarily with all matters which +concern Harrow games; it is also a social club. Distinguished athletes, +monitors, and so forth, are eligible for membership. The Head of the +School is <i>ex-Officio</i> President.</p></div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<h3><i>Good Night</i></h3> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 22em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Good night! Sleep, and so may ever<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lights half seen across a murky lea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Child of hope, and courage, and endeavour,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gleam a voiceless benison on thee!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Youth be bearer<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Soon of hardihood;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Life be fairer,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Loyaller to good;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the far lamps vanish into light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rest in the dreamtime. Good night! Good night!"<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The last</span> Saturday of the summer term saw the Manor +cock-house at cricket: almost a foregone conclusion, and +therefore not particularly interesting to outsiders. During +the morning Scaife gave his farewell "brekker"<a name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a> at the +Creameries; a banquet of the Olympians to which John +received an invitation. He accepted because Desmond +made a point of his so doing; but he was quite aware that +beneath the veneer of the Demon's genial smile lay implacable +hatred and resentment. The breakfast in itself struck +John as ostentatious. Scaife's father sent quails, <i>à la +Lucullus</i>, and other delicacies. Throughout the meal the +talk was of the coming war. At that time most of the +Conservative papers pooh-poohed the possibility of an appeal +to arms, but Scaife's father, admittedly a great authority +on South African affairs, had told his son a fight was inevitable. +More, he and his friends were already preparing to +raise a regiment of mounted infantry. At breakfast Scaife +announced this piece of news, and added that in the event +of hostilities he would join this regiment, and not try to +pass into Sandhurst. And he added that any of his friends +who were present, and over eighteen years of age, were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span> +cordially invited to send in their names, and that he +personally would do all that was possible to secure them +billets. The words were hardly out of his mouth, when +Cæsar Desmond was on his feet, with an eager—</p> + +<p>"Put me down, Demon; put me down first!"</p> + +<p>And then Scaife glanced at John, as he answered—</p> + +<p>"Right you are, Cæsar, and if things go well with us, I +fancy that we shall get our commissions in regular regiments +soon enough. The governor had had a hint to that effect. +Let's drink success to 'Scaife's Horse.'"</p> + +<p>The toast was drunk with enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>During the holidays, John saw nothing of Desmond, +although they wrote to each other once a week. John was +reading hard with an eye to a possible scholarship at +Oxford; Desmond was playing cricket with Scaife. Later, +Desmond went to the Scaife moor in Scotland. John noted +that his friend's letters were full of two things only: sport, +and the ever-increasing probability of war. At the end of +August John Verney, the explorer, returning to Verney +Boscobel after an absence of nearly four years, began to +write his now famous book on the Far East. Then John +learned from his mother that his uncle had borne all the +charges of his education. When he thanked him, the uncle +said warmly—</p> + +<p>"You have more than repaid me, my dear boy; not +another word, please, about that. Warde tells me they +expect great things of you at Oxford."</p> + +<p>Uncle and nephew were alone, after dinner. John had +noticed that the hardships endured in Manchuria and +Thibet had left scars upon the traveller. His hair was white, +he looked an old man; one whose wanderings in wild places +must perforce come soon to an end.</p> + +<p>"Uncle," said John, "I want to chuck Oxford."</p> + +<p>"Eh?"</p> + +<p>"I should like to go into the Army."</p> + +<p>"Bless my soul!"</p> + +<p>The explorer eyed his nephew with wrinkled brow.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> +John gave reasons; we can guess what they were. The +prospect of war had set all ardent souls afire.</p> + +<p>"I must think this over, my boy," the uncle replied +presently. "I must sleep on it. Have you told your +mother?"</p> + +<p>"No; I counted upon you to persuade her."</p> + +<p>"Um. Now tell me about Lord's! Ah! I'm sorry I +missed that match."</p> + +<p>Next day, his uncle said nothing of what lay next to +John's heart, but the pair rode together over the estate. +During that ride it became plain to the young man that +his uncle had no intention of settling down. Once or twice, +in the driest, most matter-of-fact tone, the elder spoke as +if his heir were likely to inherit soon. Finally, John blurted +out a protest—</p> + +<p>"But, uncle, you are a strong man. Why do you talk +as if—as if——" the boy couldn't finish the phrase.</p> + +<p>"Tut, tut," said the uncle. "I know what I know"; +and he fell into silence.</p> + +<p>Not till the evening, after Mrs. Verney had gone to +bed, did the man of many wanderings speak freely.</p> + +<p>"John," said he, quietly, "I have a story to tell you. +Years ago, your father and I fell in love with the same girl. +She married the better man." He paused to fill a pipe: +John saw that his uncle's fingers trembled slightly; but his +voice was cool, measured, almost monotonous. "I made +my first expedition to Patagonia. When I came back you +were just born; and I asked that I might be your godfather. +I went to Africa after the christening. And six years later +your father died. I think he had the purest and most +unselfish love of the poor and helpless that I have ever +known. He wore away his life in the service of the outcast +and forlorn. And before he died, he expressed a wish that +you should work as he did, for others, but not in precisely +the same way. He knew, none better, the limitations +imposed upon a parson. He prayed that you might labour +in a field larger than one parish. And I promised him that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> +I would do what I could when the time came. It has come—to-night. +In my opinion, in Warde's opinion, in your +dear mother's opinion, Parliament is the place for you. +You will be sufficiently well off. Take all Oxford can give +you, and then try for the House of Commons. Charles +Desmond will make you one of his Private Secretaries. I +have spoken to him. You have a great career before you."</p> + +<p>"But if war breaks out, uncle——"</p> + +<p>"War <i>will</i> break out. Don't misunderstand me! If +you are wanted out there, and the thing is going to be +very serious, if you are wanted, you must go; but decidedly +you are not wanted yet. And you are an only son; all +your mother has. John, you must think of her, and you +will think of her, I know."</p> + +<p>The conviction in his quiet voice communicated itself to +his nephew. There was a pause of nearly a minute; and +then John answered, in a voice curiously like his uncle's—</p> + +<p>"All right."</p> + +<p>Verney senior held out his hand. "I knew you would +say that," he murmured.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>On the 18th of September, when John returned to the +Hill, the country had just learned that the proposals of the +Imperial Government to accept the note of August 19th +(provided it were not encumbered by conditions which +would nullify the intention to give substantial representation +to the Uitlanders) had not been accepted. That this +meant war, none, least of all a schoolboy, doubted. Desmond +could talk of nothing else. He told John that his +father had promised to let him leave Harrow before the end +of the term, if war were declared. The Demon, so John was +informed, had made already preparations. He was taking +out his three polo ponies, and had hopes of being appointed +Galloper to a certain General. Scaife's Horse was being +organized, but in any case would not take the field before +several months had elapsed; the Demon intended to be on +the spot when the first shot was fired.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p> + +<p>To all this gunpowder-talk John listened with envious +ears and a curious sinking of the heart. He had looked +forward to having Desmond to himself; and lo! his friend +was seven thousand miles away—on the veldt, not on the +Hill.</p> + +<p>"You are not keen," said Desmond.</p> + +<p>On the day of the Goose Match, Saturday, September +30th, Scaife came down to Harrow to take leave of his +friends. Already, John noted an extraordinary difference +in his manner and appearance. He treated John to a +slightly patronizing smile, called him Jonathan, asked if he +could be of service to him, and posed most successfully as +a sort of sucking Alexander.</p> + +<p>That he absorbed Desmond's eyes and mind was indisputable. +Everything outside South Africa, and in +particular the Hill and all things thereon, dwindled into +insignificance. Scaife made Desmond a present of the +very best maps obtainable, and nailed them on the wall +above the mantelpiece, pulling down a fine engraving +which John had given to Desmond about a year before. +Desmond uttered no protest. The engraving was bundled +out of sight behind a sofa.</p> + +<p>And after Scaife's departure, Desmond talked of him +continually, and always with enthusiasm. Warde added +a note or two to the chorus.</p> + +<p>"This is an opportunity for Scaife," he told John. +"He may distinguish himself very greatly, and the discipline +of the camp will transmute the bad metal into gold. +War is an alchemist."</p> + +<p>Upon the 11th of October war was declared.</p> + +<p>After that, Desmond became as one possessed. He +went about saying that he pitied his father profoundly +because he was a civilian and a non-combatant. Warde +wrote to Charles Desmond: "If you mean to send Harry +out, send him at once. He's fretting himself to fiddle-strings, +doing no work, and causing others to do no work +also."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p> + +<p>Sir William Symons' victory and death followed, and +then the mortifying retreat of General Yule. Upon the +30th day of the month eight hundred and fifty officers and +men were isolated and captured. Who does not remember +the wave of passionate incredulity that swept across the +kingdom when the evil tidings flashed over-seas? But +Buller and his staff were on the <i>Dunottar Castle</i>, and all +Harrovians believed devoutly that within a month of +landing the Commander-in-Chief would drive the invaders +back and conquer the Transvaal.</p> + +<p>Day after day, Desmond importuned his father. The +"fun" would be over, he pointed out, before he got there—and +so on. At last word came. A billet had been obtained. +Desmond received a long envelope from the War +Office. He showed it to all his friends, old and young. +Duff junior—Cæsar's fag—became so excited that he asked +Warde for permission to enlist as a drummer-boy. The +School cheered Cæsar at four Bill.</p> + +<p>And then came the parting.</p> + +<p>Cæsar was to join the Headquarters' Staff as soon as +possible. He spent the last hours with John, but his mind, +naturally enough, was concentrated upon his kit. He +chattered endlessly of saddlery, revolvers, sleeping bags, +and Zeiss glasses. John packed his portmanteau. And +on the morrow the friends parted at the station without a +word beyond—</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, old Jonathan. Wish you were coming."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, Cæsar. Good luck!"</p> + +<p>And then the shrill whistle, the inexorable rolling of the +wheels, the bright, eager face leaning far out of the window, +the waved handkerchief, the last words: "So long!" and +John's reply, "So long!"</p> + +<p>John saw the face fade; the wheels of the vanishing +train seemed to have rolled over his heart; the scream of +the engine was the scream of anguish from himself. He +left the station and ran to the Tower. There, after the first +indescribable moments, some kindly spirit touched him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> +He became whole. But he had ceased to be a boy. Alone +upon the tower he prayed for his friend, prayed fervently +that it might be well with him, now and for ever—Amen.</p> + +<p>When he returned to the Manor, however, peace seemed +to forsake him. The horrible gap, ever-widening, between +himself and Desmond might, indeed, be bridged by prayer, +but not by the shouts of boys and the turmoil of a Public +School.</p> + +<p>During the rest of the term he worked furiously. Desmond +was now on the high seas, whither John followed him +at night and on Sundays. Warde, guessing, perhaps, what +was passing in John's heart, talked much of Desmond, +always hopefully. From Warde, John learned that Charles +Desmond had tried to dissuade his favourite son from +becoming a soldier.</p> + +<p>"He wanted him to go into Parliament," said Warde.</p> + +<p>John nodded.</p> + +<p>"It was a disappointment. Yes; a great disappointment. +Harry would have made a debater. Yes; yes; +a nimble wit, an engaging manner, and the gift of the gab. +And the father would have had him under his own eye."</p> + +<p>"But he wanted to go to South Africa from the beginning."</p> + +<p>"You wanted to go," said Warde; "your uncle told me +so. It was a greater thing for you, John, to stand aside."</p> + +<p>And then John put a question. "Do you think that +Harry ought to have stood aside too?"</p> + +<p>Warde, however, unwilling to commit himself, spoke of +Harry's ardour and patriotism. But at the end he let fall a +straw which indicated the true current of his thoughts—</p> + +<p>"Mr. Desmond is very lonely."</p> + +<p>John swooped on this.</p> + +<p>"Then you think, you <i>do</i> think, that Harry should have +stayed behind?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps. One hesitates to accuse the boy of anything +more than thoughtlessness."</p> + +<p>"If he wished to serve his country," began John, warmly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p> + +<p>Warde smiled. "Yes, yes," he assented. "Let us +believe that, John; but there has been too much cheap +excitement."</p> + +<p>Dark days followed. Who will ever forget Stormberg +and Magersfontein? A pall seemed to hang over the +kingdom. Ladysmith remained in the grip of the invader; +the Boers were not yet driven out of Natal. Meantime +Cæsar had reached Sir Redvers Buller. A letter to his +father, describing the few incidents of the voyage out, and +his arrival in South Africa, was sent on to John and received +by him on the 1st of February. "John will understand," +said Cæsar, in a postscript, "that I have little time for +writing." But John did not understand. He wrote +regularly to Desmond; no answer came in return.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>At the end of the Christmas holidays John returned to +Harrow. He was now Head of his House, and very nearly +Head of the School. The weeks went by slowly. Soon, he +and a few others would travel to Oxford for their examination; +there would be the strenuous excitement of competition, +and the final announcement of success or failure. +To all this John told himself that he was lukewarm. +Nothing seemed to matter since he had lost sight of Cæsar's +face, since the train whirled his friend out of his life. But +he worked hard, so hard that the Head Master bade him +beware of a breakdown.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The hour of triumph came. John had gratified his own +and Warde's ambition; he was a Scholar of Christ Church. +And this well-earned success seemed to draw something in +his heart. The congratulations, the warm hand-clasps, the +generous joy of schoolfellows not as fortunate, restored his +moral circulation. A whole holiday was granted in honour +of his success at Oxford. He told himself that now he +would take things easy and enjoy himself. The clouds in +South Africa were lifting, everybody said the glorious end +was in sight. And so far Desmond had escaped wounds<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> +and sickness. He had received a commission in Beauregard's +Irregular Horse; in the five days' action about +Spion Kop he behaved with conspicuous gallantry. Scaife, +having obtained his billet of Galloper, was with a General +under Lord Methuen.</p> + +<p>On the last Monday but one in the term, John was +entering the Manor just before lock-up, when a Sixth Form +boy from another house passed him, running.</p> + +<p>"Have you heard about poor Scaife?" he called out.</p> + +<p>"No—what?"</p> + +<p>"Warde will tell you; he knows." The boy ran on, +not wishing to be late.</p> + +<p>John ran, too, with his heart thumping against his side. +He felt certain, from the expression upon the boy's face, +that Scaife was dead. And John recalled with intense +bitterness and humiliation moments in past years when he +had wished that Scaife would die. Charles Desmond had +told him only three weeks before that his Harry hoped to +join the smart cavalry regiment in which a commission had +been promised to Scaife. At that moment John was +sensible of an inordinate desire for anything that might +come between this wish and its fulfilment. And now, Scaife +might be lying dead.</p> + +<p>He found Warde in his study staring at a telegram. He +looked up as John entered, and in silence handed him the +message.</p> + +<p class="center">"<i>Demon dead. Died gloriously.</i>"</p> + +<p>The telegram came from an Harrovian, an old Manorite +at the War Office.</p> + +<p>John sat down, stunned by the news; Warde regarded +him gravely. John met his glance and could not interpret +it. Presently, Warde said nervously—</p> + +<p>"Why did the fellow write 'Demon' instead of 'Scaife'? +I don't like that." He looked sharply at John, who did +not understand. Then he added, "I've wired for confirmation. +There may be a—mistake."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What mistake?" said John. Warde's manner confused +him, frightened him. "What mistake, sir?"</p> + +<p>Warde, twisting the paper, answered miserably—</p> + +<p>"There has been an action, but not in Scaife's part of +Africa. Beauregard's Horse were engaged and suffered +severely. And would any one say 'Demon' in such a +serious context?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, my God!" said John, pale and trembling. At +last he understood. Add two letters to "Demon" and you +have "Desmond." How easily such a mistake could be +made!—"Desmond," ill-written, handed to an old Manorite +to copy and despatch.</p> + +<p>"It's Scaife—it's Scaife," John cried.</p> + +<p>Warde said nothing, staring at the thin slip of paper +as if he were trying to wrest from it its secret.</p> + +<p>"Everybody called him 'Demon,'" said John.</p> + +<p>"Still, one ought to be prepared."</p> + +<p>For many hideous minutes they sat there, silent, waiting +for the second telegram. Dumbleton brought it in, and +lingered, anxiously expectant; but Warde dismissed him +with a gesture. As the door closed, Warde stood up.</p> + +<p>"If our fears are well founded," he said solemnly, "may +God give you strength, John Verney, to bear the blow."</p> + +<p>Then he tore open the envelope and read the truth—</p> + +<p class="center">"<i>Henry Desmond killed in action.</i>"</p> + +<p>"No," said John, fiercely. "It is Scaife, Scaife!"</p> + +<p>Warde shook his head, holding John's hand tight between +his sinewy fingers. John's face appalled him. He +had known, he had guessed, the strength of John's feeling +for Desmond, but, he had not known the strength of John's +hatred of Scaife. And Desmond had been taken—and +Scaife left. The irony of it tore the soul.</p> + +<p>"Don't speak," commanded Warde.</p> + +<p>John closed his lips with instinctive obedience. When +he opened them again his face had softened; the words fell +upon the silence with a heartrending inflection of misery.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And now I shall never know—I shall never know."</p> + +<p>He broke down piteously. Warde let the first passion +of grief spend itself; then he asked John to explain. The +good fellow saw that if John could give his trouble words +it would be lightened enormously. He divined what had +been suppressed.</p> + +<p>"What is it that you will never know, John?"</p> + +<p>At that John spoke, laying bare his heart. He gave +details of the never-ending struggle between Scaife and +himself for the soul of his friend; gave them with a clearness +of expression which proved beyond all else how his thoughts +had crystallized in his mind. Warde listened, holding +John's hand, gripping it with sympathy and affection. +The romance of this friendship stirred him profoundly; +the romance of the struggle for good and evil; a struggle +of which the issues remained still in doubt; a romance +which Death had cruelly left unfinished—this had poignant +significance for the house-master.</p> + +<p>"I shall never know now," John repeated, in conclusion.</p> + +<p>"But you have faith in your friend."</p> + +<p>"He never wrote to me," said John.</p> + +<p>At last it was out, the thorn in his side which had tormented +him.</p> + +<p>"If he had written," John continued, "if only he had +written once. When we parted it was good-bye—just that, +nothing more; but I thought he would write, and that +everything would be cleared up. And now, silence."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The week wore itself away. A few details were forthcoming: +enough to prove that a glorious deed had been +done at the cost of a gallant life. England was thrilled +because the hero happened to be the son of a popular +Minister. The name of Desmond rang through the Empire. +John bought every paper and devoured the meagre lines +which left so much between them. It seemed that a certain +position had to be taken—a small hill. For the hundredth +time in this campaign too few men were detailed for the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> +task. The reek of that awful slaughter on Spion Kop was +still strong in men's nostrils. Beauregard and his soldiers +halted at the foot of the hill, halted in the teeth of a storm +of bullets. Then the word was given to attack. But the +fire from invisible foes simply exterminated the leading +files. The moment came when those behind wavered and +recoiled. And then Desmond darted forward—alone, +cheering on his fellows. They were all afoot. The men +rallied and followed. But they could not overtake the +gallant figure pressing on in front. He ran—so the Special +Correspondent reported—as if he were racing for a goal. +The men staggered after him, aflame with his ardour. +They reached the top, captured the guns, drove down the +enemy, and returned to the highest point to find their leader—shot +through the heart, and dead, and smiling at death. +Of all the men who passed through that blizzard of bullets +he was the youngest by two years.</p> + +<p>Warde told John that the Head Master would preach +upon the last Sunday evening of the term, with special +reference to Harry Desmond. Could John bear it? John +nodded. Since the first breakdown in Warde's study, his +heart seemed to have turned to ice. His religious sense, +hitherto strong and vital, failed him entirely. He abandoned +prayer.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Evensong was over in Harrow Chapel. The Head +Master, stately in surplice and scarlet hood, entered the +pulpit, and, in his clear, calm tones, announced his text, +taken from the 17th verse of the First Chapter of the Book +of Ruth—</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"The Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but +death part thee and me."</p> + +<p>The subject of the sermon was "Friendship:" the +heart's blood of a Public School: Friendship with its +delights, its perils, its peculiar graces and benedictions.</p> + +<p>"To-night," concluded the preacher, amid the breathless<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> +silence of the congregation, "this thought of Friendship has +for us a special solemnity. It is consecrated by the +memory of one whom we have just lost. You, who are +leaving the school, have been the friends and contemporaries +of Henry Julius Desmond; his features are fresh +in your memories, and will remain fresh as long as you +live.</p> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 19em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Tall, eager, a face to remember,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A flush that could change as the day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A spirit that knew not December,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That brightened the sunshine of May."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + +<p>"Those lines, as you know, were written of another +Harrovian, who died here on this Hill. Henry Desmond +died on another hill, and died so gloriously that the shadow +of our loss, dark as it seemed to us at first, is already melting +in the radiance of his gain. To die young, clean, ardent; +to die swiftly, in perfect health; to die saving others from +death, or worse—disgrace—to die scaling heights; to die +and to carry with you into the fuller, ampler life beyond, +untainted hopes and aspirations, unembittered memories, +all the freshness and gladness of May—is not that cause +for joy rather than sorrow? I say—yes. Henry Desmond +is one stage ahead of us upon a journey which we all must +take, and I entreat you to consider that, if we have faith +in a future life, we must believe also that we carry hence +not only the record of our acts, whether good or evil, but the +memory of them; and that memory, undimmed by falsehood +or self-deception, will create for us Heaven or Hell. +I do not say—God forbid!—that you should desire death +because you are still young, and, comparatively speaking, +unspotted from the world; but I say I would sooner see +any of you struck down in the flower of his youth than +living on to lose, long before death comes, all that makes +life worth the living. Better death, a thousand times, than +gradual decay of mind and spirit; better death than faithlessness, +indifference, and uncleanness. To you who are +leaving Harrow, poised for flight into the great world of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> +which this school is the microcosm, I commend the memory +of Henry Desmond. It stands in our records for all we +venerate and strive for: loyalty, honour, purity, strenuousness, +faithfulness in friendship. When temptation assails +you, think of that gallant boy running swiftly uphill, +leaving craven fear behind, and drawing with him the +others who, led by him to the heights, made victory +possible. You cannot all be leaders, but you can follow +leaders; only see to it that they lead you, as Henry Desmond +led the men of Beauregard's Horse, onward and +upward."</p> + +<p>The preacher ended, and then followed the familiar +hymn, always sung upon the last Sunday evening of the +term:—</p> + +<div class="cpoem" style="width: 18em;"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Let Thy father-hand be shielding<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All who here shall meet no more;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May their seed-time past be yielding<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Year by year a richer store;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Those returning,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Make more faithful than before."<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + +<p>The last blessing was pronounced, and with glistening +eyes the boys streamed out of Chapel; some of them for the +last time.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Upon the next Tuesday, John travelled down into the +New Forest. April was abroad in Hampshire; the larches +already were bright green against the Scotch firs; the beech +buds were bursting; only the oaks retained their drab +winter's-livery.</p> + +<p>During the few days preceding Easter Sunday, John +rode or walked to every part of the forest which he had +visited in company with his dead friend. At Beaulieu, +standing in the ruins of the Abbey, he could hear Desmond's +delightful laugh as he recited the misadventures of +Hordle John; at Stoneycross he sat upon the bank overlooking +the moor, whence they had seen the fox steal into +the woods about Rufus's Stone; at the Bell tavern at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> +Brook they had lunched; at Hinton Admiral they had +played cricket.</p> + +<p>To his mother's and his uncle's silent sympathy John +responded but churlishly. His friend had departed without +a word, without a sign; that ate into John's heart and +consumed it. For the first time since he had been confirmed, +he refused to receive the Sacrament. He went to +church as a matter of form; but he dared not approach the +altar in his present rebellious mood.</p> + +<p>Again and again he accused himself of having yielded to +a craven fear of offending Desmond by speech too plain. +Always he had been so terribly afraid of losing his friend; +and now he had lost him indeed. This poignancy of grief +may be accounted for in part by the previous long-continued +strain of overwork. And it is ever the habit of +those who do much to think that they might have done +more.</p> + +<p>At the beginning of May, John came back to the Hill, +for his last term. Out of the future rose the "dreaming +spires" of Oxford; beyond them, vague and shadowy, the +great Clock-tower of Westminster, keeping watch and ward +over the destinies of our Empire.</p> + +<p>In a long letter from Charles Desmond, the Minister +had spoken of the secretaryship to be kept warm for him, +of the pleasure and solace the writer would take in seeing +his son's best friend in the place where that son might have +stood.</p> + +<p>His best friend? Was that true?</p> + +<p>The question tormented John. Because Cæsar had been +so much to him, he desired, more passionately than he had +desired anything in his life, the assurance that he had been +something—not everything, only something—to Cæsar.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>One day, about the middle of the month, John had been +playing cricket, the game of all games which brought +Cæsar most vividly to his mind. Then, just before six Bill, +he strolled up the Hill and into the Vaughan Library, where<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> +so many relics dear to Harrovians are enshrined. Sitting +in the splendid window which faces distant Hampstead, +John told himself that he must put aside the miseries and +perplexities of the past month. Had he been loyal to his +friend's memory? Would not a more ardent faith have +burned away doubt?</p> + +<p>John gazed across the familiar fields to the huge city on +the horizon. Soon night would fall, darkness would +encompass all things. And then, out of the mirk, would +shine the lamps of London.</p> + +<p>Warde's voice put his thoughts to instant flight. Some +intuition told John that something had happened. Warde +said quietly—</p> + +<p>"A letter has come for you in Harry Desmond's handwriting."</p> + +<p>John, unable to speak, stretched out his hand.</p> + +<p>"Take it," said Warde, "to some quiet spot where you +cannot be disturbed."</p> + +<p>John nodded.</p> + +<p>"I have seen how it was with you," Warde continued, +with deep emotion, "and you have had my acute sympathy, +the more acute, perhaps, because long ago a friend went +out of my life without a sign." Warde paused. "Now, +unless my whole experience is at fault, you hold in your +hand what you want—and what you deserve."</p> + +<p>Warde left the library; John put the letter into his +pocket. Where should he go? One place beckoned him. +Upon the tower, looking towards the Hill, he would read +the last letter of his friend.</p> + +<p>Within half an hour he was passing through the iron +gates. He had not visited the garden since that forlorn +winter's afternoon, when he came here, alone, after bidding +Desmond good-bye. He could recall the desolation of the +scene: bleak Winter dripping tears upon the tomb of +Summer. With what disgust he had perceived the decaying +masses of vegetation, the sodden turf, the soot upon the +bare trunks of the trees. He had rushed away, fancying<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +that he heard Desmond's voice, "There is a curse on the +place."</p> + +<p>Now, May had touched what had seemed dead and +hideous, and, lo! a miracle. The hawthorns shone white +against the brilliant green of the laurels; the horse-chestnuts +had—to use a fanciful expression of Cæsar's—"lit their +lamps." Out of the waving grass glimmered and sparkled +a thousand wild flowers. John heard the glad <i>Frühlingslied</i> +of bees and birds. Then, opening his lungs, he inhaled the +life-renewing odours of earth renascent; opening his heart +he felt a spiritual essence pervading every fibre of his being. +Once more the chilled sap in his veins flowed generously. +It was well with him and well with his friend. This +conviction possessed him, remember, before he opened the +letter.</p> + +<p>He ascended the tower, and broke the seal.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"I have been meaning to write to you, dear old chap, +ever since we parted; but, somehow, I couldn't bring myself +to tackle it in earnest till to-night. To-morrow, we have +a thundering big job ahead of us; the last job, perhaps, for +me. Old Jonathan, you have been the best friend a man +ever had, the only one I love as much as my own brothers—<i>and +even more</i>. It was from knowing you that I came to see +what good-for-nothing fools some fellows are. You were +always so unselfish and <i>straight!</i> and you made me feel that +I was the contrary, and that you knew it, and that I should +lose your friendship if I didn't improve a bit. So, if we +don't meet again in this jolly old world, it may be a little +comfort to you to remember that what you have done for +a very worthless pal was not thrown away.</p> + +<p>"Good night, Jonathan. I'm going to turn in; we +shall be astir before daybreak. Over the veldt the stars are +shining. It's so light, that I can just make out the hill +upon which, I hope, our flag will be waving within a few +hours. The sight of this hill brings back our Hill. If I +shut my eyes, I can see it plainly, as we used to see it from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> +the tower, with the Spire rising out of the heart of the old +school. I have the absurd conviction strong in me that, +to-morrow, I shall get up the hill here faster and easier +than the other fellows because you and I have so often run +up our Hill together—God bless it—and you! Good +night."</p> + + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_39_39" id="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39"><span class="label">[39]</span></a> Brekker, <i>i.e.</i> breakfast.</p></div> +</div> + +<p class="hd2"><small>PRINTED AND BOUND IN ENGLAND BY<br /> +WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES</small></p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hill, by Horace Annesley Vachell + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HILL *** + +***** This file should be named 23154-h.htm or 23154-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/1/5/23154/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Stephen Blundell and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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