TALES OF ST AUSTIN'S

by P. G. Wodehouse

1903

PREFACE

Most of these stories originally appeared in _The Captain_. I amindebted to the Editor of that magazine for allowing me to republish. The rest are from the _Public School Magazine_. The story entitled'A Shocking Affair' appears in print for the first time. 'This was oneof our failures. '

_P. G. Wodehouse_

[Dedication]AD MATREM

CONTENTS

1 How Pillingshot Scored

2 The Odd Trick

3 L'Affaire Uncle John (A Story in Letters)

4 Harrison's Slight Error

5 Bradshaw's Little Story

6 A Shocking Affair

7 The Babe and the Dragon

8 The Manoeuvres of Charteris

9 How Payne Bucked Up

10 Author!

11 'The Tabby Terror'

12 The Prize Poem

13 Work

14 Notes

15 Now, Talking About Cricket--

16 The Tom Brown Question

[1]

HOW PILLINGSHOT SCORED

Pillingshot was annoyed. He was disgusted, mortified; no other word forit. He had no objection, of course, to Mr Mellish saying that his workduring the term, and especially his Livy, had been disgraceful. Amaster has the right to say that sort of thing if he likes. It is oneof the perquisites of the position. But when he went on to observe, without a touch of shame, that there would be an examination in theLivy as far as they had gone in it on the following Saturday, Pillingshot felt that he exceeded. It was not playing the game. Therewere the examinations at the end of term. Those were fair enough. Youknew exactly when they were coming, and could make your arrangementsaccordingly. But to spring an examination on you in the middle of theterm out of a blue sky, as it were, was underhand and unsportsmanlike, and would not do at all. Pillingshot wished that he could put his footdown. He would have liked to have stalked up to Mr Mellish's desk, fixed him with a blazing eye, and remarked, 'Sir, withdraw that remark. Cancel that statement instantly, or--!' or words to that effect. 

What he did say was: 'Oo, si-i-r!!'

'Yes, ' said Mr Mellish, not troubling to conceal his triumphat Pillingshot's reception of the news, 'there will be a Livyexamination next Saturday. And--' (he almost intoned this lastobservation)--'anybody who does not get fifty per cent, Pillingshot, fifty per cent, will be severely punished. Very severely punished, Pillingshot. '

After which the lesson had proceeded on its course. 

'Yes, it is rather low, isn't it?' said Pillingshot's friend, Parker, as Pillingshot came to the end of a stirring excursus on the rights ofthe citizen, with special reference to mid-term Livy examinations. 'That's the worst of Mellish. He always has you somehow. '

'But what am I to _do_?' raved Pillingshot. 

'I should advise you to swot it up before Saturday, ' said Parker. 

'Oh, don't be an ass, ' said Pillingshot, irritably. 

What was the good of friends if they could only make idioticsuggestions like that?

He retired, brooding, to his house. 

The day was Wednesday. There were only two more days, therefore, inwhich to prepare a quarter of a book of Livy. It couldn't be done. Thething was not possible. 

In the house he met Smythe. 

'What are you going to do about it?' he inquired. Smythe was top of theform, and if he didn't know how to grapple with a crisis of this sort, who _could_ know?

'If you'll kindly explain, ' said Smythe, 'what the dickens you aretalking about, I might be able to tell you. '

Pillingshot explained, with unwonted politeness, that 'it' meant theLivy examination. 

'Oh, ' said Smythe, airily, 'that! I'm just going to skim through it incase I've forgotten any of it. Then I shall read up the notescarefully. And then, if I have time, I shall have a look at the historyof the period. I should advise you to do that, too. '

'Oh, don't be a goat, ' said Pillingshot. 

And he retired, brooding, as before. 

That afternoon he spent industriously, copying out the fourth book of_The Aeneid_. At the beginning of the week he had had a slightdisagreement with M. Gerard, the French master. 

Pillingshot's views on behaviour and deportment during French lessonsdid not coincide with those of M. Gerard. Pillingshot's idea of aFrench lesson was something between a pantomime rally and a scrum atfootball. To him there was something wonderfully entertaining in theprocess of 'barging' the end man off the edge of the form into space, and upsetting his books over him. M. Gerard, however, had a veryundeveloped sense of humour. He warned the humorist twice, and on thething happening a third time, suggested that he should go into extralesson on the ensuing Wednesday. 

So Pillingshot went, and copied out Virgil. 

He emerged from the room of detention at a quarter past four. As hecame out into the grounds he espied in the middle distance somebodybeing carried on a stretcher in the direction of the School House. Atthe same moment Parker loomed in sight, walking swiftly towards theSchool shop, his mobile features shining with the rapt expression ofone who sees much ginger-beer in the near future. 

'Hullo, Parker, ' said Pillingshot, 'who's the corpse?'

'What, haven't you heard?' said Parker. 'Oh, no, of course, you were inextra. It's young Brown. He's stunned or something. '

'How did it happen?'

'That rotter, Babington, in Dacre's. Simply slamming about, you know, getting his eye in before going in, and Brown walked slap into one ofhis drives. Got him on the side of the head. '

'Much hurt?'

'Oh, no, I don't think so. Keep him out of school for about a week. '

'Lucky beast. Wish somebody would come and hit me on the head. Comeand hit me on the head, Parker. '

'Come and have an ice, ' said Parker. 

'Right-ho, ' said Pillingshot. It was one of his peculiarities, thatwhatever the hour or the state of the weather, he was always equal toconsuming an ice. This was probably due to genius. He had an infinitecapacity for taking pains. Scarcely was he outside the promised icewhen another misfortune came upon him. Scott, of the First Eleven, entered the shop. Pillingshot liked Scott, but he was not blind tocertain flaws in the latter's character. For one thing, he was tooenergetic. For another, he could not keep his energy to himself. He wasalways making Pillingshot do things. And Pillingshot's notion of theideal life was complete _dolce far niente_. 

'Ginger-beer, please, ' said Scott, with parched lips. He had beenbowling at the nets, and the day was hot. 'Hullo! Pillingshot, youyoung slacker, why aren't you changed? Been bunking half-holiday games?You'd better reform, young man. '

'I've been in extra, ' said Pillingshot, with dignity. 

'How many times does that make this term? You're going for the record, aren't you? Jolly sporting of you. Bit slow in there, wasn't it?'Nother ginger-beer, please. '

'Just a bit, ' said Pillingshot. 

'I thought so. And now you're dying for some excitement. Of course youare. Well, cut over to the House and change, and then come back andfield at the nets. The man Yorke is going to bowl me some of hiscelebrated slow tosh, and I'm going to show him exactly how Jessop doesit when he's in form. '

Scott was the biggest hitter in the School. Mr Yorke was one of themasters. He bowled slow leg-breaks, mostly half-volleys and long hops. Pillingshot had a sort of instinctive idea that fielding out in thedeep with Mr Yorke bowling and Scott batting would not contributelargely to the gaiety of his afternoon. Fielding deep at the nets meantthat you stood in the middle of the football field, where there was notelling what a ball would do if it came at you along the ground. If youwere lucky you escaped without injury. Generally, however, the ballbumped and deprived you of wind or teeth, according to the height towhich it rose. He began politely, but firmly, to excuse himself. 

'Don't talk rot, ' said Scott, complainingly, 'you must have someexercise or you'll go getting fat. Think what a blow it would be toyour family, Pillingshot, if you lost your figure. Buck up. If you'reback here in a quarter of an hour you shall have another ice. A largeice, Pillingshot, price sixpence. Think of it. '

The word ice, as has been remarked before, touched chords inPillingshot's nature to which he never turned a deaf ear. Within theprescribed quarter of an hour he was back again, changed. 

'Here's the ice, ' said Scott, 'I've been keeping it warm for you. Shovel it down. I want to be starting for the nets. Quicker, man, quicker! Don't roll it round your tongue as if it was port. Go for it. Finished? That's right. Come on. '

Pillingshot had not finished, but Scott so evidently believed that hehad, that it would have been unkind to have mentioned the fact. Hefollowed the smiter to the nets. 

If Pillingshot had passed the earlier part of the afternoon in asedentary fashion, he made up for it now. Scott was in rare form, andPillingshot noticed with no small interest that, while he invariablyhit Mr Yorke's deliveries a quarter of a mile or so, he never hit twoballs in succession in the same direction. As soon as the pantingfieldsman had sprinted to one side of the football ground and returnedthe ball, there was a beautiful, musical _plonk_, and the ballsoared to the very opposite quarter of the field. It was a fineexhibition of hitting, but Pillingshot felt that he would have enjoyedit more if he could have watched it from a deck-chair. 

'You're coming on as a deep field, young Pillingshot, ' said Scott, ashe took off his pads. 'You've got a knack of stopping them with yourstomach, which the best first-class fields never have. You ought togive lessons at it. Now we'll go and have some tea. '

If Pillingshot had had a more intimate acquaintance with the classics, he would have observed at this point, '_Timeo Danaos_', and made alast dash for liberty in the direction of the shop. But he was deceivedby the specious nature of Scott's remark. Visions rose before his eyesof sitting back in one of Scott's armchairs, watching a fag toastingmuffins, which he would eventually dispatch with languid enjoyment. Sohe followed Scott to his study. The classical parallel to his situationis the well-known case of the oysters. They, too, were eager for thetreat. 

They had reached the study, and Pillingshot was about to fling himself, with a sigh of relief, into the most comfortable chair, when Scottunmasked his batteries. 

'Oh, by the way, ' he said, with a coolness which to Pillingshotappeared simply brazen, 'I'm afraid my fag won't be here today. Theyoung crock's gone and got mumps, or the plague, or something. So wouldyou mind just lighting that stove? It'll be rather warm, but that won'tmatter. There are some muffins in the cupboard. You might weigh in withthem. You'll find the toasting-fork on the wall somewhere. It's hangingup. Got it? Good man. Fire away. '

And Scott collected five cushions, two chairs, and a tin of mixedbiscuits, and made himself comfortable. Pillingshot, with feelings toodeep for words (in the then limited state of his vocabulary), did as hewas requested. There was something remarkable about the way Scott couldalways get people to do things for him. He seemed to take everythingfor granted. If he had had occasion to hire an assassin to make awaywith the German Emperor, he would have said, 'Oh, I say, you might runover to Germany and kill the Kaiser, will you, there's a good chap?Don't be long. ' And he would have taken a seat and waited, without theleast doubt in his mind that the thing would be carried through asdesired. 

Pillingshot had just finished toasting the muffins, when the dooropened, and Venables, of Merevale's, came in. 

'I thought I heard you say something about tea this afternoon, Scott, 'said Venables. 'I just looked in on the chance. Good Heavens, man!Fancy muffins at this time of year! Do you happen to know what thethermometer is in the shade?'

'Take a seat, ' said Scott. 'I attribute my entire success in lifeto the fact that I never find it too hot to eat muffins. Do youknow Pillingshot? One of the hottest fieldsmen in the School. At least, he was just now. He's probably cooled off since then. Venables--Pillingshot, and _vice versa_. Buck up with the tea, Pillingshot. What, ready? Good man. Now we might almost begin. '

'Beastly thing that accident of young Brown's, wasn't it?' said Scott. 'Chaps oughtn't to go slamming about like that with the field full offellows. I suppose he won't be right by next Saturday?'

'Not a chance. Why? Oh, yes, I forgot. He was to have scored for theteam at Windybury, wasn't he?'

'Who are you going to get now?'

Venables was captain of the St Austin's team. The match next Saturdaywas at Windybury, on the latter's ground. 

'I haven't settled, ' said Venables. 'But it's easy to get somebody. Scoring isn't one of those things which only one chap in a hundredunderstands. '

Then Pillingshot had an idea--a great, luminous idea. 

'May I score?' he asked, and waited trembling with apprehension lestthe request be refused. 

'All right, ' said Venables, 'I don't see any reason why you shouldn't. We have to catch the 8. 14 at the station. Don't you go missing it oranything. '

'Rather _not_, ' said Pillingshot. 'Not much. '

 * * * * *

On Saturday morning, at exactly 9. 15, Mr Mellish distributed the Livypapers. When he arrived at Pillingshot's seat and found it empty, anexpression passed over his face like unto that of the baffled villainin transpontine melodrama. 

'Where is Pillingshot?' he demanded tragically. 'Where is he?'

'He's gone with the team to Windybury, sir, ' said Parker, struggling toconceal a large size in grins. 'He's going to score. '

'No, ' said Mr Mellish sadly to himself, 'he _has_ scored. '

[2]

THE ODD TRICK

The attitude of Philip St H. Harrison, of Merevale's House, towards hisfellow-man was outwardly one of genial and even sympathetic toleration. Did his form-master intimate that his conduct was not _his_ ideaof what Young England's conduct should be, P. St H. Harrison agreedcheerfully with every word he said, warmly approved his intention oflaying the matter before the Headmaster, and accepted his punishmentwith the air of a waiter booking an order for a chump chop and friedpotatoes. But the next day there would be a squeaking desk in theform-room, just to show the master that he had not been forgotten. Or, again, did the captain of his side at football speak rudely to him onthe subject of kicking the ball through in the scrum, Harrison wouldsmile gently, and at the earliest opportunity tread heavily on thecaptain's toe. In short, he was a youth who made a practice of takingvery good care of himself. Yet he had his failures. The affair ofGraham's mackintosh was one of them, and it affords an excellentexample of the truth of the proverb that a cobbler should stick to hislast. Harrison's _forte_ was diplomacy. When he forsook the artsof the diplomatist for those of the brigand, he naturally went wrong. And the manner of these things was thus. 

Tony Graham was a prefect in Merevale's, and part of his duties was tolook after the dormitory of which Harrison was one of the ornaments. Itwas a dormitory that required a good deal of keeping in order. Suchchoice spirits as Braithwaite of the Upper Fourth, and Mace, who wasrapidly driving the master of the Lower Fifth into a premature grave, needed a firm hand. Indeed, they generally needed not only a firm hand, but a firm hand grasping a serviceable walking-stick. Add to theseHarrison himself, and others of a similar calibre, and it will be seenthat Graham's post was no sinecure. It was Harrison's custom to throwoff his mask at night with his other garments, and appear in his truecharacter of an abandoned villain, willing to stick at nothing as longas he could do it strictly incog. In this capacity he had come intoconstant contact with Graham. Even in the dark it is occasionallypossible for a prefect to tell where a noise comes from. And if thesaid prefect has been harassed six days in the week by a noise, andlocates it suddenly on the seventh, it is wont to be bad for theproducer and patentee of same. 

And so it came about that Harrison, enjoying himself one night, afterthe manner of his kind, was suddenly dropped upon with violence. He hadconstructed an ingenious machine, consisting of a biscuit tin, somepebbles, and some string. He put the pebbles in the tin, tied thestring to it, and placed it under a chest of drawers. Then he took theother end of the string to bed with him, and settled down to make anight of it. At first all went well. Repeated inquiries from Tonyfailed to produce the author of the disturbance, and when finally thequestions ceased, and the prefect appeared to have given the matter upas a bad job, P. St H. Harrison began to feel that under certaincircumstances life was worth living. It was while he was in this happyframe of mind that the string, with which he had just produced atriumphant rattle from beneath the chest of drawers, was seized, andthe next instant its owner was enjoying the warmest minute of achequered career. Tony, like Brer Rabbit, had laid low until he wascertain of the direction from which the sound proceeded. He had thenslipped out of bed, crawled across the floor in a snake-like mannerwhich would have done credit to a Red Indian, found the tin, and tracedthe string to its owner. Harrison emerged from the encounter feelingsore and unfit for any further recreation. This deed of the night leftits impression on Harrison. The account had to be squared somehow, andin a few days his chance came. Merevale's were playing a 'friendly'with the School House, and in default of anybody better, Harrison hadbeen pressed into service as umpire. This in itself had annoyed him. Cricket was not in his line--he was not one of your flannelledfools--and of all things in connection with the game he loathedumpiring most. 

When, however, Tony came on to bowl at his end, _vice_ Charteris, who had been hit for three fours in an over by Scott, the Schoolslogger, he recognized that even umpiring had its advantages, andresolved to make the most of the situation. 

Scott had the bowling, and he lashed out at Tony's first ball in hisusual reckless style. There was an audible click, and what the sportingpapers call confident appeals came simultaneously from Welch, Merevale's captain, who was keeping wicket, and Tony himself. EvenScott seemed to know that his time had come. He moved a step or twoaway from the wicket, but stopped before going farther to look at theumpire, on the off-chance of a miracle happening to turn his decisionin the batsman's favour. 

The miracle happened. 

'Not out, ' said Harrison. 

'Awfully curious, ' he added genially to Tony, 'how like a bat thosebits of grass sound! You have to be jolly smart to know where a noisecomes from, don't you!'

Tony grunted disgustedly, and walked back again to the beginning of hisrun. 

If ever, in the whole history of cricket, a man was outleg-before-wicket, Scott was so out to Tony's second ball. It washardly worth appealing for such a certainty. Still, the formality hadto be gone through. 

'How was _that_?' inquired Tony. 

'Not out. It's an awful pity, don't you think, that they don't bring inthat new leg-before rule?'

'Seems to me, ' said Tony bitterly, 'the old rule holds pretty good whena man's leg's bang in front. '

'Rather. But you see the ball didn't pitch straight, and the rulesays--'

'Oh, all right, ' said Tony. 

The next ball Scott hit for four, and the next after that for a couple. The fifth was a yorker, and just grazed the leg stump. The sixth was abeauty. You could see it was going to beat the batsman from the momentit left Tony's hand. Harrison saw it perfectly. 

'No ball, ' he shouted. And just as he spoke Scott's off-stumpricocheted towards the wicket-keeper. 

'Heavens, man, ' said Tony, fairly roused out of his cricket manners, avery unusual thing for him. 'I'll swear my foot never went over thecrease. Look, there's the mark. '

'Rather not. Only, you see, it seemed to me you chucked that time. Ofcourse, I know you didn't mean to, and all that sort of thing, butstill, the rules--'

Tony would probably have liked to have said something very forcibleabout the rules at this point, but it occurred to him that after allHarrison was only within his rights, and that it was bad form todispute the umpire's decision. Harrison walked off towards square-legwith a holy joy. 

But he was too much of an artist to overdo the thing. Tony's next overpassed off without interference. Possibly, however, this was because itwas a very bad one. After the third over he asked Welch if he could getsomebody else to umpire, as he had work to do. Welch heaved a sigh ofrelief, and agreed readily. 

'Conscientious sort of chap that umpire of yours, ' said Scott to Tony, after the match. Scott had made a hundred and four, and was feelingpleased. 'Considering he's in your House, he's awfully fair. '

'You mean that we generally swindle, I suppose?'

'Of course not, you rotter. You know what I mean. But, I say, thatcatch Welch and you appealed for must have been a near thing. I couldhave sworn I hit it. '

'Of course you did. It was clean out. So was the lbw. I say, did youthink that ball that bowled you was a chuck? That one in my first over, you know. '

'Chuck! My dear Tony, you don't mean to say that man pulled you up forchucking? I thought your foot must have gone over the crease. '

'I believe the chap's mad, ' said Tony. 

'Perhaps he's taking it out of you this way for treading on his cornssomehow. Have you been milling with this gentle youth lately?'

'By Jove, ' said Tony, 'you're right. I gave him beans only the othernight for ragging in the dormitory. '

Scott laughed. 

'Well, he seems to have been getting a bit of his own back today. Luckythe game was only a friendly. Why will you let your angry passionsrise, Tony? You've wrecked your analysis by it, though it's improved myaverage considerably. I don't know if that's any solid satisfaction toyou. '

'It isn't. '

'You don't say so! Well, so long. If I were you, I should keep an eyeon that conscientious umpire. '

'I will, ' said Tony. 'Good-night. '

The process of keeping an eye on Harrison brought no results. When hewished to behave himself well, he could. On such occasions Sandford andMerton were literally not in it with him, and the hero of aSunday-school story would simply have refused to compete. But Nemesis, as the poets tell us, though no sprinter, manages, like the celebratedMaisie, to get right there in time. Give her time, and she will arrive. She arrived in the case of Harrison. One morning, about a fortnightafter the House-match incident, Harrison awoke with a new sensation. Atfirst he could not tell what exactly this sensation was, and being toosleepy to discuss nice points of internal emotion with himself, wasjust turning over with the intention of going to sleep again, when thetruth flashed upon him. The sensation he felt was loneliness, and thereason he felt lonely was because he was the only occupant of thedormitory. To right and left and all around were empty beds. 

As he mused drowsily on these portents, the distant sound of a bellcame to his ears and completed the cure. It was the bell for chapel. Hedragged his watch from under his pillow, and looked at it withconsternation. Four minutes to seven. And chapel was at seven. NowHarrison had been late for chapel before. It was not the thought ofmissing the service that worried him. What really was serious was thathe had been late so many times before that Merevale had hinted atserious steps to be taken if he were late again, or, at any rate, untila considerable interval of punctuality had elapsed. 

That threat had been uttered only yesterday, and here he was in allprobability late once more. 

There was no time to dress. He sprang out of bed, passed a sponge overhis face as a concession to the decencies, and looked round forsomething to cover his night-shirt, which, however suitable fordormitory use, was, he felt instinctively, scarcely the garment to wearin public. 

Fate seemed to fight for him. On one of the pegs in the wall hung amackintosh, a large, blessed mackintosh. He was inside it in a moment. 

Four minutes later he rushed into his place in chapel. 

The short service gave him some time for recovering himself. He leftthe building feeling a new man. His costume, though quaint, would notcall for comment. Chapel at St Austin's was never a full-dressceremony. Mackintoshes covering night-shirts were the rule rather thanthe exception. 

But between his costume and that of the rest there was this subtledistinction. They wore their own mackintoshes. He wore somebody else's. 

The bulk of the School had split up into sections, each section makingfor its own House, and Merevale's was already in sight, when Harrisonfelt himself grasped from behind. He turned, to see Graham. 

'Might I ask, ' enquired Tony with great politeness, 'who said you mightwear my mackintosh?'

Harrison gasped. 

'I suppose you didn't know it was mine?'

'No, no, rather not. I didn't know. '

'And if you had known it was mine, you wouldn't have taken it, Isuppose?'

'Oh no, of course not, ' said Harrison. Graham seemed to be taking anunexpectedly sensible view of the situation. 

'Well, ' said Tony, 'now that you know that it is mine, suppose you giveit up. '

'Give it up!'

'Yes; buck up. It looks like rain, and I mustn't catch cold. '

'But, Graham, I've only got on--'

'Spare us these delicate details. Mack up, please, I want it. '

Finally, Harrison appearing to be difficult in the matter, Tony tookthe garment off for him, and went on his way. 

Harrison watched him go with mixed feelings. Righteous indignationstruggled with the gravest apprehension regarding his own future. IfMerevale should see him! Horrible thought. He ran. He had just reachedthe House, and was congratulating himself on having escaped, when theworst happened. At the private entrance stood Merevale, and with himthe Headmaster himself. They both eyed him with considerable interestas he shot in at the boys' entrance. 

'Harrison, ' said Merevale after breakfast. 

'Yes, sir?'

'The Headmaster wishes to see you--again. '

'Yes, sir, ' said Harrison. 

There was a curious lack of enthusiasm in his voice. 

[3]

L'AFFAIRE UNCLE JOHN(_A Story in Letters_)

I

From Richard Venables, of St Austin's School, to his brother ArchibaldVenables, of King's College, Cambridge:

Dear Archie--I take up my pen to write to you, not as one hoping for ananswer, but rather in order that (you notice the Thucydideanconstruction) I may tell you of an event the most important of thosethat have gone before. You may or may not have heard far-off echoes ofmy adventure with Uncle John, who has just come back from thediamond-mines--and looks it. It happened thusly:

Last Wednesday evening I was going through the cricket field to meetUncle John, at the station, as per esteemed favour from the governor, telling me to. Just as I got on the scene, to my horror, amazement, anddisgust, I saw a middle-aged bounder, in loud checks, who, from hislooks, might have been anything from a retired pawnbroker to asecond-hand butler, sacked from his last place for stealing thesherry, standing in the middle of the field, on the very wicket theRugborough match is to be played on next Saturday (tomorrow), anddigging--_digging_--I'll trouble you. Excavating great chunks ofour best turf with a walking-stick. I was so unnerved, I nearlyfainted. It's bad enough being captain of a School team under anycircs. , as far as putting you off your game goes, but when you see thewicket you've been rolling by day, and dreaming about by night, beingmangled by an utter stranger--well! They say a cow is slightlyirritated when her calf is taken away from her, but I don't suppose themost maternal cow that ever lived came anywhere near the frenzy thatsurged up in my bosom at that moment. I flew up to him, foaming at themouth. 'My dear sir, ' I shrieked, '_are_ you aware that you'respoiling the best wicket that has ever been prepared since cricketbegan?' He looked at me, in a dazed sort of way, and said, 'What?' Isaid: 'How on earth do you think we're going to play Rugborough on aploughed field?' 'I don't follow, mister, ' he replied. A man who callsyou 'mister' is beyond the pale. You are justified in being a littlerude to him. So I said: 'Then you must be either drunk or mad, and Itrust it's the latter. ' I believe that's from some book, though I don'tremember which. This did seem to wake him up a bit, but before he couldframe his opinion in words, up came Biffen, the ground-man, to have alast look at his wicket before retiring for the night. When he saw theholes--they were about a foot deep, and scattered promiscuously, justwhere two balls out of three pitch--he almost had hysterics. I gentlyexplained the situation to him, and left him to settle with my friendof the check suit. Biffen was just settling down to a sort of Philippicwhen I went, and I knew that I had left the man in competent hands. Then I went to the station. The train I had been told to meet was the5. 30. By the way, of course, I didn't know in the least what Uncle Johnwas like, not having seen him since I was about one-and-a-half, but Ihad been told to look out for a tall, rather good-looking man. Well, the 5. 30 came in all right, but none of the passengers seemed to answerto the description. The ones who were tall were not good looking, andthe only man who was good looking stood five feet nothing in his boots. I did ask him if he was Mr John Dalgliesh; but, his name happening tobe Robinson, he could not oblige. I sat out a couple more trains, andthen went back to the field. The man had gone, but Biffen was stillthere. 'Was you expecting anyone today, sir?' he asked, as I came up. 'Yes. Why?' I said. 'That was 'im, ' said Biffen. By skilfulquestioning, I elicited the whole thing. It seems that the fearsomebargee, in checks, was the governor's 'tall, good-looking man'; inother words, Uncle John himself. He had come by the 4. 30, I suppose. Anyway, there he was, and I had insulted him badly. Biffen told me thathe had asked who I was, and that he (Biffen) had given the information, while he was thinking of something else to say to him about hisdigging. By the way, I suppose he dug from force of habit. Thought he'dfind diamonds, perhaps. When Biffen told him this, he said in a nastyvoice: 'Then, when he comes back will you have the goodness to tell himthat my name is John Dalgliesh, and that he will hear more of this. 'And I'm uncommonly afraid I shall. The governor bars Uncle Johnawfully, I know, but he wanted me to be particularly civil to him, because he was to get me a place in some beastly firm when I leave. Ihaven't heard from home yet, but I expect to soon. Still, I'd like toknow how I could stand and watch him ruining the wicket for our spotmatch of the season. As it is, it won't be as good as it would havebeen. The Rugborough slow man will be unplayable if he can find one ofthese spots. Altogether, it's a beastly business. Write soon, though Iknow you won't--Yours ever, _Dick_

II

Telegram from Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V. C. , K. C. M. G. , tohis son Richard Venables:

Venables, St Austin's. What all this about Uncle John. Says weregrossly rude. Write explanation next post--_Venables_. 

III

Letter from Mrs James Anthony (nee Miss Dorothy Venables) to herbrother Richard Venables:

Dear Dick--What _have_ you been doing to Uncle John? Jim and I arestopping for a fortnight with father, and have just come in for thewhole thing. Uncle John--_isn't_ he a horrible man?--says you weregrossly insolent to him when he went down to see you. _Do_ writeand tell me all about it. I have heard no details as yet. Fatherrefuses to give them, and gets simply _furious_ when the matter ismentioned. Jim said at dinner last night that a conscientious boy wouldprobably feel bound to be rude to Uncle John. Father said 'Consciencebe--'; I forget the rest, but it was awful. Jim says if he gets anyworse we shall have to sit on his head, and cut the traces. He isgetting so dreadfully _horsey_. Do write the very minute you getthis. I want to know all about it. --Your affectionate sister, _Dorothy_

IV

Part of Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his fatherMajor-General Sir Everard Venables, V. C. , K. C. M. G. :

... So you see it was really his fault. The Emperor of Germany has noright to come and dig holes in our best wicket. Take a parallel case. Suppose some idiot of a fellow (not that Uncle John's that, of course, but you know what I mean) came and began rooting up your azaleas. Wouldn't you want to say something cutting? I will apologize to UncleJohn, if you like; but still, I do think he might have gone somewhereelse if he really wanted to dig. So you see, etc. , etc. 

V

Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his sister Mrs JamesAnthony:

Dear Dolly--Thanks awfully for your letter, and thank Jim for hismessage. He's a ripper. I'm awfully glad you married him and not thatrotter, Thompson, who used to hang on so. I hope the most marvellousinfant on earth is flourishing. And now about Uncle John. Really, I amjolly glad I did say all that to him. We played Rugborough yesterday, and the wicket was simply vile. They won the toss, and made two hundredand ten. Of course, the wicket was all right at one end, and that'swhere they made most of their runs. I was wicket-keeping as usual, andI felt awfully ashamed of the beastly pitch when their captain asked meif it was the football-field. Of course, he wouldn't have said that ifhe hadn't been a pal of mine, but it was probably what the rest of theteam thought, only they were too polite to say so. When we came to batit was worse than ever. I went in first with Welch--that's the fellowwho stopped a week at home a few years ago; I don't know whether youremember him. He got out in the first over, caught off a ball thatpitched where Uncle John had been prospecting, and jumped up. It wasrotten luck, of course, and worse was to follow, for by half-past fivewe had eight wickets down for just over the hundred, and only youngScott, who's simply a slogger, and another fellow to come in. Well, Scott came in. I had made about sixty then, and was fairly wellset--and he started simply mopping up the bowling. He gave a chanceevery over as regular as clockwork, and it was always missed, and thenhe would make up for it with two or three tremendous whangs--a safefour every time. It wasn't batting. It was more like golf. Well, thiswent on for some time, and we began to get hopeful again, having got ahundred and eighty odd. I just kept up my wicket, while Scott hit. Thenhe got caught, and the last man, a fellow called Moore, came in. I'dput him in the team as a bowler, but he could bat a little, too, onoccasions, and luckily this was one of them. There were only eleven towin, and I had the bowling. I was feeling awfully fit, and put theirslow man clean over the screen twice running, which left us only threeto get. Then it was over, and Moore played the fast man in grand style, though he didn't score. Well, I got the bowling again, and half-waythrough the over I carted a half-volley into the Pav. , and that gave usthe match. Moore hung on for a bit and made about ten, and then gotbowled. We made 223 altogether, of which I had managed to getseventy-eight, not out. It pulls my average up a good bit. Ratherdecent, isn't it? The fellows rotted about a good deal, and chaired meinto the Pav. , but it was Scott who won us the match, I think. He madeninety-four. But Uncle John nearly did for us with his beastlywalking-stick. On a good wicket we might have made any number. I don'tknow how the affair will end. Keep me posted up in the governor'ssymptoms, and write again soon. --Your affectionate brother, _Dick_

PS. --On looking over this letter, I find I have taken it for grantedthat you know all about the Uncle John affair. Probably you do, but, incase you don't, it was this way. You see, I was going, etc. , etc. 

VI

From Archibald Venables, of King's College, Cambridge, to RichardVenables, of St Austin's:

Dear Dick--Just a line to thank you for your letter, and to tell youthat since I got it I have had a visit from the great Uncle John, too. He _is_ an outsider, if you like. I gave him the best lunch Icould in my rooms, and the man started a long lecture on extravagance. He doesn't seem to understand the difference between the 'Varsity and aprivate school. He kept on asking leading questions about pocket-moneyand holidays, and wanted to know if my master allowed me to walk in thestreets in that waistcoat--a remark which cut me to the quick, 'thatwaistcoat' being quite the most posh thing of the sort in Cambridge. Hethen enquired after my studies; and, finally, when I saw him off at thestation, said that he had decided not to tip me, because he was afraidthat I was inclined to be extravagant. I was quite kind to him, however, in spite of everything; but I was glad you had spoken to himlike a father. The recollection of it soothed me, though it seemed toworry him. He talked a good deal about it. Glad you came off againstRugborough. --Yours ever, _A. Venables_

VII

From Mr John Dalgliesh to Mr Philip Mortimer, of Penge:

Dear Sir--In reply to your letter of the 18th inst. , I shall be happyto recommend your son, Reginald, for the vacant post in the firm ofMessrs Van Nugget, Diomonde, and Mynes, African merchants. I havewritten them to that effect, and you will, doubtless, receive acommunication from them shortly. --I am, my dear sir, yours faithfully, _J. Dalgliesh_

VIII

From Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his father Major-General SirEverard Venables, V. C. , K. C. M. G. :

Dear Father--Uncle John writes, in answer to my apology, to say that noapologies will meet the case; and that he has given his nomination inthat rotten City firm of his to a fellow called Mortimer. But rather adecent thing has happened. There is a chap here I know pretty well, whois the son of Lord Marmaduke Twistleton, and it appears that the dookhimself was down watching the Rugborough match, and liked my batting. He came and talked to me after the match, and asked me what I was goingto do when I left, and I said I wasn't certain, and he said that, if Ihadn't anything better on, he could give me a place on his estate up inScotland, as a sort of land-agent, as he wanted a chap who could playcricket, because he was keen on the game himself, and always had a lotgoing on in the summer up there. So he says that, if I go up to the'Varsity for three years, he can guarantee me the place when I comedown, with a jolly good screw and a ripping open-air life, with lots ofriding, and so on, which is just what I've always wanted. So, can I?It's the sort of opportunity that won't occur again, and you know youalways said the only reason I couldn't go up to the 'Varsity was, thatit would be a waste of time. But in this case, you see, it won't, because he wants me to go, and guarantees me the place when I comedown. It'll be awfully fine, if I may. I hope you'll see it. --Youraffectionate son, _Dick_

PS. --I think he's writing to you. He asked your address. I think UncleJohn's a rotter. I sent him a rattling fine apology, and this is how hetreats it. But it'll be all right if you like this land-agent idea. Ifyou like, you might wire your answer. 

IX

Telegram from Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V. C. , K. C. M. G. , tohis son Richard Venables, of St Austin's:

Venables, St Austin's. Very well. --_Venables_

X

Extract from Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to hisfather Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V. C. , K. C. M. G. :

... Thanks, awfully--

Extract from _The Austinian_ of October:

The following O. A. S have gone into residence this year: At Oxford, J. Scrymgeour, Corpus Christi; R. Venables, Trinity; K. Crespigny-Brown, Balliol. 

Extract from the _Daily Mail_'s account of the 'Varsity match ofthe following summer:

... The St Austin's freshman, Venables, fully justified his inclusion byscoring a stylish fifty-seven. He hit eight fours, and except for amiss-hit in the slips, at 51, which Smith might possibly have securedhad he started sooner, gave nothing like a chance. Venables, it will beremembered, played several good innings for Oxford in the earliermatches, notably, his not out contribution of 103 against Sussex--

[4]

HARRISON'S SLIGHT ERROR

The one o'clock down express was just on the point of starting. Theengine-driver, with his hand on the lever, whiled away the moments, like the watchman in _The Agamemnon_, by whistling. The guardendeavoured to talk to three people at once. Porters flitted to andfro, cleaving a path for themselves with trucks of luggage. The UsualOld Lady was asking if she was right for some place nobody had everheard of. Everybody was saying good-bye to everybody else, and last, but not least, P. St H. Harrison, of St Austin's, was strolling at aleisurely pace towards the rear of the train. There was no need for himto hurry. For had not his friend, Mace, promised to keep a corner-seatfor him while he went to the refreshment-room to lay in supplies?Undoubtedly he had, and Harrison, as he watched the struggling crowd, congratulated himself that he was not as other men. A corner seat in acarriage full of his own particular friends, with plenty of provisions, and something to read in case he got tired of talking--it would beperfect. 

So engrossed was he in these reflections, that he did not notice thatfrom the opposite end of the platform a youth of about his own age wasalso making for the compartment in question. The first intimation hehad of his presence was when the latter, arriving first at the door bya short head, hurled a bag on to the rack, and sank gracefully into theidentical corner seat which Harrison had long regarded as his ownpersonal property. And to make matters worse, there was no other vacantseat in the compartment. Harrison was about to protest, when the guardblew his whistle. There was nothing for it but to jump in and argue thematter out _en route_. Harrison jumped in, to be greeted instantlyby a chorus of nine male voices. 'Outside there! No room! Turn himout!' said the chorus. Then the chorus broke up into its componentparts, and began to address him one by one. 

'You rotter, Harrison, ' said Babington, of Dacre's, 'what do you comebarging in here for? Can't you see we're five aside already?'

'Hope you've brought a sardine-opener with you, old chap, ' saidBarrett, the peerless pride of Philpott's, ''cos we shall jolly wellneed one when we get to the good old Junct-i-on. Get up into the rack, Harrison, you're stopping the ventilation. '

The youth who had commandeered Harrison's seat so neatly took anotherunpardonable liberty at this point. He grinned. Not the timid, deprecating smile of one who wishes to ingratiate himself withstrangers, but a good, six-inch grin right across his face. Harrisonturned on him savagely. 

'Look here, ' he said, 'just you get out of that. What do you mean bybagging my seat?'

'Are you a director of this line?' enquired the youth politely. Roarsof applause from the interested audience. Harrison began to feel hotand uncomfortable. 

'Or only the Emperor of Germany?' pursued his antagonist. 

More applause, during which Harrison dropped his bag of provisions, which were instantly seized and divided on the share and share alikesystem, among the gratified Austinians. 

'Look here, none of your cheek, ' was the shockingly feeble retort whichalone occurred to him. The other said nothing. Harrison returned to theattack. 

'Look here, ' he said, 'are you going to get out, or have I got to makeyou?'

Not a word did his opponent utter. To quote the bard: 'The striplingsmiled. ' To tell the truth, the stripling smiled inanely. 

The other occupants of the carriage were far from imitating hisreserve. These treacherous friends, realizing that, for those who werethemselves comfortably seated, the spectacle of Harrison standing upwith aching limbs for a journey of some thirty miles would be bothgrateful and comforting, espoused the cause of the unknown with all thevigour of which they were capable. 

'Beastly bully, Harrison, ' said Barrett. 'Trying to turn the kid out ofhis seat! Why can't you leave the chap alone? Don't you move, kid. '

'Thanks, ' said the unknown, 'I wasn't going to. '

'Now you see what comes of slacking, ' said Grey. 'If you'd bucked upand got here in time you might have bagged this seat I've got. By Jove, Harrison, you've no idea how comfortable it is in this corner. '

'Punctuality, ' said Babington, 'is the politeness of princes. '

And again the unknown maddened Harrison with a 'best-on-record' grin. 

'But, I say, you chaps, ' said he, determined as a last resource toappeal to their better feelings (if any), 'Mace was keeping this seatfor me, while I went to get some grub. Weren't you, Mace?' He turned toMace for corroboration. To his surprise, Mace was nowhere to be seen. 

His sympathetic school-fellows grasped the full humour of the situationas one man, and gave tongue once more in chorus. 

'You weed, ' they yelled joyfully, 'you've got into the wrong carriage. Mace is next door. '

And then, with the sound of unquenchable laughter ringing in his ears, Harrison gave the thing up, and relapsed into a disgusted silence. Nosingle word did he speak until the journey was done, and the carriageemptied itself of its occupants at the Junction. The local train was inreadiness to take them on to St Austin's, and this time Harrisonmanaged to find a seat without much difficulty. But it was a bittermoment when Mace, meeting him on the platform, addressed him as arotter, for that he had not come to claim the corner seat which he hadbeen reserving for him. They had had, said Mace, a rattling good timecoming down. What sort of a time had Harrison had in _his_carriage? Harrison's reply was not remarkable for its clearness. 

The unknown had also entered the local train. It was plain, therefore, that he was coming to the School as a new boy. Harrison began to wonderif, under these circumstances, something might not be done in thematter by way of levelling up things. He pondered. When St Austin'sstation was reached, and the travellers began to stream up the roadtowards the College, he discovered that the newcomer was a member ofhis own House. He was standing close beside him, and heard Babingtonexplaining to him the way to Merevale's. Merevale was Harrison'sHouse-master. 

It was two minutes after he had found out this fact that the Grand Ideacame to Harrison. He saw his way now to a revenge so artistic, sobeautifully simple, that it was with some difficulty that he restrainedhimself from bursting into song. For two pins, he felt, he could havedone a cake-walk. 

He checked his emotion. He beat it steadily back, and quenched it. Whenhe arrived at Merevale's, he went first to the matron's room. 'HasVenables come back yet?' he asked. 

Venables was the head of Merevale's House, captain of the Schoolcricket, wing three-quarter of the School Fifteen, and a great manaltogether. 

'Yes, ' said the matron, 'he came back early this afternoon. '

Harrison knew it. Venables always came back early on the last day ofthe holidays. 

'He was upstairs a short while ago, ' continued the matron. 'He wasputting his study tidy. '

Harrison knew it. Venables always put his study tidy on the last day ofthe holidays. He took a keen and perfectly justifiable pride in hisstudy, which was the most luxurious in the House. 

'Is he there now?' asked Harrison. 

'No. He has gone over to see the Headmaster. '

'Thanks, ' said Harrison, 'it doesn't matter. It wasn't anythingimportant. '

He retired triumphant. Things were going excellently well for hisscheme. 

His next act was to go to the fags' room, where, as he had expected, hefound his friend of the train. Luck continued to be with him. Theunknown was alone. 

'Hullo!' said Harrison. 

'Hullo!' said the fellow-traveller. He had resolved to followHarrison's lead. If Harrison was bringing war, then war let it be. If, however, his intentions were friendly, he would be friendly too. 

'I didn't know you were coming to Merevale's. It's the best House inthe School. '

'Oh!'

'Yes, for one thing, everybody except the kids has a study. '

'What? Not really? Why, I thought we had to keep to this room. One ofthe chaps told me so. '

'Trying to green you, probably. You must look out for that sort ofthing. I'll show you the way to your study, if you like. Come alongupstairs. '

'Thanks, awfully. It's awfully good of you, ' said the gratifiedunknown, and they went upstairs together. 

One of the doors which they passed on their way was open, disclosing toview a room which, though bare at present, looked as if it might bemade exceedingly comfortable. 

'That's my den, ' said Harrison. It was perhaps lucky that Graham, towhom the room belonged, in fact, as opposed to fiction, did not hearthe remark. Graham and Harrison were old and tried foes. 'This isyours. ' Harrison pushed open another door at the end of the passage. 

His companion stared blankly at the Oriental luxury which met his eye. 'But, I say, ' he said, 'are you sure? This seems to be occupiedalready. '

'Oh, no, that's all right, ' said Harrison, airily. 'The chap who usedto be here left last term. He didn't know he was going to leave till itwas too late to pack up all his things, so he left his study as it was. All you've got to do is to cart the things out into the passage andleave them there. The Moke'll take 'em away. '

The Moke was the official who combined in a single body the duties ofbutler and bootboy at Merevale's House. 'Oh, right-ho!' said theunknown, and Harrison left him. 

Harrison's idea was that when Venables returned and found an absolutestranger placidly engaged in wrecking his carefully-tidied study, hewould at once, and without making inquiries, fall upon that absolutestranger and blot him off the face of the earth. Afterwards it mightpossibly come out that he, Harrison, had been not altogetherunconnected with the business, and then, he was fain to admit, theremight be trouble. But he was a youth who never took overmuch heed forthe morrow. Sufficient unto the day was his motto. And, besides, it wasdistinctly worth risking. The main point, and the one with which alonethe House would concern itself, was that he had completely taken in, scored off, and overwhelmed the youth who had done as much by him inthe train, and his reputation as one not to be lightly trifled withwould be restored to its former brilliance. Anything that might happenbetween himself and Venables subsequently would be regarded as a purelyprivate matter between man and man, affecting the main point not atall. 

About an hour later a small Merevalian informed Harrison that Venableswished to see him in his study. He went. Experience had taught him thatwhen the Head of the House sent for him, it was as a rule as well tohumour his whim and go. He was prepared for a good deal, for he hadcome to the conclusion that it was impossible for him to preserve hisincognito in the matter, but he was certainly not prepared for what hesaw. 

Venables and the stranger were seated in two armchairs, apparently onthe very best of terms with one another. And this, in spite of the factthat these two armchairs were the only furniture left in the study. Therest, as he had noted with a grin before he had knocked at the door, was picturesquely scattered about the passage. 

'Hullo, Harrison, ' said Venables, 'I wanted to see you. There seems tohave been a slight mistake somewhere. Did you tell my brother to shiftall the furniture out of the study?'

Harrison turned a delicate shade of green. 

'Your--er--brother?' he gurgled. 

'Yes. I ought to have told you my brother was coming to the Coll. Thisterm. I told the Old Man and Merevale and the rest of the authorities. Can't make out why I forgot you. Slipped my mind somehow. However, youseem to have been doing the square thing by him, showing him round andso on. Very good of you. '

Harrison smiled feebly. Venables junior grinned. What seemed toHarrison a mystery was how the brothers had managed to arrive at theSchool at different times. The explanation of which was in reality verysimple. The elder Venables had been spending the last week of theholidays with MacArthur, the captain of the St Austin's Fifteen, thesame being a day boy, suspended within a mile of the School. 

'But what I can't make out, ' went on Venables, relentlessly, 'is thisfurniture business. To the best of my knowledge I didn't leave suddenlyat the end of last term. I'll ask if you like, to make sure, but Ifancy you'll find you've been mistaken. Must have been thinking ofsomeone else. Anyhow, we thought you must know best, so we lugged allthe furniture out into the passage, and now it appears there's been amistake of sorts, and the stuff ought to be inside all the time. Sowould you mind putting it back again? We'd help you, only we're goingout to the shop to get some tea. You might have it done by the time weget back. Thanks, awfully. '

Harrison coughed nervously, and rose to a point of order. 

'I was going out to tea, too, ' he said. 

'I'm sorry, but I think you'll have to scratch the engagement, ' saidVenables. 

Harrison made a last effort. 

'I'm fagging for Welch this term, ' he protested. 

It was the rule at St Austin's that every fag had the right to refuseto serve two masters. Otherwise there would have been no peace for thatdown-trodden race. 

'That, ' said Venables, 'ought to be awfully jolly for Welch, don't youknow, but as a matter of fact term hasn't begun yet. It doesn't starttill tomorrow. Weigh in. '

Various feelings began to wage war beneath Harrison's Eton waistcoat. Aprofound disinclination to undertake the suggested task battled brisklywith a feeling that, if he refused the commission, things might--nay, would--happen. 

'Harrison, ' said Venables gently, but with meaning, as he hesitated, 'do you know what it is to wish you had never been born?'

And Harrison, with a thoughtful expression on his face, picked up aphotograph from the floor, and hung it neatly in its place over themantelpiece. 

[5]

BRADSHAW'S LITTLE STORY

The qualities which in later years rendered Frederick WackerbathBradshaw so conspicuous a figure in connection with the now celebratedaffair of the European, African, and Asiatic Pork Pie and Ham SandwichSupply Company frauds, were sufficiently in evidence during his schoolcareer to make his masters prophesy gloomily concerning his future. Theboy was in every detail the father of the man. There was the samegenial unscrupulousness, upon which the judge commented so bitterlyduring the trial, the same readiness to seize an opportunity and makethe most of it, the same brilliance of tactics. Only once during thoseyears can I remember an occasion on which Justice scored a pointagainst him. I can remember it, because I was in a sense responsiblefor his failure. And he can remember it, I should be inclined to think, for other reasons. Our then Headmaster was a man with a straight eyeand a good deal of muscular energy, and it is probable that thetalented Frederick, in spite of the passage of years, has a tenderrecollection of these facts. 

It was the eve of the Euripides examination in the Upper Fourth. Euripides is not difficult compared to some other authors, but he doesdemand a certain amount of preparation. Bradshaw was a youth who didless preparation than anybody I have ever seen, heard of, or read of, partly because he preferred to peruse a novel under the table duringprep. , but chiefly, I think, because he had reduced cribbing in form tosuch an exact science that he loved it for its own sake, and would nosooner have come tamely into school with a prepared lesson than asportsman would shoot a sitting bird. It was not the marks that hecared for. He despised them. What he enjoyed was the refined pleasureof swindling under a master's very eye. At the trial the judge, whohad, so ran report, been himself rather badly bitten by the HamSandwich Company, put the case briefly and neatly in the words, 'Youappear to revel in villainy for villainy's sake, ' and I am almostcertain that I saw the beginnings of a gratified smile on Frederick'sexpressive face as he heard the remark. The rest of our study--thejuniors at St Austin's pigged in quartettes--were in a state ofconsiderable mental activity on account of this Euripides examination. There had been House-matches during the preceding fortnight, andHouse-matches are not a help to study, especially if you are on thevery fringe of the cock-house team, as I was. By dint of practisingevery minute of spare time, I had got the eleventh place for myfielding. And, better still, I had caught two catches in the secondinnings, one of them a regular gallery affair, and both off thecaptain's bowling. It was magnificent, but it was not Euripides, and Iwished now that it had been. Mellish, our form-master, had anunpleasant habit of coming down with both feet, as it were, on membersof his form who failed in the book-papers. 

We were working, therefore, under forced draught, and it was distinctlyannoying to see the wretched Bradshaw lounging in our only armchairwith one of Rider Haggard's best, seemingly quite unmoved at theprospect of Euripides examinations. For all he appeared to care, Euripides might never have written a line in his life. 

Kendal voiced the opinion of the meeting. 

'Bradshaw, you worm, ' he said. 'Aren't you going to do _any_work?'

'Think not. What's the good? Can't get up a whole play of Euripides intwo hours. '

'Mellish'll give you beans. '

'Let him. '

'You'll get a jolly bad report. '

'Shan't get a report at all. I always intercept it before my guardiancan get it. He never says anything. '

'Mellish'll probably run you in to the Old Man, ' said White, the fourthoccupant of the study. 

Bradshaw turned on us with a wearied air. 

'Oh, do give us a rest, ' he said. 'Here you are just going to do a mostimportant exam. , and you sit jawing away as if you were paid for it. Oh, I say, by the way, who's setting the paper tomorrow?'

'Mellish, of course, ' said White. 

'No, he isn't, ' I said. 'Shows what a lot you know about it. Mellish issetting the Livy paper. '

'Then, who's doing this one?' asked Bradshaw. 

'Yorke. '

Yorke was the master of the Upper Fifth. He generally set one of theupper fourth book-papers. 

'Certain?' said Bradshaw. 

'Absolutely. '

'Thanks. That's all I wanted to know. By Jove, I advise you chaps toread this. It's grand. Shall I read out this bit about a fight?'

'No!' we shouted virtuously, all together, though we were dying to hearit, and we turned once more to the loathsome inanities of the secondchorus. If we had been doing Homer, we should have felt more in touchwith Bradshaw. There's a good deal of similarity, when you come tocompare them, between Homer and Haggard. They both deal largely inbloodshed, for instance. As events proved, the Euripides paper, likemany things which seem formidable at a distance, was not nearly so badas I had expected. I did a fair-to-moderate paper, and Kendal and Whiteboth seemed satisfied with themselves. Bradshaw confessed withoutemotion that he had only attempted the last half of the last question, and on being pressed for further information, merely laughedmysteriously, and said vaguely that it would be all right. 

It now became plain that he had something up his sleeve. We expressed aunanimous desire to know what it was. 

'You might tell a chap, ' I said. 

'Out with it, Bradshaw, or we'll lynch you, ' added Kendal. 

Bradshaw, however, was not to be drawn. Much of his success in thepaths of crime, both at school and afterwards, was due to his secretivehabits. He never permitted accomplices. 

On the following Wednesday the marks were read out. Out of a possiblehundred I had obtained sixty--which pleased me very much indeed--White, fifty-five, Kendal, sixty-one. The unspeakable Bradshaw's net total wasfour. 

Mellish always read out bad marks in a hushed voice, expressive ofdisgust and horror, but four per cent was too much for him. He shoutedit, and the form yelled applause, until Ponsonby came in from the UpperFifth next door with Mr Yorke's compliments, 'and would we recollectthat his form were trying to do an examination'. 

When order had been restored, Mellish settled his glasses and glaredthrough them at Bradshaw, who, it may be remarked, had not turned ahair. 

'Bradshaw, ' he said, 'how do you explain this?'

It was merely a sighting shot, so to speak. Nobody was ever expected toanswer the question. Bradshaw, however, proved himself the exception tothe rule. 

'I can explain, sir, ' he said, 'if I may speak to you privatelyafterwards. '

I have seldom seen anyone so astonished as Mellish was at these words. In the whole course of his professional experience, he had never metwith a parallel case. It was hard on the poor man not to be allowed tospeak his mind about a matter of four per cent in a book-paper, butwhat could he do? He could not proceed with his denunciation, for ifBradshaw's explanation turned out a sufficient excuse, he would have towithdraw it all again, and vast stores of golden eloquence would bewasted. But, then, if he bottled up what he wished to say altogether, it might do him a serious internal injury. At last he hit on acompromise. He said, 'Very well, Bradshaw, I will hear what you have tosay, ' and then sprang, like the cat in the poem, 'all claws', upon anunfortunate individual who had scored twenty-nine, and who had beencongratulating himself that Bradshaw's failings would act as a sort oflightning-conductor to him. Bradshaw worked off his explanation inunder five minutes. I tried to stay behind to listen, on the pretext ofwanting to tidy up my desk, but was ejected by request. Bradshawexplained that his statement was private. 

After a time they came out together like long-lost brothers, Mellishwith his hand on Bradshaw's shoulder. It was some small comfort to meto remember that Bradshaw had the greatest dislike to this sort ofthing. 

It was evident that Bradshaw, able exponent of the art of fiction thathe was, must have excelled himself on this occasion. I tried to get thestory out of him in the study that evening. White and Kendal assisted. We tried persuasion first. That having failed, we tried taunts. Then wetried kindness. Kendal sat on his legs, and I sat on his head, andWhite twisted his arm. I think that we should have extracted somethingsoon, either his arm from its socket or a full confession, but we wereinterrupted. The door flew open, and Prater (the same being ourHouse-master, and rather a good sort) appeared. 

'Now then, now then, ' he said. Prater's manner is always abrupt. 

'What's this? I can't have this. I can't have this. Get up at once. Where's Bradshaw?'

I rose gracefully to my feet, thereby disclosing the classic featuresof the lost one. 

'The Headmaster wants to see you at once, Bradshaw, at the SchoolHouse. You others had better find something to do, or you will begetting into trouble. '

He and Bradshaw left together, while we speculated on the cause of thesummons. 

We were not left very long in suspense. In a quarter of an hourBradshaw returned, walking painfully, and bearing what, to the expert'seye, are the unmistakable signs of a 'touching up', which, beinginterpreted, is corporal punishment. 

'Hullo, ' said White, as he appeared, 'what's all this?'

'How many?' enquired the statistically-minded Kendal. 'You'll bethankful for this when you're a man, Bradshaw. '

'That's what I always say to myself when I'm touched up, ' added Kendal. 

I said nothing, but it was to me that the wounded one addressedhimself. 

'You utter ass, ' he said, in tones of concentrated venom. 

'Look here, Bradshaw--' I began, protestingly. 

'It's all through you--you idiot, ' he snarled. 'I got twelve. '

'Twelve isn't so dusty, ' said White, critically. 'Most I ever got wassix. '

'But why was it?' asked Kendal. 'That's what we want to know. What haveyou been and gone and done?'

'It's about that Euripides paper, ' said Bradshaw. 

'Ah!' said Kendal. 

'Yes, I don't mind telling you about it now. When Mellish had me upafter school today, I'd got my yarn all ready. There wasn't a flaw init anywhere as far as I could see. My idea was this. I told him I'dbeen to Yorke's room the day before the exam, to ask him if he had anymarks for us. That was all right. Yorke was doing the two Unseenpapers, and it was just the sort of thing a fellow would do to go andask him about the marks. '

'Well?'

'Then when I got there he was out, and I looked about for the marks, and on the table I saw the Euripides paper. '

'By Jove!' said Kendal. We began to understand, and to realize thathere was a master-mind. 

'Well, of course, I read it, not knowing what it was, and then, as theonly way of not taking an unfair advantage, I did as badly as I couldin the exam. That was what I told Mellish. Any beak would haveswallowed it. '

'Well, didn't he?'

'Mellish did all right, but the rotter couldn't keep it to himself. Went and told the Old Man. The Old Man sent for me. He was as decent asanything at first. That was just his guile. He made me describe exactlywhere I had seen the paper, and so on. That was rather risky, ofcourse, but I put it as vaguely as I could. When I had finished, hesuddenly whipped round, and said, "Bradshaw, why are you telling me allthese lies?" That's the sort of thing that makes you feel rather awreck. I was too surprised to say anything. '

'I can guess the rest, ' said Kendal. 'But how on earth did he know itwas all lies? Why didn't you stick to your yarn?'

'And, besides, ' I put in, 'where do I come in? I don't see what I'vegot to do with it. '

Bradshaw eyed me fiercely. 'Why, the whole thing was your fault, ' hesaid. 'You told me Yorke was setting the paper. '

'Well, so he did, didn't he?'

'No, he didn't. The Old Man set it himself, ' said Bradshaw, gloomily. 

[6]

A SHOCKING AFFAIR

The Bradshaw who appears in the following tale is the same youth whofigures as the hero--or villain, label him as you like--of thepreceding equally veracious narrative. I mention this because I shouldnot care for you to go away with the idea that a waistcoat marked withthe name of Bradshaw must of necessity cover a scheming heart. It may, however, be noticed that a good many members of the Bradshaw familypossess a keen and rather sinister sense of the humorous, inheriteddoubtless from their great ancestor, the dry wag who wrote thatmonument of quiet drollery, _Bradshaw's Railway Guide_. So withthe hero of my story. 

Frederick Wackerbath Bradshaw was, as I have pointed out, mycontemporary at St Austin's. We were in the same House, and together wesported on the green--and elsewhere--and did our best to turn themajority of the staff of masters into confirmed pessimists, they in themeantime endeavouring to do the same by us with every weapon that layto their hand. And the worst of these weapons were the end-of-termexamination papers. Mellish was our form-master, and once a term ademon entered into Mellish. He brooded silently apart from the maddingcrowd. He wandered through dry places seeking rest, and at intervals hewould smile evilly, and jot down a note on the back of an envelope. These notes, collected and printed closely on the vilest paper, made upthe examination questions. 

Our form read two authors a term, one Latin and one Greek. It was theGreek that we feared most. Mellish had a sort of genius for picking outabsolutely untranslatable passages, and desiring us (in print) torender the same with full notes. This term the book had beenThucydides, Book II, with regard to which I may echo the words of acertain critic when called upon to give his candid opinion of afriend's first novel, 'I dare not say what I think about that book. '

About a week before the commencement of the examinations, the ordinarynight-work used to cease, and we were supposed, during that week, to besteadily going over the old ground and arming ourselves for theapproaching struggle. There were, I suppose, people who actually did dothis, but for my own part I always used to regard those seven days as ablessed period of rest, set apart specially to enable me to keepabreast of the light fiction of the day. And most of the form, so faras I know, thought the same. It was only on the night before theexamination that one began to revise in real earnest. One's methods onthat night resolved themselves into sitting in a chair and wonderingwhere to begin. Just as one came to a decision, it was bedtime. 

'Bradshaw, ' I said, as I reached page 103 without having read a line, 'do you know any likely bits?'

Bradshaw looked up from his book. He was attempting to get a generalidea of Thucydides' style by reading _Pickwick_. 

'What?' he said. 

I obliged with a repetition of my remark. 

'Likely bits? Oh, you mean for the Thucydides. I don't know. Mellishnever sets the bits any decent ordinary individual would set. I shouldtake my chance if I were you. '

'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to read _Pickwick_. Thicksides doesn't come within amile of it. '

I thought so too. 

'But how about tomorrow?'

'Oh, I shan't be there, ' he said, as if it were the most ordinary ofstatements. 

'Not there! Why, have you been sacked?'

This really seemed the only possible explanation. Such an event wouldnot have come as a surprise. It was always a matter for wonder to me_why_ the authorities never sacked Bradshaw, or at the leastrequested him to leave. Possibly it was another case of the ass and thebundles of hay. They could not make up their minds which specialmisdemeanour of his to attack first. 

'No, I've not been sacked, ' said Bradshaw. 

A light dawned upon me. 

'Oh, ' I said, 'you're going to slumber in. ' For the benefit of theuninitiated, I may mention that to slumber in is to stay in the Houseduring school on a pretence of illness. 

'That, ' replied the man of mystery, with considerable asperity, 'isexactly the silly rotten kid's idea that would come naturally to acomplete idiot like you. '

As a rule, I resent being called a complete idiot, but this was not thetime for asserting one's personal dignity. I had to know whatBradshaw's scheme for evading the examination was. Perhaps there mightbe room for two in it; in which case I should have been exceedinglyglad to have lent my moral support to it. I pressed for an explanation. 

'You may jaw, ' said Bradshaw at last, 'as much as you jolly wellplease, but I'm not going to give this away. All you're going to knowis that I shan't be there tomorrow. '

'I bet you are, and I bet you do a jolly rank paper too, ' I said, remembering that the sceptic is sometimes vouchsafed revelations towhich the most devout believer may not aspire. It is, for instance, always the young man who scoffs at ghosts that the family spectrechooses as his audience. But it required more than a mere sneer or anempty gibe to pump information out of Bradshaw. He took me up at once. 

'What'll you bet?' he said. 

Now I was prepared to wager imaginary sums to any extent he might havecared to name, but as my actual worldly wealth at that moment consistedof one penny, and my expectations were limited to the shillingpocket-money which I should receive on the following Saturday--half ofwhich was already mortgaged--it behoved me to avoid doing anything rashwith my ready money. But, since a refusal would have meant the downfallof my arguments, I was obliged to name a figure. I named an evensixpence. After all, I felt, I must win. By what means, other thanillness, could Bradshaw possibly avoid putting in an appearance at theThucydides examination?

'All right, ' said Bradshaw, 'an even sixpence. You'll lose. '

'Slumbering in barred. '

'Of course. '

'Real illness barred too, ' I said. Bradshaw is a man of resource, andhas been known to make himself genuinely ill in similar emergencies. 

'Right you are. Slumbering in and real illness both barred. Anythingelse you'd like to bar?'

I thought. 

'No. Unless--' an idea struck me--'You're not going to run away?'

Bradshaw scorned to answer the question. 

'Now you'd better buck up with your work, ' he said, opening his bookagain. 'You've got about as long odds as anyone ever got. But you'lllose all the same. '

It scarcely seemed possible. And yet--Bradshaw was generally right. Ifhe said he had a scheme for doing--though it was generally for notdoing--something, it rarely failed to come off. I thought of mysixpence, my only sixpence, and felt a distinct pang of remorse. Afterall, only the other day the chaplain had said how wrong it was to bet. By Jove, so he had. Decent man the chaplain. Pity to do anything hewould disapprove of. I was on the point of recalling my wager, whenbefore my mind's eye rose a vision of Bradshaw rampant and sneering, and myself writhing in my chair a crushed and scored-off wreck. I drewthe line at that. I valued my self-respect at more than sixpence. If ithad been a shilling now--. So I set my teeth and turned once more to myThucydides. Bradshaw, having picked up the thread of his story again, emitted hoarse chuckles like minute guns, until I very nearly rose andfell upon him. It is maddening to listen to a person laughing and notto know the joke. 

'You will be allowed two hours for this paper, ' said Mellish on thefollowing afternoon, as he returned to his desk after distributing theThucydides questions. 'At five minutes to four I shall begin to collectyour papers, but those who wish may go on till ten past. Write only onone side of the paper, and put your names in the top right-hand corner. Marks will be given for neatness. Any boy whom I see looking at hisneighbour's--_where's Bradshaw?_'

It was already five minutes past the hour. The latest of the latealways had the decency to appear at least by three minutes past. 

'Has anybody seen Bradshaw?' repeated Mellish. 'You, what's-your-name--' (I am what's-your-name, very much at yourservice) '--you are in his House. Have you seen him?'

I could have pointed out with some pleasure at this juncture that ifCain expressed indignation at being asked where his brother was, I, bya simple sum in proportion, might with even greater justice feelannoyed at having to locate a person who was no relative of mine atall. Did Mr Mellish expect me to keep an eye on every member of myHouse? Did Mr Mellish--in short, what did he mean by it?

This was what I thought. I said, 'No, sir. '

'This is extraordinary, ' said Mellish, 'most extraordinary. Why, theboy was in school this morning. '

This was true. The boy had been in school that morning to some purpose, having beaten all records (his own records) in the gentle sport ofMellish-baiting. This evidently occurred to Mellish at the time, for hedropped the subject at once, and told us to begin our papers. 

Now I have remarked already that I dare not say what I think ofThucydides, Book II. How then shall I frame my opinion of thatexamination paper? It was Thucydides, Book II, with the few easy partsleft out. It was Thucydides, Book II, with special home-madedifficulties added. It was--well, in its way it was a masterpiece. Without going into details--I dislike sensational and realisticwriting--I may say that I personally was not one of those who requiredan extra ten minutes to finish their papers. I finished mine athalf-past two, and amused myself for the remaining hour and a half bywriting neatly on several sheets of foolscap exactly what I thought ofMr Mellish, and precisely what I hoped would happen to him some day. Itwas grateful and comforting. 

At intervals I wondered what had become of Bradshaw. I was notsurprised at his absence. At first I had feared that he would keep hisword in that matter. As time went on I knew that he would. At morefrequent intervals I wondered how I should enjoy being a bankrupt. 

Four o'clock came round, and found me so engrossed in putting thefinishing touches to my excursus of Mr Mellish's character, that Istayed on in the form-room till ten past. Two other members of the formstayed too, writing with the despairing energy of those who had fiveminutes to say what they would like to spread over five hours. At lastMellish collected the papers. He seemed a trifle surprised when I gaveup my modest three sheets. Brown and Morrison, who had their eye on theform prize, each gave up reams. Brown told me subsequently that he hadonly had time to do sixteen sheets, and wanted to know whether I hadadopted Rutherford's emendation in preference to the old reading inQuestion II. My prolonged stay had made him regard me as a possiblerival. 

I dwell upon this part of my story, because it has an important bearingon subsequent events. If I had not waited in the form-room I should nothave gone downstairs just behind Mellish. And if I had not gonedownstairs just behind Mellish, I should not have been in at the death, that is to say the discovery of Bradshaw, and this story would havebeen all beginning and middle, and no ending, for I am certain thatBradshaw would never have told me a word. He was a most secretiveanimal. 

I went downstairs, as I say, just behind Mellish. St Austin's, you mustknow, is composed of three blocks of buildings, the senior, the middle, and the junior, joined by cloisters. We left the senior block by thedoor. To the captious critic this information may seem superfluous, butlet me tell him that I have left the block in my time, and entered it, too, though never, it is true, in the company of a master, in otherways. There are windows. 

Our procession of two, Mellish leading by a couple of yards, passedthrough the cloisters, and came to the middle block, where the Masters'Common Room is. I had no particular reason for going to that block, butit was all on my way to the House, and I knew that Mellish hated havinghis footsteps dogged. That Thucydides paper rankled slightly. 

In the middle block, at the top of the building, far from the haunts ofmen, is the Science Museum, containing--so I have heard, I have neverbeen near the place myself--two stuffed rats, a case of moulderingbutterflies, and other objects of acute interest. The room has astaircase all to itself, and this was the reason why, directly I heardshouts proceeding from that staircase, I deduced that they came fromthe Museum. I am like Sherlock Holmes, I don't mind explaining mymethods. 

'Help!' shouted the voice. 'Help!'

The voice was Bradshaw's. 

Mellish was talking to M. Gerard, the French master, at the moment. Hehad evidently been telling him of Bradshaw's non-appearance, for at thesound of his voice they both spun round, and stood looking at thestaircase like a couple of pointers. 

'Help, ' cried the voice again. 

Mellish and Gerard bounded up the stairs. I had never seen a Frenchmaster run before. It was a pleasant sight. I followed. As we reachedthe door of the Museum, which was shut, renewed shouts filtered throughit. Mellish gave tongue. 

'Bradshaw!'

'Yes, sir, ' from within. 

'Are you there?' This I thought, and still think, quite a superfluousquestion. 

'Yes, sir, ' said Bradshaw. 

'What are you doing in there, Bradshaw? Why were you not in school thisafternoon? Come out at once. ' This in deep and thrilling tones. 

'Please, sir, ' said Bradshaw complainingly, 'I can't open the door. 'Now, the immediate effect of telling a person that you are unable toopen a door is to make him try his hand at it. Someone observes thatthere are three things which everyone thinks he can do better thananyone else, namely poking a fire, writing a novel, and opening a door. 

Gerard was no exception to the rule. 

'Can't open the door?' he said. 'Nonsense, nonsense. ' And, swooping atthe handle, he grasped it firmly, and turned it. 

At this point he made an attempt, a very spirited attempt, to lower theworld's record for the standing high jump. I have spoken above of thepleasure it gave me to see a French master run. But for good, squareenjoyment, warranted free from all injurious chemicals, give me aFrench master jumping. 

'My dear Gerard, ' said the amazed Mellish. 

'I have received a shock. Dear me, I have received a most terribleshock. '

So had I, only of another kind. I really thought I should have expiredin my tracks with the effort of keeping my enjoyment strictly tomyself. I saw what had happened. The Museum is lit by electric light. To turn it on one has to shoot the bolt of the door, which, like thehandle, is made of metal. It is on the killing two birds with one stoneprinciple. You lock yourself in and light yourself up with onemovement. It was plain that the current had gone wrong somehow, runamock, as it were. Mellish meanwhile, instead of being warned byGerard's fate, had followed his example, and tried to turn the handle. His jump, though quite a creditable effort, fell short of Gerard's bysome six inches. I began to feel as if some sort of round game weregoing on. I hoped that they would not want me to take a hand. I alsohoped that the thing would continue for a good while longer. Thesuccess of the piece certainly warranted the prolongation of its run. But here I was disappointed. The disturbance had attracted anotherspectator, Blaize, the science and chemistry master. The matter washastily explained to him in all its bearings. There was Bradshawentombed within the Museum, with every prospect of death by starvation, unless he could support life for the next few years on the two stuffedrats and the case of butterflies. The authorities did not see their wayto adding a human specimen (youth's size) to the treasures in theMuseum, _so_--how was he to be got out?

The scientific mind is equal to every emergency. 

'Bradshaw, ' shouted Blaize through the keyhole. 

'Sir?'

'Are you there?'

I should imagine that Bradshaw was growing tired of this question bythis time. Besides, it cast aspersions on the veracity of Gerard andMellish. Bradshaw, with perfect politeness, hastened to inform thegentleman that he was there. 

'Have you a piece of paper?'

'Will an envelope do, sir?'

'Bless the boy, anything will do so long as it is paper. '

Dear me, I thought, is it as bad as all that? Is Blaize, in despair ofever rescuing the unfortunate prisoner, going to ask him to draw up a'last dying words' document, to be pushed under the door and despatchedto his sorrowing guardian?

'Put it over your hand, and then shoot back the bolt. '

'But, sir, the electricity. '

'Pooh, boy!'

The scientific mind is always intolerant of lay ignorance. 

'Pooh, boy, paper is a non-conductor. You won't get hurt. '

Bradshaw apparently acted on his instructions. From the other side ofthe door came the sharp sound of the bolt as it was shot back, and atthe same time the light ceased to shine through the keyhole. A momentlater the handle turned, and Bradshaw stepped forth--free!

'Dear me, ' said Mellish. 'Now I never knew that before, Blaize. Remarkable. But this ought to be seen to. In the meantime, I had betterask the Headmaster to give out that the Museum is closed until furthernotice, I think. '

And closed the Museum has been ever since. That further notice hasnever been given. And yet nobody seems to feel as if an essential partof their life had ceased to be, so to speak. Curious. Bradshaw, after ashort explanation, was allowed to go away without a stain--that is tosay, without any additional stain--on his character. We left theauthorities discussing the matter, and went downstairs. 

'Sixpence isn't enough, ' I said, 'take this penny. It's all I've got. You shall have the sixpence on Saturday. '

'Thanks, ' said Bradshaw. ' Was the Thucydides paper pretty warm?'

'Warmish. But, I say, didn't you get a beastly shock when you lockedthe door?'

'I did the week before last, the first time I ever went to the place. This time I was more or less prepared for it. Blaize seems to thinkthat paper dodge a special invention of his own. He'll be taking out apatent for it one of these days. Why, every kid knows that paperdoesn't conduct electricity. '

'I didn't, ' I said honestly. 

'You don't know much, ' said Bradshaw, with equal honesty. 

'I don't, ' I replied. 'Bradshaw, you're a great man, but you missed thebest part of it all. '

'What, the Thucydides paper?' asked he with a grin. 

'No, you missed seeing Gerard jump quite six feet. '

Bradshaw's face expressed keen disappointment. 

'No, did he really? Oh, I say, I wish I'd seen it. '

The moral of which is that the wicked do not always prosper. IfBradshaw had not been in the Museum, he might have seen Gerard jump sixfeet, which would have made him happy for weeks. On second thoughts, though, that does not work out quite right, for if Bradshaw had notbeen in the Museum, Gerard would not have jumped at all. No, better putit this way. I was virtuous, and I had the pleasure of witnessing thesight I have referred to. But then there was the Thucydides paper, which Bradshaw missed but which I did not. No. On consideration, themoral of this story shall be withdrawn and submitted to a committee ofexperts. Perhaps they will be able to say what it is. 

[7]

THE BABE AND THE DRAGON

The annual inter-house football cup at St Austin's lay between Dacre's, who were the holders, and Merevale's, who had been runner-up in theprevious year, and had won it altogether three times out of the lastfive. The cup was something of a tradition in Merevale's, but of lateDacre's had become serious rivals, and, as has been said before, werethe present holders. 

This year there was not much to choose between the two teams. Dacre'shad three of the First Fifteen and two of the Second; Merevale's two ofthe First and four of the Second. St Austin's being not altogether aboarding-school, many of the brightest stars of the teams were dayboys, and there was, of course, always the chance that one of thesewould suddenly see the folly of his ways, reform, and become a memberof a House. 

This frequently happened, and this year it was almost certain to happenagain, for no less a celebrity than MacArthur, commonly known as theBabe, had been heard to state that he was negotiating with his parentsto that end. Which House he would go to was at present uncertain. Hedid not know himself, but it would, he said, probably be one of the twofavourites for the cup. This lent an added interest to the competition, for the presence of the Babe would almost certainly turn the scale. TheBabe's nationality was Scots, and, like most Scotsmen, he could playfootball more than a little. He was the safest, coolest centrethree-quarter the School had, or had had for some time. He shone in allbranches of the game, but especially in tackling. To see the Babespring apparently from nowhere, in the middle of an inter-school match, and bring down with violence a man who had passed the back, was anintellectual treat. Both Dacre's and Merevale's, therefore, yearned forhis advent exceedingly. The reasons which finally decided his choicewere rather curious. They arose in the following manner:

The Babe's sister was at Girton. A certain Miss Florence Beezley wasalso at Girton. When the Babe's sister revisited the ancestral home atthe end of the term, she brought Miss Beezley with her to spend a week. What she saw in Miss Beezley was to the Babe a matter for wonder, butshe must have liked her, or she would not have gone out of her way toseek her company. Be that as it may, the Babe would have gone a verylong way out of his way to avoid her company. He led a fine, healthy, out-of-doors life during that week, and doubtless did himself a lot ofgood. But times will occur when it is imperative that a man shall beunder the family roof. Meal-times, for instance. The Babe could notsubsist without food, and he was obliged, Miss Beezley or no MissBeezley, to present himself on these occasions. This, by the way, wasin the Easter holidays, so that there was no school to give him anexcuse for absence. 

Breakfast was a nightmare, lunch was rather worse, and as for dinner, it was quite unspeakable. Miss Beezley seemed to gather force duringthe day. It was not the actual presence of the lady that revolted theBabe, for that was passable enough. It was her conversation thatkilled. She refused to let the Babe alone. She was intensely learnedherself, and seemed to take a morbid delight in dissecting hisignorance, and showing everybody the pieces. Also, she persisted incalling him Mr MacArthur in a way that seemed somehow to point out andemphasize his youthfulness. She added it to her remarks as a sort ofafter-thought or echo. 

'Do you read Browning, Mr MacArthur?' she would say suddenly, havingapparently waited carefully until she saw that his mouth was full. 

The Babe would swallow convulsively, choke, blush, and finally say--

'No, not much. '

'Ah!' This in a tone of pity not untinged with scorn. 

'When you say "not much", Mr MacArthur, what exactly do you mean? Haveyou read any of his poems?'

'Oh, yes, one or two. '

'Ah! Have you read "Pippa Passes"?'

'No, I think not. '

'Surely you must know, Mr MacArthur, whether you have or not. Have youread "Fifine at the Fair"?'

'No. '

'Have you read "Sordello"?'

'No. '

'What _have_ you read, Mr MacArthur?'

Brought to bay in this fashion, he would have to admit that he had read'The Pied Piper of Hamelin', and not a syllable more, and Miss Beezleywould look at him for a moment and sigh softly. The Babe's subsequentshare in the conversation, provided the Dragon made no furtheronslaught, was not large. 

One never-to-be-forgotten day, shortly before the end of her visit, aseries of horrible accidents resulted in their being left to lunchtogether alone. The Babe had received no previous warning, and when hewas suddenly confronted with this terrible state of affairs he almostswooned. The lady's steady and critical inspection of his style ofcarving a chicken completed his downfall. His previous experience ofcarving had been limited to those entertainments which went by the nameof 'study-gorges', where, if you wanted to help a chicken, you tookhold of one leg, invited an accomplice to attach himself to the other, and pulled. 

But, though unskilful, he was plucky and energetic. He lofted the birdout of the dish on to the tablecloth twice in the first minute. Stifling a mad inclination to call out 'Fore!' or something to thateffect, he laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh, and replaced the errantfowl. When a third attack ended in the same way, Miss Beezley askedpermission to try what she could do. She tried, and in two minutes thechicken was neatly dismembered. The Babe re-seated himself in anover-wrought state. 

'Tell me about St Austin's, Mr MacArthur, ' said Miss Beezley, as theBabe was trying to think of something to say--not about the weather. 'Do you play football?'

'Yes. '

'Ah!'

A prolonged silence. 

'Do you--' began the Babe at last. 

'Tell me--' began Miss Beezley, simultaneously. 

'I beg your pardon, ' said the Babe; 'you were saying--?'

'Not at all, Mr MacArthur. _You_ were saying--?'

'I was only going to ask you if you played croquet?'

'Yes; do you?'

'No. '

'Ah!'

'If this is going to continue, ' thought the Babe, 'I shall bereluctantly compelled to commit suicide. '

There was another long pause. 

'Tell me the names of some of the masters at St Austin's, MrMacArthur, ' said Miss Beezley. She habitually spoke as if she were anexamination paper, and her manner might have seemed to some to vergeupon the autocratic, but the Babe was too thankful that the questionwas not on Browning or the higher algebra to notice this. He reeled offa list of names. 

'... Then there's Merevale--rather a decent sort--and Dacre. '

'What sort of a man is Mr Dacre?'

'Rather a rotter, I think. '

'What is a rotter, Mr MacArthur?'

'Well, I don't know how to describe it exactly. He doesn't play cricketor anything. He's generally considered rather a crock. '

'Really! This is very interesting, Mr MacArthur. And what is a crock? Isuppose what it comes to, ' she added, as the Babe did his best to finda definition, 'is this, that you yourself dislike him. ' The Babeadmitted the impeachment. Mr Dacre had a finished gift of sarcasm whichhad made him writhe on several occasions, and sarcastic masters arerarely very popular. 

'Ah!' said Miss Beezley. She made frequent use of that monosyllable. Itgenerally gave the Babe the same sort of feeling as he had beenaccustomed to experience in the happy days of his childhood when he hadbeen caught stealing jam. 

Miss Beezley went at last, and the Babe felt like a convict who hasjust received a free pardon. 

One afternoon in the following term he was playing fives withCharteris, a prefect in Merevale's House. Charteris was remarkable fromthe fact that he edited and published at his own expense an unofficialand highly personal paper, called _The Glow Worm_, which was agreat deal more in demand than the recognized School magazine, _TheAustinian_, and always paid its expenses handsomely. 

Charteris had the journalistic taint very badly. He was always thefirst to get wind of any piece of School news. On this occasion he wasin possession of an exclusive item. The Babe was the first person towhom he communicated it. 

'Have you heard the latest romance in high life, Babe?' he observed, asthey were leaving the court. 'But of course you haven't. You never dohear anything. '

'Well?' asked the Babe, patiently. 

'You know Dacre?'

'I seem to have heard the name somewhere. '

'He's going to be married. '

'Yes. Don't trouble to try and look interested. You're one of thoseoffensive people who mind their own business and nobody else's. Only Ithought I'd tell you. Then you'll have a remote chance of understandingmy quips on the subject in next week's _Glow Worm_. You laddiesfrae the north have to be carefully prepared for the subtler flights ofwit. '

'Thanks, ' said the Babe, placidly. 'Good-night. '

The Headmaster intercepted the Babe a few days after he was going homeafter a scratch game of football. 'MacArthur, ' said he, 'you pass MrDacre's House, do you not, on your way home? Then would you mind askinghim from me to take preparation tonight? I find I shall be unable to bethere. ' It was the custom at St Austin's for the Head to preside atpreparation once a week; but he performed this duty, like thecelebrated Irishman, as often as he could avoid it. 

The Babe accepted the commission. He was shown into the drawing-room. To his consternation, for he was not a society man, there appeared tobe a species of tea-party going on. As the door opened, somebody wasjust finishing a remark. 

'... Faculty which he displayed in such poems as "Sordello", ' said thevoice. 

The Babe knew that voice. 

He would have fled if he had been able, but the servant was alreadyannouncing him. Mr Dacre began to do the honours. 

'Mr MacArthur and I have met before, ' said Miss Beezley, for it wasshe. 'Curiously enough, the subject which we have just been discussingis one in which he takes, I think, a great interest. I was saying, MrMacArthur, when you came in, that few of Tennyson's works show thepoetic faculty which Browning displays in "Sordello". '

The Babe looked helplessly at Mr Dacre. 

'I think you are taking MacArthur out of his depth there, ' said MrDacre. 'Was there something you wanted to see me about, MacArthur?'

The Babe delivered his message. 

'Oh, yes, certainly, ' said Mr Dacre. 'Shall you be passing the SchoolHouse tonight? If so, you might give the Headmaster my compliments, andsay I shall be delighted. '

The Babe had had no intention of going out of his way to that extent, but the chance of escape offered by the suggestion was too good to bemissed. He went. 

On his way he called at Merevale's, and asked to see Charteris. 

'Look here, Charteris, ' he said, 'you remember telling me that Dacrewas going to be married?'

'Yes. '

'Well, do you know her name by any chance?'

'I ken it weel, ma braw Hielander. She is a Miss Beezley. '

'Great Scott!' said the Babe. 

'Hullo! Why, was your young heart set in that direction? You amaze andpain me, Babe. I think we'd better have a story on the subject in_The Glow Worm_, with you as hero and Dacre as villain. It shallend happily, of course. I'll write it myself. '

'You'd better, ' said the Babe, grimly. 'Oh, I say, Charteris. '

'Well?'

'When I come as a boarder, I shall be a House-prefect, shan't I, as I'min the Sixth?'

'Yes. '

'And prefects have to go to breakfast and supper, and that sort ofthing, pretty often with the House-beak, don't they?'

'Such are the facts of the case. '

'Thanks. That's all. Go away and do some work. Good-night. '

The cup went to Merevale's that year. The Babe played a singularlybrilliant game for them. 

[8]

THE MANOEUVRES OF CHARTERIS

_Chapter 1_

'Might I observe, sir--'

'You may observe whatever you like, ' said the referee kindly. 'Twenty-five. '

'The rules say--'

'I have given my decision. Twenty-_five_!' A spot of red appearedon the official cheek. The referee, who had been heckled since thekick-off, was beginning to be annoyed. 

'The ball went behind without bouncing, and the rules say--'

'Twenty-FIVE!!' shouted the referee. 'I am perfectly well aware whatthe rules say. ' And he blew his whistle with an air of finality. Thesecretary of the Bargees' F. C. Subsided reluctantly, and the game wasrestarted. 

The Bargees' match was a curious institution. Their real name was theOld Crockfordians. When, a few years before, the St Austin's secretaryhad received a challenge from them, dated from Stapleton, where theirsecretary happened to reside, he had argued within himself as follows:'This sounds all right. Old Crockfordians? Never heard of Crockford. Probably some large private school somewhere. Anyhow, they're certainto be decent fellows. ' And he arranged the fixture. It then transpiredthat Old Crockford was a village, and, from the appearance of the teamon the day of battle, the Old Crockfordians seemed to be composedexclusively of the riff-raff of same. They wore green shirts with abright yellow leopard over the heart, and C. F. C. Woven in large lettersabout the chest. One or two of the outsides played in caps, and theteam to a man criticized the referee's decisions with point andpungency. Unluckily, the first year saw a weak team of Austiniansrather badly beaten, with the result that it became a point of honourto wipe this off the slate before the fixture could be cut out of thecard. The next year was also unlucky. The Bargees managed to score apenalty goal in the first half, and won on that. The match resulted ina draw in the following season, and by this time the thing had becomean annual event. 

Now, however, the School was getting some of its own back. The Bargeeshad brought down a player of some reputation from the North, and wereas strong as ever in the scrum. But St Austin's had a great team, andwere carrying all before them. Charteris and Graham at half had theball out to their centres in a way which made Merevale, who lookedafter the football of the School, feel that life was worth living. Andwhen once it was out, things happened rapidly. MacArthur, the captainof the team, with Thomson as his fellow-centre, and Welch and Bannisteron the wings, did what they liked with the Bargees' three-quarters. Allthe School outsides had scored, even the back, who dropped a neat goal. The player from the North had scarcely touched the ball during thewhole game, and altogether the Bargees were becoming restless andexcited. 

The kick-off from the twenty-five line which followed upon the smalldiscussion alluded to above, reached Graham. Under ordinarycircumstances he would have kicked, but in a winning game originalmethods often pay. He dodged a furious sportsman in green and yellow, and went away down the touch-line. He was almost through when hestumbled. He recovered himself, but too late. Before he could pass, someone was on him. Graham was not heavy, and his opponent wasmuscular. He was swung off his feet, and the next moment the two camedown together, Graham underneath. A sharp pain shot through hisshoulder. 

A doctor emerged from the crowd--there is always a doctor in acrowd--and made an examination. 

'Anything bad?' asked the referee. 

'Collar-bone, ' said the doctor. 'The usual, you know. Rather badlysmashed. Nothing dangerous, of course. Be all right in a month or so. Stop his playing. Rather a pity. Much longer before half-time?'

'No. I was just going to blow the whistle when this happened. '

The injured warrior was carried off, and the referee blew his whistlefor half-time. 

'I say, Charteris, ' said MacArthur, 'who the deuce am I to put halfinstead of Graham?'

'Rogers used to play half in his childhood, I believe. But, I say, didyou ever see such a scrag? Can't you protest, or something?'

'My dear chap, how can I? It's on our own ground. These Bargee beastsare visitors, if you come to think of it. I'd like to wring the chap'sneck who did it. I didn't spot who it was. Did you see?'

'Rather. Their secretary. That man with the beard. I'll get Prescott tomark him this half. '

Prescott was the hardest tackler in the School. He accepted thecommission cheerfully, and promised to do his best by the bearded one. 

Charteris certainly gave him every opportunity. When he threw the ballout of touch, he threw it neatly to the criminal with the beard, andPrescott, who stuck to him closer than a brother, had generally tackledhim before he knew what had happened. After a time he began to growthoughtful, and when there was a line-out went and stood among thethree-quarters. In this way much of Charteris's righteous retributionmiscarried, but once or twice he had the pleasure and privilege ofputting in a piece of tackling on his own account. The match ended withthe enemy still intact, but considerably shaken. He was also ratherannoyed. He spoke to Charteris on the subject as they were leaving thefield. 

'I was watching you, ' he said, _apropos_ of nothing apparently. 

'That must have been nice for you, ' said Charteris. 

'You wait. '

'Certainly. Any time you're passing, I'm sure--'

'You ain't 'eard the last of me yet. '

'That's something of a blow, ' said Charteris cheerfully, and theyparted. 

Charteris, having got into his blazer, ran after Welch and MacArthur, and walked back with them to the House. All three of them were atMerevale's. 

'Poor old Tony, ' said MacArthur. 'Where have they taken him to? TheHouse?'

'Yes, ' said Welch. 'I say, Babe, you ought to scratch this match nextyear. Tell 'em the card's full up or something. '

'Oh, I don't know. One expects fairly rough play in this sort of game. After all, we tackle pretty hard ourselves. I know I always try and gomy hardest. If the man happens to be brittle, that's his lookout, 'concluded the bloodthirsty Babe. 

'My dear man, ' said Charteris, 'there's all the difference between adecent tackle and a bally scrag like the one that doubled Tony up. Youcan't break a chap's collar-bone without trying to. '

'Well, if you come to think of it, I suppose the man must have beenfairly riled. You can't expect a man to be in an angelic temper whenhis side's been licked by thirty points. '

The Babe was one of those thoroughly excellent persons who always try, when possible, to make allowances for everybody. 

'Well, dash it, ' said Charteris indignantly, 'if he had lost his hairhe might have drawn the line at falling on Tony like that. It wasn'tthe tackling part of it that crocked him. The beast simply jumped onhim like a Hooligan. Anyhow, I made him sit up a bit before wefinished. I gave Prescott the tip to mark him out of touch. Have youever been collared by Prescott? It's a liberal education. Now, thereyou are, you see. Take Prescott. He's never crocked a man seriously inhis life. I don't count being winded. That's absolutely an accident. Well, there you are, then. Prescott weighs thirteen-ten, and he's allmuscle, and he goes like a battering-ram. You'll own that. He goes ashard as he jolly well knows how, and yet the worst he has ever done isto lay a man out for a couple of minutes while he gets his wind back. Well, compare him with this Bargee man. The Bargee weighs a stone lessand isn't nearly as strong, and yet he smashes Tony's collar-bone. It'sall very well, Babe, but you can't get away from it. Prescott tacklesfairly and the Bargee scrags. '

'Yes, ' said MacArthur, 'I suppose you're right. '

'Rather, ' said Charteris. 'I wish I'd broken his neck. '

'By the way, ' said Welch, 'you were talking to him after the match. What was he saying?'

Charteris laughed. 

'By Jove, I'd forgotten; he said I hadn't heard the last of him, andthat I was to wait. '

'What did you say?'

'Oh, I behaved beautifully. I asked him to be sure and look in any timehe was passing, and after a few chatty remarks we parted. '

'I wonder if he meant anything. '

'I believe he means to waylay me with a buckled belt. I shan't stir outexcept with the Old Man or some other competent bodyguard. "'Orribleoutrage, shocking death of a St Austin's schoolboy. " It would lookrather well on the posters. '

Welch stuck strenuously to the point. 

'No, but, look here, Charteris, ' he said seriously, 'I'm not rotting. You see, the man lives in Stapleton, and if he knows anything of Schoolrules--'

'Which he doesn't probably. Why should he? Well?'--'If he knowsanything of the rules, he'll know that Stapleton's out of bounds, andhe may book you there and run you in to Merevale. '

'Yes, ' said MacArthur. 'I tell you what, you'd do well to knock off afew of your expeditions to Stapleton. You know you wouldn't go thereonce a month if it wasn't out of bounds. You'll be a prefect next term. I should wait till then, if I were you. '

'My dear chap, what does it matter? The worst that can happen to youfor breaking bounds is a couple of hundred lines, and I've got acapital of four hundred already in stock. Besides, things would be soslow if you always kept in bounds. I always feel like a cross betweenDick Turpin and Machiavelli when I go to Stapleton. It's an awfullyjolly feeling. Like warm treacle running down your back. It's cheap attwo hundred lines. '

'You're an awful fool, ' said Welch, rudely but correctly. 

Welch was a youth who treated the affairs of other people rather tooseriously. He worried over them. This is not a particularly commontrait in the character of either boy or man, but Welch had it highlydeveloped. He could not probably have explained exactly why he wasworried, but he undoubtedly was. Welch had a very grave and seriousmind. He shared a study with Charteris--for Charteris, though not yet aSchool-prefect, was part owner of a study--and close observation hadconvinced him that the latter was not responsible for his actions, andthat he wanted somebody to look after him. He had therefore electedhimself to the post of a species of modified and unofficial guardianangel to him. The duties were heavy, and the remuneration exceedinglylight. 

'Really, you know, ' said MacArthur, 'I don't see what the point of allyour lunacy is. I don't know if you're aware of it, but the Old Man'sgetting jolly sick with you. '

'I didn't know, ' said Charteris, 'but I'm very glad to hear it. Forhist! I have a ger-rudge against the person. Beneath my ban that mysticman shall suffer, _coute que coute_, Matilda. He sat uponme--publicly, and the resultant blot on my scutcheon can only be wipedout with blood, or broken rules, ' he added. 

This was true. To listen to Charteris on the subject, one might havethought that he considered the matter rather amusing than otherwise. This, however, was simply due to the fact that he treated everythingflippantly in conversation. But, like the parrot, he thought the more. The actual _casus belli_ had been trivial. At least the merespectator would have considered it trivial. It had happened after thisfashion. Charteris was a member of the School corps. The orderly-roomof the School corps was in the junior part of the School buildings. Charteris had been to replace his rifle in that shrine of Mars after amid-day drill, and on coming out into the passage had found himself inthe middle of a junior school 'rag' of the conventional type. Somebody's cap had fallen off, and two hastily picked teams wereplaying football with it (Association rules). Now, Charteris was not aprefect (that, it may be observed in passing, was another source ofbitterness in him towards the Powers, for he was fairly high up in theSixth, and others of his set, Welch, Thomson, and Tony Graham, who werealso in the Sixth--the two last below him in form order--had alreadyreceived their prefects' caps). Not being a prefect, it would have beenofficious in him to have stopped the game. So he was passing on withwhat Mr Hurry Bungsho Jabberjee, B. A. , would have termed a beamingsimper of indescribable suavity, when a member of one of the opposingteams, in effecting a G. O. Smithian dribble, cannoned into him. Topreserve his balance--this will probably seem a very thin line ofdefence, but 'I state but the facts'--he grabbed at the disciple ofSmith amidst applause, and at that precise moment a new actor appearedon the scene--the Headmaster. Now, of all the things that lay in hisprovince, the Headmaster most disliked to see a senior 'ragging' with ajunior. He had a great idea of the dignity of the senior school, anddid all that in him lay to see that it was kept up. The greater numberof the juniors with whom the senior was found ragging, the more heinousthe offence. Circumstantial evidence was dead against Charteris. To alloutward appearances he was one of the players in the impromptu footballmatch. The soft and fascinating beams of the simper, to quote MrJabberjee once more, had not yet faded from the act. A well-chosen wordor two from the Headmagisterial lips put a premature end to thefootball match, and Charteris was proceeding on his way when theHeadmaster called him. He stopped. The Headmaster was angry. So angry, indeed, that he did what in a more lucid interval he would not havedone. He hauled a senior over the coals in the hearing of a number ofjuniors, one of whom (unidentified) giggled loudly. As Charteris had onprevious occasions observed, the Old Man, when he did start to take aperson's measure, didn't leave out much. The address was not long, butit covered a great deal of ground. The section of it which chieflyrankled in Charteris's mind, and which had continued to rankle eversince, was that in which the use of the word 'buffoon' had occurred. Everybody who has a gift of humour and (very naturally) enjoysexercising it, hates to be called a buffoon. It was Charteris's oneweak spot. Every other abusive epithet in the language slid off himwithout penetrating or causing him the least discomfort. The word'buffoon' went home, right up to the hilt. And, to borrow from MrJabberjee for positively the very last time, he had observed(mentally): 'Henceforward I will perpetrate heaps of the lowest dregsof vice. ' He had, in fact, started a perfect bout of breaking rules, simply because they were rules. The injustice of the thing rankled. Noone so dislikes being punished unjustly as the person who might havebeen punished justly on scores of previous occasions, if he had onlybeen found out. To a certain extent, Charteris ran amok. He brokebounds and did little work, and--he was beginning gradually to findthis out--got thoroughly tired of it all. Offended dignity, however, still kept him at it, and much as he would have preferred to haveresumed a less feverish type of existence, he did not do so. 

'I have a ger-rudge against the man, ' he said. 

'You _are_ an idiot, really, ' said Welch. 

'Welch, ' said Charteris, by way of explanation to MacArthur, 'is a ladof coarse fibre. He doesn't understand the finer feelings. He can't seethat I am doing this simply for the Old Man's good. Spare the rod, spile the choild. Let's go and have a look at Tony when we're changed. He'll be in the sick-room if he's anywhere. '

'All right, ' said the Babe, as he went into his study. 'Buck up. I'lltoss you for first bath in a second. '

Charteris walked on with Welch to their sanctum. 

'You know, ' said Welch seriously, stooping to unlace his boots, 'rotting apart, you really are a most awful ass. I wish I could get youto see it. '

'Never you mind, ducky, ' said Charteris, 'I'm all right. I'll lookafter myself. '

_Chapter 2_

It was about a week after the Bargees' match that the rules respectingbounds were made stricter, much to the popular indignation. The penaltyfor visiting Stapleton without leave was increased from two hundredlines to two extra lessons. The venomous characteristic of extra lessonwas that it cut into one's football, for the criminal was turned into aform-room from two till four on half-holidays, and so had to scratchall athletic engagements for the day, unless he chose to go for asolitary run afterwards. In the cricket term the effect of this was notso deadly. It was just possible that you might get an innings somewhereafter four o'clock, even if only at the nets. But during the footballseason--it was now February--to be in extra lesson meant a total lossof everything that makes life endurable, and the School protested (toone another, in the privacy of their studies) with no uncertain voiceagainst this barbarous innovation. 

The reason for the change had been simple. At the corner of the HighStreet at Stapleton was a tobacconist's shop, and Mr Prater, strollingin one evening to renew his stock of Pioneer, was interested to observeP. St H. Harrison, of Merevale's, purchasing a consignment of 'Girl ofmy Heart' cigarettes (at twopence-halfpenny the packet of twenty, including a coloured picture of Lord Kitchener). Now, Mr Prater was oneof the most sportsmanlike of masters. If he had merely met Harrison outof bounds, and it had been possible to have overlooked him, he wouldhave done so. But such a proceeding in the interior of a small shop wasimpossible. There was nothing to palliate the crime. The tobacconistalso kept the wolf from the door, and lured the juvenile population ofthe neighbourhood to it, by selling various weird brands of sweets, butit was only too obvious that Harrison was not after these. Guilt was inhis eye, and the packet of cigarettes in his hand. Also Harrison'sHouse cap was fixed firmly at the back of his head. Mr Prater finishedbuying his Pioneer, and went out without a word. That night it wasannounced to Harrison that the Headmaster wished to see him. TheHeadmaster saw him, though for a certain period of the interview he didnot see the Headmaster, having turned his back on him by request. Onthe following day Stapleton was placed doubly out of bounds. 

Tony, who was still in bed, had not heard the news when Charteris cameto see him on the evening of the day on which the edict had gone forth. 

'How are you getting on?' asked Charteris. 

'Oh, fairly well. It's rather slow. '

'The grub seems all right. ' Charteris absently reached out for a sliceof cake. 

'Not bad. '

'And you don't have to do any work. '

'No. '

'Well, then, it seems to me you're having a jolly good time. What don'tyou like about it?'

'It's so slow, being alone all day. '

'Makes you appreciate intellectual conversation all the more when youget it. Mine, for instance. '

'I want something to read. '

'I'll bring you a Sidgwick's _Greek Prose Composition_, if youlike. Full of racy stories. '

'I've read 'em, thanks. '

'How about Jebb's _Homer_? You'd like that. Awfully interesting. Proves that there never was such a man as Homer, you know, and that the_Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ were produced by evolution. Generalstyle, quietly funny. Make you roar. '

'Don't be an idiot. I'm simply starving for something to read. Haven'tyou got anything?'

'You've read all mine. '

'Hasn't Welch got any books?'

'Not one. He bags mine when he wants to read. I'll tell you what I willdo if you like. '

'What?'

'Go into Stapleton, and borrow something from Adamson. ' Adamson was theCollege doctor. 

'By Jove, that's not a bad idea. '

'It's a dashed good idea, which wouldn't have occurred to anybody but agenius. I've been quite a pal of Adamson's ever since I had the flu. Igo to tea with him occasionally, and we talk medical shop. Have youever tried talking medical shop during tea? Nothing like it for givingyou an appetite. '

'Has he got anything readable?'

'Rather. Have you ever tried anything of James Payn's?'

'I've read _Terminations_, or something, ' said Tony doubtfully, 'but he's so obscure. '

'Don't, ' said Charteris sadly, 'please don't. _Terminations_ is byone Henry James, and there is a substantial difference between him andJames Payn. Anyhow, if you want a short biography of James Payn, hewrote a hundred books, and they're all simply ripping, and Adamson hasgot a good many of them, and I'm hoping to borrow a couple--any twowill do--and you're going to read them. I know one always bars a bookthat's recommended to one, but you've got no choice. You're not goingto get anything else till you've finished those two. '

'All right, ' said Tony. 'But Stapleton's out of bounds. I supposeMerevale'll give you leave to go in. '

'He won't, ' said Charteris. 'I shan't ask him. On principle. So long. '

On the following afternoon Charteris went into Stapleton. The distanceby road was almost exactly one mile. If you went by the fields it waslonger, because you probably lost your way. 

Dr Adamson's house was in the High Street. Charteris knocked at thedoor. The servant was sorry, but the doctor was out. Her tone seemed tosuggest that, if she had had any say in the matter, he would haveremained in. Would Charteris come in and wait? Charteris rather thoughthe would. He waited for half an hour, and then, as the absent medicodid not appear to be coming, took two books from the shelf, wrote asuccinct note explaining what he had done, and why he had done it, hoping the doctor would not mind, and went out with his literarytrophies into the High Street again. 

The time was now close on five o'clock. Lock-up was not till a quarterpast six--six o'clock nominally, but the doors were always left opentill a quarter past. It would take him about fifteen minutes to getback, less if he trotted. Obviously, the thing to do here was to spenda thoughtful quarter of an hour or so inspecting the sights of thetown. These were ordinarily not numerous, but this particular dayhappened to be market day, and there was a good deal going on. The HighStreet was full of farmers, cows, and other animals, the majority ofthe former well on the road to intoxication. It is, of course, extremely painful to see a man in such a condition, but when such aperson is endeavouring to count a perpetually moving drove of pigs, theonlooker's pain is sensibly diminished. Charteris strolled along theHigh Street observing these and other phenomena with an attentive eye. Opposite the Town Hall he was button-holed by a perfect stranger, whom, by his conversation, he soon recognized as the Stapleton 'character'. There is a 'character' in every small country town. He is not a badcharacter; still less is he a good character. He is just a 'character'pure and simple. This particular man--or rather, this man, for he wasanything but particular--apparently took a great fancy to Charteris atfirst sight. He backed him gently against a wall, and insisted ontelling him an interminable anecdote of his shady past, when, itseemed, he had been a 'super' in some travelling company. The plot ofthe story, as far as Charteris could follow it, dealt with a theatricaltour in Dublin, where some person or persons unknown had, with maliceprepense, scattered several pounds of snuff on the stage previous to aperformance of _Hamlet_; and, according to the 'character', whenthe ghost of Hamlet's father sneezed steadily throughout his greatscene, there was not a dry eye in the house. The 'character' hadconcluded that anecdote, and was half-way through another, whenCharteris, looking at his watch, found that it was almost six o'clock. He interrupted one of the 'character's' periods by diving past him andmoving rapidly down the street. The historian did not seem to object. Charteris looked round and saw that he had button-holed a fresh victim. He was still gazing in one direction and walking in another, when heran into somebody. 

'Sorry, ' said Charteris hastily. 'Hullo!'

It was the secretary of the Old Crockfordians, and, to judge from thescowl on that gentleman's face, the recognition was mutual. 

'It's you, is it?' said the secretary in his polished way. 

'I believe so, ' said Charteris. 

'Out of bounds, ' observed the man. 

Charteris was surprised. This grasp of technical lore on the part of atotal outsider was as unexpected as it was gratifying. 

'What do you know about bounds?' said Charteris. 

'I know you ain't allowed to come 'ere, and you'll get it 'ot from yourmaster for coming. '

'Ah, but he won't know. I shan't tell him, and I'm sure you willrespect my secret. '

Charteris smiled in a winning manner. 

'Ho!' said the man, 'Ho indeed!'

There is something very clinching about the word 'Ho'. It seemsdefinitely to apply the closure to any argument. At least, I have neveryet met anyone who could tell me the suitable repartee. 

'Well, ' said Charteris affably, 'don't let me keep you. I must be goingon. '

'Ho!' observed the man once more. 'Ho indeed!'

'That's a wonderfully shrewd remark, ' said Charteris. 'I can see that, but I wish you'd tell me exactly what it means. '

'You're out of bounds. '

'Your mind seems to run in a groove. You can't get off that boundsbusiness. How do you know Stapleton's out of bounds?'

'I have made enquiries, ' said the man darkly. 

'By Jove, ' said Charteris delightedly, 'this is splendid. You're aregular sleuth-hound. I dare say you've found out my name and Housetoo?'

'I may 'ave, ' said the man, 'or I may not 'ave. '

'Well, now you mention it, I suppose one of the two contingencies isprobable. Well, I'm awfully glad to have met you. Good-bye. I must begoing. '

'You're goin' with me. '

'Arm in arm?'

'I don't want to _'ave_ to take you. '

'No, ' said Charteris, 'I should jolly well advise you not to try. Thisis my way. '

He walked on till he came to the road that led to St Austin's. Thesecretary of the Old Crockfordians stalked beside him with determinedstride. 

'Now, ' said Charteris, when they were on the road, 'you mustn't mind ifI walk rather fast. I'm in a hurry. '

Charteris's idea of walking rather fast was to dash off down the roadat quarter-mile pace. The move took the man by surprise, but, after amoment, he followed with much panting. It was evident that he was notin training. Charteris began to feel that the walk home might beamusing in its way. After they had raced some three hundred yards heslowed down to a walk again. It was at this point that his companionevinced a desire to do the rest of the journey with a hand on thecollar of his coat. 

'If you touch me, ' observed Charteris with a surprising knowledge oflegal _minutiae_, 'it'll be a technical assault, and you'll getrun in; and you'll get beans anyway if you try it on. '

The man reconsidered matters, and elected not to try it on. 

Half a mile from the College Charteris began to walk rather fast again. He was a good half-miler, and his companion was bad at every distance. After a game struggle he dropped to the rear, and finished a hundredyards behind in considerable straits. Charteris shot in at Merevale'sdoor with five minutes to spare, and went up to his study to worryWelch by telling him about it. 

'Welch, you remember the Bargee who scragged Tony? Well, there havebeen all sorts of fresh developments. He's just been pacing me all theway from Stapleton. '

'Stapleton! Have you been to Stapleton? Did Merevale give you leave?'

'No. I didn't ask him. '

'You _are_ an idiot. And now this Bargee man will go straight tothe Old Man and run you in. I wonder you didn't think of that. '

'Curious I didn't. '

'I suppose he saw you come in here?'

'Rather. He couldn't have had a better view if he'd paid for a seat. Half a second; I must just run up with these volumes to Tony. '

When he came back he found Welch more serious than ever. 

'I told you so, ' said Welch. 'You're to go to the Old Man at once. He'sjust sent over for you. I say, look here, if it's only lines I don'tmind doing some of them, if you like. '

Charteris was quite touched by this sporting offer. 

'It's awfully good of you, ' he said, 'but it doesn't matter, really. Ishall be all right. '

Ten minutes later he returned, beaming. 

'Well, ' said Welch, 'what's he given you?'

'Only his love, to give to you. It was this way. He first asked me if Iwasn't perfectly aware that Stapleton was out of bounds. "Sir, " says I, "I've known it from childhood's earliest hour. " "Ah, " says he to me, "did Mr Merevale give you leave to go in this afternoon?" "No, " says I, "I never consulted the gent you mention. "'

'Well?'

'Then he ragged me for ten minutes, and finally told me I must go intoextra the next two Saturdays. '

'I thought so. '

'Ah, but mark the sequel. When he had finished, I said that I was sorryI had mistaken the rules, but I had thought that a chap was allowed togo into Stapleton if he got leave from a master. "But you said that MrMerevale did not give you leave, " said he. "Friend of my youth, " Ireplied courteously, "you are perfectly correct. As always. Mr Merevaledid not give me leave, but, " I added suavely, "Mr Dacre did. " And Icame away, chanting hymns of triumph in a mellow baritone, and leavinghim in a dead faint on the sofa. And the Bargee, who was present duringthe conflict, swiftly and silently vanished away, his moraleconsiderably shattered. And that, my gentle Welch, ' concluded Charterischeerfully, 'put me one up. So pass the biscuits, and let us rejoice ifwe never rejoice again. '

_Chapter 3_

The Easter term was nearing its end. Football, with the exception ofthe final House-match, which had still to come off, was over, and lifewas in consequence a trifle less exhilarating than it might have been. In some ways the last few weeks before the Easter holidays are quitepleasant. You can put on running shorts and a blazer and potter aboutthe grounds, feeling strong and athletic, and delude yourself into thenotion that you are training for the sports. Ten minutes at the broadjump, five with the weight, a few sprints on the track--it is all veryamusing and harmless, but it is apt to become monotonous after a time. And if the weather is at all inclined to be chilly, such an occupationbecomes impossible. 

Charteris found things particularly dull. He was a fair average runner, but there were others far better at every distance, so that he saw nouse in mortifying the flesh with strict training. On the other hand, inview of the fact that the final House-match had yet to be played, andthat Merevale's was one of the two teams that were going to play it, itbehoved him to keep himself at least moderately fit. The genial muffinand the cheery crumpet were still things to be avoided. He thus foundhimself in a position where, apparently, the few things which it waspossible for him to do were barred, and the net result was that he feltslightly dull. 

To make matters worse, all the rest of his set were working full timeat their various employments, and had no leisure for amusing him. Welchpractised hundred-yard sprints daily, and imagined that it would bequite a treat for Charteris to be allowed to time him. So he gave himthe stopwatch, saw him safely to the end of the track, and at a givensignal dashed off in the approved American style. By the time hereached the tape, dutifully held by two sporting Merevalian juniors, Charteris's attention had generally been attracted elsewhere. 'Whattime?' Welch would pant. 'By Jove, ' Charteris would observe blandly, 'Iforgot to look. About a minute and a quarter, I fancy. ' At which Welch, who always had a notion that he had done it in ten and a fifth_that_ time, at any rate, would dissemble his joy, and mildlysuggest that somebody else should hold the watch. Then there was JimThomson, generally a perfect mine of elevating conversation. He was infor the mile and also the half, and refused to talk about anythingexcept those distances, and the best methods for running them in theminimum of time. Charteris began to feel a blue melancholy stealingover him. The Babe, again. He might have helped to while away the longhours, but unfortunately the Babe had been taken very bad with a notionthat he was going to win the 'cross-country run, and when, in additionto this, he was seized with a panic with regard to the prospects of theHouse team in the final, and began to throw out hints concerning stricttraining, Charteris regarded him as a person to be avoided. If he fledto the Babe for sympathy now, the Babe would be just as likely as notto suggest that he should come for a ten-mile spin with him, to get himinto condition for the final Houser. The very thought of a ten-milespin made Charteris feel faint. Lastly, there was Tony. But Tony'scompany was worse than none at all. He went about with his arm in asling, and declined to be comforted. But for his injury, he would bynow have been training hard for the Aldershot Boxing Competition, andthe fact that he was now definitely out of it had a very depressingeffect upon him. He lounged moodily about the gymnasium, watchingMenzies, who was to take his place, sparring with the instructor, andrefused consolation. Altogether, Charteris found life a distinct bore. 

He was reduced to such straits for amusement, that one Wednesdayafternoon, finding himself with nothing else to do, he was working at aburlesque and remarkably scurrilous article on 'The Staff, by one whohas suffered', which he was going to insert in _The Glow Worm_, anunofficial periodical which he had started for the amusement of theSchool and his own and his contributors' profit. He was just warming tohis work, and beginning to enjoy himself, when the door opened withouta preliminary knock. Charteris deftly slid a piece of blotting-paperover his MS. , for Merevale occasionally entered a study in this manner. And though there was nothing about Merevale himself in the article, itwould be better perhaps, thought Charteris, if he did not see it. Butit was not Merevale. It was somebody far worse. The Babe. 

The Babe was clothed as to his body in football clothes, and as toface, in a look of holy enthusiasm. Charteris knew what that lookmeant. It meant that the Babe was going to try and drag him out for arun. 

'Go away, Babe, ' he said, 'I'm busy. '

'Why on earth are you slacking in here on this ripping afternoon?'

'Slacking!' said Charteris. 'I like that. I'm doing berrain work, Babe. I'm writing an article on masters and their customs, which will cause aprofound sensation in the Common Room. At least it would, if they eversaw it, but they won't. Or I hope they won't for their sake _and_mine. So run away, my precious Babe, and don't disturb your uncle whenhe's busy. '

'Rot, ' said the Babe firmly, 'you haven't taken any exercise for aweek. '

Charteris replied proudly that he had wound up his watch only lastnight. The Babe refused to accept the remark as relevant to the matterin hand. 

'Look here, Alderman, ' he said, sitting down on the table, and gazingsternly at his victim, 'it's all very well, you know, but the finalcomes on in a few days, and you know you aren't in any too goodtraining. '

'I am, ' said Charteris, 'I'm as fit as a prize fighter. Simply full ofbeans. Feel my ribs. '

The Babe declined the offer. 

'No, but I say, ' he said plaintively, 'I wish you'd treat it seriously. It's getting jolly serious, really. If Dacre's win that cup again thisyear, that'll make four years running. '

'Not so, ' said Charteris, like the mariner ofinfinite-resource-and-sagacity; 'not so, but far otherwise. It'll onlymake three. '

'Well, three's bad enough. '

'True, oh king, three is quite bad enough. '

'Well, then, there you are. Now you see. '

Charteris looked puzzled. 

'Would you mind explaining that remark?' he said. 'Slowly. '

But the Babe had got off the table, and was prowling round the room, opening cupboards and boxes. 

'What are you playing at?' enquired Charteris. 

'Where do you keep your footer things?'

'What do you want with my footer things, if you don't mind my asking?'

'I'm going to help you put them on, and then you're coming for a run. '

'Ah, ' said Charteris. 

'Yes. Just a gentle spin to keep you in training. Hullo, this lookslike them. '

He plunged both hands into a box near the window and flung out a massof football clothes. It reminded Charteris of a terrier digging at arabbit-hole. 

He protested. 

'Don't, Babe. Treat 'em tenderly. You'll be spoiling the crease inthose bags if you heave 'em about like that. I'm very particular abouthow I look on the football field. _I_ was always taught to dressmyself like a little gentleman, so to speak. Well, now you've seenthem, put 'em away. '

'Put 'em on, ' said the Babe firmly. 

'You are a beast, Babe. I don't want to go for a run. I'm getting tooold for violent exercise. '

'Buck up, ' said the Babe. 'We mustn't chuck any chances away. Now thatTony can't play, we shall have to do all we know if we want to win. '

'I don't see what need there is to get nervous about it. Consideringwe've got three of the First three-quarter line, and the Second Fifteenback, we ought to do pretty well. '

'But look at Dacre's scrum. There's Prescott, to start with. He's worthany two of our men put together. Then they've got Carter, Smith, andHemming out of the first, and Reeve-Jones out of the second. And theiroutsides aren't so very bad, if you come to think of it. Bannister's inthe first, and the other three-quarters are all good. And they've gotboth the second halves. You'll have practically to look after both ofthem now that Tony's crocked. And Baddeley has come on a lot thisterm. '

'Babe, ' said Charteris, 'you have reason. I will turn over a new leaf. I _will_ be good. Give me my things and I'll come for a run. Onlyplease don't let it be anything over twenty miles. '

'Good man, ' said the gratified Babe. 'We won't go far, and will take itquite easy. '

'I tell you what, ' said Charteris. 'Do you know a place called Worbury?I thought you wouldn't, probably. It's only a sort of hamlet, twocottages, three public-houses, and a duck-pond, and that sort of thing. I only know it because Welch and I ran there once last year. It's inthe Badgwick direction, about three miles by road, mostly along thelevel. I vote we muffle up fairly well, blazers and sweaters and so on, run to Worbury, tea at one of the cottages, and back in time forlock-up. How does that strike you?'

'It sounds all right. How about tea though? Are you certain you can getit?'

'Rather. The Oldest Inhabitant is quite a pal of mine. '

Charteris's circle of acquaintances was a standing wonder to the Babeand other Merevalians. He seemed to know everybody in the county. 

When once he was fairly started on any business, physical or mental, Charteris generally shaped well. It was the starting that he found thedifficulty. Now that he was actually in motion, he was enjoying himselfthoroughly. He wondered why on earth he had been so reluctant to comefor this run. The knowledge that there were three miles to go, and thathe was equal to them, made him feel a new man. He felt fit. And thereis nothing like feeling fit for dispelling boredom. He swung along withthe Babe at a steady pace. 

'There's the cottage, ' he said, as they turned a bend of the road, andWorbury appeared a couple of hundred yards away. 'Let's sprint. ' Theysprinted, and arrived at the door of the cottage with scarcely a yardbetween them, much to the admiration of the Oldest Inhabitant, who wassmoking a thoughtful pipe in his front garden. Mrs Oldest Inhabitantcame out of the cottage at the sound of voices, and Charteris broachedthe subject of tea. The menu was sumptuous and varied, and even theBabe, in spite of his devotion to strict training, could scarce forbearto smile happily at the mention of hot cakes. 

During the _mauvais quart d'heure_ before the meal, Charteris keptup an animated conversation with the Oldest Inhabitant, the Babejoining in from time to time when he could think of anything to say. Charteris appeared to be quite a friend of the family. He enquiredafter the Oldest Inhabitant's rheumatics. It was gratifying to findthat they were distinctly better. How had Mrs O. I. Been since his lastvisit? Prarper hearty? Excellent. How was the O. I. 's nevvy?

At the mention of his nevvy the O. I. Became discursive. He told hisaudience everything that had happened in connection with the said nevvyfor years back. After which he started to describe what he wouldprobably do in the future. Amongst other things, there were going to besome sports at Rutton today week, and his nevvy was going to try andwin the cup for what the Oldest Inhabitant vaguely described as 'arace'. He had won it last year. Yes, prarper good runner, his nevvy. Where was Rutton? the Babe wanted to know. About eight miles out ofStapleton, said Charteris, who was well up in local geography. You gotthere by train. It was the next station. 

Mrs O. I. Came out to say that tea was ready, and, being drawn into theconversation on the subject of the Rutton sports, produced a programmeof the same, which her nevvy had sent them. From this it seemed thatthe nevvy's 'spot' event was the egg and spoon race. An asteriskagainst his name pointed him out as the last year's winner. 

'Hullo, ' said Charteris, 'I see there's a strangers' mile. I'm a demonat the mile when I'm roused. I think I shall go in for it. '

He handed the programme back and began his tea. 

'You know, Babe, ' he said, as they were going back that evening, 'Ireally think I shall go in for that race. It would be a most awful rag. It's the day before the House-match, so it'll just get me fit. '

'Don't be a fool, ' said the Babe. 'There would be a fearful row aboutit if you were found out. You'd get extras for the rest of your life. '

'Well, the final Houser comes off on a Thursday, so it won't affectthat. '

'Yes, but still--'

'I shall think about it, ' said Charteris. 'You needn't go tellinganyone. '

'If you'll take my advice, you'll drop it. '

'Your suggestion has been noted, and will receive due attention, ' saidCharteris. 'Put on the pace a bit. '

They lengthened their stride, and conversation came to an abrupt end. 

_Chapter 4_

'I shall go, Babe, ' said Charteris on the following night. 

The Sixth Form had a slack day before them on the morrow, there being atemporary lull in the form-work which occurred about once a week, whenthere was no composition of any kind to be done. The Sixth did fourcompositions a week, two Greek and two Latin, and except for these didnot bother themselves very much about overnight preparation. The Latinauthors which the form were doing were Livy and Virgil, and when eitherof these were on the next day's programme, most of the Sixth consideredthat they were justified in taking a night off. They relied on theirability to translate both authors at sight and without previousacquaintance. The popular notion that Virgil is hard rarely appeals toa member of a public school. There are two ways of translating Virgil, the conscientious and the other. He prefers the other. 

On this particular night, therefore, work was 'off'. Merevale was overat the Great Hall, taking preparation, and the Sixth-Form Merevalianshad assembled in Charteris's study to talk about things in general. Itwas after a pause of some moments, that had followed upon a livelydiscussion of the House's prospects in the forthcoming final, thatCharteris had spoken. 

'I shall go, Babe, ' said he. 

'Go where?' asked Tony, from the depths of a deck-chair. 

'Babe knows. '

The Babe turned to the company and explained. 

'The lunatic's going in for the strangers' mile at some sports atRutton next week. He'll get booked for a cert. He can't see that. Inever saw such a man. '

'Rally round, ' said Charteris, 'and reason with me. I'll listen. Tony, what do you think about it?'

Tony expressed his opinion tersely, and Charteris thanked him. Welch, who had been reading, now awoke to the fact that a discussion was inprogress, and asked for details. The Babe explained once more, andWelch heartily corroborated Tony's remarks. Charteris thanked him too. 

'You aren't really going, are you?' asked Welch. 

'Rather, ' said Charteris. 

'The Old Man won't give you leave. '

'Shan't worry the poor man with such trifles. '

'But it's miles out of bounds. Stapleton station is out of bounds tostart with. It's against rules to go in a train, and Rutton's even moreout of bounds than Stapleton. '

'And as there are sports there, ' said Tony, 'the Old Man is certain toput Rutton specially out of bounds for that day. He always bars a StAustin's chap going to a place when there's anything going on there. '

'I don't care. What have I to do with the Old Man's petty prejudices?Now, let me get at my time-table. Here we are. Now then. '

'Don't be a fool, ' said Tony, 'Certainly not. Look here, there's a train starts from Stapleton atthree. I can catch that all right. Gets to Rutton at three-twenty. Sports begin at three-fifteen. At least, they are supposed to. Overbefore five, I should think. At least, my race will be, though I muststop to see the Oldest Inhabitant's nevvy win the egg and spoon canter. But that ought to come on before the strangers' race. Train back at aquarter past five. Arrives at a quarter to six. Lock up six-fifteen. That gives me half an hour to get here from Stapleton. What more do youwant? I shall do it easily, and ... The odds against my being bookedare about twenty-five to one. At which price if any gent present caresto deposit his money, I am willing to take him. Now I'll treat you to atune, if you're good. '

He went to the cupboard and produced his gramophone. Charteris'smusical instruments had at one time been strictly suppressed by theauthorities, and, in consequence, he had laid in a considerable stockof them. At last, when he discovered that there was no rule against theuse of musical instruments in the House, Merevale had yielded. Thestipulation that Charteris should play only before prep. Was rigidlyobserved, except when Merevale was over at the Hall, and the Sixth hadno work. On such occasions Charteris felt justified in breaking throughthe rule. He had a gramophone, a banjo, a penny whistle, and a mouthorgan. The banjo, which he played really well, was the most in request, but the gramophone was also popular. 

'Turn on "Whistling Rufus", ' observed Thomson. 

'Whistling Rufus' was duly turned on, giving way after an encore to'Bluebells'. 

'I always weep when I hear this, ' said Tony. 

'It _is_ beautiful, isn't it?' said Charteris. 

 I'll be your sweetheart, if you--will be--mine, All my life, I'll be your valentine. Bluebells I've gathered--grrhhrh. 

The needle of the gramophone, after the manner of its kind, slippedraspingly over the surface of the wax, and the rest of the ballad waslost. 

'That, ' said Charteris, 'is how I feel with regard to the Old Man. I'dbe his sweetheart, if he'd be mine. But he makes no advances, and thestain on my scutcheon is not yet wiped out. I must say I haven't triedgathering bluebells for him yet, nor have I offered my services as aperpetual valentine, but I've been very kind to him in other ways. '

'Is he still down on you?' asked the Babe. 

'He hasn't done much lately. We're in a state of truce at present. DidI tell you how I scored about Stapleton?'

'You've only told us about a hundred times, ' said the Babe brutally. 'Itell you what, though, he'll score off you if he finds you going toRutton. '

'Let's hope he won't. '

'He won't, ' said Welch suddenly. 

'Why?'

'Because you won't go. I'll bet you anything you like that you won'tgo. '

That settled Charteris. It was the sort of remark that always acted onhim like a tonic. He had been intending to go all the time, but it wasthis speech of Welch's that definitely clinched the matter. One of hismottoes for everyday use was 'Let not thyself be scored off by Welch. '

'That's all right, ' he said. 'Of course I shall go. What's the nextitem you'd like on this machine?'

The day of the sports arrived, and the Babe, meeting Charteris atMerevale's gate, made a last attempt to head him off from his purpose. 

'How are you going to take your things?' he asked. 'You can't carry abag. The first beak you met would ask questions. '

If he had hoped that this would be a crushing argument, he wasdisappointed. 

Charteris patted a bloated coat pocket. 

'Bags, ' he said laconically. 'Vest, ' he added, doing the same to hisother pocket. 'Shoes, ' he concluded, 'you will observe I am carrying ina handy brown paper parcel, and if anybody wants to know what's in it, I shall tell them it's acid drops. Sure you won't come, too?'

'Quite, thanks. '

'All right. So long then. Be good while I'm gone. '

And he passed on down the road that led to Stapleton. 

The Rutton Recreation Ground presented, as the _Stapleton Herald_justly remarked in its next week's issue, 'a gay and animatedappearance'. There was a larger crowd than Charteris had expected. Hemade his way through them, resisting without difficulty the entreatiesof a hoarse gentleman in a check suit to have three to two on 'Enerysomething for the hundred yards, and came at last to the dressing-tent. 

At this point it occurred to him that it would be judicious to find outwhen his race was to start. It was rather a chilly day, and the lesstime he spent in the undress uniform of shorts the better. He bought acorrect card for twopence, and scanned it. The strangers' mile was downfor four-fifty. There was no need to change for an hour yet. He wishedthe authorities could have managed to date the event earlier. 

Four-fifty was running it rather fine. The race would be over by aboutfive to five, and it was a walk of some ten minutes to the station, less if he hurried. That would give him ten minutes for recovering fromthe effects of the race, and changing back into his ordinary clothesagain. It would be quick work. But, having come so far, he was notinclined to go back without running in the race. He would never be ableto hold his head up again if he did that. He left the dressing-tent, and started on a tour of the field. 

The scene was quite different from anything he had ever witnessedbefore in the way of sports. The sports at St Austin's were decorous toa degree. These leaned more to the rollickingly convivial. It was likean ordinary race-meeting, except that men were running instead ofhorses. Rutton was a quiet little place for the majority of the year, but it woke up on this day, and was evidently out to enjoy itself. TheRural Hooligan was a good deal in evidence, and though he wascomparatively quiet just at present, the frequency with which hevisited the various refreshment stalls that dotted the ground gavepromise of livelier times in the future. Charteris felt that theafternoon would not be dull. 

The hour soon passed, and Charteris, having first seen the OldestInhabitant's nevvy romp home in the egg and spoon event, took himselfoff to the dressing-tent, and began to get into his running clothes. The bell for his race was just ringing when he left the tent. Hetrotted over to the starting place. 

Apparently there was not a very large 'field'. Two weedy-looking youthsof about Charteris's age, dressed in blushing pink, put in anappearance, and a very tall, thin man came up almost immediatelyafterwards. Charteris had just removed his coat, and was about to getto his place on the line, when another competitor arrived, and, tojudge by the applause that greeted his appearance, he was evidently afavourite in the locality. It was with shock that Charteris recognizedhis old acquaintance, the Bargees' secretary. 

He was clad in running clothes of a bright orange and a smile ofconscious superiority, and when somebody in the crowd called out 'Goit, Jarge!' he accepted the tribute as his due, and waved acondescending hand in the speaker's direction. 

Some moments elapsed before he recognized Charteris, and the latter hadtime to decide upon his line of action. If he attempted concealment inany way, the man would recognize that on this occasion, at any rate, hehad, to use an adequate if unclassical expression, got the bulge, andthen there would be trouble. By brazening things out, however, therewas just a chance that he might make him imagine that there was more inthe matter than met the eye, and that, in some mysterious way, he hadactually obtained leave to visit Rutton that day. After all, the mandidn't know very much about School rules, and the recollection of therecent fiasco in which he had taken part would make him think twiceabout playing the amateur policeman again, especially in connectionwith Charteris. 

So he smiled genially, and expressed a hope that the man enjoyed robusthealth. 

The man replied by glaring in a simple and unaffected manner. 

'Looked up the Headmaster lately?' asked Charteris. 

'What are you doing here?'

'I'm going to run. Hope you don't mind. '

'You're out of bounds. '

'That's what you said before. You'd better enquire a bit before youmake rash statements. Otherwise, there's no knowing what may happen. Perhaps Mr Dacre has given me leave. '

The man said something objurgatory under his breath, but forbore tocontinue the discussion. He was wondering, as Charteris had expectedthat he would, whether the latter had really got leave or not. It was adifficult problem. 

Whether such a result was due to his mental struggles, or whether itwas simply to be attributed to his poor running, is open to question, but the fact remains that the secretary of the Old Crockfordians didnot shine in the strangers' mile. He came in last but one, vanquishingthe pink sportsman by a foot. Charteris, after a hot finish, was beatenon the tape by one of the weedy youths, who exhibited astoundingsprinting powers in the last two hundred yards, overhauling Charteris, who had led all the time, in fine style, and scoring what the_Stapleton Herald_ described as a 'highly popular victory'. 

As soon as he had recovered his normal stock of wind--which was notimmediately--it was borne in upon Charteris that if he wanted to catchthe five-fifteen back to Stapleton, he had better be beginning tochange. He went to the dressing-tent, and on examining his watch washorrified to find that he had just ten minutes in which to doeverything, and the walk to the station, he reflected, was a long fiveminutes. He literally hurled himself into his clothes, and, disregarding the Bargee, who had entered the tent and seemed to wish tocontinue the discussion at the point where they had left off, shot offtowards the gate nearest the station. He had exactly four minutes andtwenty-five seconds in which to complete the journey, and he had justrun a mile. 

_Chapter 5_

Fortunately the road was mainly level. On the other hand, he washampered by an overcoat. After the first hundred yards he took thisoff, and carried it in an unwieldy parcel. This, he found, answeredadmirably. Running became easier. He had worked the stiffness out ofhis legs by this time, and was going well. Three hundred yards from thestation it was anybody's race. The exact position of the othercompetitor, the train, could not be defined. It was at any rate not yetwithin earshot, which meant that it still had at least a quarter of amile to go. Charteris considered that he had earned a rest. He sloweddown to a walk, but after proceeding at this pace for a few yards, thought that he heard a distant whistle, and dashed on again. Suddenlya raucous bellow of laughter greeted his ears from a spot in front ofhim, hidden from his sight by a bend in the road. 

'Somebody slightly tight, ' thought Charteris, rapidly diagnosing thecase. 'By Jove, if he comes rotting about with me I'll kill him. 'Having to do anything in a desperate hurry always made Charteris'stemper slightly villainous. He turned the corner at a sharp trot, andcame upon two youths who seemed to be engaged in the harmlessoccupation of trying to ride a bicycle. They were of the type which heheld in especial aversion, the Rural Hooligan type, and one at least ofthe two had evidently been present at a recent circulation of thefestive bowl. He was wheeling the bicycle about the road in an aimlessmanner, and looked as if he wondered what was the matter with it thatit would not stay in the same place for two consecutive seconds. Theother youth was apparently of the 'Charles-his-friend' variety, contentto look on and applaud, and generally to play chorus to his companion's'lead'. He was standing at the side of the road, smiling broadly in away that argued feebleness of mind. Charteris was not quite sure whichof the two types he loathed the more. He was inclined to call it a tie. 

However, there seemed to be nothing particularly lawless in what theywere doing now. If they were content to let him pass without hindrance, he, for his part, was content generously to overlook the insult theyoffered him in daring to exist, and to maintain a state of truce. But, as he drew nearer, he saw that there was more in this business than thecasual spectator might at first have supposed. A second and keenerinspection of the reptiles revealed fresh phenomena. In the firstplace, the bicycle which Hooligan number one was playing with was alady's bicycle, and a small one at that. Now, up to the age of fourteenand the weight of ten stone, a beginner at cycling often finds it moreconvenient to learn to ride on a lady's machine than on a gentleman's. The former offers greater facilities for rapid dismounting, a qualitynot to be despised in the earlier stages of initiation. But, thoughthis is undoubtedly the case, and though Charteris knew that it was so, yet he felt instinctively that there was something wrong here. Hooligans of twenty years and twelve stone do not learn to ride onsmall ladies' machines, or, if they do, it is probably without thepermission of the small lady who owns the same. Valuable as his timewas, Charteris felt that it behoved him to spend a thoughtful minute orso examining into this affair. He slowed down once again to a walk, and, as he did so, his eye fell upon the character in the drama whoseabsence had puzzled him, the owner of the bicycle. And from that momenthe felt that life would be a hollow mockery if he failed to fall uponthose revellers and slay them. She stood by the hedge on the right, aforlorn little figure in grey, and she gazed sadly and helplessly atthe manoeuvres that were going on in the middle of the road. Her ageCharteris put down at a venture at twelve--a correct guess. Her stateof mind he also conjectured. She was letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'Iwould', like the late Macbeth, the cat i' the adage, and numerous othercelebrities. She evidently had plenty of remarks to make on the subjectin hand, but refrained from motives of prudence. 

Charteris had no such scruples. The feeling of fatigue that had beenupon him had vanished, and his temper, which had been growing steadilyworse for some twenty minutes, now boiled over gleefully at theprospect of something solid to work itself off upon. Even without acause Charteris detested the Rural Hooligan. Now that a real, copper-bottomed motive for this dislike had been supplied to him, hefelt himself capable of dealing with a whole regiment of the breed. Thecriminal with the bicycle had just let it fall with a crash to theground when Charteris went for him low, in the style which the Babealways insisted on seeing in members of the First Fifteen on thefootball field, and hove him without comment into a damp ditch. 'Charles his friend' uttered a shout of disapproval and rushed into thefray. Charteris gave him the straight left, of the type to which thegreat John Jackson is reported to have owed so much in the days of theold Prize Ring, and Charles, taking it between the eyes, stopped in adiscouraged and discontented manner, and began to rub the place. Whereupon Charteris dashed in, and, to use an expression suitable tothe deed, 'swung his right at the mark'. The 'mark', it may beexplained for the benefit of the non-pugilistic, is that portion of theanatomy which lies hid behind the third button of the human waistcoat. It covers--in a most inadequate way--the wind, and even a gentle tap inthe locality is apt to produce a fleeting sense of discomfort. Agenuine flush hit on the spot, shrewdly administered by a muscular armwith the weight of the body behind it, causes the passive agent in thetransaction to wish fervently, as far as he is at the moment physicallycapable of wishing anything, that he had never been born. 'Charles hisfriend' collapsed like an empty sack, and Charteris, getting a grip ofthe outlying portions of his costume, dragged him to the ditch androlled him in on top of his friend, who had just recovered sufficientlyto be thinking about getting out again. The pair of them lay there in atangled heap. Charteris picked up the bicycle and gave it a cursoryexamination. The enamel was a good deal scratched, but no materialdamage had been done. He wheeled it across to its owner. 

'It isn't much hurt, ' he said, as they walked on slowly together. 'Bitscratched, that's all. '

'Thanks _awfully_, ' said the small lady. 

'Oh, not at all, ' replied Charteris. 'I enjoyed it. ' (He felt he hadsaid the right thing there. Your real hero always 'enjoys it'. ) 'I'msorry those bargees frightened you. '

'They did rather. But'--she added triumphantly after a pause--'I didn'tcry. '

'Rather not, ' said Charteris. 'You were awfully plucky. I noticed. Buthadn't you better ride on? Which way were you going?'

'I wanted to get to Stapleton. '

'Oh. That's simple enough. You've merely got to go straight on downthis road, as straight as ever you can go. But, look here, you know, you shouldn't be out alone like this. It isn't safe. Why did they letyou?'

The lady avoided his eye. She bent down and inspected the left pedal. 

'They shouldn't have sent you out alone, ' said Charteris, 'why didthey?'

'They--they didn't. I came. '

There was a world of meaning in the phrase. Charteris felt that he wasin the same case. They had not let _him_. He had come. Here was akindred spirit, another revolutionary soul, scorning the fetters ofconvention and the so-called authority of self-constituted rules, aha!Bureaucrats!

'Shake hands, ' he said, 'I'm in just the same way. '

They shook hands gravely. 

'You know, ' said the lady, 'I'm awfully sorry I did it now. It was verynaughty. '

'I'm not sorry yet, ' said Charteris, 'I'm rather glad than otherwise. But I expect I shall be sorry before long. '

'Will you be sent to bed?'

'I don't think so. '

'Will you have to learn beastly poetry?'

'Probably not. '

She looked at him curiously, as if to enquire, 'then if you won't haveto learn poetry and you won't get sent to bed, what on earth is therefor you to worry about?'

She would probably have gone on to investigate the problem further, butat that moment there came the sound of a whistle. Then another, closerthis time. Then a faint rumbling, which increased in volume steadily. Charteris looked back. The railway line ran by the side of the road. Hecould see the smoke of a train through the trees. It was quite closenow, and coming closer every minute, and he was still quite a hundredand fifty yards from the station gates. 

'I say, ' he cried. 'Great Scott, here comes my train. I must rush. Good-bye. You keep straight on. '

His legs had had time to grow stiff again. For the first few stridesrunning was painful. But his joints soon adapted themselves to thestrain, and in ten seconds he was sprinting as fast as he had eversprinted off the running-track. When he had travelled a quarter of thedistance the small cyclist overtook him. 

'Be quick, ' she said, 'it's just in sight. '

Charteris quickened his stride, and, paced by the bicycle, spun alongin fine style. Forty yards from the station the train passed him. Hesaw it roll into the station. There were still twenty yards to go, exclusive of the station's steps, and he was already running as fast asit lay in him to run. Now there were only ten. Now five. And at last, with a hurried farewell to his companion, he bounded up the steps andon to the platform. At the end of the platform the line took a sharpcurve to the left. Round that curve the tail end of the guard's van wasjust disappearing. 

'Missed it, sir, ' said the solitary porter, who managed things atRutton, cheerfully. He spoke as if he was congratulating Charteris onhaving done something remarkably clever. 

'When's the next?' panted Charteris. 

'Eight-thirty, ' was the porter's appalling reply. 

For a moment Charteris felt quite ill. No train till eight-thirty! Thenwas he indeed lost. But it couldn't be true. There must be some sort ofa train between now and then. 

'Are you certain?' he said. 'Surely there's a train before that?'

'Why, yes, sir, ' said the porter gleefully, 'but they be all exprusses. Eight-thirty be the only 'un what starps at Rootton. '

'Thanks, ' said Charteris with marked gloom, 'I don't think that'll bemuch good to me. My aunt, what a hole I'm in. '

 The porter made a sympathetic and interrogative noise at the back ofhis throat, as if inviting him to explain everything. But Charterisfelt unequal to conversation. There are moments when one wants to bealone. He went down the steps again. When he got out into the road, hissmall cycling friend had vanished. Charteris was conscious of a feelingof envy towards her. She was doing the journey comfortably on abicycle. He would have to walk it. Walk it! He didn't believe he could. The strangers' mile, followed by the Homeric combat with the twoHooligans and that ghastly sprint to wind up with, had left himdecidedly unfit for further feats of pedestrianism. And it was eightmiles to Stapleton, if it was a yard, and another mile from Stapletonto St Austin's. Charteris, having once more invoked the name of hisaunt, pulled himself together with an effort, and limped gallantly onin the direction of Stapleton. But fate, so long hostile to him, atlast relented. A rattle of wheels approached him from behind. A thrillof hope shot through him at the sound. There was the prospect of alift. He stopped, and waited for the dog-cart--it sounded like adog-cart--to arrive. Then he uttered a shout of rapture, and began towave his arms like a semaphore. The man in the dog-cart was Dr Adamson. 

'Hullo, Charteris, ' said the Doctor, pulling up his horse, 'what areyou doing here?'

'Give me a lift, ' said Charteris, 'and I'll tell you. It's a long yarn. Can I get in?'

'Come along. Plenty of room. '

Charteris climbed up, and sank on to the cushioned seat with a sigh ofpleasure. What glorious comfort. He had never enjoyed anything more inhis life. 

'I'm nearly dead, ' he said, as the dog-cart went on again. 'This is howit all happened. You see, it was this way--'

And he embarked forthwith upon his narrative. 

_Chapter 6_

By special request the Doctor dropped Charteris within a hundred yardsof Merevale's door. 

'Good-night, ' he said. 'I don't suppose you will value my advice atall, but you may have it for what it is worth. I recommend you stopthis sort of game. Next time something will happen. '

'By Jove, yes, ' said Charteris, climbing painfully down from thedog-cart, 'I'll take that advice. I'm a reformed character from thisday onwards. This sort of thing isn't good enough. Hullo, there's thebell for lock-up. Good-night, Doctor, and thanks most awfully for thelift. It was frightfully kind of you. '

'Don't mention it, ' said Dr Adamson, 'it is always a privilege to be inyour company. When are you coming to tea with me again?'

'Whenever you'll have me. I must get leave, though, this time. '

'Yes. By the way, how's Graham? It is Graham, isn't it? The fellow whobroke his collar-bone?'

'Oh, he's getting on splendidly. Still in a sling, but it's almost wellagain now. But I must be off. Good-night. '

'Good-night. Come to tea next Monday. '

'Right, ' said Charteris; 'thanks awfully. '

He hobbled in at Merevale's gate, and went up to his study. The Babewas in there talking to Welch. 

'Hullo, ' said the Babe, 'here's Charteris. '

'What's left of him, ' said Charteris. 

'How did it go off?'

'Don't, please. '

'Did you win?' asked Welch. 

'No. Second. By a yard. Oh, Lord, I am dead. '

'Hot race?'

'Rather. It wasn't that, though. I had to sprint all the way to thestation, and missed my train by ten seconds at the end of it all. '

'Then how did you get here?'

'That was the one stroke of luck I've had this afternoon. I started towalk back, and after I'd gone about a quarter of a mile, Adamson caughtme up in his dog-cart. I suggested that it would be a Christian act onhis part to give me a lift, and he did. I shall remember Adamson in mywill. '

'Tell us what happened. '

'I'll tell thee everything I can, ' said Charteris. 'There's little torelate. I saw an aged, aged man a-sitting on a gate. Where do you wantme to begin?'

'At the beginning. Don't rot. '

'I was born, ' began Charteris, 'of poor but honest parents, who sentme to school at an early age in order that I might acquire a grasp ofthe Greek and Latin languages, now obsolete. I--'

'How did you lose?' enquired the Babe. 

'The other man beat me. If he hadn't, I should have won hands down. Oh, I say, guess who I met at Rutton. '

'Not a beak?'

'No. Almost as bad, though. The Bargee man who paced me from Stapleton. Man who crocked Tony. '

'Great _Scott_!' cried the Babe. 'Did he recognize you?'

'Rather. We had a very pleasant conversation. '

'If he reports you, ' began the Babe. 

'Who's that?'

Charteris looked up. Tony Graham had entered the study. 

'Hullo, Tony! Adamson told me to remember him to you. '

'So you've got back?'

Charteris confirmed the hasty guess. 

'But what are you talking about, Babe?' said Tony. 'Who's going to bereported, and who's going to report?'

The Babe briefly explained the situation. 

'If the man, ' he said, 'reports Charteris, he may get run in tomorrow, and then we shall have both our halves away against Dacre's. Charteris, you are a fool to go rotting about out of bounds like this. '

'Nay, dry the starting tear, ' said Charteris cheerfully. 'In the firstplace, I shouldn't get kept in on a Thursday anyhow. I should be shovedinto extra on Saturday. Also, I shrewdly conveyed to the Bargee theimpression that I was at Rutton by special permission. '

'He's bound to know that that can't be true, ' said Tony. 

'Well, I told him to think it over. You see, he got so badly left lasttime he tried to compass my downfall, that I shouldn't be a bitsurprised if he let the job alone this journey. '

'Let's hope so, ' said the Babe gloomily. 

'That's right, Babby, ' remarked Charteris encouragingly, nodding at thepessimist. 

'You buck up and keep looking on the bright side. It'll be all right. You see if it won't. If there's any running in to be done, I shall doit. I shall be frightfully fit tomorrow after all this dashing abouttoday. I haven't an ounce of superfluous flesh on me. I'm a fine, strapping specimen of sturdy young English manhood. And I'm going toplay a _very_ selfish game tomorrow, Babe. '

'Oh, my dear chap, you mustn't. ' The Babe's face wore an expression ofhorror. The success of the House-team in the final was very near to hisheart. He could not understand anyone jesting on the subject. Charterisrespected his anguish, and relieved it speedily. 

'I was only ragging, ' he said. 'Considering that our three-quarter lineis our one strong point, I'm not likely to keep the ball from it, if Iget a chance of getting it out. Make your mind easy, Babe. '

The final House-match was always a warmish game. The rivalry betweenthe various Houses was great, and the football cup especially wasfought for with immense keenness. Also, the match was the last fixtureof the season, and there was a certain feeling in the teams that ifthey _did_ happen to disable a man or two, it would not mattermuch. The injured sportsman would not be needed for School-matchpurposes for another six months. As a result of which philosophicalreflection, the tackling was ruled slightly energetic, and thehanding-off was done with vigour. 

This year, to add a sort of finishing touch, there was just a littleill-feeling between Dacre's and Merevale's. The cause of it was theBabe. Until the beginning of the term he had been a day boy. Then thenews began to circulate that he was going to become a boarder, eitherat Dacre's or at Merevale's. He chose the latter, and Dacre's feltslightly aggrieved. Some of the less sportsmanlike members of the Househad proposed that a protest should be made against his being allowed toplay, but, fortunately for the credit of Dacre's, Prescott, the captainof the House Fifteen, had put his foot down with an emphatic bang atthe suggestion. As he sagely pointed out, there were some things whichwere bad form, and this was one of them. If the team wanted to expresstheir disapproval, said he, let them do it on the field by tacklingtheir very hardest. He personally was going to do his best, and headvised them to do the same. 

The rumour of this bad blood had got about the School in somemysterious manner, and when Swift, Merevale's only First Fifteenforward, kicked off up the hill, a large crowd was lining the ropes. Itwas evident from the outset that it would be a good game. 

Dacre's were the better side--as a team. They had no really weak spot. But Merevale's extraordinarily strong three-quarter line somewhat madeup for an inferior scrum. And the fact that the Babe was in the centrewas worth much. 

At first Dacre's pressed. Their pack was unusually heavy for aHouse-team, and they made full use of it. They took the ball down thefield in short rushes till they were in Merevale's twenty-five. Thenthey began to heel, and, if things had been more or less exciting forthe Merevalians before, they became doubly so now. The ground was dry, and so was the ball, and the game consequently waxed fast. Time aftertime the ball went along Dacre's three-quarter line, only to end byfinding itself hurled, with the wing who was carrying it, into touch. Occasionally the centres, instead of feeding their wings, would try tododge through themselves. And that was where the Babe came in. He wasadmittedly the best tackler in the School, but on this occasion heexcelled himself. His man never had a chance of getting past. At last alofty kick into touch over the heads of the spectators gave the playersa few seconds' rest. 

The Babe went up to Charteris. 

'Look here, ' he said, 'it's risky, but I think we'll try having theball out a bit. '

'In our own twenty-five?' said Charteris. 

'Wherever we are. I believe it will come off all right. Anyway, we'lltry it. Tell the forwards. '

For forwards playing against a pack much heavier than themselves, it iseasier to talk about letting the ball out than to do it. The first halfdozen times that Merevale's scrum tried to heel they were shoved offtheir feet, and it was on the enemy's side that the ball went out. Butthe seventh attempt succeeded. Out it came, cleanly and speedily. Daintree, who was playing instead of Tony, switched it across toCharteris. Charteris dodged the half who was marking him, and ran. Heeling and passing in one's own twenty-five is like smoking--anexcellent practice if indulged in in moderation. On this occasion itanswered perfectly. Charteris ran to the half-way line, and handed theball on to the Babe. The Babe was tackled from behind, and passed toThomson. Thomson dodged his man, and passed to Welch on the wing. Welchwas the fastest sprinter in the School. It was a pleasure--if you didnot happen to be one of the opposing side--to see him race down thetouch-line. He was off like an arrow. Dacre's back made a futileattempt to get at him. Welch could have given the back fifteen yards ina hundred. He ran round him, and, amidst terrific applause from theMerevale's-supporting section of the audience, scored between theposts. The Babe took the kick and converted without difficulty. Fiveminutes afterwards the whistle blew for half-time. 

The remainder of the game does not call for detailed description. Dacre's pressed nearly the whole of the last half hour, but twice morethe ball came out and went down Merevale's three-quarter line. Once itwas the Babe who scored with a run from his own goal-line, and onceCharteris, who got in from half-way, dodging through the whole team. The last ten minutes of the game was marked by a slight excess ofenergy on both sides. Dacre's forwards were in a decidedly bad temper, and fought like tigers to break through, and Merevale's played up tothem with spirit. The Babe seemed continually to be precipitatinghimself at the feet of rushing forwards, and Charteris felt as if atleast a dozen bones were broken in various portions of his anatomy. Thegame ended on Merevale's line, but they had won the match and the cupby two goals and a try to nothing. 

Charteris limped off the field, cheerful but damaged. He ached allover, and there was a large bruise on his left cheek-bone. He and Babewere going to the House, when they were aware that the Headmaster wasbeckoning to them. 

'Well, MacArthur, and what was the result of the match?'

'We won, sir, ' boomed the Babe. 'Two goals and a try to _nil_. '

'You have hurt your cheek, Charteris?'

'Yes, sir. '

'How did you do that?'

'I got a kick, sir, in one of the rushes. '

'Ah. I should bathe it, Charteris. Bathe it well. I hope it will not bevery painful. Bathe it well in warm water. '

He walked on. 

'You know, ' said Charteris to the Babe, as they went into the House, 'the Old Man isn't such a bad sort after all. He has his points, don'tyou think?'

The Babe said that he did. 

'I'm going to reform, you know, ' continued Charteris confidentially. 

'It's about time, ' said the Babe. 'You can have the bath first if youlike. Only buck up. '

Charteris boiled himself for ten minutes, and then dragged his wearylimbs to his study. It was while he was sitting in a deck-chair eatingmixed biscuits, and wondering if he would ever be able to summon upsufficient energy to put on garments of civilization, that somebodyknocked at the door. 

'Yes, ' shouted Charteris. 'What is it? Don't come in. I'm changing. '

The melodious treble of Master Crowinshaw, his fag, made itself heardthrough the keyhole. 

'The Head told me to tell you that he wanted to see you at the SchoolHouse as soon as you can go. '

'All right, ' shouted Charteris. 'Thanks. '

'Now what, ' he continued to himself, 'does the Old Man want to see mefor? Perhaps he wants to make certain that I've bathed my cheek in warmwater. Anyhow, I suppose I must go. '

A quarter of an hour later he presented himself at the Headmagisterialdoor. The sedate Parker, the Head's butler, who always filled Charteriswith a desire to dig him hard in the ribs just to see what wouldhappen, ushered him into the study. 

The Headmaster was reading by the light of a lamp when Charteris camein. He laid down his book, and motioned him to a seat; after whichthere was an awkward pause. 

'I have just received, ' began the Head at last, 'a most unpleasantcommunication. Most unpleasant. From whom it comes I do not know. Itis, in fact--er--anonymous. I am sorry that I ever read it. '

He stopped. Charteris made no comment. He guessed what was coming. He, too, was sorry that the Head had ever read the letter. 

'The writer says that he saw you, that he actually spoke to you, at theathletic sports at Rutton yesterday. I have called you in to tell me ifthat is true. ' The Head fastened an accusing eye on his companion. 

'It is quite true, sir, ' said Charteris steadily. 

'What!' said the Head sharply. 'You were at Rutton?'

'Yes, sir. '

'You were perfectly aware, I suppose, that you were breaking the Schoolrules by going there, Charteris?' enquired the Head in a cold voice. 

'Yes, sir. ' There was another pause. 

'This is very serious, ' began the Head. 'I cannot overlook this. I--'

There was a slight scuffle of feet in the passage outside. The doorflew open vigorously, and a young lady entered. It was, as Charterisrecognized in a minute, his acquaintance of the afternoon, the younglady of the bicycle. 

'Uncle, ' she said, 'have you seen my book anywhere?'

'Hullo!' she broke off as her eye fell on Charteris. 

'Hullo!' said Charteris, affably, not to be outdone in the courtesies. 

'Did you catch your train?'

'No. Missed it. '

'Hullo! what's the matter with your cheek?'

'I got a kick on it. '

'Oh, does it hurt?'

'Not much, thanks. '

Here the Head, feeling perhaps a little out of it, put in his oar. 

'Dorothy, you must not come here now. I am busy. And how, may I ask, doyou and Charteris come to be acquainted?'

'Why, he's him, ' said Dorothy lucidly. 

The Head looked puzzled. 

'Him. The chap, you know. '

It is greatly to the Head's credit that he grasped the meaning of thesewords. Long study of the classics had quickened his faculty for seeingsense in passages where there was none. The situation dawned upon him. 

'Do you mean to tell me, Dorothy, that it was Charteris who came toyour assistance yesterday?'

Dorothy nodded energetically. 

'He gave the men beans, ' she said. 'He did, really, ' she went on, regardless of the Head's look of horror. 'He used right and left withconsiderable effect. '

Dorothy's brother, a keen follower of the Ring, had been good enoughsome days before to read her out an extract from an account in _TheSportsman_ of a match at the National Sporting Club, and the accounthad been much to her liking. She regarded it as a masterpiece ofEnglish composition. 

'Dorothy, ' said the Headmaster, 'run away to bed. ' A suggestion whichshe treated with scorn, it wanting a clear two hours to her legalbedtime. 'I must speak to your mother about your deplorable habit ofusing slang. Dear me, I must certainly speak to her. '

And, shamefully unabashed, Dorothy retired. 

The Head was silent for a few minutes after she had gone; then heturned to Charteris again. 

'In consideration of this, Charteris, I shall--er--mitigate slightlythe punishment I had intended to give you. '

Charteris murmured his gratification. 

'But, ' continued the Head sternly, 'I cannot overlook the offence. Ihave my duty to consider. You will therefore write me--er--ten lines ofVirgil by tomorrow evening, Charteris. '

'Yes, sir. '

'Latin _and_ English, ' said the relentless pedagogue. 

'Yes, sir. '

'And, Charteris--I am speaking now--er--unofficially, not as aheadmaster, you understand--if in future you would cease to breakSchool rules simply as a matter of principle, for that, I fancy, is whatit amounts to, I--er--well, I think we should get on better together. And that is, on my part at least, a consummation--er--devoutly to bewished. Good-night, Charteris. '

'Good-night, sir. '

The Head extended a large hand. Charteris took it, and his departure. 

The Headmaster opened his book again, and turned over a new leaf. Charteris at the same moment, walking slowly in the direction ofMerevale's, was resolving for the future to do the very same thing. Andhe did. 

[9]

HOW PAYNE BUCKED UP

It was Walkinshaw's affair from the first. Grey, the captain of the StAustin's Fifteen, was in the infirmary nursing a bad knee. To him cameCharles Augustus Walkinshaw with a scheme. Walkinshaw was footballsecretary, and in Grey's absence acted as captain. Besides these twothere were only a couple of last year's team left--Reade and Barrett, both of Philpott's House. 

'Hullo, Grey, how's the knee?' said Walkinshaw. 

'How's the team getting on?' he said. 

'Well, as far as I can see, ' said Walkinshaw, 'we ought to have arather good season, if you'd only hurry up and come back. We beat ajolly hot lot of All Comers yesterday. Smith was playing for them. TheBlue, you know. And lots of others. We got a goal and a try to_nil_. '

'Good, ' said Grey. 'Who did anything for us? Who scored?'

'I got in once. Payne got the other. '

'By Jove, did he? What sort of a game is he playing this year?'

The moment had come for Walkinshaw to unburden himself to his scheme. He proceeded to do so. 

'Not up to much, ' he said. 'Look here, Grey, I've got rather an idea. It's my opinion Payne's not bucking up nearly as much as he might. Doyou mind if I leave him out of the next game?'

Grey stared. The idea was revolutionary. 

'What! Leave him out? My good man, he'll be the next chap to get hiscolours. He's a cert. For his cap. '

'That's just it. He knows he's a cert. , and he's slacking on thestrength of it. Now, my idea is that if you slung him out for a matchor two, he'd buck up extra hard when he came into the team again. Can'tI have a shot at it?'

Grey weighed the matter. Walkinshaw pressed home his arguments. 

'You see, it isn't like cricket. At cricket, of course, it might put achap off awfully to be left out, but I don't see how it can hurt aman's play at footer. Besides, he's beginning to stick on sidealready. '

'Is he, by Jove?' said Grey. This was the unpardonable sin. 'Well, I'lltell you what you can do if you like. Get up a scratch game, FirstFifteen _v. _ Second, and make him captain of the Second. '

'Right, ' said Walkinshaw, and retired beaming. 

Walkinshaw, it may be remarked at once, to prevent mistakes, was awell-meaning idiot. There was no doubt about his being well-meaning. Also, there was no doubt about his being an idiot. He was continuallygetting insane ideas into his head, and being unable to get them outagain. This matter of Payne was a good example of his customarymethods. He had put his hand on the one really first-class forward StAustin's possessed, and proposed to remove him from the team. And yetthrough it all he was perfectly well-meaning. The fact that personallyhe rather disliked Payne had, to do him justice, no weight at all withhim. He would have done the same by his bosom friend under likecircumstances. This is the only excuse that can be offered for him. Itwas true that Payne regarded himself as a certainty for his colours, asfar as anything can be considered certain in this vale of sorrow. Butto accuse him of trading on this, and, to use the vernacular, ofputting on side, was unjust to a degree. 

On the afternoon following this conversation Payne, who was a member ofDacre's House, came into his study and banged his books down on thetable with much emphasis. This was a sign that he was feelingdissatisfied with the way in which affairs were conducted in the world. Bowden, who was asleep in an armchair--he had been staying in with acold--woke with a start. Bowden shared Payne's study. He played centrethree-quarter for the Second Fifteen. 

'Hullo!' he said. 

Payne grunted. Bowden realized that matters had not been going wellwith him. He attempted to soothe him with conversation, choosing whathe thought would be a congenial topic. 

'What's on on Saturday?' he asked. 

'Scratch game. First _v. _ Second. '

Bowden groaned. 

'I know those First _v. _ Second games, ' he said. 'They turn theSecond out to get butchered for thirty-five minutes each way, toimprove the First's combination. It may be fun for the First, but it'snot nearly so rollicking for us. Look here, Payne, if you find me withthe pill at any time, you can let me down easy, you know. You needn'tgo bringing off any of your beastly gallery tackles. '

'I won't, ' said Payne. 'To start with, it would be against rules. Wehappen to be on the same side. '

'Rot, man; I'm not playing for the First. ' This was the onlyexplanation that occurred to him. 

'I'm playing for the Second. '

'What! Are you certain?'

'I've seen the list. They're playing Babington instead of me. '

'But why? Babington's no good. '

'I think they have a sort of idea I'm slacking or something. At anyrate, Walkinshaw told me that if I bucked up I might get tried again. '

'Silly goat, ' said Bowden. 'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to take his advice, and buck up. '

II

He did. At the beginning of the game the ropes were lined by somethirty spectators, who had come to derive a languid enjoyment fromseeing the First pile up a record score. By half-time their numbers hadrisen to an excited mob of something over three hundred, and the secondhalf of the game was fought out to the accompaniment of a storm ofyells and counter yells such as usually only belonged toschool-matches. The Second Fifteen, after a poor start, suddenly awoketo the fact that this was not going to be the conventional massacre byany means. The First had scored an unconverted try five minutes afterthe kick-off, and it was after this that the Second began to gettogether. The school back bungled the drop out badly, and had to findtouch in his own twenty-five, and after that it was anyone's game. Thescrums were a treat to behold. Payne was a monument of strength. Timeafter time the Second had the ball out to their three-quarters, andjust after half-time Bowden slipped through in the corner. The kickfailed, and the two teams, with their scores equal now, settled downgrimly to fight the thing out to a finish. But though they remained ontheir opponents' line for most of the rest of the game, the Second didnot add to their score, and the match ended in a draw of three pointsall. 

The first intimation Grey received of this came to him late in theevening. He had been reading a novel which, whatever its other meritsmay have been, was not interesting, and it had sent him to sleep. Heawoke to hear a well-known voice observe with some unction: 'Ah! M'yes. Leeches and hot fomentations. ' This effectually banished sleep. Ifthere were two things in the world that he loathed, they were leechesand hot fomentations, and the School doctor apparently regarded them asa panacea for every kind of bodily ailment, from a fractured skull to acold in the head. It was this gentleman who had just spoken, but Grey'salarm vanished as he perceived that the words had no personalapplication to himself. The object of the remark was a fellow-suffererin the next bed but one. Now Grey was certain that when he had fallenasleep there had been nobody in that bed. When, therefore, the medicalexpert had departed on his fell errand, the quest of leeches and hotfomentations, he sat up and gave tongue. 

'Who's that in that bed?' he asked. 

'Hullo, Grey, ' replied a voice. 'Didn't know you were awake. I've cometo keep you company. '

'That you, Barrett? What's up with you?'

'Collar-bone. Dislocated it or something. Reade's over in that corner. He has bust his ankle. Oh, yes, we've been having a nice, cheeryafternoon, ' concluded Barrett bitterly. 

'Great Scott! How did it happen?'

'Payne. '

'Where? In your collar-bone?'

'Yes. That wasn't what I meant, though. What I was explaining was thatPayne got hold of me in the middle of the field, and threw me intotouch. After which he fell on me. That was enough for my simple needs. I'm not grasping. '

'How about Reade?'

'The entire Second scrum collapsed on top of Reade. When we dug him outhis ankle was crocked. Mainspring gone, probably. Then they gathered upthe pieces and took them gently away. I don't know how it all ended. '

Just then Walkinshaw burst into the room. He had a large bruise overone eye, his arm was in a sling, and he limped. But he was in excellentspirits. 

'I knew I was right, by Jove, ' he observed to Grey. 'I knew he couldbuck up if he liked. '

'I know it now, ' said Barrett. 

'Who's this you're talking about?' said Grey. 

'Payne. I've never seen anything like the game he played today. He waseverywhere. And, by Jove, his _tackling_!'

'Don't, ' said Barrett, wearily. 

'It's the best match I ever played in, ' said Walkinshaw, bubbling overwith enthusiasm. 'Do you know, the Second had all the best of thegame. '

'What was the score?'

'Draw. One try all. '

'And now I suppose you're satisfied?' enquired Barrett. The greatscheme for the regeneration of Payne had been confided to him by itsproud patentee. 

'Almost, ' said Walkinshaw. 'We'll continue the treatment for one moregame, and then we'll have him simply fizzing for the Windybury match. That's next Saturday. By the way, I'm afraid you'll hardly be fit againin time for that, Barrett, will you?'

'I may possibly, ' said Barrett, coldly, 'be getting about again in timefor the Windybury match of the year after next. This year I'm afraid Ishall not have the pleasure. And I should strongly advise you, if youdon't want to have to put a team of cripples into the field, todiscontinue the treatment, as you call it. '

'Oh, I don't know, ' said Walkinshaw. 

On the following Wednesday evening, at five o'clock, something wascarried in on a stretcher, and deposited in the bed which lay betweenGrey and Barrett. Close scrutiny revealed the fact that it was what hadonce been Charles Augustus Walkinshaw. He was slightly broken up. 

'Payne?' enquired Grey in chilly tones. 

Walkinshaw admitted the impeachment. 

Grey took a pencil and a piece of paper from the table at his side. 'Ifyou want to know what I'm doing, ' he said, 'I'm writing out the teamfor the Windybury match, and I'm going to make Payne captain, as thesenior Second Fifteen man. And if we win I'm jolly well going to givehim his cap after the match. If we don't win, it'll be the fault of araving lunatic of the name of Walkinshaw, with his beastly Colney Hatchschemes for reforming slack forwards. You utter rotter!'

Fortunately for the future peace of mind of C. A. Walkinshaw, thelatter contingency did not occur. The School, in spite of itsabsentees, contrived to pull the match off by a try to _nil_. Payne, as was only right and proper, scored the try, making his waythrough the ranks of the visiting team with the quiet persistence of asteam-roller. After the game he came to tea, by request, at theinfirmary, and was straightaway invested by Grey with his First Fifteencolours. On his arrival he surveyed the invalids with interest. 

'Rough game, footer, ' he observed at length. 

'Don't mention it, ' said Barrett politely. 'Leeches, ' he addeddreamily. 'Leeches and hot fomentations. _Boiling_ fomentations. Will somebody kindly murder Walkinshaw!'

'Why?' asked Payne, innocently. 

[10]

AUTHOR!

J. S. M. Babington, of Dacre's House, was on the horns of a dilemma. Circumstances over which he had had no control had brought him, likeanother Hercules, to the cross-roads, and had put before him the choicebetween pleasure and duty, or, rather, between pleasure and what thosein authority called duty. Being human, he would have had littledifficulty in making his decision, had not the path of pleasure been sohedged about by danger as to make him doubt whether after all the thingcould be carried through. 

The facts in the case were these. It was the custom of the mathematicalset to which J. S. M. Babington belonged, 4B to wit, to relieve thetedium of the daily lesson with a species of round game which wasplayed as follows. As soon as the master had taken his seat, one of theplayers would execute a manoeuvre calculated to draw attention onhimself, such as dropping a book or upsetting the blackboard. Called upto the desk to give explanation, he would embark on an eloquent speechfor the defence. This was the cue for the next player to begin. Hispart consisted in making his way to the desk and testifying to themoral excellence of his companion, and giving in full the reasons whyhe should be discharged without a stain upon his character. As soon ashe had warmed to his work he would be followed by a third player, andso on until the standing room around the desk was completely filledwith a great cloud of witnesses. The duration of the game varied, ofcourse, considerably. On some occasions it could be played through withsuch success, that the master would enter into the spirit of the thing, and do his best to book the names of all offenders at one and the sametime, a feat of no inconsiderable difficulty. At other times matterswould come to a head more rapidly. In any case, much innocent fun wasto be derived from it, and its popularity was great. On the day, however, on which this story opens, a new master had been temporarilyloosed into the room in place of the Rev. Septimus Brown, who had beenthere as long as the oldest inhabitant could remember. The Rev. Septimus was a wrangler, but knew nothing of the ways of the human boy. His successor, Mr Reginald Seymour, was a poor mathematician, but agood master. He had been, moreover, a Cambridge Rugger Blue. This factalone should have ensured him against the customary pleasantries, for aBlue is a man to be respected. It was not only injudicious, therefore, but positively wrong of Babington to plunge against the blackboard onhis way to his place. If he had been a student of Tennyson, he mighthave remembered that the old order is in the habit of changing andyielding place to the new. 

Mr Seymour looked thoughtfully for a momentat the blackboard. 

'That was rather a crude effort, ' he said pleasantly to Babington, 'youlack _finesse_. Pick it up again, please. '

Babington picked it up without protest. Under the rule of the Rev. Septimus this would have been the signal for the rest of the class toleave their places and assist him, but now they seemed to realize thatthere was a time for everything, and that this was decidedly no timefor indoor games. 

'Thank you, ' said Mr Seymour, when the board was in its place again. 'What is your name? Eh, what? I didn't quite hear. '

'Babington, sir. '

'Ah. You had better come in tomorrow at two and work out examples threehundred to three-twenty in "Hall and Knight". There is really plenty ofroom to walk in between that desk and the blackboard. It only wantspractice. '

What was left of Babington then went to his seat. He felt that hisreputation as an artistic player of the game had received a shatteringblow. Then there was the imposition. This in itself would have troubledhim little. To be kept in on a half-holiday is annoying, but it is oneof those ills which the flesh is heir to, and your true philosopher canalways take his gruel like a man. 

But it so happened that by the evening post he had received a letterfrom a cousin of his, who was a student at Guy's, and from all accountswas building up a great reputation in the medical world. From thisletter it appeared that by a complicated process of knowing people whoknew other people who had influence with the management, he hadcontrived to obtain two tickets for a morning performance of the newpiece that had just been produced at one of the theatres. And if Mr J. S. M. Babington wished to avail himself of the opportunity, would hewrite by return, and be at Charing Cross Underground bookstall attwenty past two. 

Now Babington, though he objected strongly to the drama of ancientGreece, was very fond of that of the present day, and he registered avow that if the matter could possibly be carried through, it should be. His choice was obvious. He could cut his engagement with Mr Seymour, orhe could keep it. The difficulty lay rather in deciding upon one orother of the alternatives. The whole thing turned upon the extent ofthe penalty in the event of detection. 

That was his dilemma. He sought advice. 

'I should risk it, ' said his bosom friend Peterson. 

'I shouldn't advise you to, ' remarked Jenkins. 

Jenkins was equally a bosom friend, and in the matter of wisdom in noway inferior to Peterson. 

'What would happen, do you think?' asked Babington. 

'Sack, ' said one authority. 

'Jaw, and double impot, ' said another. 

'The _Daily Telegraph_, ' muttered the tempter in a stage aside, 'calls it the best comedy since Sheridan. '

'So it does, ' thought Babington. 'I'll risk it. '

'You'll be a fool if you do, ' croaked the gloomy Jenkins. 'You're boundto be caught. ' But the Ayes had it. Babington wrote off that nightaccepting the invitation. 

It was with feelings of distinct relief that he heard Mr Seymourexpress to another master his intention of catching the twelve-fifteentrain up to town. It meant that he would not be on the scene to see himstart on the 'Hall and Knight'. Unless luck were very much against him, Babington might reasonably hope that he would accept the impositionwithout any questions. He had taken the precaution to get the examplesfinished overnight, with the help of Peterson and Jenkins, aided by aweird being who actually appeared to like algebra, and turned out tenof the twenty problems in an incredibly short time in exchange for acouple of works of fiction (down) and a tea (at a date). He himselfmeant to catch the one-thirty, which would bring him to town in goodtime. Peterson had promised to answer his name at roll-call, a delicateoperation, in which long practice had made him, like many others of thejunior members of the House, no mean proficient. 

It would be pleasant for a conscientious historian to be able to saythat the one-thirty broke down just outside Victoria, and thatBabington arrived at the theatre at the precise moment when the curtainfell and the gratified audience began to stream out. But truth, thoughit crush me. The one-thirty was so punctual that one might have thoughtthat it belonged to a line other than the line to which it did belong. From Victoria to Charing Cross is a journey that occupies noconsiderable time, and Babington found himself at his destination withfive minutes to wait. At twenty past his cousin arrived, and they madetheir way to the theatre. A brief skirmish with a liveried menial inthe lobby, and they were in their seats. 

Some philosopher, of extraordinary powers of intuition, once informedthe world that the best of things come at last to an end. The statementwas tested, and is now universally accepted as correct. To apply thegeneral to the particular, the play came to an end amidst uproariousapplause, to which Babington contributed an unstinted quotum, aboutthree hours after it had begun. 

'What do you say to going and grubbing somewhere?' asked Babington'scousin, as they made their way out. 

'Hullo, there's that man Richards, ' he continued, before Babingtoncould reply that of all possible actions he considered that of goingand grubbing somewhere the most desirable. 'Fellow I know at Guy's, youknow, ' he added, in explanation. 'I'll get him to join us. You'll likehim, I expect. '

Richards professed himself delighted, and shook hands with Babingtonwith a fervour which seemed to imply that until he had met him life hadbeen a dreary blank, but that now he could begin to enjoy himselfagain. 'I should like to join you, if you don't mind including a friendof mine in the party, ' said Richards. 'He was to meet me here. By theway, he's the author of that new piece--_The Way of the World. '_

'Why, we've just been there. '

'Oh, then you will probably like to meet him. Here he is. '

As he spoke a man came towards them, and, with a shock that sent allthe blood in his body to the very summit of his head, and then to thevery extremities of his boots, Babington recognized Mr Seymour. Theassurance of the programme that the play was by Walter Walsh was afraud. Nay worse, a downright and culpable lie. He started with thevague idea of making a rush for safety, but before his paralysed limbscould be induced to work, Mr Seymour had arrived, and he was beingintroduced (oh, the tragic irony of it) to the man for whose benefit hewas at that very moment supposed to be working out examples threehundred to three-twenty in 'Hall and Knight'. 

Mr Seymour shook hands, without appearing to recognize him. Babington'sblood began to resume its normal position again, though he felt thatthis seeming ignorance of his identity might be a mere veneer, a wileof guile, as the bard puts it. He remembered, with a pang, a story insome magazine where a prisoner was subjected to what the light-heartedinquisitors called the torture of hope. He was allowed to escape fromprison, and pass guards and sentries apparently without their noticinghim. Then, just as he stepped into the open air, the chief inquisitortapped him gently on the shoulder, and, more in sorrow than in anger, reminded him that it was customary for condemned men to remain_inside_ their cells. Surely this was a similar case. But then thethought came to him that Mr Seymour had only seen him once, and somight possibly have failed to remember him, for there was nothingspecial about Babington's features that arrested the eye, and stampedthem on the brain for all time. He was rather ordinary than otherwiseto look at. At tea, as bad luck would have it, the two sat opposite oneanother, and Babington trembled. Then the worst happened. Mr Seymour, who had been looking attentively at him for some time, leaned forwardand said in a tone evidently devoid of suspicion: 'Haven't we metbefore somewhere? I seem to remember your face. '

'Er--no, no, ' replied Babington. 'That is, I think not. We may have. '

'I feel sure we have. What school are you at?'

Babington's soul began to writhe convulsively. 

'What, what school? Oh, what _school_? Why, er--I'mat--er--Uppingham. '

Mr Seymour's face assumed a pleased expression. 

'Uppingham? Really. Why, I know several Uppingham fellows. Do you knowMr Morton? He's a master at Uppingham, and a great friend of mine. '

The room began to dance briskly before Babington's eyes, but heclutched at a straw, or what he thought was a straw. 

'Uppingham? Did I say Uppingham? Of course, I mean Rugby, you know, Rugby. One's always mixing the two up, you know. Isn't one?'

Mr Seymour looked at him in amazement. Then he looked at the others asif to ask which of the two was going mad, he or the youth opposite him. Babington's cousin listened to the wild fictions which issued from hislips in equal amazement. He thought he must be ill. Even Richards had afleeting impression that it was a little odd that a fellow shouldforget what school he was at, and mistake the name Rugby for that ofUppingham, or _vice versa_. Babington became an object ofinterest. 

'I say, Jack, ' said the cousin, 'you're feeling all right, aren't you?I mean, you don't seem to know what you're talking about. If you'regoing to be ill, say so, and I'll prescribe for you. '

'Is he at Rugby?' asked Mr Seymour. 

'No, of course he's not. How could he have got from Rugby to London intime for a morning performance? Why, he's at St Austin's. '

Mr Seymour sat for a moment in silence, taking this in. Then hechuckled. 'It's all right, ' he said, 'he's not ill. We have met before, but under such painful circumstances that Master Babington verythoughtfully dissembled, in order not to remind me of them. '

He gave a brief synopsis of what had occurred. The audience, exclusiveof Babington, roared with laughter. 

'I suppose, ' said the cousin, 'you won't prosecute, will you? It'sreally such shocking luck, you know, that you ought to forget you're amaster. '

Mr Seymour stirred his tea and added another lump of sugar verycarefully before replying. Babington watched him in silence, and wishedthat he would settle the matter quickly, one way or the other. 

'Fortunately for Babington, ' said Mr Seymour, 'and unfortunately forthe cause of morality, I am not a master. I was only a stop-gap, and myterm of office ceased today at one o'clock. Thus the prisoner at thebar gets off on a technical point of law, and I trust it will be alesson to him. I suppose you had the sense to do the imposition?'

'Yes, sir, I sat up last night. '

'Good. Now, if you'll take my advice, you'll reform, or anotherday you'll come to a bad end. By the way, how did you manage aboutroll-call today?'

'I thought that was an awfully good part just at the end of the firstact, ' said Babington. 

Mr Seymour smiled. Possibly from gratification. 

'Well, how did it go off?' asked Peterson that night. 

'Don't, old chap, ' said Babington, faintly. 

'I told you so, ' said Jenkins at a venture. 

But when he had heard the whole story he withdrew the remark, andcommented on the wholly undeserved good luck some people seemed toenjoy. 

[11]

'THE TABBY TERROR'

The struggle between Prater's cat and Prater's cat's conscience wasshort, and ended in the hollowest of victories for the former. Theconscience really had no sort of chance from the beginning. It was weakby nature and flabby from long want of exercise, while the cat was inexcellent training, and was, moreover, backed up by a strongtemptation. It pocketed the stakes, which consisted of most of thecontents of a tin of sardines, and left unostentatiously by the window. When Smith came in after football, and found the remains, he wassurprised, and even pained. When Montgomery entered soon afterwards, hequestioned him on the subject. 

'I say, have you been having a sort of preliminary canter with thebanquet?'

'No, ' said Montgomery. 'Why?'

'Somebody has, ' said Smith, exhibiting the empty tin. 'Doesn't seem tohave had such a bad appetite, either. '

'This reminds me of the story of the great bear, the medium bear, andthe little ditto, ' observed Montgomery, who was apt at an analogy. 'Youmay remember that when the great bear found his porridge tampered with, he--'

At this point Shawyer entered. He had been bidden to the feast, and wasfeeling ready for it. 

'Hullo, tea ready?' he asked. 

Smith displayed the sardine tin in much the same manner as the conjurershows a pack of cards when he entreats you to choose one, and rememberthe number. 

'You haven't finished already, surely? Why, it's only just five. '

'We haven't even begun, ' said Smith. 'That's just the difficulty. Thequestion is, who has been on the raid in here?'

'No human being has done this horrid thing, ' said Montgomery. He alwaysliked to introduce a Holmes-Watsonian touch into the conversation. 'Inthe first place, the door was locked, wasn't it, Smith?'

'By Jove, so it was. Then how on earth--?'

'Through the window, of course. The cat, equally of course. I shouldlike a private word with that cat. '

'I suppose it must have been. '

'Of course it was. Apart from the merely circumstantial evidence, whichis strong enough to hang it off its own bat, we have absolute proof ofits guilt. Just cast your eye over that butter. You follow me, Watson?'

The butter was submitted to inspection. In the very centre of it therewas a footprint. 

'_I_ traced his little footprints in the butter, ' said Montgomery. 'Now, is that the mark of a human foot?'

The jury brought in a unanimous verdict of guilty against the missinganimal, and over a sorrowful cup of tea, eked out with bread andjam--butter appeared to be unpopular--discussed the matter in all itsbearings. The cat had not been an inmate of Prater's House for a verylong time, and up till now what depredation it had committed had beenconfined to the official larder. Now, however, it had evidently got itshand in, and was about to commence operations upon a more extensivescale. The Tabby Terror had begun. Where would it end? The generalopinion was that something would have to be done about it. No oneseemed to know exactly what to do. Montgomery spoke darkly of bricks, bits of string, and horse-ponds. Smith rolled the word 'rat-poison'luxuriously round his tongue. Shawyer, who was something of an experton the range, babbled of air-guns. 

At tea on the following evening the first really serious engagement ofthe campaign took place. The cat strolled into the tea-room in thepatronizing way characteristic of his kind, but was heavily shelledwith lump-sugar, and beat a rapid retreat. That was the signal for theoutbreak of serious hostilities. From that moment its paw was againstevery man, and the tale of the things it stole is too terrible torelate in detail. It scored all along the line. Like Death in the poem, it knocked at the doors of the highest and the lowest alike. Or rather, it did not exactly knock. It came in without knocking. The palace ofthe prefect and the hovel of the fag suffered equally. Trentham, thehead of the House, lost sausages to an incredible amount one evening, and the next day Ripton, of the Lower Third, was robbed of his one ewelamb in the shape of half a tin of anchovy paste. Panic reigned. 

It was after this matter of the sausages that a luminous idea occurredto Trentham. He had been laid up with a slight football accident, andhis family, reading between the lines of his written statement that he'had got crocked at footer, nothing much, only (rather a nuisance)might do him out of the House-matches', a notification of mortalinjuries, and seeming to hear a death-rattle through the words 'feltrather chippy yesterday', had come down _en masse_ to investigate. _En masse, _ that is to say, with the exception of his father, whosaid he was too busy, but felt sure it was nothing serious. ('Why, whenI was a boy, my dear, I used to think nothing of an occasional tumble. There's nothing the matter with Dick. Why, etc. , etc. ')

Trentham's sister was his first visitor. 

'I say, ' said he, when he had satisfied her on the subject of hishealth, 'would you like to do me a good turn?'

She intimated that she would be delighted, and asked for details. 

_'Buy the beak's cat, '_ hissed Trentham, in a hoarse whisper. 

'Dick, it _was_ your leg that you hurt, wasn't it? Not--not yourhead?' she replied. 'I mean--'

'No, I really mean it. Why can't you? It's a perfectly simple thing todo. '

'But what _is_ a beak? And why should I buy its cat?'

'A beak's a master. Surely you know that. You see, Prater's got a catlately, and the beast strolls in and raids the studies. Got round overhalf a pound of prime sausages in here the other night, and he's alwaysbagging things everywhere. You'd be doing everyone a kindness if youwould take him on. He'll get lynched some day if you don't. Besides, you want a cat for your new house, surely. Keep down the mice, and thatsort of thing, you know. This animal's a demon for mice. ' This was atelling argument. Trentham's sister had lately been married, and shecertainly had had some idea of investing in a cat to adorn her home. 'As for beetles, ' continued the invalid, pushing home his advantage, 'they simply daren't come out of their lairs for fear of him. '

'If he eats beetles, ' objected his sister, 'he can't have a very goodcoat. '

'He doesn't eat them. Just squashes them, you know, like a policeman. He's a decent enough beast as far as looks go. '

'But if he steals things--'

'No, don't you see, he only does that here, because the Praters don'tinterfere with him and don't let us do anything to him. He won't trythat sort of thing on with you. If he does, get somebody to hit himover the head with a boot-jack or something. He'll soon drop it then. You might as well, you know. The House'll simply black your boots ifyou do. '

'But would Mr Prater let me have the cat?'

'Try him, anyhow. Pitch it fairly warm, you know. Only cat you everloved, and that sort of thing. '

'Very well. I'll try. '

'Thanks, awfully. And, I say, you might just look in here on your wayout and report. '

Mrs James Williamson, nee Miss Trentham, made her way dutifully to theMerevale's part of the House. Mrs Prater had expressed a hope that shewould have some tea before catching her train. With tea it is usual tohave milk, and with milk it is usual, if there is a cat in the house, to have feline society. Captain Kettle, which was the name thoughtsuitable to this cat by his godfathers and godmothers, was on handearly. As he stood there pawing the mat impatiently, and mewing in aminor key, Mrs Williamson felt that here was the cat for her. Hecertainly was good to look upon. His black heart was hidden by a sleekcoat of tabby fur, which rendered stroking a luxury. His scheming brainwas out of sight in a shapely head. 

'Oh, what a lovely cat!' said Mrs Williamson. 

'Yes, isn't he, ' agreed Mrs Prater. 'We are very proud of him. '

'Such a beautiful coat!'

'And such a sweet purr!'

'He looks so intelligent. Has he any tricks?'

Had he any tricks! Why, Mrs Williamson, he could do everything exceptspeak. Captain Kettle, you bad boy, come here and die for your country. Puss, puss. 

Captain Kettle came at last reluctantly, died for his country in recordtime, and flashed back again to the saucer. He had an importantappointment. Sorry to appear rude and all that sort of thing, don't youknow, but he had to see a cat about a mouse. 

'Well?' said Trentham, when his sister looked in upon him an hourlater. 

'Oh, Dick, it's the nicest cat I ever saw. I shall never be happy if Idon't get it. '

'Have you bought it?' asked the practical Trentham. 

'My dear Dick, I couldn't. We couldn't bargain about a cat during tea. Why, I never met Mrs Prater before this afternoon. '

'No, I suppose not, ' admitted Trentham, gloomily. 'Anyhow, look here, if anything turns up to make the beak want to get rid of it, I'll tellhim you're dead nuts on it. See?'

For a fortnight after this episode matters went on as before. MrsWilliamson departed, thinking regretfully of the cat she had leftbehind her. 

Captain Kettle died for his country with moderate regularity, and onone occasion, when he attempted to extract some milk from the verycentre of a fag's tea-party, almost died for another reason. Then theend came suddenly. 

Trentham had been invited to supper one Sunday by Mr Prater. When hearrived it became apparent to him that the atmosphere was one ofsubdued gloom. At first he could not understand this, but soon thereason was made clear. Captain Kettle had, in the expressive languageof the man in the street, been and gone and done it. He had been leftalone that evening in the drawing-room, while the House was at church, and his eye, roaming restlessly about in search of evil to perform, hadlighted upon a cage. In that cage was a special sort of canary, in itsown line as accomplished an artiste as Captain Kettle himself. It sangwith taste and feeling, and made itself generally agreeable in a numberof little ways. But to Captain Kettle it was merely a bird. One of thepoets sings of an acquaintance of his who was so constituted that 'aprimrose by the river's brim a simple primrose was to him, and it wasnothing more'. Just so with Captain Kettle. He was not the cat to makenice distinctions between birds. Like the cat in another poem, he onlyknew they made him light and salutary meals. So, with the exercise ofconsiderable ingenuity, he extracted that canary from its cage and ateit. He was now in disgrace. 

'We shall have to get rid of him, ' said Mr Prater. 

'I'm afraid so, ' said Mrs Prater. 

'If you weren't thinking of giving him to anyone in particular, sir, 'said Trentham, 'my sister would be awfully glad to take him, I know. She was very keen on him when she came to see me. '

'That's excellent, ' said Prater. 'I was afraid we should have to sendhim to a home somewhere. '

'I suppose we can't keep him after all?' suggested Mrs Prater. 

Trentham waited in suspense. 

'No, ' said Prater, decidedly. 'I think _not_. ' So Captain Kettlewent, and the House knew him no more, and the Tabby Terror was at anend. 

[12]

THE PRIZE POEM

Some quarter of a century before the period with which this storydeals, a certain rich and misanthropic man was seized with a brightidea for perpetuating his memory after death, and at the same timeharassing a certain section of mankind. So in his will he set aside aportion of his income to be spent on an annual prize for the best poemsubmitted by a member of the Sixth Form of St Austin's College, on asubject to be selected by the Headmaster. And, he added--one seems tohear him chuckling to himself--every member of the form must compete. Then he died. But the evil that men do lives after them, and each yearsaw a fresh band of unwilling bards goaded to despair by his bequest. True, there were always one or two who hailed this ready market fortheir sonnets and odes with joy. But the majority, being barely able torhyme 'dove' with 'love', regarded the annual announcement of thesubject chosen with feelings of the deepest disgust. 

The chains were thrown off after a period of twenty-seven years in thisfashion. 

Reynolds of the Remove was indirectly the cause of the change. He wasin the infirmary, convalescing after an attack of German measles, whenhe received a visit from Smith, an ornament of the Sixth. 

'By Jove, ' remarked that gentleman, gazing enviously round thesick-room, 'they seem to do you pretty well here. '

'Yes, not bad, is it? Take a seat. Anything been happening lately?'

'Nothing much. I suppose you know we beat the M. C. C. By a wicket?'

'Yes, so I heard. Anything else?'

'Prize poem, ' said Smith, without enthusiasm. He was not a poet. 

Reynolds became interested at once. If there was one role in which hefancied himself (and, indeed, there were a good many), it was that of aversifier. His great ambition was to see some of his lines in print, and he had contracted the habit of sending them up to variousperiodicals, with no result, so far, except the arrival of rejectedMSS. At meal-times in embarrassingly long envelopes. Which heblushingly concealed with all possible speed. 

'What's the subject this year?' he asked. 

'The College--of all idiotic things. '

'Couldn't have a better subject for an ode. By Jove, I wish I was inthe Sixth. '

'Wish I was in the infirmary, ' said Smith. 

Reynolds was struck with an idea. 

'Look here, Smith, ' he said, 'if you like I'll do you a poem, and youcan send it up. If it gets the prize--'

'Oh, it won't get the prize, ' Smith put in eagerly. 'Rogers is a cert. For that. '

'If it gets the prize, ' repeated Reynolds, with asperity, 'you'll haveto tell the Old Man all about it. He'll probably curse a bit, but thatcan't be helped. How's this for a beginning?

 "Imposing pile, reared up 'midst pleasant grounds, The scene of many a battle, lost or won, At cricket or at football; whose red walls Full many a sun has kissed 'ere day is done. "'

'Grand. Couldn't you get in something about the M. C. C. Match? You couldmake cricket rhyme with wicket. ' Smith sat entranced with hisingenuity, but the other treated so material a suggestion with scorn. 

'Well, ' said Smith, 'I must be off now. We've got a House-match on. Thanks awfully about the poem. '

Left to himself, Reynolds set himself seriously to the composing of anode that should do him justice. That is to say, he drew up a chair andtable to the open window, wrote down the lines he had already composed, and began chewing a pen. After a few minutes he wrote another fourlines, crossed them out, and selected a fresh piece of paper. He thencopied out his first four lines again. After eating his pen to a stump, he jotted down the two words 'boys' and 'joys' at the end of separatelines. This led him to select a third piece of paper, on which heproduced a sort of _edition de luxe_ in his best handwriting, withthe title 'Ode to the College' in printed letters at the top. He wasadmiring the neat effect of this when the door opened suddenly andviolently, and Mrs Lee, a lady of advanced years and energetic habits, whose duty it was to minister to the needs of the sick and wounded inthe infirmary, entered with his tea. Mrs Lee's method of entering aroom was in accordance with the advice of the Psalmist, where he says, 'Fling wide the gates'. She flung wide the gate of the sick-room, andthe result was that what is commonly called 'a thorough draught' wasestablished. The air was thick with flying papers, and when calm atlength succeeded storm, two editions of 'Ode to the College' were lyingon the grass outside. 

Reynolds attacked the tea without attempting to retrieve his vanishedwork. Poetry is good, but tea is better. Besides, he argued withinhimself, he remembered all he had written, and could easily write itout again. So, as far as he was concerned, those three sheets of paperwere a closed book. 

Later on in the afternoon, Montgomery of the Sixth happened to bepassing by the infirmary, when Fate, aided by a sudden gust of wind, blew a piece of paper at him. 'Great Scott, ' he observed, as his eyefell on the words 'Ode to the College'. Montgomery, like Smith, was noexpert in poetry. He had spent a wretched afternoon trying to hammerout something that would pass muster in the poem competition, butwithout the least success. There were four lines on the paper. Twomore, and it would be a poem, and capable of being entered for theprize as such. The words 'imposing pile', with which the fragment inhis hand began, took his fancy immensely. A poetic afflatus seized him, and in less than three hours he had added the necessary couplet, How truly sweet it is for such as me To gaze on thee. 

'And dashed neat, too, ' he said, with satisfaction, as he threw themanuscript into his drawer. 'I don't know whether "me" shouldn't be"I", but they'll have to lump it. It's a poem, anyhow, within themeaning of the act. ' And he strolled off to a neighbour's study toborrow a book. 

Two nights afterwards, Morrison, also of the Sixth, was enjoying hisusual during prep siesta in his study. A tap at the door roused him. Hastily seizing a lexicon, he assumed the attitude of the seeker afterknowledge, and said, 'Come in. ' It was not the House-master, but Evans, Morrison's fag, who entered with pride on his face and a piece of paperin his hand. 

'I say, ' he began, 'you remember you told me to hunt up some tags forthe poem. Will this do?'

Morrison took the paper with a judicial air. On it were the words:

 Imposing pile, reared up 'midst pleasant grounds, The scene of many a battle, lost or won, At cricket or at football; whose red walls Full many a sun has kissed 'ere day is done. 

'That's ripping, as far as it goes, ' said Morrison. 'Couldn't bebetter. You'll find some apples in that box. Better take a few. Butlook here, ' with sudden suspicion, 'I don't believe you made all thisup yourself. Did you?'

Evans finished selecting his apples before venturing on a reply. Thenhe blushed, as much as a member of the junior school is capable ofblushing. 

'Well, ' he said, 'I didn't exactly. You see, you only told me to getthe tags. You didn't say how. '

'But how did you get hold of this? Whose is it?'

'Dunno. I found it in the field between the Pavilion and theinfirmary. '

'Oh! well, it doesn't matter much. They're just what I wanted, which isthe great thing. Thanks. Shut the door, will you?' Whereupon Evansretired, the richer by many apples, and Morrison resumed his siesta atthe point where he had left off. 

'Got that poem done yet?' said Smith to Reynolds, pouring out a cup oftea for the invalid on the following Sunday. 

'Two lumps, please. No, not quite. '

'Great Caesar, man, when'll it be ready, do you think? It's got to goin tomorrow. '

'Well, I'm really frightfully sorry, but I got hold of a grand book. Ever read--?'

'Isn't any of it done?' asked Smith. 

'Only the first verse, I'm afraid. But, look here, you aren't keen ongetting the prize. Why not send in only the one verse? It makes afairly decent poem. '

'Hum! Think the Old 'Un'll pass it?'

'He'll have to. There's nothing in the rules about length. Here it isif you want it. '

'Thanks. I suppose it'll be all right? So long! I must be off. '

The Headmaster, known to the world as the Rev. Arthur James Perceval, M. A. , and to the School as the Old 'Un, was sitting at breakfast, stirring his coffee, with a look of marked perplexity upon hisdignified face. This was not caused by the coffee, which was excellent, but by a letter which he held in his left hand. 

'Hum!' he said. Then 'Umph!' in a protesting tone, as if someone hadpinched him. Finally, he gave vent to a long-drawn 'Um-m-m, ' in a deepbass. 'Most extraordinary. Really, most extraordinary. Exceedingly. Yes. Um. Very. ' He took a sip of coffee. 

'My dear, ' said he, suddenly. Mrs Perceval started violently. She hadbeen sketching out in her mind a little dinner, and wondering whetherthe cook would be equal to it. 

'Yes, ' she said. 

'My dear, this is a very extraordinary communication. Exceedingly so. Yes, very. '

'Who is it from?'

Mr Perceval shuddered. He was a purist in speech. '_From whom_, you should say. It is from Mr Wells, a great College friend of mine. I--ah--submitted to him for examination the poems sent in for the SixthForm Prize. He writes in a very flippant style. I must say, veryflippant. This is his letter:--"Dear Jimmy (really, really, he shouldremember that we are not so young as we were); dear--ahem--Jimmy. Thepoems to hand. I have read them, and am writing this from my sick-bed. The doctor tells me I may pull through even yet. There was only one anygood at all, that was Rogers's, which, though--er--squiffy (tut!) inparts, was a long way better than any of the others. But the mosttaking part of the whole programme was afforded by the three comedians, whose efforts I enclose. You will notice that each begins with exactlythe same four lines. Of course, I deprecate cribbing, but you reallycan't help admiring this sort of thing. There is a reckless daringabout it which is simply fascinating. A horrible thought--have theybeen pulling your dignified leg? By the way, do you remember"--the restof the letter is--er--on different matters. '

'James! How extraordinary!'

'Um, yes. I am reluctant to suspect--er--collusion, but really herethere can be no doubt. No doubt at all. No. '

'Unless, ' began Mrs Perceval, tentatively. 'No doubt at all, my dear, 'snapped Reverend Jimmy. He did not wish to recall the otherpossibility, that his dignified leg was being pulled. 

'Now, for what purpose did I summon you three boys?' asked Mr Perceval, of Smith, Montgomery, and Morrison, in his room after morning schoolthat day. He generally began a painful interview with this question. The method had distinct advantages. If the criminal were of a nervousdisposition, he would give himself away upon the instant. In any case, it was likely to startle him. 'For what purpose?' repeated theHeadmaster, fixing Smith with a glittering eye. 

'I will tell you, ' continued Mr Perceval. 'It was because I desiredinformation, which none but you can supply. How comes it that each ofyour compositions for the Poetry Prize commences with the same fourlines?' The three poets looked at one another in speechlessastonishment. 

'Here, ' he resumed, 'are the three papers. Compare them. Now, '--afterthe inspection was over--' what explanation have you to offer? Smith, are these your lines?'

'I--er--ah--_wrote_ them, sir. '

'Don't prevaricate, Smith. Are you the author of those lines?'

'No, sir. '

'Ah! Very good. Are you, Montgomery?'

'No, sir. '

'Very good. Then you, Morrison, are exonerated from all blame. You havebeen exceedingly badly treated. The first-fruit of your brain hasbeen--ah--plucked by others, who toiled not neither did they spin. Youcan go, Morrison. '

'But, sir--'

'Well, Morrison?'

'I didn't write them, sir. '

'I--ah--don't quite understand you, Morrison. You say that you areindebted to another for these lines?'

'Yes, sir. '

'To Smith?'

'No, sir. '

'To Montgomery?'

'No, sir. '

'Then, Morrison, may I ask to whom you are indebted?'

'I found them in the field on a piece of paper, sir. ' He claimed thediscovery himself, because he thought that Evans might possibly preferto remain outside this tangle. 

'So did I, sir. ' This from Montgomery. Mr Perceval looked bewildered, as indeed he was. 

'And did you, Smith, also find this poem on a piece of paper in thefield?' There was a metallic ring of sarcasm in his voice. 

'No, sir. '

'Ah! Then to what circumstance were you indebted for the lines?'

'I got Reynolds to do them for me, sir. '

Montgomery spoke. 'It was near the infirmary that I found the paper, and Reynolds is in there. '

'So did I, sir, ' said Morrison, incoherently. 

'Then am I to understand, Smith, that to gain the prize you resorted tosuch underhand means as this?'

'No, sir, we agreed that there was no danger of my getting the prize. If I had got it, I should have told you everything. Reynolds will tellyou that, sir. '

'Then what object had you in pursuing this deception?'

'Well, sir, the rules say everyone must send in something, and I can'twrite poetry at all, and Reynolds likes it, so I asked him to do it. '

And Smith waited for the storm to burst. But it did not burst. Far downin Mr Perceval's system lurked a quiet sense of humour. The situationpenetrated to it. Then he remembered the examiner's letter, and itdawned upon him that there are few crueller things than to make aprosaic person write poetry. 

'You may go, ' he said, and the three went. 

And at the next Board Meeting it was decided, mainly owing to theinfluence of an exceedingly eloquent speech from the Headmaster, toalter the rules for the Sixth Form Poetry Prize, so that from thenceonward no one need compete unless he felt himself filled with theimmortal fire. 

[13]

WORK

 With a pleasure that's emphatic We retire to our attic With the satisfying feeling that our duty has been done. 

 Oh! philosophers may sing Of the troubles of a king But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none, And the culminating pleasure Which we treasure beyond measure Is the satisfying feeling that our duty has been done. 

 _W. S. Gilbert_

Work is supposed to be the centre round which school life revolves--thehub of the school wheel, the lode-star of the schoolboy's existence, and a great many other things. 'You come to school to work', is theformula used by masters when sentencing a victim to the wailing andgnashing of teeth provided by two hours' extra tuition on a hotafternoon. In this, I think, they err, and my opinion is backed up bynumerous scholars of my acquaintance, who have even gone so far--onoccasions when they themselves have been the victims--as to expresspositive disapproval of the existing state of things. In the dear, deaddays (beyond recall), I used often to long to put the case to myform-master in its only fair aspect, but always refrained from motivesof policy. Masters are so apt to take offence at the well-meantendeavours of their form to instruct them in the way they should go. 

What I should have liked to have done would have been something afterthis fashion. Entering the sanctum of the Headmaster, I should havemotioned him to his seat--if he were seated already, have assured himthat to rise was unnecessary. I should then have taken a seat myself, taking care to preserve a calm fixity of demeanour, and finally, with apreliminary cough, I should have embarked upon the following movingaddress: 'My dear sir, my dear Reverend Jones or Brown (as the case maybe), believe me when I say that your whole system of work is founded ona fallacious dream and reeks of rottenness. No, no, I beg that you willnot interrupt me. The real state of the case, if I may say so, isbriefly this: a boy goes to school to enjoy himself, and, on arriving, finds to his consternation that a great deal more work is expected ofhim than he is prepared to do. What course, then, Reverend Jones orBrown, does he take? He proceeds to do as much work as will steer himsafely between the, ah--I may say, the Scylla of punishment and theCharybdis of being considered what my, er--fellow-pupils euphoniouslyterm a swot. That, I think, is all this morning. _Good_ day. Praydo not trouble to rise. I will find my way out. ' I should then havemade for the door, locked it, if possible, on the outside, and, rushingto the railway station, have taken a through ticket to Spitzbergen orsome other place where Extradition treaties do not hold good. 

But 'twas not mine to play the Tib. Gracchus, to emulate the O. Cromwell. So far from pouring my opinions like so much boiling oil intothe ear of my task-master, I was content to play the part of audiencewhile _he_ did the talking, my sole remark being 'Yes'r' at fixedintervals. 

And yet I knew that I was in the right. My bosom throbbed with thejustice of my cause. For why? The ambition of every human new boyis surely to become like J. Essop of the First Eleven, who can hit aball over two ponds, a wood, and seven villages, rather than toresemble that pale young student, Mill-Stuart, who, though he canspeak Sanskrit like a native of Sanskritia, couldn't score a singleoff a slow long-hop. 

And this ambition is a laudable one. For the athlete is the product ofnature--a step towards the more perfect type of animal, while thescholar is the outcome of artificiality. What, I ask, does the scholargain, either morally or physically, or in any other way, by knowing whowas tribune of the people in 284 BC or what is the precise differencebetween the various constructions of _cum_? It is not as ifignorance of the tribune's identity caused him any mental unrest. Inshort, what excuse is there for the student? 'None, ' shrieks Echoenthusiastically. 'None whatever. '

Our children are being led to ruin by this system. They will becomedons and think in Greek. The victim of the craze stops at nothing. Hepuns in Latin. He quips and quirks in Ionic and Doric. In the worststages of the disease he will edit Greek plays and say that Merry quitemisses the fun of the passage, or that Jebb is mediocre. Think, I begof you, paterfamilias, and you, mater ditto, what your feelings wouldbe were you to find Henry or Archibald Cuthbert correcting proofs of_The Agamemnon_, and inventing 'nasty ones' for Mr Sidgwick! Verywell then. Be warned. 

Our bright-eyed lads are taught insane constructions in Greek and Latinfrom morning till night, and they come for their holidays, in manycases, without the merest foundation of a batting style. Ask them whata Yorker is, and they will say: 'A man from York, though I presume youmean a Yorkshireman. ' They will read Herodotus without a dictionary forpleasure, but ask them to translate the childishly simple sentence:'Trott was soon in his timber-yard with a length 'un that whippedacross from the off, ' and they'll shrink abashed and swear they havenot skill at that, as Gilbert says. 

The papers sometimes contain humorous forecasts of future education, when cricket and football shall come to their own. They little know theexcellence of the thing they mock at. When we get schools that teachnothing but games, then will the sun definitely refuse to set on theroast beef of old England. May it be soon. Some day, mayhap, I shallgather my great-great-grandsons round my knee, and tell them--as onetells tales of Faery--that I can remember the time when Work wasconsidered the be-all and the end-all of a school career. Perchance, when my great-great-grandson John (called John after the famous Jonesof that name) has brought home the prize for English Essay on 'Rugby_v. _ Association', I shall pat his head (gently) and the tearswill come to my old eyes as I recall the time when I, too, might havewon a prize--for that obsolete subject, Latin Prose--and was onlyprevented by the superior excellence of my thirty-and-one fellowstudents, coupled, indeed, with my own inability to conjugate_sum. _

Such days, I say, may come. But now are the Dark Ages. The only thingthat can possibly make Work anything but an unmitigated nuisance is theprospect of a 'Varsity scholarship, and the thought that, in the eventof failure, a 'Varsity career will be out of the question. 

With this thought constantly before him, the student can put a certainamount of enthusiasm into his work, and even go to the length of risingat five o'clock o' mornings to drink yet deeper of the cup ofknowledge. I have done it myself. 'Varsity means games and yellowwaistcoats and Proctors, and that sort of thing. It is worth workingfor. 

But for the unfortunate individual who is barred by circumstances fromparticipating in these joys, what inducement is there to work? Is sucha one to leave the school nets in order to stew in a stuffy room over aThucydides? I trow not. 

Chapter one of my great forthcoming work, _The Compleat Slacker_, contains minute instructions on the art of avoiding preparation frombeginning to end of term. Foremost among the words of advice ranks thismaxim: Get an official list of the books you are to do, and examinethem carefully with a view to seeing what it is possible to do unseen. Thus, if Virgil is among these authors, you can rely on being able todo him with success. People who ought to know better will tell you thatVirgil is hard. Such a shallow falsehood needs little comment. Ascholar who cannot translate ten lines of _The Aeneid_ between thetime he is put on and the time he begins to speak is unworthy of pityor consideration, and if I meet him in the street I shall assuredly cuthim. Aeschylus, on the other hand, is a demon, and needs carefulwatching, though in an emergency you can always say the reading iswrong. 

Sometimes the compleat slacker falls into a trap. The saddest case Ican remember is that of poor Charles Vanderpoop. He was a bright younglad, and showed some promise of rising to heights as a slacker. He fellin this fashion. One Easter term his form had half-finished a speech ofDemosthenes, and the form-master gave them to understand that theywould absorb the rest during the forthcoming term. Charles, beingnaturally anxious to do as little work as possible during the summermonths, spent his Easter holidays carefully preparing this speech, soas to have it ready in advance. What was his horror, on returning toSchool at the appointed date, to find that they were going to throwDemosthenes over altogether, and patronize Plato. Threats, entreaties, prayers--all were accounted nothing by the master who had led him intothis morass of troubles. It is believed that the shock destroyed hisreason. At any rate, the fact remains that that term (the summer term, mark you) he won two prizes. In the following term he won three. Torecapitulate his outrages from that time to the present were aharrowing and unnecessary task. Suffice it that he is now a RegiusProfessor, and I saw in the papers a short time ago that a lecture ofhis on 'The Probable Origin of the Greek Negative', created quite a_furore_. If this is not Tragedy with a big T, I should like toknow what it is. 

As an exciting pastime, unseen translation must rank very high. Everyone who has ever tried translating unseen must acknowledge thatall other forms of excitement seem but feeble makeshifts after it. Ihave, in the course of a career of sustained usefulness to the humanrace, had my share of thrills. I have asked a strong and busy porter, at Paddington, when the Brighton train started. I have gone for thebroad-jump record in trying to avoid a motor-car. I have playedSpillikins and Ping-Pong. But never again have I felt the excitementthat used to wander athwart my moral backbone when I was put on totranslate a passage containing a notorious _crux_ and seventeendoubtful readings, with only that innate genius, which is the wonder ofthe civilized world, to pull me through. And what a glow of pride onefeels when it is all over; when one has made a glorious, golden guessat the _crux_, and trampled the doubtful readings under foot withinspired ease. It is like a day at the seaside. 

Work is bad enough, but Examinations are worse, especially the BoardExaminations. By doing from ten to twenty minutes prep every night, thecompleat slacker could get through most of the term with averagesuccess. Then came the Examinations. The dabbler in unseen translationsfound himself caught as in a snare. Gone was the peaceful security inwhich he had lulled to rest all the well-meant efforts of his guardianangel to rouse him to a sense of his duties. There, right in front ofhim, yawned the abyss of Retribution. 

Alas! poor slacker. I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, ofmost excellent fancy. Where be his gibes now? How is he to cope withthe fiendish ingenuity of the examiners? How is he to master thecontents of a book of Thucydides in a couple of days? It is a fearsomeproblem. Perhaps he will get up in the small hours and work by candlelight from two till eight o'clock. In this case he will start his day amental and physical wreck. Perhaps he will try to work and be led awayby the love of light reading. 

In any case he will fail to obtain enough marks to satisfy theexaminers, though whether examiners ever are satisfied, except by Harrythe hero of the school story (Every Lad's Library, uniform edition, 2s6d), is rather a doubtful question. 

In such straits, matters resolve themselves into a sort of drama withthree characters. We will call our hero Smith. 

_Scene:_ a Study

_Dramatis Personae:_ SMITH CONSCIENCE MEPHISTOPHELES

_Enter_ SMITH (_down centre_)

_He seats himself at table and opens a Thucydides. _

_Enter_ CONSCIENCE _through ceiling_ (R. ), MEPHISTOPHELES_through floor_ (L. ). 

CONSCIENCE (_with a kindly smile_): Precisely what I was about toremark, my dear lad. A little Thucydides would be a very good thing. Thucydides, as you doubtless know, was a very famous Athenianhistorian. Date?

SMITH: Er--um--let me see. 

MEPH. (_aside_): Look in the Introduction and pretend you did itby accident. 

SMITH (_having done so_): 431 B. C. _circ_. 

CONSCIENCE _wipes away a tear_. 

CONSCIENCE: Thucydides made himself a thorough master of the concisestof styles. 

MEPH. : And in doing so became infernally obscure. Excuse shop. 

SMITH (_gloomily_): Hum!

MEPH. (_sneeringly_): Ha!

_Long pause_. 

CONSCIENCE (_gently_): Do you not think, my dear lad, that you hadbetter begin? Time and tide, as you are aware, wait for no man. And--

SMITH: Yes?

CONSCIENCE: You have not, I fear, a very firm grasp of the subject. However, if you work hard till eleven--

SMITH (_gloomily_): Hum! Three hours!

MEPH. (_cheerily_): Exactly so. Three hours. A little more ifanything. By the way, excuse me asking, but have you prepared thesubject thoroughly during the term?

SMITH: My _dear_ sir! Of _course!_

CONSCIENCE (_reprovingly_):???!!??!

SMITH: Well, perhaps, not quite so much as I might have done. Such alot of things to do this term. Cricket, for instance. 

MEPH. : Rather. Talking of cricket, you seemed to be shaping rather welllast Saturday. I had just run up on business, and someone told me youmade eighty not out. Get your century all right?

SMITH (_brightening at the recollection_): Just a bit--117 notout. I hit--but perhaps you've heard?

MEPH. : Not at all, not at all. Let's hear all about it. 

_CONSCIENCE seeks to interpose, but is prevented by MEPH. , who eggsSMITH on to talk cricket for over an hour. _

CONSCIENCE _(at last; in an acid voice)_: That is a history of thePeloponnesian War by Thucydides on the table in front of you. I thoughtI would mention it, in case you had forgotten. 

SMITH: Great Scott, yes! Here, I say, I must start. 

CONSCIENCE: Hear! Hear!

MEPH. _(insinuatingly)_: One moment. Did you say you _had_prepared this book during the term? Afraid I'm a little hard ofhearing. Eh, what?

SMITH: Well--er--no, I have not. Have you ever played billiards with awalking-stick and five balls?

MEPH. : Quite so, quite so. I quite understand. Don't you distressyourself, old chap. You obviously can't get through a whole book ofThucydides in under two hours, can you?

CONSCIENCE _(severely)_: He might, by attentive application tostudy, master a considerable portion of the historian's _chefd'oeuvre_ in that time. 

MEPH. : Yes, and find that not one of the passages he had prepared wasset in the paper. 

CONSCIENCE: At the least, he would, if he were to pursue the coursewhich I have indicated, greatly benefit his mind. 

MEPH. _gives a short, derisive laugh. Long pause. _

MEPH. _(looking towards bookshelf)_: Hullo, you've got a decentlot of books, pommy word you have. _Rodney Stone, Vice Versa, ManyCargoes. _ Ripping. Ever read _Many Cargoes?_

CONSCIENCE _(glancing at his watch)_: I am sorry, but I mustreally go now. I will see you some other day. 

_Exit sorrowfully. _

MEPH. : Well, thank goodness _he's_ gone. Never saw such a fearfulold bore in my life. Can't think why you let him hang on to you so. Wemay as well make a night of it now, eh? No use your trying to work atthis time of night. 

SMITH: Not a bit. 

MEPH. : Did you say you'd not read _Many Cargoes?_

SMITH: Never. Only got it today. Good?

MEPH. : Simply ripping. All short stories. Make you yell. 

SMITH _(with a last effort)_: But don't you think--

MEPH. : Oh no. Besides, you can easily get up early tomorrow for theThucydides. 

SMITH: Of course I can. Never thought of that. Heave us _ManyCargoes. _ Thanks. 

_Begins to read. MEPH. Grins fiendishly, and vanishes through floorenveloped in red flame. Sobbing heard from the direction of theceiling. 

Scene closes. _

Next morning, of course, he will oversleep himself, and his Thucydidespaper will be of such a calibre that that eminent historian will writhein his grave. 

[14]

NOTES

 Of all forms of lettered effusiveness, that which exploits the original work of others and professes to supply us with right opinions thereanent is the least wanted. 

 _Kenneth Grahame_

It has always seemed to me one of the worst flaws in our mistakensocial system, that absolutely no distinction is made between themaster who forces the human boy to take down notes from dictation andthe rest of mankind. I mean that, if in a moment of righteousindignation you rend such a one limb from limb, you will almostcertainly be subjected to the utmost rigour of the law, and you will belucky if you escape a heavy fine of five or ten shillings, exclusive ofthe costs of the case. Now, this is not right on the face of it. It iseven wrong. The law should take into account the extreme provocationwhich led to the action. Punish if you will the man who travelssecond-class with a third-class ticket, or who borrows a pencil andforgets to return it; but there are occasions when justice should betempered with mercy, and this murdering of pedagogues is undoubtedlysuch an occasion. 

It should be remembered, however, that there are two varieties ofnotes. The printed notes at the end of your Thucydides or Homer aredistinctly useful when they aim at acting up to their true vocation, namely, the translating of difficult passages or words. Sometimes, however, the author will insist on airing his scholarship, and insteadof translations he supplies parallel passages, which neither interest, elevate, nor amuse the reader. This, of course, is mere vanity. Theauthor, sitting in his comfortable chair with something short withineasy reach, recks nothing of the misery he is inflicting on hundreds ofpeople who have done him no harm at all. He turns over the pages of hisbook of _Familiar Quotations_ with brutal callousness, and forevery tricky passage in the work which he is editing, finds and makes anote of three or four even trickier ones from other works. Who has notin his time been brought face to face with a word which defiestranslation? There are two courses open to you on such an occasion, tolook the word up in the lexicon, or in the notes. You, of course, turnup the notes, and find: 'See line 80. ' You look up line 80, hoping tosee a translation, and there you are told that a rather similarconstruction occurs in Xenophades' _Lyrics from a Padded Cell_. Onthis, the craven of spirit will resort to the lexicon, but the man ofmettle will close his book with an emphatic bang, and refuse to haveanything more to do with it. Of a different sort are the notes whichsimply translate the difficulty and subside. These are a boon to thescholar. Without them it would be almost impossible to prepare one'swork during school, and we should be reduced to the prosaic expedientof working in prep. Time. What we want is the commentator whotranslates _mensa_ as 'a table' without giving a page and a halfof notes on the uses of the table in ancient Greece, with an excursuson the habit common in those times of retiring underneath it afterdinner, and a list of the passages in Apollonius Rhodius where the word'table' is mentioned. 

These voluminous notes are apt to prove a nuisance in more ways thanone. Your average master is generally inordinately fond of them, andwill frequently ask some member of the form to read his note onso-and-so out to his fellows. This sometimes leads to curious results, as it is hardly to be expected that the youth called upon will beattending, even if he is awake, which is unlikely. On one occasionan acquaintance of mine, 'whose name I am not at liberty to divulge', was suddenly aware that he was being addressed, and, on giving thematter his attention, found that it was the form-master asking him toread out his note on _Balbus murum aedificavit_. My friend is akind-hearted youth and of an obliging disposition, and would willinglyhave done what was asked of him, but there were obstacles, first andforemost of which ranked the fact that, taking advantage of hisposition on the back desk (whither he thought the basilisk eye ofAuthority could not reach), he had substituted _Bab Ballads_ forthe words of Virgil, and was engrossed in the contents of that modernclassic. The subsequent explanations lasted several hours. In fact, itis probable that the master does not understand the facts of the casethoroughly even now. It is true that he called him a 'loathsome, slimy, repulsive toad', but even this seems to fall short of the grandeur ofthe situation. 

Those notes, also, which are, alas! only too common nowadays, that dealwith peculiarities of grammar, how supremely repulsive they are! It isimpossible to glean any sense from them, as the Editor mixes upNipperwick's view with Sidgeley's reasoning and Spreckendzedeutscheim'ssurmise with Donnerundblitzendorf's conjecture in a way that seems toargue a thorough unsoundness of mind and morals, a cynical insanitycombined with a blatant indecency. He occasionally starts in areasonable manner by giving one view as (1) and the next as (2). So fareveryone is happy and satisfied. The trouble commences when he hasoccasion to refer back to some former view, when he will say: 'Thus wesee (1) and (14) that, ' etc. The unlucky student puts a finger on thepage to keep the place, and hunts up view one. Having found this, andmarked the spot with another finger, he proceeds to look up viewfourteen. He places another finger on this, and reads on, as follows:'Zmpe, however, maintains that Schrumpff (see 3) is practically insane, that Spleckzh (see 34) is only a little better, and that Rswkg (see 97a (b) C3) is so far from being right that his views may be dismissed asreadily as those of Xkryt (see 5x). ' At this point brain-fever sets in, the victim's last coherent thought being a passionate wish for morefingers. A friend of mine who was the wonder of all who knew him, inthat he was known to have scored ten per cent in one of these papers onquestions like the above, once divulged to an interviewer the fact thathe owed his success to his methods of learning rather than to hisability. On the night before an exam, he would retire to some secret, solitary place, such as the boot-room, and commence learning thesenotes by heart. This, though a formidable task, was not so bad as theother alternative. The result was that, although in the majority ofcases he would put down for one question an answer that would have beenright for another, yet occasionally, luck being with him, he would hitthe mark. Hence his ten per cent. 

Another fruitful source of discomfort is provided by the type of masterwho lectures on a subject for half an hour, and then, with a blandsmile, invites, or rather challenges, his form to write a 'good, longnote' on the quintessence of his discourse. For the inexperienced thisis an awful moment. They must write something--but what? For the lasthalf hour they have been trying to impress the master with the factthat they belong to the class of people who can always listen best withtheir eyes closed. Nor poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrupsof the world can ever medicine them to that sweet sleep that they havejust been enjoying. And now they must write a 'good, long note'. It isin such extremities that your veteran shows up well. He does not betrayany discomfort. Not he. He rather enjoys the prospect, in fact, ofbeing permitted to place the master's golden eloquence on paper. So hetakes up his pen with alacrity. No need to think what to write. Heembarks on an essay concerning the master, showing up all his flaws ina pitiless light, and analysing his thorough worthlessness ofcharacter. On so congenial a subject he can, of course, write reams, and as the master seldom, if ever, desires to read the 'good, longnote', he acquires a well-earned reputation for attending in school andbeing able to express himself readily with his pen. _Vivatfloreatque_. 

But all these forms of notes are as nothing compared with the notesthat youths even in this our boasted land of freedom are forced to takedown from dictation. Of the 'good, long note' your French scholar mightwell remark: '_C'est terrible_', but justice would compel him toadd, as he thought of the dictation note: '_mais ce n'est pas lediable_'. For these notes from dictation are, especially on a warmday, indubitably _le diable_. 

Such notes are always dictated so rapidly that it is impossible to doanything towards understanding them as you go. You have to write yourhardest to keep up. The beauty of this, from one point of view, isthat, if you miss a sentence, you have lost the thread of the wholething, and it is useless to attempt to take it up again at once. Theonly plan is to wait for some perceptible break in the flow of words, and dash in like lightning. It is much the same sort of thing asboarding a bus when in motion. And so you can take a long rest, provided you are in an obscure part of the room. In passing, I mightadd that a very pleasing indoor game can be played by asking themaster, 'what came after so-and-so?' mentioning a point of the orationsome half-hour back. This always provides a respite of a few minuteswhile he is thinking of some bitter repartee worthy of the occasion, and if repeated several times during an afternoon may cause muchinnocent merriment. 

Of course, the real venom that lurks hid within notes from dictationdoes not appear until the time for examination arrives. Then you findyourself face to face with sixty or seventy closely and badly writtenpages of a note-book, all of which must be learnt by heart if you wouldaspire to the dizzy heights of half-marks. It is useless to tell yourexaminer that you had no chance of getting up the subject. 'Why, ' hewill reply, 'I gave you notes on that very thing myself. ' 'You did, sir, ' you say, as you advance stealthily upon him, 'but as you dictatedthose notes at the rate of two hundred words a minute, and as my brain, though large, is not capable of absorbing sixty pages of a note-book inone night, how the suggestively asterisked aposiopesis do you expect meto know them? Ah-h-h!' The last word is a war-cry, as you flingyourself bodily on him, and tear him courteously, but firmly, intominute fragments. Experience, which, as we all know, teaches, will intime lead you into adopting some method by which you may evade thistaking of notes. A good plan is to occupy yourself with the compositionof a journal, an unofficial magazine not intended for the eyes of theprofane, but confined rigidly to your own circle of acquaintances. Thechief advantage of such a work is that you will continue to write whilethe notes are being dictated. To throw your pen down with an air offinality and begin reading some congenial work of fiction would be agallant action, but impolitic. No, writing of some sort is essential, and as it is out of the question to take down the notes, what bettersubstitute than an unofficial journal could be found? To one whosecontributions to the School magazine are constantly being cut down tomere skeletons by the hands of censors, there is a rapture otherwiseunattainable in a page of really scurrilous items about those inauthority. Try it yourselves, my beamish lads. Think of somethingreally bad about somebody. Write it down and gloat over it. Sometimes, indeed, it is of the utmost use in determining your future career. Youwill probably remember those Titanic articles that appeared at thebeginning of the war in _The Weekly Luggage-Train_, dealing withall the crimes of the War Office--the generals, the soldiers, theenemy--of everybody, in fact, except the editor, staff and office-boyof _The W. L. T. _ Well, the writer of those epoch-making articlesconfesses that he owes all his skill to his early training, when, ahappy lad at his little desk in school, he used to write trenchantly inhis note-book on the subject of the authorities. There is an examplefor you. Of course we can never be like him, but let, oh! let us be aslike him as we're able to be. A final word to those lost ones whodictate the notes. Why are our ears so constantly assailed withunnecessary explanations of, and opinions on, English literature? Preyupon the Classics if you will. It is a revolting habit, but too commonto excite overmuch horror. But surely anybody, presupposing a certainbias towards sanity, can understand the Classics of our own language, with the exception, of course, of Browning. Take Tennyson, for example. How often have we been forced to take down from dictation the miserablemaunderings of some commentator on the subject of _Maud_. A personreads _Maud_, and either likes it or dislikes it. In any case hisopinion is not likely to be influenced by writing down at express speedthe opinions of somebody else concerning the methods or objectivity andsubjectivity of the author when he produced the work. 

Somebody told me a short time ago that Shelley was an example ofsupreme, divine, superhuman genius. It is the sort of thing MrGilbert's 'rapturous maidens' might have said: 'How Botticellian! HowFra Angelican! How perceptively intense and consummately utter!' Thereis really no material difference. 

[15]

NOW, TALKING ABOUT CRICKET--

In the days of yore, when these white hairs were brown--or was itblack? At any rate, they were not white--and I was at school, it wasalways my custom, when Fate obliged me to walk to school with a casualacquaintance, to whom I could not unburden my soul of those profoundthoughts which even then occupied my mind, to turn the strugglingconversation to the relative merits of cricket and football. 

'Do you like cricket better than footer?' was my formula. Now, thoughat the time, in order to save fruitless argument, I always agreed withmy companion, and praised the game he praised, in the innermost depthsof my sub-consciousness, cricket ranked a long way in front of allother forms of sport. I may be wrong. More than once in my career ithas been represented to me that I couldn't play cricket for nuts. Mycaptain said as much when I ran him out in _the_ match of theseason after he had made forty-nine and looked like stopping. A bowlingacquaintance heartily endorsed his opinion on the occasion of mymissing three catches off him in one over. This, however, I attributeto prejudice, for the man I missed ultimately reached his century, mainly off the deliveries of my bowling acquaintance. I pointed out tohim that, had I accepted any one of the three chances, we should havemissed seeing the prettiest century made on the ground that season; buthe was one of those bowlers who sacrifice all that is beautiful in thegame to mere wickets. A sordid practice. 

Later on, the persistence with which my county ignored my claims toinclusion in the team, convinced me that I must leave cricket fame toothers. True, I did figure, rather prominently, too, in one countymatch. It was at the Oval, Surrey _v_. Middlesex. How well Iremember that occasion! Albert Trott was bowling (Bertie we used tocall him); I forget who was batting. Suddenly the ball came soaring inmy direction. I was not nervous. I put down the sandwich I was eating, rose from my seat, picked the ball up neatly, and returned it withunerring aim to a fieldsman who was waiting for it with becomingdeference. Thunders of applause went up from the crowded ring. 

That was the highest point I ever reached in practical cricket. But, asthe historian says of Mr Winkle, a man may be an excellent sportsman intheory, even if he fail in practice. That's me. Reader (if any), haveyou ever played cricket in the passage outside your study with awalking-stick and a ball of paper? That's the game, my boy, for testingyour skill of wrist and eye. A century _v_. The M. C. C. Is wellenough in its way, but give me the man who can watch 'em in a narrowpassage, lit only by a flickering gas-jet--one for every hit, four ifit reaches the end, and six if it goes downstairs full-pitch, any pacebowling allowed. To make double figures in such a match is to tastelife. Only you had better do your tasting when the House-master is outfor the evening. 

I like to watch the young cricket idea shooting. I refer to the lowergames, where 'next man in' umpires with his pads on, his loins girt, and a bat in his hand. Many people have wondered why it is that nobudding umpire can officiate unless he holds a bat. For my part, Ithink there is little foundation for the theory that it is part of asemi-religious rite, on the analogy of the Freemasons' specialhandshake and the like. Nor do I altogether agree with the authoritieswho allege that man, when standing up, needs something as a prop orsupport. There is a shadow of reason, I grant, in this supposition, butafter years of keen observation I am inclined to think that the umpirekeeps his bat by him, firstly, in order that no unlicensed hand shallcommandeer it unbeknownst, and secondly, so that he shall be ready togo in directly his predecessor is out. There is an ill-concealedrestiveness about his movements, as he watches the batsmen getting set, that betrays an overwrought spirit. Then of a sudden one of them playsa ball on to his pad. '_'s that_?' asks the bowler, with anoverdone carelessness. 'Clean out. Now _I'm_ in, ' and already heis rushing up the middle of the pitch to take possession. When he getsto the wicket a short argument ensues. 'Look here, you idiot, I hit ithard. ' 'Rot, man, out of the way. ' '!!??!' 'Look here, Smith, _are_ you going to dispute the umpire's decision?' Chorus offieldsmen: 'Get out, Smith, you ass. You've been given out years ago. 'Overwhelmed by popular execration, Smith reluctantly departs, registering in the black depths of his soul a resolution to take on theumpireship at once, with a view to gaining an artistic revenge bygiving his enemy run out on the earliest possible occasion. There is aprimeval _insouciance_ about this sort of thing which is asrefreshing to a mind jaded with the stiff formality of professionalumpires as a cold shower-bath. 

I have made a special study of last-wicket men; they are divided intotwo classes, the deplorably nervous, or the outrageously confident. Thenervous largely outnumber the confident. The launching of a last-wicketman, when there are ten to make to win, or five minutes left to make adraw of a losing game, is fully as impressive a ceremony as thelaunching of the latest battleship. An interested crowd harasses thepoor victim as he is putting on his pads. 'Feel in a funk?' asks sometactless friend. 'N-n-no, norrabit. ' 'That's right, ' says the captainencouragingly, 'bowling's as easy as anything. '

This cheers the wretch up a little, until he remembers suddenly thatthe captain himself was distinctly at sea with the despised trundling, and succumbed to his second ball, about which he obviously had no ideawhatever. At this he breaks down utterly, and, if emotional, will sobinto his batting glove. He is assisted down the Pavilion steps, andreaches the wickets in a state of collapse. Here, very probably, areaction will set in. The sight of the crease often comes as a positiverelief after the vague terrors experienced in the Pavilion. 

The confident last-wicket man, on the other hand, goes forth to battlewith a light quip upon his lips. The lot of a last-wicket batsman, witha good eye and a sense of humour, is a very enviable one. Theincredulous disgust of the fast bowler, who thinks that at last he maysafely try that slow head-ball of his, and finds it lifted geniallyover the leg-boundary, is well worth seeing. I remember in one schoolmatch, the last man, unfortunately on the opposite side, did this threetimes in one over, ultimately retiring to a fluky catch in the slipswith forty-one to his name. Nervousness at cricket is a curious thing. As the author of _Willow the King_, himself a county cricketer, has said, it is not the fear of getting out that causes funk. It is asort of intangible _je ne sais quoi_. I trust I make myself clear. Some batsmen are nervous all through a long innings. With others thefeeling disappears with the first boundary. 

A young lady--it is, of course, not polite to mention her age to theminute, but it ranged somewhere between eight and ten--was taken to seea cricket match once. After watching the game with interest for sometime, she gave out this profound truth: 'They all attend specially toone man. ' It would be difficult to sum up the causes of funk morelucidly and concisely. To be an object of interest is sometimespleasant, but when ten fieldsmen, a bowler, two umpires, and countlessspectators are eagerly watching your every movement, the thing becomesembarrassing. 

That is why it is, on the whole, preferable to be a cricket spectatorrather than a cricket player. No game affords the spectator such uniqueopportunities of exerting his critical talents. You may have noticedthat it is always the reporter who knows most about the game. Everyone, moreover, is at heart a critic, whether he represent the majesty of thePress or not. From the lady of Hoxton, who crushes her friend's latestconfection with the words, 'My, wot an 'at!' down to that lowest classof all, the persons who call your attention (in print) to the sinistermeaning of everything Clytemnestra says in _The Agamemnon_, thewhole world enjoys expressing an opinion of its own about something. 

In football you are vouchsafed fewer chances. Practically all you cando is to shout 'off-side' whenever an opponent scores, which affordsbut meagre employment for a really critical mind. In cricket, however, nothing can escape you. Everything must be done in full sight ofeverybody. There the players stand, without refuge, simply invitingcriticism. 

It is best, however, not to make one's remarks too loud. If you do, youcall down upon yourself the attention of others, and are yourselfcriticized. I remember once, when I was of tender years, watching aschool match, and one of the batsmen lifted a ball clean over thePavilion. This was too much for my sensitive and critical young mind. 'On the carpet, sir, ' I shouted sternly, well up in the treble clef, 'keep 'em on the carpet. ' I will draw a veil. Suffice it to say that Ibecame a sport and derision, and was careful for the future tocriticize in a whisper. But the reverse by no means crushed me. Evennow I take a melancholy pleasure in watching school matches, and sayingSo-and-So will make quite a fair _school-boy_ bat in time, but hemust get rid of that stroke of his on the off, and that shockingleg-hit, and a few of those _awful_ strokes in the slips, but thaton the whole, he is by no means lacking in promise. I find itrefreshing. If, however, you feel compelled not merely to look on, butto play, as one often does at schools where cricket is compulsory, itis impossible to exaggerate the importance of white boots. The game youplay before you get white boots is not cricket, but a weak imitation. The process of initiation is generally this. One plays in shoes for afew years with the most dire result, running away to square leg fromfast balls, and so on, till despair seizes the soul. Then an angel inhuman form, in the very effective disguise of the man at the schoolboot-shop, hints that, for an absurdly small sum in cash, you maybecome the sole managing director of a pair of _white buckskin_boots with real spikes. You try them on. They fit, and the initiationis complete. You no longer run away from fast balls. You turn themneatly off to the boundary. In a word, you begin for the first time toplay the game, the whole game, and nothing but the game. 

There are misguided people who complain that cricket is becoming abusiness more than a game, as if that were not the most fortunate thingthat could happen. When it ceases to be a mere business and becomes areligious ceremony, it will be a sign that the millennium is at hand. The person who regards cricket as anything less than a business is nofit companion, gentle reader, for the likes of you and me. As long asthe game goes in his favour the cloven hoof may not show itself. Butgive him a good steady spell of leather-hunting, and you will know himfor what he is, a mere _dilettante_, a dabbler, in a word, a worm, who ought never to be allowed to play at all. The worst of this specieswill sometimes take advantage of the fact that the game in which theyhappen to be playing is only a scratch game, upon the result of whichno very great issues hang, to pollute the air they breathe with verbal, and the ground they stand on with physical, buffooneries. Many a timehave I, and many a time have you, if you are what I take you for, shedtears of blood, at the sight of such. Careless returns, overthrows--butenough of a painful subject. Let us pass on. 

I have always thought it a better fate for a man to be born a bowlerthan a bat. A batsman certainly gets a considerable amount of innocentfun by snicking good fast balls just off his wicket to the ropes, andstanding stolidly in front against slow leg-breaks. These things aregood, and help one to sleep peacefully o' nights, and enjoy one'smeals. But no batsman can experience that supreme emotion of 'somethingattempted, something done', which comes to a bowler when a ball pitchesin a hole near point's feet, and whips into the leg stump. It is onecrowded second of glorious life. Again, the words 'retired hurt' on thescore-sheet are far more pleasant to the bowler than the batsman. Thegroan of a batsman when a loose ball hits him full pitch in the ribs isgenuine. But the 'Awfully-sorry-old-chap-it-slipped' of the bowler isnot. Half a loaf is better than no bread, as Mr Chamberlain might say, and if he cannot hit the wicket, he is perfectly contented with hittingthe man. In my opinion, therefore, the bowler's lot, in spite ofbilliard table wickets, red marl, and such like inventions of adegenerate age, is the happier one. 

And here, glowing with pride of originality at the thought that I havewritten of cricket without mentioning Alfred Mynn or Fuller Pilch, Iheave a reminiscent sigh, blot my MS. , and thrust my pen back into itssheath. 

[16]

THE TOM BROWN QUESTION

The man in the corner had been trying to worry me into a conversationfor some time. He had asked me if I objected to having the window open. He had said something rather bitter about the War Office, and had hopedI did not object to smoking. Then, finding that I stuck to my bookthrough everything, he made a fresh attack. 

'I see you are reading _Tom Brown's Schooldays_, ' he said. 

This was a plain and uninteresting statement of fact, and appeared tome to require no answer. I read on. 

'Fine book, sir. '

'Very. '

'I suppose you have heard of the Tom Brown Question?'

I shut my book wearily, and said I had not. 

'It is similar to the Homeric Question. You have heard of that, Isuppose?'

I knew that there was a discussion about the identity of the author ofthe Iliad. When at school I had been made to take down notes on thesubject until I had grown to loathe the very name of Homer. 

'You see, ' went on my companion, 'the difficulty about _Tom Brown'sSchooldays_ is this. It is obvious that part one and part two werewritten by different people. You admit that, I suppose?'

'I always thought Mr Hughes wrote the whole book. '

'Dear me, not really? Why, I thought everyone knew that he only wrotethe first half. The question is, who wrote the second. I know, but Idon't suppose ten other people do. No, sir. '

'What makes you think he didn't write the second part?'

'My dear sir, just read it. Read part one carefully, and then read parttwo. Why, you can see in a minute. '

I said I had read the book three times, but had never noticed anythingpeculiar about it, except that the second half was not nearly sointeresting as the first. 

'Well, just tell me this. Do you think the same man created East andArthur? Now then. '

I admitted that it was difficult to understand such a thing. 

'There was a time, of course, ' continued my friend, 'when everybodythought as you do. The book was published under Hughes's name, and itwas not until Professor Burkett-Smith wrote his celebrated monograph onthe subject that anybody suspected a dual, or rather a composite, authorship. Burkett-Smith, if you remember, based his arguments on twovery significant points. The first of these was a comparison betweenthe football match in the first part and the cricket match in thesecond. After commenting upon the truth of the former description, hewent on to criticize the latter. Do you remember that match? You do?Very well. You recall how Tom wins the toss on a plumb wicket?'

'Yes. '

'Then with the usual liberality of young hands (I quote from the book)he put the M. C. C. In first. Now, my dear sir, I ask you, would a schoolcaptain do that? I am young, says one of Gilbert's characters, theGrand Duke, I think, but, he adds, I am not so young as that. Tom mayhave been young, but would he, _could_ he have been young enoughto put his opponents in on a true wicket, when he had won the toss?Would the Tom Brown of part one have done such a thing?'

'Never, ' I shouted, with enthusiasm. 

'But that's nothing to what he does afterwards. He permits, he actuallysits there and permits, comic songs and speeches to be made during theluncheon interval. Comic Songs! Do you hear me, sir? COMIC SONGS!! Andthis when he wanted every minute of time he could get to save thematch. Would the Tom Brown of part one have done such a thing?'

'Never, never. ' I positively shrieked the words this time. 

'Burkett-Smith put that point very well. His second argument is foundedon a single remark of Tom's, or rather--'

'Or rather, ' I interrupted, fiercely, ' or rather of the wretchedmiserable--'

'Contemptible, ' said my friend. 

'Despicable, scoundrelly, impostor who masquerades as Tom in the secondhalf of the book. '

'Exactly, ' said he. 'Thank you very much. I have often thought the samemyself. The remark to which I refer is that which he makes to themaster while he is looking on at the M. C. C. Match. In passing, sir, might I ask you whether the Tom Brown of part one would have been onspeaking terms with such a master?'

I shook my head violently. I was too exhausted to speak. 

'You remember the remark? The master commented on the fact that Arthuris a member of the first eleven. I forget Tom's exact words, but thesubstance of them is this, that, though on his merits Arthur was notworth his place, he thought it would do him such a lot of good being inthe team. Do I make myself plain, sir? He--thought--it--would--do--him--such--a--lot--of--good--being--in--the--team!!!'

There was a pause. We sat looking at one another, forming silently withour lips the words that still echoed through the carriage. 

'Burkett-Smith, ' continued my companion, 'makes a great deal of thatremark. His peroration is a very fine piece of composition. "Whether(concludes he) the captain of a school cricket team who could ownspontaneously to having been guilty of so horrible, so terrible an actof favouritismical jobbery, who could sit unmoved and see his teambeing beaten in the most important match of the season (and, indeed, for all that the author tells us it may have been the only match of theseason), for no other reason than that he thought a first eleven capwould prove a valuable tonic to an unspeakable personal friend of his, whether, I say, the Tom Brown who acted thus could have been the TomBrown who headed the revolt of the fags in part one, is a questionwhich, to the present writer, offers no difficulties. I await withconfidence the verdict of a free, enlightened, and conscientious publicof my fellow-countrymen. " Fine piece of writing, that, sir?'

'Very, ' I said. 

'That pamphlet, of course, caused a considerable stir. Opposing partiesbegan to be formed, some maintaining that Burkett-Smith was entirelyright, others that he was entirely wrong, while the rest said he mighthave been more wrong if he had not been so right, but that if he hadnot been so mistaken he would probably have been a great deal morecorrect. The great argument put forward by the supporters of what I maycall the "One Author" view, was, that the fight in part two could nothave been written by anyone except the author of the fight withFlashman in the school-house hall. And this is the point which has ledto all the discussion. Eliminate the Slogger Williams episode, and thewhole of the second part stands out clearly as the work of anotherhand. But there is one thing that seems to have escaped the notice ofeverybody. '

'Yes?' I said. 

He leant forward impressively, and whispered. 'Only the actual fight isthe work of the genuine author. The interference of Arthur has beeninterpolated!'

'By Jove!' I said. 'Not really?'

'Yes. Fact, I assure you. Why, think for a minute. Could a man capableof describing a fight as that fight is described, also be capable ofstopping it just as the man the reader has backed all through iswinning? It would be brutal. Positively brutal, sir!'

'Then, how do you explain it?'

'A year ago I could not have told you. Now I can. For five years I havebeen unravelling the mystery by the aid of that one clue. Listen. WhenMr Hughes had finished part one, he threw down his pen and started toWales for a holiday. He had been there a week or more, when one day, ashe was reclining on the peak of a mountain looking down a deepprecipice, he was aware of a body of men approaching him. They weredressed soberly in garments of an inky black. Each had side whiskers, and each wore spectacles. "Mr Hughes, I believe?" said the leader, asthey came up to him. 

'"Your servant, sir, " said he. 

'"We have come to speak to you on an important matter, Mr Hughes. Weare the committee of the Secret Society For Putting WholesomeLiterature Within The Reach Of Every Boy, And Seeing That He Gets It. I, sir, am the president of the S. S. F. P. W. L. W. T. R. O. E. B. A. S. T. H. G. I. "He bowed. 

'"Really, sir, I--er--don't think I have the pleasure, " began MrHughes. 

'"You shall have the pleasure, sir. We have come to speak to you aboutyour book. Our representative has read Part I, and reports unfavourablyupon it. It contains no moral. There are scenes of violence, and yourhero is far from perfect. "

'"I think you mistake my object, " said Mr Hughes; "Tom is a boy, not apatent medicine. In other words, he is not supposed to be perfect. "

'"Well, I am not here to bandy words. The second part of your bookmust be written to suit the rules of our Society. Do you agree, orshall we throw you over that precipice?"

'"Never. I mean, I don't agree. "

'"Then we must write it for you. Remember, sir, that you will beconstantly watched, and if you attempt to write that second partyourself--"' (he paused dramatically). 'So the second part was writtenby the committee of the Society. So now you know. '

'But, ' said I, 'how do you account for the fight with SloggerWilliams?'

'The president relented slightly towards the end, and consented to MrHughes inserting a chapter of his own, on condition that the Societyshould finish it. And the Society did. See?'

'But--'

'Ticket. '

'Eh?'

'Ticket, please, sir. '

I looked up. The guard was standing at the open door. My companion hadvanished. 

'Guard, ' said I, as I handed him my ticket, 'where's the gentleman whotravelled up with me?'

'Gentleman, sir? I haven't seen nobody. '

'Not a man in tweeds with red hair? I mean, in tweeds and owning redhair. '

'No, sir. You've been alone in the carriage all the way up. Must havedreamed it, sir. '

Possibly I did.